The Ties That Bind ("Blade" entry)
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who_contestTitle: The Ties that Bind
Rating: PG
Genre: Character study/angst
Word Count: 550
Pairings or Characters: Jenny Flint, Madame Vastra
Warnings: Hints at parental abuse.
Summary: Jenny learns that anger is always the shortest distance to a mistake.
AN: Set prior to the events of ‘A Good Man Goes to War’, from the perspective of both characters.
A week after she came to Paternoster Row, Jenny took her mistress’s travelling cloak and slipped away under cover of darkness.
From there it was only half a night’s walk to her former lodgings. She knew the crooked alleyways well enough to move without a lamp, and if any disturbance sounded close by there was always the sword at a moment’s reach. The landlord feigned not to recognise her, but it turned out that a blade against the throat was an excellent spur to memory. There was something marvellous in the way his colour changed by the light of his fireside, the pulse in his rough-shaven neck jumping with fear. Were it not for the cacophony of her own heart, Jenny might have lingered to enjoy the spectacle. She had seen men and women alike exert this kind of influence, but no-one ever warned her how delightful it could be.
“Once again, sir. Now, think hard. Mr and Mrs Flint. Where- did- they- go?”
Through the pale hours until dawn and the day that followed, she sustained herself with half-memories and fantasy. If they met any time after noon her father would most likely be drunk, too glassy-eyed and stupid to have much fight in him. Mrs Flint posed a separate difficulty. While the cloak’s hood leant an element of surprise, Jenny had little hope of killing them both if mother should recognise daughter first. Quick; she would have to be quick off the mark. Her fingers danced along the sword-hilt, imagining.
By the fourth evening the trail was cold. Jenny’s feet smarted inside her new boots and the cloak caught under her heels. The blade had ceased to promise anything and become little more than dead weight. There was no room even for bitterness in her exhaustion. She lifted the purse of an inattentive maid by a shop window, and sank into the first cab that would take her.
Halfway through the return journey, someone started weeping. Jenny had to dab at her face before she realised that the noise came from her.
Back at the house, the front door was off the latch. There was fresh bread in the parlour, and an array of bags filled with things that her mistress never ate- jams, hard cheeses, fruit.
“I rather think I bought too many preserves. The labels all look the same through a veil.”
Jenny stayed facing the wall. It was not a conscious choice- her legs seemed to have lost their nerve entirely. The drying tears had gummed up her eyes and lips, so that it took a moment to free them.
“Forgive me, ma’am. I can’t- I don’t know what I-“
“You confused anger with power and vengeance with healing. You were not the first and I very much doubt you will be the last. Believe me when I tell you, I know. Now. A little bread and marmalade, I think.” Vastra put a hand on her shoulder and drew her to the table. Jenny was surprised by the contact, its paradoxical coolness and tenderness. Later she would come to link the two qualities forever in her mind. For the time being, however, she was aware only of relief – the relief that comes not from absolution, but from arriving home.
She sat, and began to eat.
Rating: PG
Genre: Character study/angst
Word Count: 550
Pairings or Characters: Jenny Flint, Madame Vastra
Warnings: Hints at parental abuse.
Summary: Jenny learns that anger is always the shortest distance to a mistake.
AN: Set prior to the events of ‘A Good Man Goes to War’, from the perspective of both characters.
A week after she came to Paternoster Row, Jenny took her mistress’s travelling cloak and slipped away under cover of darkness.
From there it was only half a night’s walk to her former lodgings. She knew the crooked alleyways well enough to move without a lamp, and if any disturbance sounded close by there was always the sword at a moment’s reach. The landlord feigned not to recognise her, but it turned out that a blade against the throat was an excellent spur to memory. There was something marvellous in the way his colour changed by the light of his fireside, the pulse in his rough-shaven neck jumping with fear. Were it not for the cacophony of her own heart, Jenny might have lingered to enjoy the spectacle. She had seen men and women alike exert this kind of influence, but no-one ever warned her how delightful it could be.
“Once again, sir. Now, think hard. Mr and Mrs Flint. Where- did- they- go?”
Through the pale hours until dawn and the day that followed, she sustained herself with half-memories and fantasy. If they met any time after noon her father would most likely be drunk, too glassy-eyed and stupid to have much fight in him. Mrs Flint posed a separate difficulty. While the cloak’s hood leant an element of surprise, Jenny had little hope of killing them both if mother should recognise daughter first. Quick; she would have to be quick off the mark. Her fingers danced along the sword-hilt, imagining.
By the fourth evening the trail was cold. Jenny’s feet smarted inside her new boots and the cloak caught under her heels. The blade had ceased to promise anything and become little more than dead weight. There was no room even for bitterness in her exhaustion. She lifted the purse of an inattentive maid by a shop window, and sank into the first cab that would take her.
Halfway through the return journey, someone started weeping. Jenny had to dab at her face before she realised that the noise came from her.
Back at the house, the front door was off the latch. There was fresh bread in the parlour, and an array of bags filled with things that her mistress never ate- jams, hard cheeses, fruit.
“I rather think I bought too many preserves. The labels all look the same through a veil.”
Jenny stayed facing the wall. It was not a conscious choice- her legs seemed to have lost their nerve entirely. The drying tears had gummed up her eyes and lips, so that it took a moment to free them.
“Forgive me, ma’am. I can’t- I don’t know what I-“
“You confused anger with power and vengeance with healing. You were not the first and I very much doubt you will be the last. Believe me when I tell you, I know. Now. A little bread and marmalade, I think.” Vastra put a hand on her shoulder and drew her to the table. Jenny was surprised by the contact, its paradoxical coolness and tenderness. Later she would come to link the two qualities forever in her mind. For the time being, however, she was aware only of relief – the relief that comes not from absolution, but from arriving home.
She sat, and began to eat.
(no subject)
Date: 2015-06-08 02:57 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2015-06-08 05:13 am (UTC)