A Moonacre Fanfiction Peace on Earth

Ambrose hadn't gotten much sleep last night; it was rather hard to sleep when one's toes were frozen. Nevertheless, he had tried. It wasn't like he had anything better to do. But now it was morning. Christmas morning, he thought resentfully. What a fine way to spend Christmas. Hopefully the girl would bring him breakfast soon.

He stood up from the bedframe. His joints ached. Oh, for those down feather pillows at the Manor! But perhaps he could put in some requests. Time in this cell seemed to stretch into infinity. He would die of boredom before he died of cold. He needed to see someone, to talk to someone, to stave off insanity. He ran a hand through his dark hair. There had to be something he could do to trick the girl into entering his prison.

He could pretend to be injured or sick. He was already beginning to feel a cold coming on. But would she care? Likely not. And when they discovered he'd been acting, he might be judged an even harsher sentence than his current one, if indeed such a thing did exist.

Judging from last night, he could not persuade the girl in by words alone. She seemed immune to that. She was, regrettably, clever. He began to pace, stretching out his sore muscles. What did he know about this girl?

She was in love with Robin De Noir. That was something. She'd probably been in a relationship with Ambrose; or, at least, he'd flirted. She was a kitchen maid. Shrewd, but she wasn't selfish. Was there anything he could use?

Well, when she came, he couldn't stay silent. She might just assume he was asleep, leave the tray, and walk off. He couldn't let that happen. He had to make her curious enough to walk into his cell.

Perhaps he could pretend that he was trying to escape. He could make various noises with the bedframe and bucket of water. Yes, and he wouldn't answer when she asked what he was doing. And he wouldn't give back the empty tray from last night. Yes, that might work. She would come into the cell…and then what?

He would have to pick up a conversation quickly. He would also have to have an excuse for why he'd been making those noises. He couldn't let her escape. But he also couldn't really act as though he was trying to escape, either, for fear of further punishment. He had to hold her interest, captivate her. Typically, this was not a difficult thing for Ambrose to do. He was handsome and charming. Most girls couldn't help but fall under his spell, to one degree or another. But unfortunately, this girl seemed insusceptible. Well, he comforted himself, that had been with a door between them. Perhaps when she was forced to face his roguish charm, she'd be more pliable. He'd have to hope so.

Kneeling in front of the water bucket like a dog and hating himself for it, Ambrose splashed icy water on his face. He had to look presentable. He arranged his hair carefully, trying to use the water for a mirror, which was more difficult than one might think.

Now all he had to do was wait.

And wait he did.

After what seemed like hours, he was sure they'd forgotten about him. Time dragged on in his cell. He couldn't tell the time of day by the light, for the sky was unchanging winter whiteness.

Then…footsteps!

He stood triumphantly. Time to put his plan into action. He nicked the water bucket with his knuckles and kicked the bedframe in a disjointed rhythm. The footsteps got closer. He decided to add more of a variety of sound, so he began to make odd noises with his mouth. It was a peculiar symphony of sorts.

The footsteps stopped.

"Here's your food. Slide the other tray under."

Good, it was the same girl. Ambrose made no response as she slid her full tray of food under his door.

"The tray, please." She tapped her foot impatiently. "Ambrose? We're busy in the kitchen." He chirped in reply. A minute passed. She was surprisingly patient. Probably more like stubborn. "Well, I suppose you can't do much harm with two trays. Merry Christmas." The footsteps began to retreat.

"No, wait!" Ambrose threw away his last shred of dignity. "Come back! I'll give you the tray." He ran over to the door. "Just come in. I'm dreadfully bored. Just…" the footsteps grew softer and softer. He banged his head into the door, roaring with frustration. And usually, Ambrose did not roar. Oh, he was angry. Here he'd been waiting for so long, he'd taken the time to arrange something interesting, something to spark curiosity, he'd humbled himself to using base means, and all for naught.

He scarfed down the food she'd brought, which somewhat alleviated his infuriation. Then he put the trays under his bed. He'd start a collection. He'd be petty. He'd annoy the servant girl. That, at least, would be something. And really, how hard was it for her to stay a minute and chat, hm? It wouldn't take much effort. And Ambrose was a brilliant conversationalist. Oh, the jailbird life was a lonely one. Woe was he.

He eventually worked out his anger by doing exercising. The food had given him energy, and he had to do something, else he would go mad. So he did push-ups and sit-ups and planks and who knows what else. He ran in place. It would be too degrading to run around his cell; he would feel like a hamster. He kept moving until he could no longer, and he toppled, exhausted, upon his bed. That sleep which evaded him last night welcomed him like an old friend.

A/N: Beloved reader,

Thanks for reading! I almost feel sorry for Ambrose, but he's really just a weakling. He pities himself, writes himself as the tragic hero. It's amusing to write, anyway. What are your thoughts regarding our dear coward? I'd love to know.

Your devoted

Ponygirl7