Note:
This is a sequel to the drabbles in An Anatoly Gentleman in Dusith, in which Sophia sent Vincent to Dusith for three years. During which he charmed the women, enraged the men, became known as That Anatoly Captain - a term to be spoken with longing or contempt, depending - and did wonderful things for local creativity and the economy.
For ayatsujik, who made Vincent give Sophia a cashmere robe worth oh about half the lords in Dusith. Gold and cream coloured. And aatash, who let me watch Last Exile for the second time with her.
Er, yes, this is romance. Something like it, anyway.
finished 28 July 2006
Happily Ever After
They have built an entire industry out of Vincent Arthai. There are courses in chivalry, and tailors trained to specialise in the kind of dress uniforms Vincent habitually wears. It's even possible, these days, to purchase an action figure of That Anatoly Captain, sword(s) sold separately.
The more expensive versions are quite good likenesses. Although what the design really needs, Sophia thinks, is a miniature coffee mug.
But that isn't something the Queen of Anatoly should say, and so she never mentions it.
There are books, which Vincent emphatically insists have nothing to do with him. They are inexpensive things, written anonymously and printed on flimsy paper with lurid covers. They are bestsellers, on the less literary lists. Klaus tells her that Dunia is a great fan, and Moran has to specially order them from Dusith for her.
(Sophia replied that the publishers always sent her five copies gratis, special hardback edition with silk binding, and that if Dunia wanted any she'd be quite happy to give some of them away. Klaus had come back a week later and said, slightly bemusedly, that apparently Lavie wanted a few, too.)
Sophia has never read them. She keeps meaning to, but she hasn't the time.
Vincent will be back in a week.
Sophia smiles to herself, absently, and reviews the latest batch of petitions.
-
Vincent blushes when she shows him the books. "Moran Shetland's young lady would like an autograph," she explains.
And so does Klaus', she thinks, in amusement. Klaus has not told her this because Lavie has not told him, but Sophia knows that if Klaus doesn't show up with an autographed copy he will be inexplicably - to Klaus, anyway - eating cold dinners for a week.
"I didn't write them," Vincent murmurs. But he signs them with a fountain pen and a look of resignation, his hand swift and practised, and Sophia notes that he not only pens his name but dedicates the volume to his devoted reader. The phrasing of the dedication is modified between every book. After the seventh book, the pattern repeats.
"You shouldn't have ended the war," Vincent says, goodnaturedly, watching her watch him. "I had some pride then."
He pockets the pen, and smiles. "It's so good to be home."
-
Sophia doesn't know when she realised that Vincent was trying to court her, if indeed he is. Vincent's behaviour is such that it is sometimes difficult to tell, as she suspects countless young ladies in Dusith have discovered. There is a ball for Vincent's return - he was once the commander of a fleet, after all - and Vincent confides that he hasn't attended one of these things for over a year.
"Why?" Sophia asks, and Vincent shrugs. His first officer provides the answer, eventually: towards the end of his second year in Dusith the captain apparently could not make it through the night without being waylaid by at least one tearful lady, or her enraged suitor.
"It was tiring," Vincent says, simply.
Sophia dances with Vincent for three songs, and then is relinquished with a smile. "Your Majesty must mingle," Vincent says, passing her hand to Duke Madossein's.
And it is only much later, unpinning her hair, that Sophia realises that Vincent himself did not dance with Lady Madossein.
Or with any other lady, for that matter.
-
Once, early in her reign and before Vincent's departure for Dusith, at some diplomatic dinner or other, one of the waiters tried to kill Sophia. Vincent was out of his seat and running, and in two seconds it was all over.
"I didn't know you carried a gun," Sophia said, eventually.
"I was taught not to bring a knife to a gunfight," Vincent replied. "Are you all right, Your Majesty?"
Vincent carries a sword conspicuously. He loves it; it's beautifully-crafted and -maintained, and his fencing is excellent, sometimes lethal. Less obvious is the pocket holster, and the fact that Vincent topped his class in marksmanship.
This is what Vincent Arthai is, Sophia thinks. A fencer and marksman both; showy and ruthlessly efficient.
("It matches your uniform," she observed, afterwards.
"Custom job." Vincent grinned. "I couldn't resist.")
-
Sophia places Vincent in charge of security. She has ears everywhere, and her maids inform her that the guards complain, halfheartedly, that somebody who looks such a twit ought not to be the strictest and most demanding commander they've ever had.
Vincent continues sending flowers every month, a habit he began in Dusith - and which started a trend and an offshoot of the Vanship Courier Consortium called Flowers by Vanship.
A lady should have flowers, he says when questioned.
There are gifts, and other gifts. There is the cashmere robe worth perhaps half the lords in Dusith, and after this one Sophia returns to her rooms slightly shocked but smiling.
Sophia was the vice-captain of the Silvana and now she is Queen of Anatoly; she's been through the Grand Stream, and attacks by the Guild; she's ended a war and stepped onto a new world. Nothing can faze her, but Vincent seems to be trying and it looks like he may succeed.
She is too old for this sort of thing, is the first thought that enters her mind. She tells this to Tatiana Vizsla - who is still a Vanship pilot, wanting nothing more than all the sky she can touch - one day, who looks at her bemusedly and says, "Vice-captain, you're twenty-three."
And Sophia touches her fingers to her collar in astonishment, thinking, why, yes. I'm only twenty-three.
-
Sophia spent her childhood and most of her early teenage years studying history and politics, command and strategy. Then her attention turned to mathematics and engineering; Alex would not have any of his bridge officers ignorant of the basic workings of the Silvana.
The books on That Anatoly Captain - Sophia calls him that, because it really isn't Vincent - are something else altogether.
The first time she tried reading one she laughed for twenty minutes, nearly continuously. Her chambermaid said, slightly reproachfully, that it was a very touching story, Your Majesty.
"Oh. Yes," Sophia managed, giggling helplessly.
She knows, now, why these books sell so well. They are the stuff of dreams, and despite parental objection and hired killers and jealous fiancés (or fiancées; sometimes That Anatoly Captain is Betrothed Against His Will To A Woman He Does Not Love), when all is said and done the female lead marries That Anatoly Captain, and then they live happily ever after.
It is that assurance - that no matter what happens, there will be a happy ending - that tugs so insistently, so that when Sophia finally stopped laughing she swallowed a hiccup and sighed, contentedly.
She knows what it is to live a tragedy. In real life you can't just put down a tragedy, and get on with your own life.
In real life, Sophia thinks, nobody really wants to retain artistic integrity.
-
It is the anniversary of Alex's death, and they walk together, unaccompanied, to his grave.
"Do you still miss him?" Vincent asks, at one point.
"Don't you?" Sophia counters.
Vincent breathes out in a sigh, his gaze dropping. "Yes."
He thinks he's lost to Alex, Sophia realises. Again; Vincent held the record for marksmanship at the officers' academy until Alex came along, and although he shot the Silvana out of the sky everyone knew that Alex was the one who had won.
For an intelligent man Vincent can be very foolish.
"Vincent," she says, quietly, "it's not a competition."
Vincent looks away, frowning and silent, so after a while she says, "I read one of those books. The one with the pirate's daughter. I rather liked it."
Vincent rolls his eyes. "You're laughing at me, Sophia."
They are sitting on the grass and it is a mild day. There are butterflies, Sophia notes, with some horror; it is a perfect pastoral.
"I like happy endings," Sophia says, mildly.
Vincent turns, examining her expression for sarcasm, and then returns the smile. "So do I."
-
"I'm surprised you let them print it," is all Vincent says, eventually, watching Sophia set aside complimentary copies for Dunia and Lavie, and for the mechanics.
Sophia smiles, a little resignedly. "They would have done it anyway. This way I can regulate the content and the covers."
She makes a mental note to lay down some kind of law regarding intellectual property, and regarding accurate reporting, as soon as she can: this is not quite out of hand yet, but very close to it.
In retrospect it might have been obvious. Meeting in command school, rescue from an assassin in a burning tower, a jaunt across the Grand Stream, overthrowing the Guild, and even a mysterious third party - all things considered, Sophia thinks, it's only a surprise that no one's done it yet.
She turns to him. "Autograph?"
Vincent offers his fountain pen, gallant as always. "Yours first."
End
Notes:
I don't normally write romance. I don't think I'm much good at it.
I also think it's awful how I take all these crack!fic gems and then make horribly serious stuff out of them.
I'm not really sure whether Lavie likes really bad romance. Sometimes I think she does, and othertimes I don't think so. She's so very pragmatic, but that story about the Silvana and Fat Chicken's grandmother seems to suggest a secret fondness for melodrama. Dunia I'm even less certain about, but I just like the idea of Moran filling in order forms for her bad romance novels.
The mechanics, though, I'm absolutely certain will buy that last book and weep over how their little girl is all growed up.
Vincent is probably not really that perfect, but hey. I know for certain he wears the sword. I can't see the gun, but this doesn't necessarily prove it's not there.
A lot of Vincent was pilfered. 'Never bring a knife to a gunfight' is a proverb I found in John Varley's The Golden Globe. The 'Your Majesty must mingle' line is from Lords and Ladies by Terry Pratchett. In which Casanunda the dwarf says, all gallantry, that we must mingle separately, in order to protect your virtue.
Which I changed because I would sooner kill myself than hear Vincent say that, thank you.
Most of the bad romance comes from Terry Pratchett's Moving Pictures, based largely on early cinema. Having watched the trailers for Casablanca and a few others, I can confirm that they really did have big text splashes saying things like 'HUMPHREY BOGART - AS THE MOST DANGEROUS MAN IN AMERICA!'
The part about the pirate's daughter is from Romeo and Ethel The Pirate's Daughter, courtesy of Shakespeare in Love.