Henriette

They were on a gondola, torches and starlight reflected in the familiar murky waters. Home.

Giac was lounging back, one leg stretched forward, the other one bent at the knee; she was sitting next to him, back straight, listening to his chatter, her lips stretching in a small smile. Which she wouldn't let him see. It was refreshing to hear him talk as he would. Different, new as per the company she'd had to be in for a while now. But letting him know that he pleased her, too much? That was not necessary, not yet.

And then one of his large palms was at the side of her waist, the side of her chest, tugging her suddenly out of balance and onto him, his other arm catching her and drawing her to him. Layer upon layer of fabric, linen and silk and lace against lace and silk and linen and then the warmth of the body underneath it, enveloping her, welcoming her. The chatter turned lower, his voice murmuring in her ear now, lips brushing over it, sending a shiver though her. Enough to turn a little, moving the sensitive flesh away from his immediate reach, to which he laughed. But didn't press.

Not immediately. A few sentences down the canal, and his lips were on the side of her neck, kissing softly, but with no apparent intent to stop--

Henriette's eyes fluttered open in disorientation, then the sound that brought her out of her dream registered fully.

They were not in Venice, not on the canal.

They were in Paris.

It wasn't Giac's arm against her waist, tenderly - it was Grimani's, tender, yes, but incredibly possessive, seeming to weigh a thousand pounds.

It wasn't Giac's voice that had given that wail. It was her daughter's.

Henriette didn't tarry much at all, before rising to see what the problem was.

When she returned to bed, the blond head of her husband lifted, then he drew her closer and nuzzled the side of her neck. She shuddered, not sure if she wanted to cover it or not.

"I'm ... sorry. Not now."

"Henriette..." He didn't need to rattle a chain to remind her, she was his. (Giac needed to, before people - and yet, it wasn't that kind of chains that made her comfortable in his arms.) And yet she turned her face away.

"I'm sorry. I can't... I have a headache."

He sighed, but for once, lied back and used the softness of the pillow to its full extent.

She felt cheap for using such an excuse before her husband. Then again, she'd felt chepa each and every day since she proclaimed she'd call him her usband.

The memory of two strong arms and warm chest to lean against flickered as she tried to curl up in her half of the bed.

Muse: Henriette
Fandom: Casanova (2005 BBC)
Word count ~ 480

One look.

Sometimes, it takes a lot more to get somebody to pay attention to me. And a lot more for me to claim him as mine, as somebody who would do what I will him to.

But that time, with him, it only took one look. And he knew, and I knew. That he'd listen to what I told him. That I'd surprise him and make a difference.

Too bad that I only met him now that I have committed to somebody else, really. But I know it, and he knows it.

One look. A few kind words of advice.

Leaving him penniless because he let himself be duped that way, and yet leaving him with that sparkle in the blue eyes that I knew meant, I'll see you again.

He probably will. And he will either have taken my advice and made it to something more than walking straight onto somebody's fist like that, or he'll be like a puppy ready to fall when I say so, and run and fetch. And either way, he won't be able to tear his eyes from me.


Either way, he'll know the way that I do. The way I've known many times before.

He's mine.


Now for what to do with him...

Well, that would depend on what he's like, now wouldn't it. What's underneath the Florentine lace and Chinese silk and behind the blue eyes.

I'll wait and see. And listen.

Marianne's squeals mixed with Michele's laughter and threats mixed with the stamping of two sets of childish feet along the dignified hallways of the old Grimani residence. Chasing each other. Around the graceful ornaments. Down some stairs and up some. Laughter, genuine, real.

Henriette's lips curled up. That was what children were supposed to do. Run. Play. Laugh. Of course, learn too. But not the way she had.

Starving. Helpless. Angry. In need.
Jaded.

And not nearly as stiff as her husband would have them be. Of course they would learn what was proper. Of course they'd learn to do it. But now, now wasn't the time for that. And she knew that better than most.

In at least one thing, she had succeeded. Her children were safe. Protected. They had their chance to be innocent, something that she'd never had. Something that he'd never had, either.

For all the ill things that their father could be... her children had a chance to be, one day, happy.

The one bright hope of her life.

It was there, between the half-biting words that could be shared with nobody else, looking at the way those blue eyes would react, laughter and a bit of pain and surprise lighting them up and it seemed right in a world that was completely wrong, and had been as long as she could remember.

It was there in the motions of a single dance, all alone in the empty street, to the sounds of stolen music, his face half in shadow but his hands, and his lips, speaking truths that only made sense to the two of them.

It was there when her breath caught, the night not able to hide the infinite happiness on his face as he slipped that ring on her finger, and her whisper of gratitude preceded a kiss that seemed a promise of lifetime of it.

It was there as she woke up in the morning, knowing that she'd see him in moments almost, as soon as she was dressed and ready, and that next week, next week she would be his wife, and their fates sealed together for eternity.

And then it was just gone.

For something unexpected, unsought, uninvited, its absence was shattering, breaking her to pieces of who she once had been. Before she knew it.

And that was not nearly as terrible as what was happening to him.

Look at her, she's smiling, but is she happy? She's smiling, so it doesn't matter. Let me tell you something. Things aren't always as they seem. -Mona Lisa Smile

( Borrowed time )

You Are A Martini

You are the kind of drinker who appreciates a nice hard drink. And for you, only quality alcohol. You don't waste your time on the cheap stuff. Obviously, you're usually found with a martini in your hand. But sometimes you mix it up with a gin and tonic. And you'd never, ever consider one of those flavored martinis. They're hardly a drink!

( It had been months... )

OOC: I think I've got a decent grasp on the 'modern' personality for this muse, and these are some facts that I've come up with, for her. She'll be fleshed out as I keep on writing.
Again, I am not stopping to write Henriette as per canon. For the comms she's been accepted, the prompts will be either written for her alone, or joint - with Henriette's part covering the word count / participation requirements.

( Cutting for length - and a bit of language. )

Blackbird fly blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night.

He can always fit in wherever he goes, if he puts his mind to it. He will always stand out, wherever he goes, too. Sometimes he can stick around places, while he means to - and then he'll lose interest in being like the others, in just melting in with the rest of us. And he'll stop trying, and he'll stick out too much.

And people will hate him, and bring him down, and banish him.

It's not the women, you know. Well, with one exception. But generally, it's envy. Unless it's pure luck, of course, with all the gaming - if that is luck turning against him. And not people deciding to bring him down - because of envy again.

After all, he looks like the rest of the men - wears the same fashions... well, almost. Or sets the fashions. Has two eyes, two hands, two feet, voice like the rest of the men...

And yet there's something about him that makes him stand out. Like the blackbird - unimpressive visually; isn't huge, or brightly coloured like exotic birds. But that little bird's voice makes you listen. When Giacomo Casanova has been staying somewhere for a while, people start hearing of him. Noticing him. He doesn't fall in the pool and leave no traces - he raises a splash, and the waves from it touch so many. Even if you haven't met him, you'll hear of him. You'll hear stories about him. In only a short period of time - much shorter than usual for anyone who isn't a duke or a prince, really - you'll be asking about him, what happened with the latest adventure you'd heard about him - and then, like everybody else, you'll want to meet him.

And then somebody will throw a stone and chase him away. For attracting too much attention to himself, for being too good to fit. And I'll read - or hear - about it. And close my eyes, and wish him easy travelling.

Fly, blackbird. Fly.

You bring light in the deep, black night.

Muse: Henriette
Fandom: Casanova 2005 (BBC)
Word count: 346

You Are 40% Sociopath

From time to time, you may be a bit troubled and a bit too charming for your own good. It's likely that you're not a sociopath... just quite smart and a bit out of the mainstream!