Sacripant!

Posted on July 10th, 2007 by solocrow.
Categories: Fiction, Generic Blatherings.

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XLV
If any ask who made this sorrowing,
And pour’d into the stream so many tears,
I answer, it was fair Circassia’s king,
That Sacripant, oppressed with amorous cares.
Love is the source from which his troubles spring,
The sole occasion of his pains and fears;
And he to her a lover’s service paid,
Now well remembered by the royal maid.

Orlando Furioso
Ludovico Ariosto
(1474 - 1533)

“Is this the sentimental shite you’re attempting to recreate with your girlish plots?” he asks, whilst waving the torn and offending page accusingly in my direction.

“Mon Dieu, how you’ve fallen Etienne,” I murmur, my gaze sliding along the mullions, transoms, and arches of the long corridor of absurdly tall windows that overlook the Swan Gardens. “Does the endgame really elude you even now?”

Etienne prowls closer, crumpling the Ariosto thoughtlessly in his frustrated paws. I can feel the tension coiled within him like a stumbled upon serpent as he leans near the delicate spiral of my ear.

“How dare you accuse me of an oversight of such magnitude after what I’ve done for you?” he breathes almost inaudibly. The slight telltale tremble of the paper indicates I am about two exchanges away from being struck.

Excellent. He’s so much easier to handle when he’s stripped down to this beastly version of himself. I sit silently, watching the dust motes whirl in the fading autumnal light. A heartbeat. Two. And — yes, now he makes his little noise of disgust that he saves for the truly unpalatable things in life. That’s my cue.

“Etienne, why not?” I ask with a note of feminine petulance, turning myself slowly to look upward into his dark countenance. I know the half light has limned me to perfection; my hands seem tiny and harmlessly folded in my lap. It’s an old trick, this pretense of mine at innocence, but of course, my dear young Etienne is old-fashioned.

“Because you’re no damn Angelica lately come from Cathay, no matter how much you wish it!” he thunders. Bits of Ariosto swirl in his wake like the tender petals of cherry blossoms as he ruthlessly shreds the paper for emphasis. As if I needed it. I sigh softly at the abuse of the precious paper; alas, I knew it was going to be one of the sacrificial lambs in this little scene.

I note with satisfaction that he’s had to turn away from me to continue his rant. A good sign, indeed.

“Oh, so you’ve read it?” I ask innocently. I am rather surprised, actually — Etienne is not one for romances.

“For fuck’s sake woman! Cease with your whorish parlor prattle and answer me plainly!” He grabs the back of a richly carved oaken chair and drags it brutally across the marble floor. The sound echoes terribly through the endless room.

I rise slowly. “You will keep a civil tongue in your head, you churlish bastard!” I hiss. “Or shall I have that chat with a certain gondolier from the City of Night, hmmm?”

He eyes me with mild shock before dropping unceremoniously into the chair, a feral grin spreading across his fine features.

“Oh you think he still lives? How quaint.”

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