Fiction: Perfection
Oct. 20th, 2013 06:35 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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Signature Character number four... with me trying something I haven't before. Please, please, if I fucked this up, TELL ME. I will rewrite as many times as I have to so that this can be done right.
Louise Delacoeur examined her appearance in the mirror, frowning slightly at the slightly too square lines of her jaw. She reached down without looking to the array of powders on her vanity table and began to repair her artful mask.
One can't truly expect to speak in front of the Senate for ten hours and not be a little uncomfortable, she reflected, dipping into a shallow jar of primer, taking in the soft, subtle scents. And certainly, they were all far more uncomfortable than I was. Her lips curved into a slight smile.
There were tricks of subtlety, of shading, to her work. A bronzer here, a carefully drawn line there, and square features smoothed into perfect, oval ones. She was of the ivory-south, a curious holdover of pale-skinned people that lived closer to the Vanya. Some, she had heard, claimed the Vanya's Life magics drained the colour out of the southern tribes, their vitality, compared to the sturdy, darker-skinned tribes of the north. In truth, the ivory-south was even more isolated than they believed, and spread out across all six nations.
Our elements call to us. Those that remained are of Ice. Once she applied the primer, she closed off the jar, and opened another. She used a tight-packed sponge to stroke the foundation over her cheeks, erasing flaws. Tilting her head this way and that, she set the sponge down in a tiny, shallow dish of water to clean, and then retrieved the bronzer, adding darkness and depth to her jawlines, and height to her cheekbones.
The scents of her cosmetics were the scents of her people. Many of the ingredients were harvested, prepared, and bottled by the Yorae living along the great Yorael River. It was their heritage, just as much as those that sifted the desert for gold and glass were, just as those who harvested the cactus apples and speared the lurking lizards or defended the farms from crocodiles and hippos. It represented wealth, beauty, and power, just as Yoraelle did, the Jewel of the Desert.
I like to think of this nation as a diadem, in which there are many beautiful jewels. Now it was time for face powder, a matte, pale shade that was mostly the same as her natural skin colour. She dusted lightly, tilting her face so she could see it sparkle in the light. Diadems do not shine if they are stained with blood.
That was the threat that faced her people now: the debates for and against it raged. Any place that had wealth fell prey to bandits. The Vanya, behind their veils and masks – both physical and metaphorical – swore that they were not of Vanik, and pledged their aide. Little had come of it, though, and the Senate grew angry. Some considered a preemptive strike. Others, hiring mercenaries. The Illyan, perhaps. They were good at fighting and shooting, and better at raiding. Anything they could collect to fight against the Synod would be of great worth to them.
Do we dare call in outsiders? she wondered. Do we escalate this?
If she weren't expected to speak again soon, she would chew her lip in contemplation. She would dirty her perfect, clean hands in the great archives, searching for something that she could say, behind her flawless mask. It was not to be. Instead, she reapplied lipstick, eyeliner, and redrew lines with eyebrow pencil and lip liner. She was whole again, pristine. As she set the last pencil down, her hand nudged against a large bottle, and she looked down.
The bottle was cut crystal, reflecting the soft rose within. She steadied the bottle, and picked up the card underneath it. She knew its contents by heart, but she read it anyway, one more time.
Louise took in a breath, the very idea filling her with excitement. Her body wasn't as she wished it was, not yet, but this last potion would make it so. The last parts of the person who had been Sebastian would be gone, and she would be whole.
Dark memories flickered in the back of her mind: of hating parts of herself. Of the desire to rip off her own skin, and dig beneath it for her real self. Of disorientation when someone called her own name. Most, though not all, people like her were identified in childhood and coaxed through it. She had been nearly a person grown before she'd realized what was wrong.
I was too stubborn, too intent on perfection to realize why I was flawed. There must be balance. Without, within. Her eyes widened, and she smiled.
I know what to say to them. Briefly, she caressed the bottle, and slipped the card beneath. It would be tonight, after she addressed the Senate. She had spoken for ten hours, and she would speak for another ten if she had to. She had to preserve Yoraelle's perfection, she had to find a solution to this problem, she had to bring balance.
Yoraelle would be in balance, and so would she.
It was time.
End
Louise Delacoeur examined her appearance in the mirror, frowning slightly at the slightly too square lines of her jaw. She reached down without looking to the array of powders on her vanity table and began to repair her artful mask.
One can't truly expect to speak in front of the Senate for ten hours and not be a little uncomfortable, she reflected, dipping into a shallow jar of primer, taking in the soft, subtle scents. And certainly, they were all far more uncomfortable than I was. Her lips curved into a slight smile.
There were tricks of subtlety, of shading, to her work. A bronzer here, a carefully drawn line there, and square features smoothed into perfect, oval ones. She was of the ivory-south, a curious holdover of pale-skinned people that lived closer to the Vanya. Some, she had heard, claimed the Vanya's Life magics drained the colour out of the southern tribes, their vitality, compared to the sturdy, darker-skinned tribes of the north. In truth, the ivory-south was even more isolated than they believed, and spread out across all six nations.
Our elements call to us. Those that remained are of Ice. Once she applied the primer, she closed off the jar, and opened another. She used a tight-packed sponge to stroke the foundation over her cheeks, erasing flaws. Tilting her head this way and that, she set the sponge down in a tiny, shallow dish of water to clean, and then retrieved the bronzer, adding darkness and depth to her jawlines, and height to her cheekbones.
The scents of her cosmetics were the scents of her people. Many of the ingredients were harvested, prepared, and bottled by the Yorae living along the great Yorael River. It was their heritage, just as much as those that sifted the desert for gold and glass were, just as those who harvested the cactus apples and speared the lurking lizards or defended the farms from crocodiles and hippos. It represented wealth, beauty, and power, just as Yoraelle did, the Jewel of the Desert.
I like to think of this nation as a diadem, in which there are many beautiful jewels. Now it was time for face powder, a matte, pale shade that was mostly the same as her natural skin colour. She dusted lightly, tilting her face so she could see it sparkle in the light. Diadems do not shine if they are stained with blood.
That was the threat that faced her people now: the debates for and against it raged. Any place that had wealth fell prey to bandits. The Vanya, behind their veils and masks – both physical and metaphorical – swore that they were not of Vanik, and pledged their aide. Little had come of it, though, and the Senate grew angry. Some considered a preemptive strike. Others, hiring mercenaries. The Illyan, perhaps. They were good at fighting and shooting, and better at raiding. Anything they could collect to fight against the Synod would be of great worth to them.
Do we dare call in outsiders? she wondered. Do we escalate this?
If she weren't expected to speak again soon, she would chew her lip in contemplation. She would dirty her perfect, clean hands in the great archives, searching for something that she could say, behind her flawless mask. It was not to be. Instead, she reapplied lipstick, eyeliner, and redrew lines with eyebrow pencil and lip liner. She was whole again, pristine. As she set the last pencil down, her hand nudged against a large bottle, and she looked down.
The bottle was cut crystal, reflecting the soft rose within. She steadied the bottle, and picked up the card underneath it. She knew its contents by heart, but she read it anyway, one more time.
[L -
This is the last treatment. Your transition will be complete, but now irreversible. The balance of your elements will be too altered to return to your birth sex. You seem certain, though, so my warning is merely perfunctory. You will need to drink this, and then be able to lay down quietly for eight hours. Before you sleep would be best, relaxing will help the most.
Once that is done, I want you to see me after a week, so that I can run some final tests. If they all do well, you will have the body you desire most.
Best Wishes,
D]
Louise took in a breath, the very idea filling her with excitement. Her body wasn't as she wished it was, not yet, but this last potion would make it so. The last parts of the person who had been Sebastian would be gone, and she would be whole.
Dark memories flickered in the back of her mind: of hating parts of herself. Of the desire to rip off her own skin, and dig beneath it for her real self. Of disorientation when someone called her own name. Most, though not all, people like her were identified in childhood and coaxed through it. She had been nearly a person grown before she'd realized what was wrong.
I was too stubborn, too intent on perfection to realize why I was flawed. There must be balance. Without, within. Her eyes widened, and she smiled.
I know what to say to them. Briefly, she caressed the bottle, and slipped the card beneath. It would be tonight, after she addressed the Senate. She had spoken for ten hours, and she would speak for another ten if she had to. She had to preserve Yoraelle's perfection, she had to find a solution to this problem, she had to bring balance.
Yoraelle would be in balance, and so would she.
It was time.
End