A/N: It's me again...And I'm back...A/U: PG- Richonne (puppy-love) and humor in the Regency/Brigerton era. I have no idea who is still around, please drop a review and say hello! Sincerely Yours ~Muse~
Adults rarely ever tell children the truth. They really don't. Yet they insist that the children themselves always speak it. "You must not tell lies!" they scold. All the while they fib left and right.
"Everything will be fine," they say. "It will get better, you'll see." Or: "You'll grow up and be rich and beautiful and have a wonderful life full of love and happiness," they coo, then crow, "You're the most intelligent child I've ever known. You'll find a rich handsome husband or beautiful wife who will love you dearly. Nothing bad will ever happen to you, my dear."
What a crock of horseshit!
Well, for most at least. It would only be fair to admit that for a small few it does work out that way, though the happiness part is still strongly questionable. In short, life is not fair. Never has been, never will be. Do not listen to anyone who says otherwise.
Do you know what else? No one knows when their world will change. Sometimes it changes and it takes them hours, days, or even weeks before they realize it. It sneaks in slowly like the autumn taking hold from the summer. Or it can come crashing in like the giant waves of an angry ocean during a storm. The thing is, most are never ready for it either way and certainly are not prone to welcome it when it decides to make itself known.
She is one Lady Michonne Danai Gurira of Bequia or Chonne for short. Born to wealthy parents on the island of Martinique in the crystal blue waters of the Caribbean. Michonne was a free spirit of the most unfettered kind. She would much rather ride her horse than anything else. She was not fond of chores, lessons, rules, or especially bathing. With the sticky, oppressive heat that seemed to be constant despite the ocean breezes, that particular quirk was very much frowned upon by her mother.
One thing that did please Duchess Okoye Gurira about her unruly daughter was this: Lady Michonne Gurira was the most beautiful child ever born in the Caribbean. And she would only rise in the rankings as she grew into a lady.
Michonne's father, Duke Ezekiel Gurria III chalked it up to more good fortune and immediately started thinking of whom she could marry one day to fill the family coffers even more. She was certain to land the noblest of suitors...
That was exactly their hope as they escorted Michonne out to the lawn in front of their house to greet Marquess Negan and his Marchioness Jadis on this sweltering day. Her parents were practically giddy, it was all they could think about. Surely they had heard of their daughter's beauty and knew of a proper suitor for her. They just had to be here to announce this suitors' intentions.
But at nineteen, marriage was the last thing on Michonne's mind. Her mother was married and she was far from happy so why on earth would she want to be like her?
Love was stupid...At least that was what she thought before the carriage pulled up in front of her.
Marquess Negan left his carriage, gracefully. He moved to the ground and stood very still. He wasn't a big man but had a swarthy appearance, his black cape and gloves added to the visage. How he stood to wear either in the oppressive heat was a mystery.
His Marchioness descended next and at first, Michonne found her to be very unique in appearance. She was tall and slender as a willow and carried herself like the royal she was. Her lips were painted a perfect red that didn't clash with the deep auburn of her uniquely arranged hair.
"Curtsy, dear," Duchess Gurria whispered harshly to Michonne.
Michonne did as pleasantries were exchanged between the elders. It did not escape her parents that the Marquess could not stop looking at their daughter, which was surprising. Her hair was uncombed and even unwashed today much to Duchess Gurira's horror. Her once bright white dress, now dingy, was self-altered to keep her cool; sleeves ripped out and the skirt hacked off roughly at the knees. And of course, she was barefoot. She looked like a filthy unkempt orphan.
But Negan still could not rip his eyes away.
It was only Michonne who noticed that Marchioness Jadis only had eyes for Rick, the stable boy. Jadis suddenly became nothing more than a gaudy palm tree on two spindly trunks in Michonne's eyes.
"Is that him, sir?" Marchioness Jadis asked, pointing behind them.
"Who, ma'am?" The Duke asked her.
Michonne knew exactly whom.
"The stable boy, the one that is magic with horses," Jadis said smirking.
Michonne's father glanced back toward the lone figure peering around the corner of the house.
"That is our stable boy."
"Bring him here." She said, her brows arched with excitement.
"But he's... he's half-naked," Duchess Gurira whispered, becoming more embarrassed with the state of her charges by the moment.
"I have seen naked chests before, madame," the Marchioness replied. Then she called out, "Boy!" pointing at Rick. "Come here," she ordered, snapping her fingers.
Rick did as he was told. He came forward until he was a few steps behind Michonne, then stopped, his head respectfully lowered. Michonne could see the flush of embarrassment on his cheeks from his lack of clothes. He only wore a pair of ragged pants and worn-out boots. His hands were clasped behind his back.
"What is your name, boy?"
"Rick," he mumbled, not looking up.
"Well, Rick, perhaps you can help us with our problem." She crossed to him. The fabric of her sleeve grazed his bare arm as she walked slowly around him. "We are all passionately interested in the subject of horses."
Duke and Duchess Gurira finally stopped watching the Marquess watching their daughter and looked at one another in confusion. Horses? They were supposed to be here about Michonne.
Who, at this moment, was frozen, her eyes locked on the gaudy palm tree prowling around Rick.
"We are practically reaching the point of frenzy; such is our curiosity. Why, do you suppose, Rick, that the horses of this particular plantation are the finest in all of the Caribbean? What do you do to them?" she asked, leaning much closer to him than Michonne believed necessary.
What on earth was she going on about? There was nothing special about their horses.
"I just feed them, your Grace," Rick said, finally looking at the woman.
Michonne's insides clenched painfully when he did.
"Well then, there it is, the mystery is solved, the secret; we can all rest. The magic is in Rick's feeding. Show me how you do it, would you, Rick?"
"Feed the horses for you, your Grace?" he stuttered.
"Bright lad." she chirped.
"When?"
"Now will be soon enough," she purred.
Rick swallowed deeply then his cerulean eyes turned to Michonne's wide gaze and softened as he said, "As you wish," holding out his arm for the Marchioness, never letting his eyes stray from Michonne.
Now might be a good time to introduce this stable boy to you.
At the age of eight, Rick lost both his parents in a tragic accident at sea. Michonne's Grandfather had known Rick's father and took the gangly child under his care. Rick had lived on the plantation ever since. Back then, he'd been all arms and legs, with unruly hair and eyes as blue as the Caribbean Sea. Initially, Rick was allowed to live in the main house, and he and Michonne quickly became fast friends, making the plantation their playground.
For years, they were inseparable, racing across fields, swimming down by the beach, and galloping their horses over the bright green hills. Then, when Rick turned seventeen and Michonne fourteen, he had a sudden growth spurt—and Duchess Gurira put her foot down. He was not of their social standing, and he was too old to be playing with her daughter. With Grandfather Gurira, Rick's mentor, gone just two months before, no one could stop the Duchess from enforcing her rules.
Rick was moved to the stables to train under Baron Hershel, learning to tend horses, while Duchess Gurira filled her daughter's head with petty lies about poor, penniless farm boys only out to steal their wealth.
Though both Rick and Michonne were deeply upset at first, they eventually adjusted to the separation. Rick's work kept him busy, leaving him no chance to slip away and visit her, while Duchess Gurira began schooling Michonne in the ways of being a lady—not that many of the lessons truly took. Before long, they were both young adults: he, reserved and stubborn; she, proud and defiant. Their rare moments together were spent with Michonne ordering him around, each clinging to their own place in a world that kept pulling them apart."
"Rick, fetch my horse," she would demand proudly.
"As you wish," he would smile softly in response.
"Rick, bring me some water."
"As you wish, Chonne." his gaze shone with his devotion.
"Clean my saddle, Rick."
"As you wish."
No matter her demand he always answered the same: sweetly, with a smile, "As you wish."
It wasn't until just now, this fateful day that the Marquess and Marchioness came by and Michonne heard Rick's words spoken directly to her again that she suddenly realized things had changed dramatically and the true meaning of those words she had heard so often.
Every time Rick said 'As you wish' what he was saying was, 'I love you'.
He loved her.
He had just looked her dead in the eye and told her he loved her right in front of that nasty Jadis too. Easy as you please, like he always had, like he had told her every day of her life. She knew then that he had; she just hadn't been listening.
Rick had loved the uninhabited and natural girl for some time. The change from seeing her as only a playmate to pick on to adoring love had come to him like a gentle spring breeze. He had embraced it wholeheartedly and chose to love her with everything he was.
But the realization was so shocking to Michonne that it was as if a giant wave came out of nowhere and slapped her against a hard, sandy beach. She came up scared and sputtering, standing in shock, teetering on shaky legs, her emotions running rampant.
"Michonne watched as the flirtatious Marchioness sidled up to Rick, all golden skin and shirtless charm under the blazing sun. She looped her arm through his, running her fingers along his muscular forearm and giggling at something he'd just said.
Michonne couldn't hear a word—just the pounding of her own heart. Rick and the Marchioness turned, strolling towards the stables, completely oblivious to Michonne's trembling, furious stare. How dare that hussy touch him like that! Look at him like that!
"I'll help!" Michonne called, jogging to catch up with them. She'd be damned if she'd let that shameless flirt lay her hands on such a sweet boy.
The Marquess perked up. "Well, I suppose they'll need my help too," he said, trailing Michonne to the barn.
"Strange things are happening," the Duke muttered to his Duchess as they both followed suit, bringing up the rear of the horse-feeding party—each of them, one by one, watching the next. The Duke eyed the Marquess, who was watching Michonne, who was watching the Marchioness...who had her eyes firmly set on Rick."
Michonne was flustered the rest of the day. She still was, as she barely picked at her supper, only half-listening to her parents drone on about their high-class visitors. Now she was in her room, pacing so hard the floorboards might give way.
But all this pacing was getting her nowhere. With a frustrated huff, she flung herself onto her bed and squeezed her eyes shut. And there it was: the image of the Marchioness staring at Rick. She groaned, tossing and turning before finally getting up. Stripping off her clothes, she washed up, pulled on her nightgown, crawled under the sheets, and snuggled in, determined to put it out of her mind.
The Marchioness was still staring at Rick!
Michonne threw back the covers, stomped across her room, yanked open her door, and stormed downstairs to the kitchen. She filled a cup with water, drank it down, and then splashed some across her forehead. She felt feverish—but she wasn't sick feverish; she was healthy as a horse.
Ugh. Stupid, stupid horses!
With an exasperated sigh, she slammed the cup into the sink and marched back to her room, shut the door, and crawled back into bed, eyes squeezed shut. But she couldn't shake the thought. Why was the Marchioness so interested in a stable boy? She was married, rich, and, supposedly, sophisticated. Michonne rolled over in bed, cheeks burning. There was no other way to interpret that look—the Marchioness was clearly interested.
And for what? Sure, Rick had those stormy blue eyes, but who cared about eyes? He had thick, curly hair too, if you liked that sort of thing. And he was broad in the shoulders, but not that much broader than the Marquess. Sure, he was muscular, but anyone working that hard would be. And his skin was tan and smooth, but that was just from slaving in the sun all day. His stomach was flat, rippled even—but that was just because he was young.
Michonne sat up in bed, squinting into the darkness. Maybe it was his teeth? Rick did have good teeth. White and perfect, set nicely against that tanned face of his. Good teeth were so rare, she thought, nodding to herself. That had to be it. The village girls followed him around like puppies when he delivered goods, but they were idiots. He ignored them, probably because if he ever opened his mouth, they'd realize that good teeth were all he had—he was, after all, exceptionally stupid.
Michonne shrugged, satisfied. People were surprisingly complicated, but she'd sorted this out. Smiling, she snuggled down into the blankets, all nice and comfortable.
Then it hit her.
"Oh," she whispered. People don't look at other people like that because of their teeth.
"Oh no. Oh dear."
Now Rick was staring back at the Marchioness. He was feeding the horses, muscles rippling in that annoyingly tanned skin, while Michonne stood there watching him look deep into the Marchioness's eyes.
Michonne bolted upright and started pacing her room again. How could he? It would be fine if he looked at her—but he wasn't looking at her, he was looking at her!
"She's so old," Michonne muttered, beginning to fume. The Marchioness would never see thirty again; that was a fact. And her dress looked ridiculous in the dirty barn, like some gaudy Christmas ornament.
Michonne threw herself back onto the bed, clutching her pillow. The dress was absurd before it even reached the barn. The Marchioness looked absurd the moment she stepped out of the carriage—with her big, painted mouth and her tiny, piggy eyes...
Michonne stood outside the barn before dawn, listening to the faint sounds of movement inside. She knocked. A moment later, Rick appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim glow of a candle. Books lay open on a makeshift table behind him, but his stormy blue eyes were on her, one eyebrow arched as he waited.
She glanced away, then back at him—then away again.
He was just too beautiful.
He made her brain turn to mush.
"I love you," she blurted out, unable to hold it back any longer. As the sun began to rise behind her, she felt its warmth on her back. Her words kept tumbling out, even though she couldn't bear to look at him. "I love you more now than when you opened that door... there's no room in me for anything else, just you."
There was a long, agonizingly awkward pause. They stared at each other—unblinking, then blinking, then unblinking again. His mouth opened as if preparing to say something profound... or maybe just "hello."
Before he could utter a word, she spun around and bolted, nearly tripping over her own feet as she tore across the field like a startled deer.
Back in her room, she slammed the door, collapsed onto her bed, and buried her face in the pillow, tears stinging her eyes. Safe in the silence, she let herself sob, feeling the ache of her unspoken fears, the sharp shards of her heart.
Sure, he was handsome—but dumb.
If he'd said anything, it would've ruined it all.
"Darlin'." That's what he'd have come out with, Rick in all his clueless charm. "Uhm, thanks, 'Chonne."
Michonne dried her tears, managing a shaky smile. She took a deep breath and let out a sigh. It was just a silly notion. Girls sometimes fell into these quick little passions, blinked, and they were gone. You forgave faults, found perfection, fell madly in love, and then the next day the sun rose, and it was all forgotten. Yes, it was just a silly fling.
She stood, made her bed, changed her clothes, combed her hair, smiled again—then burst into tears once more. Because really, there was a limit to how much you could lie to yourself…Rick wasn't stupid.
Oh, she could pretend he was. She could laugh about his struggles with language or brush off her feelings as a crush on a dullard. But the truth was plain as day: he had a head on his shoulders, with a brain every bit as good as his teeth. The reason he hadn't spoken wasn't because he was simple—he just had nothing to say. He didn't love her back, and that was that.
She was the fool, mistaking his 'As you wish' for 'I love you.' Stupid, stupid girl! The tears kept her company for the rest of the day, and for the first time, she realized life just wasn't fair.
That night, she heard a tap at her window. She wiped her eyes, feeling a flicker of hope. Another tap, louder this time.
"Who is it?" she huffed, but her heart was in her throat. Desperately, she wanted it to be him. And then she heard the name she'd been longing for.
"Rick," she whispered, and hurried to the window, flinging it open. There he was, standing on her balcony, looking more beautiful than ever in the moonlight.
Nerves took over. "I'm so glad you snuck up here," she babbled. "I've been feeling terrible about the prank I played this morning. I hope I didn't hurt you—I was only trying to have a bit of fun. It was cruel, I know. But you figured it out, didn't you? Just like when we were little?"
Rick's face was serious. "I've come to say farewell."
Her heart stammered. "You mean…goodnight?" She forced a smile. "That's sweet of you after everything I did. I hope you sleep…"
"I'm leaving, Michonne," he said quietly.
"Leaving?" she gasped, the floor seeming to tilt under her feet—or was her head spinning? "Because of me?" she whispered, fighting back a sob.
"Yes."
"Because I said I love you?"
"Yes." But this time, he smiled, and it was the same gentle smile he'd given her countless times before.
How dare he mock me!
Anger surged, replacing her panic. "Fine then. You've made your choice. I hope she makes you happy. But don't come crawling back to me when she replaces you with the next stable boy, because I won't take you back!"
Rick's expression darkened in confusion. To Michonne, it looked like defiance.
"Just because you're beautiful and perfect doesn't mean she won't lose interest. She'll toss you aside like yesterday's pig slop. You're insane if you think she won't. She'll remember you're just a penniless stable boy who isn't good enough." Michonne let out a dark laugh. "You think she'll leave her fancy house, her fine clothes, her rich husband? You're as stupid as I thought."
Rick, visibly exasperated, held up a hand. "Would you please stop talking about that dreadful woman?" he cut in. "If only because you care about me enough not to drive me mad! I've saved every penny, Michonne. I'm leaving to build us a home."
"What?" She blinked, stunned.
Rick sighed, stepping forward and drawing her into his arms. She was taken aback—he hadn't touched her like this since they were children. "You're completely lost, aren't you?"
"Rick?"
He gave her a small, wry smile. "You've never been the brightest, but I know you can figure this out. Just…think."
"You really love me?" she asked, her voice uncertain.
He rolled his eyes so dramatically that she thought they might stick, and she'd never see those stormy blue eyes properly again. Tears pricked her eyes, knowing he thought her ridiculous.
He clicked his tongue, giving her an affectionate look. "My silly darlin'," he murmured. He just couldn't believe her sometimes. "Do I love you? My God, if your love were a grain of sand, mine would be a universe of beaches. If your love were—"
"Truly?" Her wide, doe eyes searched his, and for a moment, they were both lost.
"Truly." He held her gaze, his voice steady. "I've stayed on this plantation all these years because of you. I've taught myself languages because of you. I've made my body strong, hoping you might find something to admire. I've lived my life with only one prayer: that, one day, some sudden dawn, you might glance my way. There hasn't been a single moment in years when the sight of you didn't make my heart race. Even when we were kids." He paused, his voice softening. "Every night, your beautiful face follows me into my dreams, and every morning, you're there, right behind my waking eyelids. Is any of this getting through to you, Michonne? Or should I go on?" he added with a teasing smirk.
"Never stop," she whispered, nearly breathless.
"There has not been—"
"If you're teasing me, Rick, I'm just going to kill you."
"How can you even dream I might be teasing?"
"Well, you haven't once said you loved me."
"That's all you need? Easy. I love you. Okay? Want it louder? I love you. Spell it out, should I? I ell-oh-vee-ee why-oh-you. Want it backward? You love I..."
Michonne giggles into his chest, "Stop, silly, you are teasing me now."
"A little maybe. I've been saying it so long to you, you just wouldn't listen. Every time you said 'Boy do this' you thought I was answering 'As you wish' but that's only because you were hearing wrong."
"You were saying, I love you," she finishes for him.
"Yes. Yes, I was, but you never heard, you never heard," he says, sadly.
"Oh, Rick. I'm so sorry. I hear you now, and I promise you this: I will never love anyone else. Only you. Until I die," she swears to him.
He leans down and presses his lips to her forehead, "As I will you," he whispers.
"I've only just realized how very much I love you," she whispered, her voice catching.
Rick smiled softly, lifting his hand to cup her face. She found it hard to breathe, her heart thundering as she waited for him to speak.
"A?" she prompted, her voice barely a whisper.
"Yes, my sweet Michonne," he murmured, his thumb brushing her cheek. She made a little nod, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. The words she wanted to say stayed lodged in her chest; they would pierce her heart if she said them.
Rick took a small step back, his gaze holding hers as if he were memorizing every detail. "Without one kiss?"
With a soft sigh, she threw herself into his arms, and they held each other close, the world fading around them.
That night, she could hardly sleep. Her emotions soared to dizzying heights at the thought of Rick loving her, then plunged as she thought of the inevitable time apart. She finally drifted off, a tear-streaked smile on her face, his whispered "I love you" echoing in her mind.
The next morning, memories of the night rushed back to her as she lay in bed, her cheeks heating with joy. Rick loved her, and she loved him. She couldn't have been happier.
She sprang from the bed and ran to the mirror, searching her reflection for flaws. She was an utter mess.
"Oh, Rick! I will never disappoint you again," she vowed aloud, more to herself than anyone.
Then she hurried downstairs, finding her parents at their usual posts at the breakfast table. "I need help," she blurted, breathless. "What must I do to make myself... more presentable?"
Duchess Gurira stared at her daughter, speechless, barely able to believe that her daughter was finally ready to be the lady she had always hoped she'd become.
Her father, not looking up from his morning paper, said dryly, "Washing the stink of horse and sweat off yourself would be a good place to start."
Her mother snapped out of her daze. "Your hair!" she gasped, leaping from her chair, sending her dishes clattering.
"Maybe scrub off the caked-on mud from behind your ears," her father added helpfully. "And between your toes."
"Your nails!" her mother cried. "A lady must have clean nails."
"Don't forget her knees and elbows; they're rough as corncobs," her father remarked with a smirk.
"All right! That's quite enough," Michonne said, laughing and exasperated. "Good grief, who knew being 'well-kept' was so much work?"
Her mother didn't answer but rushed her to the washroom, scrubbing every grimy inch of her until Michonne's skin was smooth and glowing.
Every morning after that, Michonne kept up the ritual, bathing until she sparkled. She trimmed her nails or rubbed the sweet-smelling creams her mother gave her into her skin. No more rough elbows and knees for her. She spent an hour braiding her hair, her arms tired by the end. It was a small price to pay, though, when she thought of Rick's face the first time, he'd see her like this. He'd never seen her clean, and she imagined his surprise—he'd probably weep with happiness.
The morning, she was set to see him again, Michonne's nerves were relentless, fluttering in her chest like trapped birds. She'd spent every day preparing for him, scrubbing away layers of dirt and roughness she'd long worn like armor. Her mother had hovered beside her, fussing over every detail, each hair out of place, every callus or stubborn spot that resisted transformation. Now, standing in front of her mirror, she hardly recognized herself.
"Oh, Rick, will you even recognize me?" she whispered, tying a ribbon securely in its place.
The carriage arrived, and with her heart hammering, she stepped outside to see him waiting by the gate, hat in hand. When Rick looked up, his eyes widened. He took in every inch of her as if seeing her for the first time.
"Michonne," he breathed, his voice soft with awe. "You look... different." A smile slowly curved across his lips. "Beautiful."
Michonne laughed, the tension melting from her shoulders. "It's still me under all this," she teased, lifting the hem of her skirt just a touch to reveal her well-worn boots.
Rick chuckled, the relief in his gaze shining through. "Thank God for that," he murmured, stepping closer.
With a trembling hand, she reached for his, lacing her fingers with his. "I've loved you, Rick," she confessed, her voice trembling, "from the very start. I was just too proud to admit it."
He pulled her close, brushing his lips over her forehead before whispering, "Then promise me this: that you'll never stop loving me, no matter what."
She nodded, her voice catching as she replied, "Only you. Until the end of my days, I swear it."
Rick's eyes sparkled as he leaned in, brushing his lips over hers with a gentle, unhurried tenderness. The kiss was soft, unbroken by words, but it was everything—an end to loneliness and the start of the life they'd both wanted but never dared hope for.
As they finally pulled apart, Rick laughed softly, brushing a thumb across her cheek. "Now, let's get you out of those fancy clothes. I'll race you to the stables."
Michonne grinned, grabbing his hand and pulling him with her, running, laughing together as they always had.
They didn't need to say more; the love between them was enough to fill a lifetime. And as they rode off together, Michonne knew she'd finally found her home—not in the fine gowns or the polished manners, but in Rick's arms.