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marginalia) wrote2006-12-31 11:31 pm
marginalia) wrote2006-12-31 11:31 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: Looking on to Spring (Repost)
We can't reveal yet! I still have recs to do! Fic to read! Ahhh! Well, okay.
Title: Looking on to Spring
Fandom/characters The Secret Garden, Mary/Colin/Dickon
Notes: Written for Gabihime for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
yuletide 2006. (Archive link.) Thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dorrie6 & starfishchick for the read-throughs and the encouragement, and to art_geek for the musical soundtrack. Seriously.
The Christmases Before
Each morning, Mary's Ayah came and woke her, washed, fed, and dressed her. On Christmas mornings, she often brought a new red dress, as full of lace as Mary's mother's party gowns. "Please don't get it dirty," she begged, and sometimes Mary would and sometimes Mary wouldn't, just as she liked. Sometimes on that day, on Christmas, her parents would come at tea time and bring her toys and sweets, but sometimes they were quite busy with parties and dinners and government things that she was too young to understand, not that she cared to understand anyway. Sometimes late on those nights Mary would lie awake, unable to sleep from the heat or the rich food or her own stubbornness, and she would hear her mother come in to her room for just a moment. She never kissed her or touched her or said anything at all, but looked in for a moment and was gone.
Far away in England, down the corridor hidden behind the tapestry-covered door in Misselthwaite Manor, Colin would sometimes lay in bed and cry, sometimes he'd listen for ghosts, and sometimes he'd call in the nurse to pull the silk cord to uncover the picture of his mother. If his father were at home, he would bring books and puzzles from his travels, but as Colin grew older he came less often and stayed at the manor for shorter and shorter periods of time. But just as Mary did in India, Colin would sometimes lie awake, pretending to be asleep, as his father or his ghost watched over him late at night.
A world away and a mere five miles all at once, Dickon broke free of the cottage when the weather was fine and even when it wasn't, exploring the moor like a moorland creature himself, though one bundled warm in knitted things. He kept an eye on the sun, for it liked to creep away quickly still this late in December. He'd make it back to the cottage with enough light still for chores, and then he'd burst in, arms full of greenery to lend a festive air for Christmas. His mother would help him hang them, and the little ones would decorate them with flowers and such they had made of scraps of paper. Sometimes they would have fruit or nuts or bits of sweet bread, sometimes there would be handmade gifts shared 'round, and sometimes there would be little more than laughter and song and a swiftly growing family holding together at the edge of the moor.
The First Christmas After
After the first summer of the garden, of course, everything changed. The Manor was lighter, somehow, full of life again, and Mr. Craven made excuses to stay rather than excuses to leave. As fall faded away and winter began to wind its way through the countryside with chilly fingers and icy breath, he thought to himself of the first time the Manor had felt this way. At tea that afternoon, he raised the question of Christmas.
"I've seen it in books," Colin proclaimed. "And we have not been doing it properly at all. It is a whole day all about the Magic in the middle of winter, and we've not paid it any mind! There should be music and light and green things all around." He looked at them both, eyes sparkling. "And Father Christmas."
Mr. Craven looked over at Mary. "I don't know anything about it," she said. "We didn't have Christmas in India, not the way people do here. It was too hot, and there were too many parties and things for the grown-ups."
It was certainly not too hot on the moor, however, nor was anyone too busy for Christmas. Dickon found them a small tree, and they set it up on a table. Mrs. Medlock threw a pained look in the direction of the white linen tablecloth, but the children paid her no mind, stringing the tree with garlands of candies and paper flowers. Tantalizing smells could be detected near the kitchens, and there were many whispered conferences and hurried hiding away of gifts, for they had decided that as many things as possible should be made by hand.
When the day finally arrived, they were very glad of such entertainment indoors, as the wind shrieked around the corners of the Manor, and the snow spun through the air, drifting high up walls and making leaving the house perhaps the least tantalizing idea possible. Candles were lit, bellies stuffed, and presents handed out and exclaimed over. Mr. Craven had ordered two boxes of crackers, one for their celebration, and one for Martha to bring down to the cottage on Boxing Day. Before the day was over, both Colin and Mary took a quiet moment each to slip her a small package. "For Dickon," they said, and she nodded solemnly and tucked them away.
That night, cozy and warm under heaps of blankets in beds made toasty with bed warmers, each dreamed, but not of ghosts.
Many Christmases Later
Colin was off on a speaking tour, as he had been so often lately, and it was left to Mary and Dickon to prepare for the holiday. They tromped around out of doors, scavenging for greenery, paying no mind at all to anything that might be said below-stairs of the lady of the house engaging in such an activity. Mary had always done quite as she liked, and in the aftermath of the war, even fewer people cared to bother her about it. She wore trousers and heavy boots just as Dickon did, and spent as much time outside as she could, though not as much as when she had been a child.
Together she and Dickon looked about the estate for just the right tree, a task Mary had long ago commandeered for them. Sometimes they chattered to each other and sometimes they were quiet and wide-eyed at the world around them. Dragging the tree back to the Manor, Mary hummed a song from long ago in India as the snow began to fall softly around them, and when they paused for a moment, Dickon couldn't help but kiss her, all rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed in the cold.
The tree was up, though not decorated, the afternoon Colin returned home. He followed their laughter into the drawing room and paused in the door for a moment, savouring the picture of them until one or the other caught sight and drew him in among them. Glass ornaments, candles, and various other sparkling and colorful decorations all found places on the tree, and they took their tea there, so as to admire it longer. "You were right, Colin," Mary said. "There is Magic in it."
Over dinner they told stories of past Christmases, their many strange Christmases as children, and their first Christmas together. They took it in turns to pull open the crackers, donning the paper crowns, reading the terrible jokes, and collecting the small toys and candies to send down to Dickon's nieces and nephews for their stockings.
Late that night, the wind screamed through the bushes and cried 'round the corners of the Manor, while the three of them collapsed in an undignified heap near the tree, laughing and talking over stories from Colin's trip and local news from when he was away. At a lull in the conversation, Colin sprang up, decreeing it time for presents. "And music," Mary decided. She put a record on the gramophone, and after the gifts were all unwrapped, Colin pulled Dickon to his feet, deaf to all protests, and danced him through the mess of colored paper. Awkward at first, both competing for the lead, they soon relaxed into the melody and movement as Mary watched, content in the image of them together.
Lights twinkled across the moor from the windows of the house on the hill, and inside, warm and protected, two lads and a lass looked in on each other and on to spring.
Title: Looking on to Spring
Fandom/characters The Secret Garden, Mary/Colin/Dickon
Notes: Written for Gabihime for
yuletide 2006. (Archive link.) Thanks to dorrie6 & starfishchick for the read-throughs and the encouragement, and to art_geek for the musical soundtrack. Seriously.The Christmases Before
Each morning, Mary's Ayah came and woke her, washed, fed, and dressed her. On Christmas mornings, she often brought a new red dress, as full of lace as Mary's mother's party gowns. "Please don't get it dirty," she begged, and sometimes Mary would and sometimes Mary wouldn't, just as she liked. Sometimes on that day, on Christmas, her parents would come at tea time and bring her toys and sweets, but sometimes they were quite busy with parties and dinners and government things that she was too young to understand, not that she cared to understand anyway. Sometimes late on those nights Mary would lie awake, unable to sleep from the heat or the rich food or her own stubbornness, and she would hear her mother come in to her room for just a moment. She never kissed her or touched her or said anything at all, but looked in for a moment and was gone.
Far away in England, down the corridor hidden behind the tapestry-covered door in Misselthwaite Manor, Colin would sometimes lay in bed and cry, sometimes he'd listen for ghosts, and sometimes he'd call in the nurse to pull the silk cord to uncover the picture of his mother. If his father were at home, he would bring books and puzzles from his travels, but as Colin grew older he came less often and stayed at the manor for shorter and shorter periods of time. But just as Mary did in India, Colin would sometimes lie awake, pretending to be asleep, as his father or his ghost watched over him late at night.
A world away and a mere five miles all at once, Dickon broke free of the cottage when the weather was fine and even when it wasn't, exploring the moor like a moorland creature himself, though one bundled warm in knitted things. He kept an eye on the sun, for it liked to creep away quickly still this late in December. He'd make it back to the cottage with enough light still for chores, and then he'd burst in, arms full of greenery to lend a festive air for Christmas. His mother would help him hang them, and the little ones would decorate them with flowers and such they had made of scraps of paper. Sometimes they would have fruit or nuts or bits of sweet bread, sometimes there would be handmade gifts shared 'round, and sometimes there would be little more than laughter and song and a swiftly growing family holding together at the edge of the moor.
The First Christmas After
After the first summer of the garden, of course, everything changed. The Manor was lighter, somehow, full of life again, and Mr. Craven made excuses to stay rather than excuses to leave. As fall faded away and winter began to wind its way through the countryside with chilly fingers and icy breath, he thought to himself of the first time the Manor had felt this way. At tea that afternoon, he raised the question of Christmas.
"I've seen it in books," Colin proclaimed. "And we have not been doing it properly at all. It is a whole day all about the Magic in the middle of winter, and we've not paid it any mind! There should be music and light and green things all around." He looked at them both, eyes sparkling. "And Father Christmas."
Mr. Craven looked over at Mary. "I don't know anything about it," she said. "We didn't have Christmas in India, not the way people do here. It was too hot, and there were too many parties and things for the grown-ups."
It was certainly not too hot on the moor, however, nor was anyone too busy for Christmas. Dickon found them a small tree, and they set it up on a table. Mrs. Medlock threw a pained look in the direction of the white linen tablecloth, but the children paid her no mind, stringing the tree with garlands of candies and paper flowers. Tantalizing smells could be detected near the kitchens, and there were many whispered conferences and hurried hiding away of gifts, for they had decided that as many things as possible should be made by hand.
When the day finally arrived, they were very glad of such entertainment indoors, as the wind shrieked around the corners of the Manor, and the snow spun through the air, drifting high up walls and making leaving the house perhaps the least tantalizing idea possible. Candles were lit, bellies stuffed, and presents handed out and exclaimed over. Mr. Craven had ordered two boxes of crackers, one for their celebration, and one for Martha to bring down to the cottage on Boxing Day. Before the day was over, both Colin and Mary took a quiet moment each to slip her a small package. "For Dickon," they said, and she nodded solemnly and tucked them away.
That night, cozy and warm under heaps of blankets in beds made toasty with bed warmers, each dreamed, but not of ghosts.
Many Christmases Later
Colin was off on a speaking tour, as he had been so often lately, and it was left to Mary and Dickon to prepare for the holiday. They tromped around out of doors, scavenging for greenery, paying no mind at all to anything that might be said below-stairs of the lady of the house engaging in such an activity. Mary had always done quite as she liked, and in the aftermath of the war, even fewer people cared to bother her about it. She wore trousers and heavy boots just as Dickon did, and spent as much time outside as she could, though not as much as when she had been a child.
Together she and Dickon looked about the estate for just the right tree, a task Mary had long ago commandeered for them. Sometimes they chattered to each other and sometimes they were quiet and wide-eyed at the world around them. Dragging the tree back to the Manor, Mary hummed a song from long ago in India as the snow began to fall softly around them, and when they paused for a moment, Dickon couldn't help but kiss her, all rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed in the cold.
The tree was up, though not decorated, the afternoon Colin returned home. He followed their laughter into the drawing room and paused in the door for a moment, savouring the picture of them until one or the other caught sight and drew him in among them. Glass ornaments, candles, and various other sparkling and colorful decorations all found places on the tree, and they took their tea there, so as to admire it longer. "You were right, Colin," Mary said. "There is Magic in it."
Over dinner they told stories of past Christmases, their many strange Christmases as children, and their first Christmas together. They took it in turns to pull open the crackers, donning the paper crowns, reading the terrible jokes, and collecting the small toys and candies to send down to Dickon's nieces and nephews for their stockings.
Late that night, the wind screamed through the bushes and cried 'round the corners of the Manor, while the three of them collapsed in an undignified heap near the tree, laughing and talking over stories from Colin's trip and local news from when he was away. At a lull in the conversation, Colin sprang up, decreeing it time for presents. "And music," Mary decided. She put a record on the gramophone, and after the gifts were all unwrapped, Colin pulled Dickon to his feet, deaf to all protests, and danced him through the mess of colored paper. Awkward at first, both competing for the lead, they soon relaxed into the melody and movement as Mary watched, content in the image of them together.
Lights twinkled across the moor from the windows of the house on the hill, and inside, warm and protected, two lads and a lass looked in on each other and on to spring.
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