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the mary & lavinia comment ficathon
a.k.a. the
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oltha_heri and oliveoyl and i get an excuse to post lots of prompts ficathonIt's a legit thing, okay! The world needs all the Mary/Lavinia adventures.
rules (?)
+ One prompt per comment. Feel free to submit as many prompt-comments as you'd like. The more the better! If you'd prefer platonic fic to shippy fic, just specify that in your comment.
+ If you respond to a prompt, include a title in the subject line of your comment if you are using a lj layout that has subject lines. If you're not, please put that same information at the top of your comment.
+ Okay, that's as authoritative as I feel like being right now!
+ Spread the word:
Masterlist of Responses
My dear, my dear, it is not so dreadful here by
oltha_heri - You reach out a hand, slowly oh so slowly you inch closer to the porcelain skin of her wrist, and then dark eyes are fixed on you.with grace in all she offers by
dollsome - You are Lady Mary Crawley. Cold and careful, soulless and heartless. Selfish. Thorn-sharp to those who would stand in your way.throw over your man, i say, and come by
screamlet - "Lavinia, what about London?" Matthew asks as he clasps my hands.it's you season by
dollsome - "It's tradition," Mary says. "It's barbaric," Lavinia says.Scandals Bear No Meaning by
femme_slash_fan (crossover with Upstairs/Downstairs) - The fact that Agnes Holland had stood by her good friend and, for the moment, only company at home, had meant a lot to Blanche Mottershead.The Truth Will Out by
femme_slash_fan - Lavinia had come to Mary’s side when she called, gently taking her hand, feeling the girl’s trembles and gently squeezing her hand.
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***
Perhaps it was a dream you think. Without her warm weight beside you, you could easily be convinced all of her nocturnal appearances were a dream. But last night there was no warm weight. You feel a chill through all the day.
It gets worse and she does not come that night either.
***
Matthew is the one who tells you. Mary is exposed. Mary is unvirtuous, there is disappointment when he tries to tell her. Tries not to offend her sensibilities. But she understands.
He is angry when he tells her how it all came out. He is angry at Carlisle for apparently blackmailing her.
Lavinia is not angry, for she is not thinking of Carlisle. Lavinia is worried, and empathetic, and needs to see her. But this is not the time for that, and so you wait.
You wait until night falls, and Matthew leaves, and the house quiets.
You are stronger, and though not quite prepared for stairs yet you are determined to reach the hall of Mary's room. With legs shaking from disuse and a hand on the wall to balance you slowly remember the path to Mary's room.
You have been there once, the first night you were ill Mary was there to care for you. You will return the favour.
When you finally reach her room you do not hesitate. She starts when she sees you, but in a second she is up reprimanding you for leaving bed and she is there with an arm around your waist to support you. When the comfort of her bed is under you and you have a minute to recover she begins to withdraw.
You hold on.
You hold on to one pale bare shoulder, you hold on to one thin, fragile wrist, your thumb moving over the soft vulnerable skin over her veins.
She is tense under your fingers, and you wonder if this was the bed, it must be the bed, where that man had died. You shake at the weight with which she has been living. You pull her back, without losing your grip on her manage to move back on this large bed that has had sex and death where it was only supposed to hold a young lady. But you are not her bed, and there is nothing predestined about who you hold but your choice, so for tonight you hold on, her tears soaking through your night gown.
You will not let go.
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And, here, these are my notes I had to take while I read because I kept getting too overwhelmed not to caps lock at you:
It is not large. It does not rival the brightness of the sun that filters through the window, it barely shows her teeth; but she is Mary and you would not expect anything more, not for you. And then Mary shifts closer in her chair. You see her eyes. They are warm. Like a hot water bottle to curl against in the middle of January; like a fire to read against; like coming home from a downpour.
YOU HAVE BLOODY KILLED ME.
Her voice carries you to Verona, to Crete, to India, to the lost palace of Kubla Kahn. But she is beside you as you dream and so you are not afraid.
LIKE I'M REALLY DEAD FROM BEAUTY.
No, you have a feeling it is not what one would say.
OH, LAVINIA, I LOVE YOU.
With legs shaking from disuse and a hand on the wall to balance you slowly remember the path to Mary's room.
MY HEART.
That whole last paragraph! That last line! I just! AM DEAD.
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And just, augh, the number of stories I have unfinished on my computer about Mary reading to Lavinia while sick is ridiculous. There is one with a lot of Twelfth Night references that if I ever finish will be about how Viola and Olivia's epic love enlighten Mary and Lavinia to their epic love.
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DID I EVER TELL YOU YOU'RE MY HEEEEROOOOOOOO
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QUESTION! Does this work of beauty have a title? For the masterlist I am just putting the prompt as the title for now, but let me know, yo!
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