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ambitious_womanThere is enough sorrow in the world, isn’t there, without trying to invent it?
"I still believe that you should inform him."
Weary, Reinette noted the lack of deference in her companion's tone, the lack of use of her title. They thought to insult her. They presumed to think that they could hurt her. But what they failed to realize that she did not care. Or to me more fair, in the case of the brunette before her, she merely did not judge her enough of a threat to be worth the effort. Status alone had placed her within Reinette's chambers at this moment, nothing of her own talents or skill. There was nothing remarkable there.
"And then what, do you imagine?"
If this girl possessed an imagination.
"Then he will come to you. Then he will comfort you. Then he will --"
"Then he will what," Reinette interrupted with no small amount of anger from her bed. To be fair, not all of it could be placed at the other woman's feet. "Then he will love me? Then he will take me into his arms and bring us back, inevitably, to this time and place once more? Are you so blind that you cannot foresee the outcome?"
Reinette would have no more.
"You are dismissed. All of you are dismissed."
They left then, knowing better than to argue. A demure, silent row with heads bent in deference she knew they did not feel. The silence that followed enveloped her, wrapping itself around her weary form. But even it could not serve as a balm to these wounds.
And even then, Reinette could not cry.
It was for the best, she told herself. After all, she was not one often given to tears. She did not ply them as other women did, currency used to ensure their desires. She and her own sorrow were strangers in the physical form, and so they acted as strangers often would. Jerking and tearing, none of the movements graceful nor natural. It could not be a pleasing state to the eyes or the ears.
So the rest of her body wept for her. Hot, wet and red it had poured from between her legs in a sensation that should never be so familiar. And yet for Reinette? It was. The royal blood, and the royal body mingled within her own the ways breaths mingled within a kiss. Rejected from her own even as she had welcomed it with her arms a mere three months before. Hardly enough time for even the whispers of speculation to begin.
Only for Reinette the whispers lingered.
How many babes now stripped from her womb in her time with Louis? This would make six to the best of her knowledge and it seemed as if to her that each time some small part of them remained. Their voices and faces and tears, caught up within her insides. Their sorrow lingering. Perhaps she could not cry for the simple reason that they had taken all her tears.
Perhaps it should not matter. FanFan had very nearly grown up without her, reaching the coltish beauty of almost-woman without very little time in her mother's presence. How much time did she practically have for another child? She could only think, however, that this child had been of her, and Louis. And that made the hurt very dear.
She was a woman of many talents, Reinette knew. Educated -- created -- in so many ways so that she might love. But it seemed that she could not sustain it.
Reinette glanced at the blood-stained clothes stacked no neatly on the table to her right, and hated them. Loss should not be contained in such neat corners. Hurt should not be squared to such perfection. Emptiness like this should not have a vessel to contain it.
Still, as she looked at the red bleeding into white, she could hear all too clearly the conversation that was to come.
They were done.
"I still believe that you should inform him."
Weary, Reinette noted the lack of deference in her companion's tone, the lack of use of her title. They thought to insult her. They presumed to think that they could hurt her. But what they failed to realize that she did not care. Or to me more fair, in the case of the brunette before her, she merely did not judge her enough of a threat to be worth the effort. Status alone had placed her within Reinette's chambers at this moment, nothing of her own talents or skill. There was nothing remarkable there.
"And then what, do you imagine?"
If this girl possessed an imagination.
"Then he will come to you. Then he will comfort you. Then he will --"
"Then he will what," Reinette interrupted with no small amount of anger from her bed. To be fair, not all of it could be placed at the other woman's feet. "Then he will love me? Then he will take me into his arms and bring us back, inevitably, to this time and place once more? Are you so blind that you cannot foresee the outcome?"
Reinette would have no more.
"You are dismissed. All of you are dismissed."
They left then, knowing better than to argue. A demure, silent row with heads bent in deference she knew they did not feel. The silence that followed enveloped her, wrapping itself around her weary form. But even it could not serve as a balm to these wounds.
And even then, Reinette could not cry.
It was for the best, she told herself. After all, she was not one often given to tears. She did not ply them as other women did, currency used to ensure their desires. She and her own sorrow were strangers in the physical form, and so they acted as strangers often would. Jerking and tearing, none of the movements graceful nor natural. It could not be a pleasing state to the eyes or the ears.
So the rest of her body wept for her. Hot, wet and red it had poured from between her legs in a sensation that should never be so familiar. And yet for Reinette? It was. The royal blood, and the royal body mingled within her own the ways breaths mingled within a kiss. Rejected from her own even as she had welcomed it with her arms a mere three months before. Hardly enough time for even the whispers of speculation to begin.
Only for Reinette the whispers lingered.
How many babes now stripped from her womb in her time with Louis? This would make six to the best of her knowledge and it seemed as if to her that each time some small part of them remained. Their voices and faces and tears, caught up within her insides. Their sorrow lingering. Perhaps she could not cry for the simple reason that they had taken all her tears.
Perhaps it should not matter. FanFan had very nearly grown up without her, reaching the coltish beauty of almost-woman without very little time in her mother's presence. How much time did she practically have for another child? She could only think, however, that this child had been of her, and Louis. And that made the hurt very dear.
She was a woman of many talents, Reinette knew. Educated -- created -- in so many ways so that she might love. But it seemed that she could not sustain it.
Reinette glanced at the blood-stained clothes stacked no neatly on the table to her right, and hated them. Loss should not be contained in such neat corners. Hurt should not be squared to such perfection. Emptiness like this should not have a vessel to contain it.
Still, as she looked at the red bleeding into white, she could hear all too clearly the conversation that was to come.
They were done.
