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fandomweekly2020-09-28 02:38 pm
fleuretteffoulkes) wrote in fandomweekly2020-09-28 02:38 pm
Entry tags:
[#068] Shared Masks (Scarlet Pimpernel)
Theme Prompt: #068 - Masks
Title: Shared Masks
Fandom: The Scarlet Pimpernel - Baroness Orczy
Rating/Warnings: G
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 1000
Summary: Percy still masks his true nature just as much as he ever did—but now Marguerite can glimpse what lies beneath, even as she wears a mask of her own.
It's a strange feeling, realizing you've been looking at a mask all this while, when you thought you were seeing the man beneath.
She'd known something was off, Marguerite is certain of that. The man who cared for nothing but the cut of his cravat and the lace at his cuffs, the man who laughed at the Prince of Wales's stupidest jokes and returned inane sallies of his own: she hadn't been able to recognize the man she'd married in the witless fop who stood before her.
And yet, apparently he's been there all along. The laughter, the smiles, the witticisms, the shallowness—they were only a mask behind which he hid his bravery, his intelligence, his love, and his pain.
Now when she walks into a London ballroom, hand resting gently on her husband's outstretched arm, he laughs just the same as he used to, and smiles just as inanely. But she knows what lies behind it now, and the sound of his laughter doesn't pain her anymore. When they separate for dancing and their eyes meet across the room, she sees the way his smile doesn't always quite fill his eyes. (But then when he sees her, then it always does. There's a glow in his eyes now that she doesn't recall from before, in those days when she only saw the mask, not the man.)
There are still whispers about "Poor Sir Percy...but then he can't help it, poor fellow. You know his mother was an imbecile." Marguerite sometimes hears them in the corridors after Percy has offered a particularly ridiculous comment on the state of his cravat and how many hours he spent this morning knotting it to perfection. She wishes they knew that he actually spent the morning readying disguises for his next trip to France, and that he will be riding hell-for-leather for Dover as soon as he departs the ball in order to reach Paris before the Comte de Gris and his family are taken to the guillotine. His cravat was tied in ten minutes in the jostling jouncing carriage, and it's a tribute to his skill that it looks as perfect as it does.
She hears all the whispers, and she doesn't say anything. Just smiles a soft, secret smile, because she knows something that they don't. She has a mask now, too.
Marguerite has played many parts in her life. In her years at the Comédie-Française, before her whirlwind romance with Sir Percy, she not only had many roles on the stage but also several off of it. Holding court in her salon, her only goal was to enchant everyone. If they expected an ingénue, then that's what she was. If they were angling for a mistress, then she would tease and charm them but never quite give in. If they expected a well-informed sophisticated woman, then she could allow a glimpse of her intelligence to peek through. (She had never been quite sure what Sir Percy expected of her, and so she could never fully play a role for him. She supposes that's for the best; somehow, they both managed to fall in love with each without their masks—and isn't that a strange coincidence, considering how little time either of them spends without playing a role.)
The part she is playing now is the easiest part she has ever played. She is portraying a woman head-over-heels in love with her husband, who cares nothing for what everyone else may think of him or of her, as long as they have each other. And that is exactly what she is. Except that she does care very much sometimes, and she wishes desperately that she could stand up in the middle of this room and yell to them all that Percy Blakeney is the wisest and bravest man in this room. (And the best lover too, and the very handsomest man she's every met, no matter whether he's wearing fine Mechelin lace or peasants' rags.) But in those moments her acting skill tides her over, and she smiles that vague little smile and thinks of how much she loves her husband, and how nothing anyone says here really matters in view of what's really important.
And so she wears her mask, the mask of a pretty woman who cares about nothing more than the next dance and her fine gown and her love for her husband (and her husband's riches). On the other side of the room, her husband wears his own mask, the mask of an inane fop who is chattering away with the Prince of Wales and his cronies about something unimportant, the priceless lace at his wrists fluttering gracefully with each flick of his hand. Behind that slightly-furrowed brow, though, Marguerite knows that plans and contingencies are for the days to come are flitting quickly through the most intelligent brain in England.
When the Prince of Wales finally says his goodbyes and departs from the ball, many of the young people seem inclined to keep dancing until dawn, but it's finally acceptable for the Blakeneys to leave without their departure seeming atrociously early and thus attracting notice. Marguerite catches her husband's eye over the heads of the crowd. The smile he gives her in return might seem just as empty-headed as all of the expressions he's borne all evening, but Marguerite can see behind the mask now. She knows her husband's every look, and she can see the love and the wisdom there in his eyes, hidden from everyone but her.
For once, she doesn't need to worry about her own mask. She sends back a smile full of all of the love she holds for him. Her husband. Sir Percy Blakeney. The Scarlet Pimpernel. The bravest man in Europe.
If anyone is looking, all they'll see is a silly woman in love with her rich husband.
And they'd almost be right. But her love for the man behind the mask isn't silly at all.
Title: Shared Masks
Fandom: The Scarlet Pimpernel - Baroness Orczy
Rating/Warnings: G
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 1000
Summary: Percy still masks his true nature just as much as he ever did—but now Marguerite can glimpse what lies beneath, even as she wears a mask of her own.
It's a strange feeling, realizing you've been looking at a mask all this while, when you thought you were seeing the man beneath.
She'd known something was off, Marguerite is certain of that. The man who cared for nothing but the cut of his cravat and the lace at his cuffs, the man who laughed at the Prince of Wales's stupidest jokes and returned inane sallies of his own: she hadn't been able to recognize the man she'd married in the witless fop who stood before her.
And yet, apparently he's been there all along. The laughter, the smiles, the witticisms, the shallowness—they were only a mask behind which he hid his bravery, his intelligence, his love, and his pain.
Now when she walks into a London ballroom, hand resting gently on her husband's outstretched arm, he laughs just the same as he used to, and smiles just as inanely. But she knows what lies behind it now, and the sound of his laughter doesn't pain her anymore. When they separate for dancing and their eyes meet across the room, she sees the way his smile doesn't always quite fill his eyes. (But then when he sees her, then it always does. There's a glow in his eyes now that she doesn't recall from before, in those days when she only saw the mask, not the man.)
There are still whispers about "Poor Sir Percy...but then he can't help it, poor fellow. You know his mother was an imbecile." Marguerite sometimes hears them in the corridors after Percy has offered a particularly ridiculous comment on the state of his cravat and how many hours he spent this morning knotting it to perfection. She wishes they knew that he actually spent the morning readying disguises for his next trip to France, and that he will be riding hell-for-leather for Dover as soon as he departs the ball in order to reach Paris before the Comte de Gris and his family are taken to the guillotine. His cravat was tied in ten minutes in the jostling jouncing carriage, and it's a tribute to his skill that it looks as perfect as it does.
She hears all the whispers, and she doesn't say anything. Just smiles a soft, secret smile, because she knows something that they don't. She has a mask now, too.
Marguerite has played many parts in her life. In her years at the Comédie-Française, before her whirlwind romance with Sir Percy, she not only had many roles on the stage but also several off of it. Holding court in her salon, her only goal was to enchant everyone. If they expected an ingénue, then that's what she was. If they were angling for a mistress, then she would tease and charm them but never quite give in. If they expected a well-informed sophisticated woman, then she could allow a glimpse of her intelligence to peek through. (She had never been quite sure what Sir Percy expected of her, and so she could never fully play a role for him. She supposes that's for the best; somehow, they both managed to fall in love with each without their masks—and isn't that a strange coincidence, considering how little time either of them spends without playing a role.)
The part she is playing now is the easiest part she has ever played. She is portraying a woman head-over-heels in love with her husband, who cares nothing for what everyone else may think of him or of her, as long as they have each other. And that is exactly what she is. Except that she does care very much sometimes, and she wishes desperately that she could stand up in the middle of this room and yell to them all that Percy Blakeney is the wisest and bravest man in this room. (And the best lover too, and the very handsomest man she's every met, no matter whether he's wearing fine Mechelin lace or peasants' rags.) But in those moments her acting skill tides her over, and she smiles that vague little smile and thinks of how much she loves her husband, and how nothing anyone says here really matters in view of what's really important.
And so she wears her mask, the mask of a pretty woman who cares about nothing more than the next dance and her fine gown and her love for her husband (and her husband's riches). On the other side of the room, her husband wears his own mask, the mask of an inane fop who is chattering away with the Prince of Wales and his cronies about something unimportant, the priceless lace at his wrists fluttering gracefully with each flick of his hand. Behind that slightly-furrowed brow, though, Marguerite knows that plans and contingencies are for the days to come are flitting quickly through the most intelligent brain in England.
When the Prince of Wales finally says his goodbyes and departs from the ball, many of the young people seem inclined to keep dancing until dawn, but it's finally acceptable for the Blakeneys to leave without their departure seeming atrociously early and thus attracting notice. Marguerite catches her husband's eye over the heads of the crowd. The smile he gives her in return might seem just as empty-headed as all of the expressions he's borne all evening, but Marguerite can see behind the mask now. She knows her husband's every look, and she can see the love and the wisdom there in his eyes, hidden from everyone but her.
For once, she doesn't need to worry about her own mask. She sends back a smile full of all of the love she holds for him. Her husband. Sir Percy Blakeney. The Scarlet Pimpernel. The bravest man in Europe.
If anyone is looking, all they'll see is a silly woman in love with her rich husband.
And they'd almost be right. But her love for the man behind the mask isn't silly at all.
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