literature

Overtures: Scene 5

Deviation Actions

QuietCritic's avatar
By
Published:
505 Views

Literature Text

The Changeling’s face leers into a large mirror framed in filigree, supported before him by one of many marble sculptures lining the hall.  Through this surface Flynn can see both his face and the back of his head redoubled in countless other similar mirrors lining the corridor, each a different size or shape, held at a slightly different angle so as to reflect the light from the windows in as many directions as possible.
Indeed, the effect is kaleidoscopic: the richly framed baroque mirrors rest in their statues’ hands, doubling and redoubling the shafts of sunlight slanting from the tall windows, every drapery drawn back so as to admit maximum illumination.  The craftsmen who carved these sculptures ensured that each was unique, each here a beautiful youth clad in thin drapery that clings to their contours revealingly—as though wet— as they recline lazily against the enormous mirrors they bear.
Quite a far cry from his formerly collected self, Flynn is seen emulating each of these sculptures with reckless abandon, staring at himself in one of the mirrors as though in a private contest to see how many different expressions his countenance can assume.  So keen is his concentration in this idle pastime that he hardly notices the elegant noblewoman sauntering down the hallway in his direction.
She pauses a few mirrors away.  While her previous gown was a composition in champagne and burgundy, this one favors a palette of greens: a rich dress of emerald brocade accented with sleeves of almost opalescent green silk, two stripes of the same green silk highlighting the drapery of her train in back.  She observes the Changeling carefully as his face contorts into various caricatures of the statues he sees, each attempt growing more extravagant than the last—until, at one point, Flynn’s face actually turns white, literally changing color and form so as to resemble perfectly that of the marble nude in front of him.
But Flynn’s game is interrupted by the lady’s subdued chuckle: whirling about, startled and embarrassed, the Changeling gasps in his attempt to recompose himself, his face still resembling a marble mask of statuary.  She is about to step forward and bow in greeting, when suddenly her eyes wander to a point right above Flynn’s head, a look of puzzlement stealing across her aristocratic features: pausing in her bow, she stifles another chuckle with the heel of her hand.
Flynn likewise is about to return the bow, when he realizes that the noblewoman is staring at him.  With dread, clearly knowing what to expect, he reaches a trembling hand above his head—
—and now we see both the noblewoman and the ambassador, though the latter is noticeably crowned with a pair of ass’s ears that, through his race’s shapeshifting powers, have unwittingly sprung out of his head.
Flabbergasted, he pulls the long, floppy ears down, attempting to tie them behind his swirl of steely black hair, his efforts only serving to draw even more attention to them.  Taken with laughter, she snorts despite herself, and, regaining her composure, curtsies.
“Mr. Bartow, I believe?”  Her tone attempts normalcy, though her expression shows she still is fighting back her laughter.
Flynn’s marble smile is a portrait of awkwardness.  He sinks into a clumsy bow, his ass’s ears flopping ridiculously above his hair.  Perhaps wisely, he elects not to say anything else at the moment.
She gracefully takes the initiative: “I am Countess Bianca Nirendi, widow of the late Count Lucio Nirendi of Matan.”
She holds out her hand, which Flynn takes mechanically and just barely kisses.  The ass’s ears flop impertinently as he gulps, responding haltingly: “Flynn Bartow, as you know.  Ambassador of Nimmy—erm—Nemnebbles—Nimmy nimm nimmity—”
“Nemnebliar.  Appointed by Queen Senom, naturally?”  She is still fighting back her laughter.
“Yes.”  He clasps his hands behind his back, glancing apprehensively up at his ears.  “Naturally.”
“Your audience before the Emperor was skillfully executed.  His Majesty is not fond of your race, as you gathered.  In the throneroom, the odds were against you—and yet here you stand.”
Flynn’s confidence grows from the complement.  “Why, thank you, Countess.”  His ears strike an increasingly ridiculous contrast to his marmoreal face.  “I—erm—must confess that my nerves were frayed.”  He rubs the back of his neck, glancing into the mirror beside him.  “I didn’t even get a chance to see whether my cravat was straight.  I should have, what with all these mirrors here.”
Bianca smiles.  “According to legend, the last Emperor was once visited by a messenger who had ridden through a rainy night, and arrived in the throneroom soaked to the bone, bedraggled.  The former Emperor was so taken aback that he commissioned this mirrored hall before his throneroom, lest another messenger arrive in less than presentable condition.”
The door at the end of the hallway is heard opening: through it enters the familiarly large figure of Bruno.  Flynn touches his ears in involuntary embarrassment.  “Clever fellow, that Emperor.”
As Bruno rounds the bend in the hallway, he waves to the two.  She curtsies lightly to him, then turns back to the Changeling: “I hope that I was not interrupting an important appointment, Mr. Bartow.”
“Erm—well, I did mean to meet Bru—erm—Mr. Cavaldy here, if you don’t mind—”
She curtsies to Flynn once more: “Quite alright, Mr. Ambassador.  I shan’t distract you from your duties.”
“Oh, but you could—erm—you don’t have to—the ears aren’t always—”
But she is already stepping away.  There is a clever smile on her face.  “Farewell for now, Mr. Ambassador.  If you should wish to take tea with me sometime, please let me know.”
“But—it’s alright, really—could you—?”
And, as Bruno approaches Flynn, the brocade train of Bianca’s dress slips out of sight, the door closing behind it.
Bruno wears his blue justaucorps, just as before, though his double-hilted zweihander is conspicuously absent.  He pauses for a moment, puzzling over the state of Flynn’s ears.  Flynn, in response, pulls his ears in back of his head, grinning sheepishly.  Dismissing the phenomenon, Bruno puffs his chest with pride.  “So I wrote Lillian the letter, just like you suggested.”
Flynn masks his disappointment, clasping his hands behind his back.  “Good man.  So Lillian opened and read it, right?”
“I think so.  Mr. Harensen said he’d make sure she’d read it.”
Flynn nods.  “And, when Lillian arrives, what will you say to her?”
Bruno strokes his chin.  “Hmm . . . ‘So, do you like—um—military history?’”
“Oy—Bruno, that comes in the middle of the conversation, not the beginning!”
“Oh . . . um . . . Oh!”  He snaps his fingers: “‘I’m sorry about what Mr. Sveringen said to you.”
“Not ‘I’m sorry”—she doesn’t want sympathy.  Say ‘I’d like to talk about what Mr. Sveringen said to you, if that’s alright.’”
“‘I’d like to talk about what Mr. Sveringen said to you, if that’s alright.’”  He recites it to himself for a moment.
“But you can’t sound as though you’ve got it memorized!  It has to come naturally.”
“Right, right.”
Flynn regards his larger friend critically.  “So, what do you say after that part?”
“Um . . . ‘It was mean, the way he insulted you?’”
Flynn shakes his head.
“ . . . ‘What Mr. Sveringen said was wrong?’”
Again, this response does not meet Flynn’s approval.
“Oh!  Um, ‘You know I wasn’t going to do what Mr. Sveringen said, about hurting you.’”
Flynn sighs, slapping his forehead.  “Oy, oy—don’t say that part yet!  You’re supposed to say—”
The doorhandle is turning.
Both men are startled.  Through gritted teeth Bruno urges, "Quick--change into a statue!"
"I can't disrobe in time!"  He catches sight of Lillian in one of the numerous mirrors on the walls.  "Gyah!"  Finding no other means of concealment, the Changeling darts behind one of the curtains.
Bruno is wide-eyed with helplessness as Lillian enters the corridor, clad in another of her high-waisted, lacy dresses (this one a pastel yellow), her curio hanging from a ribbon around her neck.  In her hands she holds a book, a handkerchief, and an open envelope.  Her cheeks and eyes are noticeably ruddy.
The general straightens his posture as she approaches, her arms clasping her book against her bosom.  She pauses a few paces away from him, bowing, her expression guarded, difficult to fathom.
He executes a snappy bow of his own: “Miss Harenson.  I’m sorry about—erm—I mean—I, um, trust you received my letter?”
From behind the curtain Flynn’s expression grows tense as Bruno corrects his gaffe, and as Lillian answers: “I did, yes, Mr. Cavaldy.  You wished to speak to me?”
He nods, “I’d like to talk about what Mr. Sveringen said, if that’s alright with you.”
This is still a sore subject with her.  “I spoke out of turn.  What else is there to discuss?”
“I just wanted to say . . . that . . .” He strokes his chin, forgetting his line.  Flynn is seen gritting his teeth.
Lillian is still clutching the book against her chest; staring down demurely at first, she waits for Bruno to finish his thought.  But as the moment passes, she starts to look up to him, expectantly.
“ . . . I didn’t want to hurt you . . . that’s all.”  Flynn flinches.
She tilts her head, perplexed.  “I don’t quite get your meaning.”
He starts fidgeting.  “Um—I mean—I’m sorry for—um—Sveringen shouldn’t have—”
He mouths a few silent syllables, not amounting to any sense whatsoever.  
Her hands are now on her hips.  “Then what?  Out with it already!”
He turns away, pacing nervously, then returns to his previous position, poised as though to say something, but halts himself just before.  Flynn is barely able to contain his frustration, pressing his palm to his forehead—and Lillian, catching a glimpse in a mirror of Flynn’s motion behind the curtain, nearly notices him.  Gasping and whirling about, she sees only the gently swinging curtain behind which Flynn has shrunk.  Muttering, her frown becomes more pronounced: “Drummond!”
Bruno blanches as Flynn is nearly discovered.  Lillian purses her lips, turning back towards him as she draws her own conclusion: “I suppose it wasn’t enough for Sveringen to insult me in front of my father, then?  He had to enlist his oaf of a bodyguard to rub it in?”
Bruno is shocked, wounded.  “No!  Of course not—”
Lillian shoves the letter into his chest, affecting an overly polite tone: “I am afraid I must attend to more pressing matters.  Good afternoon.”
Finding no other recourse to keep her in front of him, he clasps her hand as she almost turns to go.  “It was not my intention to waste your time with this matter.  I cannot apologize for Sveringen’s actions.”
Lillian pulls her hand away, taken aback.  For a moment she stares up at him, her expression a tug of war between ferocity and mercy.  Attempting to maintain her strong demeanor, her eyes narrow.  “And that’s why you asked me to meet you here?  So that you could try to apologize for him?”
“Ye—erm—no—wait, that’s not—”
Her patience exhausted, she rolls her eyes, executing a brusque curtsy, resuming her strained politeness.  “You’d best stick to arts in which you are accomplished, sir.”
“Wait!  Lillian!”  But she is turning on a heel.
“I was going to ask you—to tea!”
Over her shoulder as she strides away: “Then you should’ve mentioned that in your letter.”
His lower lip is sticking out fully.  “Perhaps I should’ve waited for a better time to ask?”
She pauses at the door, responding bluntly: “Yes.  And next time will be even worse, I can assure you.”
The door slams behind her.  The open letter falls from Bruno’s hand to the floor.
A pause.  Bruno stands forlorn in the center of the mirrored hall.
Flynn peers out from behind the curtain, his elongated ear protruding awkwardly into view.  “Well—I guess that could’ve gone better.”
Bruno sighs, dejected.  “Now she thinks Sveringen wanted me to embarrass her or something.”
“It seems so, yes.”
A pause.  At length, Flynn touches his forehead, clearing his throat:  “Ahem—If you don’t mind—um—”
“Oh.”  Mechanically Bruno produces a small flask from a pocket inside his waistcoat.  Pulling off the cap, he tips some water out onto his thumb, then presses his thumb to Flynn’s forehead.  The transformation we previously saw miraculously reverses: Flynn’s former complexion seems to spread out from Bruno’s thumb, and his ears once again growing short.
Too abashed to notice this feat as it unfolds before his eyes, he mutters: “She’ll never believe me, as long as Sveringen’s around.”
“Now,  now—let’s be realistic here.”  Flynn is straightening his cravat in the mirror nearby, checking his ears.  “If she hadn’t trusted you at least somewhat, she wouldn’t have shown up to begin with.”
Bruno is frustrated.  “What do you mean ‘somewhat?’  Either she trusts me, or she doesn’t!  There is no in between.”
“Oh, ho, my boy!  These matters are more complicated than either-or.”  Flynn holds up one finger: “On the one hand, she knows that you’re Sveringen’s man.”  He raises a finger on his other hand.  “On the other, she knows that you can’t be as unscrupulous as he.”  Putting both fingers together, “Ergo, she is testing you.”
But Bruno regards Flynn’s assessment skeptically.  “Or maybe today was just a bad day.”
“That could well be.  She’s probably still recovering from a difficult conversation with her father about what happened in the throneroom.  Either way, you cannot give up!  You must earn her trust, and she knows better than to invest it lightly.”
“Hrmmm.”  Bruno frowns, less than convinced.
Flynn is styling his hair, which is growing curlier and curlier with each touch of his hand, a few bangs standing artfully on his brow like the crest of an exotic bird.  Glancing over at his new friend, Flynn’s expression lightens as he changes the subject: “By the way, aren’t we due for a duel sometime?”
The very word seems like music to the warrior’s ears, piquing his interest.  With a grin, Flynn reads the answer implicit in Bruno’s expression: “How’s about bright and early tomorrow morning?  Nothing like a good spar to start off one’s day, eh?”
Bruno’s smile grows, as does Flynn’s smirk.
Two meetings in a mirrored hall.
© 2009 - 2024 QuietCritic
Comments1
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
amygirlgermanpants's avatar
Woo!

Flynn's awkward silence in front of Bianca makes me think of the Robert Benchley quote, “Drawing on my fine command of the English language, I said nothing.”

'Course, one would have to change "English" to "Branduish," but the concept still applies, hehehe.