Genre: Historische Kartoffel [fürs Team]
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120_minutenTeam: Schwarz
Challenge: Genre: Historisches Setting (Kartoffel) [fürs Team]
Fandom: Original [Magus & Druide]
Charaktere: Marcus und Margaret, eine Tochter von Cynwrig
Wörter: 1011
A/N: Marcus und Cynwrig sind letztes Jahr als Fake-Out für ein Historisches Setting entstanden, das hier hat Tradition. Und Kartoffeln!
Lower Piddleham, 1644
The stranger appeared in the morning, right in the middle of the street. He didn't come from the city gate, he appeared. - One moment he wasn't there, the next he was, and a faint smell of hot metal and smoke hung in the air. Margaret watched all this from the comfort of the small bench in front of her house where she was peeling potatoes for Master Kirkhouse's bad leg.
Travellers appearing in Lower Piddleham in mysterious ways wasn't anything out of the ordinary, the fabric between the worlds was threadbare at best around these parts. But the stranger, a short, stocky man in a long black dress, wasn't of the Little People. In fact, he seemed human, Margaret thought. Mostly.
His dress was embroidered in foreign patterns, black on black, and his dark hair was piled up in a plait at the back of his head. The heavily crooked nose suggested more than one brawl in his life. A sailor, maybe, or a soldier, not that Margaret had ever met either.
The smell of burning wood and hot metal trailed after him as he sauntered over to her.
“Apologies. I heard there would be a witch burning today, could you kindly point me in the direction of the stake?” His voice was slick as oil and heavily accented.
“Why would you care about such a thing?”
He smiled. “I like me a good burning.”
“He is not a witch.” Margaret felt the need to point this out, as though the stranger would care.
His slanted eyes were as black as his hair but seemed to glow oddly in the morning light. “Of course not.” There was a trace of amusement in his voice, or so she thought. “That would be ridiculous.”
“Not the words I would chose,” she said icily.
He narrowed his eyes at her. The intensity of his glare send shivers down Margaret’s back and she grabbed the peeling knife, cold iron of course, a little tighter. And then he broke into laughter. Sudden, delighted, entirely human laughter.
“You’re one of his, aren’t you?”
Margaret swallowed. She had heard rumours about witch hunters but they had never made their way this far east, not were there were actual witches to be found. “One of his what?” she asked, trying to sound curious and a little dim-witted.
He didn't seem to care for her act. “Oh, of course, I can see it in your eyes. - I met your brother once, almost a thousand years ago.”
“What are you?”
He was still laughing, the tan skin around his eyes crinkling. “The family resemblance is uncanny. Right to the point, as your father would be. And yet, I’m more human than you, little half-breed.”
“What are you implying?” She held up the knife. If she did it to threaten him or to prove that she in fact could touch it, she didn’t know. Not that he seemed to pay it any mind.
“I’m implying nothing, dear. The name’s Murhaci, these days, but your father knows me as Marcus Valerius. Or the witch, if you prefer.”
Margaret swallowed. The first name had rolled easy from his tongue, fitting the heavy accent, but the second one sounded awkward and heavy and true. Why would he give her a true name? “Those are unusual names.”
“Not particularly, neither in Rome all those centuries ago nor in Manchuria today. So, about that burning?”
“What do you want?”
He smiled, almost boyishly. Margaret couldn’t guess the age from the foreign features but if any of what he said was true, and she suspected it was, that was likely by design. “To gloat, mostly. And to save him, of course. I have a debt to pay.”
“The burning won’t be for hours.”
He lowered his head graciously. “Then I'll wait.”
“You could wait here, at my place.”
“Are you inviting a stranger into your home?”
The tone of his voice… Margaret smiled. “I’m not inviting, I’m merely presenting a truth.”
Marcus' grin was hawklike. “Aren’t you a clever little thing.” Without hesitation, he crossed the iron doorstep that sometimes made even Margaret feel queasy and entered the house. Definitely not fae then. And not a demon either, the potatoes she had buried in all four corners of her house kept all manner of evil spirits away. He poked his head out of the door frame again, smiling. “As I said, human, dear.”
She returned his smile. “I doubt that. I can sense this air about you...” The smell of smoke and burning still lingered and Margaret began to suspect it was actually part of him.
He stepped back out and, cavalierly, sat down beside her on the bench. “That is age, maybe decay. - I’m old, child, almost as old as your father.”
“That’s not human.”
“No, in fact, it’s desperately, comically human to hang onto life like that.”
Margaret glanced at him. By now, she was sure that his body was a good deal younger than hers. But if she looked at him long enough, hard enough, it felt like she could get a glimpse of the centuries hidden behind the scarred but otherwise unmarked skin.
“Which of my brothers did you meet?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Merlin.”
That’s what she’d thought.
“Good man. Mad as a hatter, of course.”
Margaret smiled. “How about you? Do you have children?”
Marcus shook his head. “Never been my domain. - Do you?”
She raised an eyebrow at him, suspecting that he already knew the answer. “I wasn’t supposed to. Never been married either.”
“Well, I can’t say that for myself.” Marcus chuckled to himself, apparently wanting to say something and then biting his tongue. He settled for pointing at the potatoes in the large bowl in Margaret’s lap. “So, what are those, dear? Are they new?”
"Only around these parts. They're of the New World." Margaret shrugged. "Not particularly tasty, but wonderful magical properties."
Marcus seemed to contemplate that for a while. "A whole new world, you say?"
Challenge: Genre: Historisches Setting (Kartoffel) [fürs Team]
Fandom: Original [Magus & Druide]
Charaktere: Marcus und Margaret, eine Tochter von Cynwrig
Wörter: 1011
A/N: Marcus und Cynwrig sind letztes Jahr als Fake-Out für ein Historisches Setting entstanden, das hier hat Tradition. Und Kartoffeln!
Lower Piddleham, 1644
The stranger appeared in the morning, right in the middle of the street. He didn't come from the city gate, he appeared. - One moment he wasn't there, the next he was, and a faint smell of hot metal and smoke hung in the air. Margaret watched all this from the comfort of the small bench in front of her house where she was peeling potatoes for Master Kirkhouse's bad leg.
Travellers appearing in Lower Piddleham in mysterious ways wasn't anything out of the ordinary, the fabric between the worlds was threadbare at best around these parts. But the stranger, a short, stocky man in a long black dress, wasn't of the Little People. In fact, he seemed human, Margaret thought. Mostly.
His dress was embroidered in foreign patterns, black on black, and his dark hair was piled up in a plait at the back of his head. The heavily crooked nose suggested more than one brawl in his life. A sailor, maybe, or a soldier, not that Margaret had ever met either.
The smell of burning wood and hot metal trailed after him as he sauntered over to her.
“Apologies. I heard there would be a witch burning today, could you kindly point me in the direction of the stake?” His voice was slick as oil and heavily accented.
“Why would you care about such a thing?”
He smiled. “I like me a good burning.”
“He is not a witch.” Margaret felt the need to point this out, as though the stranger would care.
His slanted eyes were as black as his hair but seemed to glow oddly in the morning light. “Of course not.” There was a trace of amusement in his voice, or so she thought. “That would be ridiculous.”
“Not the words I would chose,” she said icily.
He narrowed his eyes at her. The intensity of his glare send shivers down Margaret’s back and she grabbed the peeling knife, cold iron of course, a little tighter. And then he broke into laughter. Sudden, delighted, entirely human laughter.
“You’re one of his, aren’t you?”
Margaret swallowed. She had heard rumours about witch hunters but they had never made their way this far east, not were there were actual witches to be found. “One of his what?” she asked, trying to sound curious and a little dim-witted.
He didn't seem to care for her act. “Oh, of course, I can see it in your eyes. - I met your brother once, almost a thousand years ago.”
“What are you?”
He was still laughing, the tan skin around his eyes crinkling. “The family resemblance is uncanny. Right to the point, as your father would be. And yet, I’m more human than you, little half-breed.”
“What are you implying?” She held up the knife. If she did it to threaten him or to prove that she in fact could touch it, she didn’t know. Not that he seemed to pay it any mind.
“I’m implying nothing, dear. The name’s Murhaci, these days, but your father knows me as Marcus Valerius. Or the witch, if you prefer.”
Margaret swallowed. The first name had rolled easy from his tongue, fitting the heavy accent, but the second one sounded awkward and heavy and true. Why would he give her a true name? “Those are unusual names.”
“Not particularly, neither in Rome all those centuries ago nor in Manchuria today. So, about that burning?”
“What do you want?”
He smiled, almost boyishly. Margaret couldn’t guess the age from the foreign features but if any of what he said was true, and she suspected it was, that was likely by design. “To gloat, mostly. And to save him, of course. I have a debt to pay.”
“The burning won’t be for hours.”
He lowered his head graciously. “Then I'll wait.”
“You could wait here, at my place.”
“Are you inviting a stranger into your home?”
The tone of his voice… Margaret smiled. “I’m not inviting, I’m merely presenting a truth.”
Marcus' grin was hawklike. “Aren’t you a clever little thing.” Without hesitation, he crossed the iron doorstep that sometimes made even Margaret feel queasy and entered the house. Definitely not fae then. And not a demon either, the potatoes she had buried in all four corners of her house kept all manner of evil spirits away. He poked his head out of the door frame again, smiling. “As I said, human, dear.”
She returned his smile. “I doubt that. I can sense this air about you...” The smell of smoke and burning still lingered and Margaret began to suspect it was actually part of him.
He stepped back out and, cavalierly, sat down beside her on the bench. “That is age, maybe decay. - I’m old, child, almost as old as your father.”
“That’s not human.”
“No, in fact, it’s desperately, comically human to hang onto life like that.”
Margaret glanced at him. By now, she was sure that his body was a good deal younger than hers. But if she looked at him long enough, hard enough, it felt like she could get a glimpse of the centuries hidden behind the scarred but otherwise unmarked skin.
“Which of my brothers did you meet?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Merlin.”
That’s what she’d thought.
“Good man. Mad as a hatter, of course.”
Margaret smiled. “How about you? Do you have children?”
Marcus shook his head. “Never been my domain. - Do you?”
She raised an eyebrow at him, suspecting that he already knew the answer. “I wasn’t supposed to. Never been married either.”
“Well, I can’t say that for myself.” Marcus chuckled to himself, apparently wanting to say something and then biting his tongue. He settled for pointing at the potatoes in the large bowl in Margaret’s lap. “So, what are those, dear? Are they new?”
"Only around these parts. They're of the New World." Margaret shrugged. "Not particularly tasty, but wonderful magical properties."
Marcus seemed to contemplate that for a while. "A whole new world, you say?"
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Date: 2019-07-31 06:57 pm (UTC)