lucetilogs | Some rival has stolen my true love away...

Entry tags:

Some rival has stolen my true love away...

Who: Faith Long and Richard Sharpe
What: Faith Long arrives in Luceti.
When: January 7th, afternoon
Where: Community House 2, room 9
Summary: A proper Georgian woman, alone and frightened, finds herself in a compromising and potenitally dangerous situation upon her arrival to Luceti.
Rating: PG-13 at worst
"Our Father, who art in Heaven..."

The young woman whispers her prayers, terrified.

"Hallowed be Thy name..."

She does not know where she is nor how she came to this place.

"Thy kingdom come..."

She knows this is not either of the homes of her childhood.

"Thy will be done..."

Only a shift covers her, offending every sense of modesty.

"On Earth as it is in Heaven..."

God alone can protect her from whatever is to come.

"Give us this day our daily bread..."

She squeezes her eyes shut, determined not to scream.

"And forgive us our trespasses..."

The prayer gives her some distraction and some hope.

"As we forgive those who trespass against us..."

She tries to pray for the softening of the heart who has put her here.

"And lead us not into temptation..."

Perhaps it is only ransom, some attempt at her father's wealth.

"But deliver us from evil..."

She prays for salvation and courage for herself.

"For thine is the kingdom..."

Footsteps approach.

"The power..."

They stop outside the door.

"And the glory for ever and ever..."

The doorknob turns.

"Amen."

Faith Long presses herself more into the corner of the room furthest from the door. Her knees stay against her chest, her body curled in to make her look as small as possible. She wears the white dress of a New Feather, which might explain her tears and fear plainly on her face.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

...This week had not been one of Major Richard Sharpe's best. Jesus wept, but the whole month had been buggered. In truth, nothing had been right since he'd first allowed himself to slip into grief on Christmas eve. Since then, in the moments when he wasn't mourning his dead wife he was mourning some other sad fact of existence. Major Sharpe had been in an ill humour and he did not know what could drag him free of it. Patrick would've known. But Patrick wasn't here.

A lot of people weren't here. Some of them were folks who had been only a few days ago. Sharpe sighed and took a moment to himself before bursting into his bedroom. Of course he didn't knock, it was his own damn quarters. And of course he didn't immediately notice the stow-away because a New Feather was just about the last thing he ever expected to find in his room. Everything else was in place: the bed that was far finer than any he'd slept on before, barring the Marquesa's; his heavy cavalry sabre and Baker rifle; the poled and captured Imperial Eagle that had arrived on Christmas Day. Sharpe crossed over to it now, thoughtfully touching an outspread wing and remember the smell of burning grass and singed skin. And then -- with a shake of his head to shake away the memory -- he opened a little pocket-watch to consult the time.

It was as he turned 'round from this act, watch still poised in the open position against his palm, that Miss Faith Long proverbially stepped into his proverbial sights. His lungs constricted -- first in panic, for the sheer absurdity of it all trumped any attraction one might normally feel under such circumstances.

The tall Rifleman with the wicked scar on his cheek, dressed only in his linen shirt and the French cavalry overalls he'd stripped from an enemy corpse, exploded into a startled oath: "Bloody hell!"

Faith watched him. She didn't dare to even breathe, her wide eyes seeking every direction. The only escape was the door. When he saw her, she froze beyond what she had before. Her mouth opened slightly to speak, but she stopped.

If Abigail were here, she'd know what to do. Whether to run for the door. (The good thing about being in only a shift-- she didn't have all those skirts to try and move in. The only good thing about being in only a shift.) Whether to identify herself. (If he knew she was the daughter of a wealthy man, he might have less cause to harm her.) Whether to lie about who she was. (If he knew she was the daughter of a wealthy man, he might use this against her for a long time.) Abigail would know what to do.

When he spoke, she flinched. She sank further back, eyes as wide as they could go. Her lips pressed together into thin lines. Her entire frame quivered as she tried to keep herself from screaming or crying more. What would provoke him? What would help her? She didn't know.

Perhaps Sharpe wasn't a gentleman, but he was -- at least -- a gentle man. Or he often was. But there was something to be said for the courtesy-stripping side effects of surprise. In any other circumstance, his sentimentality would have kicked in and he would have rustled up a jacket four times too big for the lass. But he'd reached the end of his rope: he was sad; tired; frustrated.

As with so many key moments throughout his life, Sharpe's best side did not shine forward that afternoon. So he growled: "How the hell'd you get in here, eh?"

Adele was right -- damn her -- and he should start locking his door.

Her mouth opened further, shut, opened, then shut. A few tears escaped her, but she tried to keep her gaze steady. There was no way she couldn't show fear, but she could show less than she felt. Now, she knew she couldn't run. He'd be in front of the door before she could even hope to reach it. Running would only make things worse. At least, in her mind.

"I--" Faith knew she had to speak. Had to offer him some kind of answer. She closed her eyes, took a few harsh, uneven breaths, then looked at him again. "I don't know, sir."

She bit her lip as she stared at him. It was a risk, but she could try. Maybe... "I'll... I'll go, sir. If... if you'll just let me." She couldn't stop shaking, but she had to hope. If he would just let her go, she could get away.

He pinched the bridge of his nose -- a headache was forming just behind his eyes. If Sharpe were the sort of man who drank in desperation as well as in exultation, he would be craving a pint of anything right about now. But no, the Major only drank when he felt safe. And lately? He had felt anything but.

The young woman's tears were starting to break through his thick cloud of knee-jerk anger. Sharpe's shoulders slumped. He sighed. He certainly did not look happy -- or welcoming, for that matter -- but he did look a little less vengeful.

"Can't let you go like that, ma'am," he said as he scratched at the back of his head. "You'll catch your death of cold, out there. It's bloody well winter, isn't it? Get up here."

He jerked his head in a way that merely suggested she should get to her feet. However, he didn't offer a helping hand: this was, perhaps, a blessing.

"I--"

Would it be better or worse to insist she'd be fine as she was? Would he help her or hurt her?

Her body shook as she did slowly rise. She shifted her weight, unsure of what to do or say or how to act. She knew how to treat the men her father kept company with, how to talk with them and laugh at the right times and offer brandy or wine. She knew how to treat people in the street, too, or callers she didn't know.

But in a strange place with a man who seemed to not have been involved with whatever had brought her here...

"I-- I'll be fine, sir." She could bear the cold, she decided. It was less of a risk than remaining here. "Th-thank you, though, for your concern."

"No, you won't," he sighed his correction and his rifle-stock-brown wings twitched in apparent irritation. "You won't be fine, for I reckon none of us is fine in this blasted place. You're new, eh? Just arrived? Bloody well woke up here, did you?"

Perfect.

Slowly, Faith nodded. "Yes, sir." She tried to stand still and hold his gaze, but standing up, she felt particularly exposed in just a shift. It was beyond improper, but she had no choice. She couldn't bring herself to raise her head, look proud and defiant, but she tried not to appear to shrink back too very much.

"I... Yes, sir. I woke up here."

And feared the worse. And continued to fear it.

"Richard. Richard Sharpe. Only the men bloody well call me sir, lass," he said after a lengthy silence.

His resolve was breaking upon that expression of hers. And her obvious discomfort. He swore colourfully under his breath and dragged his greatcoat from its hook. Suddenly sheepish, he held it out to her. "I'm afraid I don't have anything else. But I suspect you'd like to cover yerself."

At the offer of the coat, Faith showed no hesitation or propriety. She took it immediately and wrapped it around herself, holding it closed around her. The speed at which she did it embarrassed her once it was done.

"I-- Thank you. If you could..." She drew in a thin breath, trying to steady herself. It was a little easier with something more on. "If you could direct me to where I might find other clothes, I would be happy to return this to you at once."

It was a thin, poor offer, but she was not going to relinquish the coat now that she had it on until she had something far more appropriate to wear.

"You may keep it, for all I care," he said far too quickly to be kind. But the man was nervous, for now the embarassing atrocity that was his initial behaviour was settling into his consciousness. And Sharpe felt bad. He felt guilty. But he was never good with apologies.

"But you mightn't leave until I..." Sharpe turned towards the hall. Then turned back to the ridiculous sight of a young woman in his army-issued greatcoat. "Christ. Stay put, will you?"

For the strange woman would need something for her feet.

Until you what?

But she kept herself from making the demand. Surely Abigail would tell her not to antagonise him. To stay quiet and hope he would be kind. He had, at least, given her the coat. Which she would return.

So, Faith just nodded, clutching the coat around her. She still didn't know where she was or how she'd come here, but he did not seem to be her captor. Perhaps she could leave this place and find her way home.

He half-turned. He hesitated. He glanced at her again -- careful to focus only on her face and not the memory of a shift-clad person underneath his coat. But making eye contact was not all that much more proper, and so Sharpe muttered another curse to himself and hurried out of the bedroom. He kept a modern pair of workboots in the closet, picked up on a whim when he'd once been working on a shooting range. They were not as comfortingly familiar as his own boots, but they did fine work in a pinch. And this was certainly a pinch.

He was halfway back to the bedroom -- boots in arms -- when it occured to him he should offer the lass something else. Something more. So he about-faced, tore a chunk of heavy bread off a round loaf he kept in a box on the shelf, and brought it back as well.

The boots he dropped silently at her feet. The bread he offered wordlessly with one hand. Perhaps it was best not to speak at all, he felt.

When he left, Faith saw the wings on his back. By the time he returned, she was conscious of her own. Her hand was under the coat, over her shoulder. She could feel the feathers. New horrors filled her: fears of death, salvation, and every other concern.

She stared at him now, fresh tears welling. Carefully, she stepped into the boots. She didn't take the bread yet, only watching the man.

"Sir. Mister Sharpe." Her voice was a little more steady; she was beginning to believe he wouldn't harm her. "Where am I? What-- What's happened to me?"

"I'll tell all," he promised, "on one measly condition."

Sharpe drew himself up to his full height. In truth, he didn't quite realize how intimidating he was being. He was out of his depth.

"You know my name, lass. Tell me yours."

"Faith Long, Mister Sharpe." She takes a deep breath. "My father is Admiral John Long, of the king's navy." Telling him could do her no harm now, she decided. "He resides in Belgravia."

Perhaps he could even direct her how to get back to her home. Or near it. But what on Earth could be the meaning of these wings? God above.

An admiral's daughter? This revelation brought him up short. Sharpe snapped to relative attention, although Miss Faith Long was only a daughter of the office and not the office itself. And Sharpe was no navy-rat but a soldier. Still, it stung to have just sent off two sailors the day before and now be confronted with another piece -- however abstract -- of that structure.

Sharpe's chin lifted. Proud, but now rather more reserved. He behaved as though he was not wearing his boots and his jacket, but likely dressed in the finest fashions.

"B-Belgravia, ma'am?" He knew what Belgravia meant. It meant wealth. "Y-you're from London? Ma'am?"

A perfect little soldier, now. Prim and hesitant. However, he'd forgotten all about his end of the bargain -- the one where he was supposed to explain the nature of this place. Too busy being surprised.

The reaction makes her smile. Not much, but the expression's there. It's a comfort after all this shock and fear. He knows, at least, how to treat a lady once he knows her status. Her arms stay around herself, holding the borrowed coat as tightly closed as she can. At least he hasn't proven a brute, not taken advantage of a frightened lady helpless before him.

"I am." She gives another smile, nearly pleading. "I would be forever grateful if you would even tell me how far I am and in what direction from London. I..." It might well work. Even good men could understand reward. "I know my father would be very grateful for my safe return."

"...Afraid you're quite a distance from that city, ma'am."

Though -- fearing his own Yorkshire brogue would confound her: "Quite a distance from England, as well. Perhaps it's best you sit down and have a bit to eat, eh? You won't want to be standing to hear this news."

Slowly, looking as though the words 'I was afraid of that' were on her lips but unable to escape, Faith nods.

She looks about slowly, trying to maintain some semblance of calm. It will do her no good now to panic. So, she will, as he suggested, find a place to sit and listen to him. Always, though, her gaze returns to him. He, at least, is something stable. Something she can understand to some degree.

In the bedroom, the only place is that damned simple bed. His guilt intensifies, for he should have been a decent gentleman -- hah -- and offered to lead her into the front room. There were chairs there. A table. But as she was now sitting, he merely stooped at her side to perch the before-ignored piece of bread next to her. As for his own seat? He fell back towards the wall and sank down to the floor boards. He sat there -- across the room from her -- so that he wasn't looming tallishly over the whole damn conversation.

"This place is called Luceti, ma'am." He made desperate certain to get a 'ma'am' in on every instance of his side of the exchange. "Which sounds rather continental, don't it? But it's not."

"It does," she murmured quietly. She began to pick a little at the bread, not really eating it, but it might serve as a precursor to it, certainly. She already felt as though her head was swimming, and she bit gingerly at her bottom lip. Slow, even breaths. She would not cry. She most certainly would not cry.

"How... is all this possible? What is all of this? I... don't understand."

His voice remained a gentle rumble: a curious melange of lower-class London and broad Yorkshire. Sharpe picked at a trailing thread on his trouser hem and did the lass a favour by not staring directly at her. Even with his coat, she was a sight to behold. So he denied himself that sight.

God almighty, but he had to get her to the clothing store. But first, she had to calm down.

"Are you a superstitious woman, Miss Long?"

"I... have never considered myself overly so."

Though, should he tell her this is the work of Heaven, Hell, witches, or fae, she would believe it at once. Every story she left behind as a remnant of her childhood and not something for a grown woman to attend now seems entirely possible.

"I'm afraid, ma'am, that there are more things here--" Christ, how did that odd phrase go? James Christopher had said it almost relentlessly while Sharpe had known him. The Foreign Office agent had mocked him endlessly with its cadence. The smug superiority of an educated man. Even in the moments before Christopher had died -- split open by Sharpe's sword -- he had tried to say the line once again.

"More things here than are dreamt of in your...philosophy, ma'am. Or mine. Or anyone else's, for that matter. The wings. The--" He won't mention the tattoo on her neck. Not yet. "The village. There are a couple hundred of us who are kept here, Miss Long. Not quite prisoners and not quite guests."

She listens. It still feels like a dream, all of this, yet she is trying to pay attention. At least this man is not speaking to her as if she were a mindless child. Telling her there are things she cannot understand (as she has taken the words) is all well and good. She already does not understand a great deal of things.

So, Faith latches onto the words that make the most sense, even if as a point for where to begin her questions. "Not quite prisoners or guests?"

"They keep us here. The Malnosso -- a collection of..."

He wasn't sure. He still wasn't sure. Sharpe frowned. "Men. Women, too. To watch us or to test us. Or merely to send us to war. The theories and notions are many."

He pointed at the book she'd arrived with. "There's information in that thing. A guide, of a sort. A right clever woman wrote it."

War. Faith's mouth twitches unhappily at that particular word. None of it is pleasant. Being watched or tested. But war. To leave behind the moment of ease, where her brother and father are safely away from the sea and her once-sweetheart, too, no longer need fear battle. When her dreams are finally pleasant, not fraught with concern that she might soon don the black of mourning. And to be brought to a place where, it seems, she will have cause to worry about such things again.

Nonetheless, she wishes for her brother. He would know much more what to do.

Faith looks at the book. It's the simplest part of all of this to absorb, so she manages a nod. Her voice is very soft, rather shaken, as she says, "I... shall be certain to read it."

...He wanted her calm. So -- in a sudden tactic to distract her from the horror she was now plunged deep within, he shot a gentle question 'cross her bow: "Do you enjoy reading, ma'am?"

Of course she did. A gentle sport for gentle people. The girl -- an Admiral's daughter! -- had likely been taught at a young age. Sharpe would have no way to hold conversation on the topic, but he felt she needed to calm her before he took her outside.

Faith closed her eyes, focusing herself. A few deep breaths, focusing on his words, on what he was asking her. Like David, seeing her upset over something and talking about another topic entirely. Yes. It was what her brother would have done, and that was comforting.

"I do, yes." She tried to smile. It was hardly there, but she made the effort. "I quite enjoy it."

"Tell me 'bout the last book you read, ma'am. What was it about?"

"The last book."

She paused for a few moments, thinking. It takes her out of this place, out of all the strangeness. "Candide. It was suggested to me by a... dear friend at the time. A particular favourite there, and my brother was kind enough to make a gift of a copy. It was... interesting, though not a favourite of mine."

Surprise widened his eyes. He had expected whatever title she gave him would be new and unknown. He expected to be bewildered by his own ignorance. Instead, he found himself just as bewildered by his knowledge.

"Candide!" He repeated -- sitting up a little straighter. "I know this."

Candide had been a codebook in a particularly nasty piece of espionage not far from Salamanca. But Voltaire had some things right: "I have not read Candide, but I've read that man's notebooks. He said...he said -- oh, what was it? -- God is not on the side of the big battalions, but on the best of shots."

He'd liked that quotation. It sat well with him. It had been a high point in his rough attempts to learn French.

Faith smiles at hearing him reference Voltaire. She listens raptly and nods. While the man is not one she continually reads and devotes much time to analyzing, she has read here and there, though mostly Candide. Still, she remembers it well. Mostly because Edward had suggested it and had seemed so interested in it.

"One character asks Candide what optimism is. He replies 'It is the obstinacy of maintaining that everything is best when it is worst.' I... have always remembered that passage."

Especially when she'd reread the book shortly after everything had fallen apart. She'd thrown it against the wall, in fact. Her smile is faltering, but she's determined not to start crying again.

"Perhaps it is... something to face this place with."

"Everything's for the best in the best of all possible worlds..."

He'd never read Candide. He'd never wanted to read Candide. Harris had tried to explain why it was funny; Sharpe had sniffed and hemmed and grumbled and he'd allowed the man to lecture on about what made a satire and lah-dee-dah. But this line, at least, stuck out to him. Harris would say it with such a smirk and now -- speaking it at such an inappropriate time himself -- Sharpe felt he may have finally unlocked why the damned sentence was so funny.

He offered up a dry chuckle.

"They have a library, here. If you end up stayin' longer than you think? You're welcome to take whatever books you want. You'll not lack for reading. I promise you that."

"That... will be a relief, certainly." Faith frowned a little, still trying to wrap her mind around everything. She would not be leaving this place any time soon, and she couldn't be dreaming. She was without her family, her friends, or anyone.

She took a deep breath to steady herself.

"There is... nothing to be done about these circumstances, is there?"

"...About the problem at large? I'm afraid not, Miss Long. But in the short-term, we can likely do something to address a few other -- ah -- concerns."

Talking to a strange woman about her clothes (or lack thereof) seemed rather impolite. He cleared his throat. "There's a lass at the shop what can sort you out with some dresses, I'm certain."

Nothing to be done, then, but to wait. To make herself as comfortable as possible. Well, this certainly wasn't as awful a kidnapping as she'd heard about. Perhaps there was hope yet for a ransom or trade or some such thing.

"I... That would be wonderful, Mister Sharpe. Where might I find her?"

Abducting his coat and wearing it over a shift would only be acceptable for so long. An amount of time long since exceeded, in her opinion.

"...I can draw you a rough map, ma'am. Or I can escort you. It's your choice to make."

A rock and a hard place. This is quite the situation that phrase was made for. To be accompanied by a stranger or to walk streets alone.

"I should be most grateful for an escort, thank you, Mister Sharpe."

"...Aye."

His eyes dropped to her feet -- his boots -- and he sighed. Although nearly all in this damned town was free, he'd never bothered to get more than he required. So, now, Sharpe stood and crossed to the simple chest at the foot of his simple bed. From it, he took out the scraps of linen that used to be a decent shirt, but they'd been wrecked on his last mission.

He busied himself winding the scraps 'round his socked feet.

"It ain't too far away. We'll have you there faster'n you can say..." He paused; he thought; he retreated. "We'll...it'll be fast, that's a promise."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Some rival has stolen my true love away...

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject