Story [Multifandom] "Those Who Stare at Storms", Mods' Shuffle Challenge - Round II up 2/13!

?Those Who Stare at Storms?

Genre: General
Rating: PG
Time Frame: N/A
Characters: Various
Fandoms:

Part One: Merlin, Jane Eyre, Labyrinth, Captain America, Mistborn
Part Two: The Phantom of the Opera, Once Upon a Time, Gilmore Girls, Labyrinth, Les Misérables

Summary: My entry for the Mods' Shuffle Challenge.

Notes: Obviously, this isn't for the voting - but the challenge was challenging in the best of ways (my music was interesting, that was for sure ? my shuffle even gave me two songs off of the new Nightwish album for me to play with ), and it gave me an interesting opportunity to play around with a few new fandoms, and then revisit a few old favorites. This was definitely a fun way to exercise the muse. (Even though my 'ficlets' hit the thousand word side of the word count every single time, and then gave me a few ideas for more longer pieces at that. Ye fanfiction gods help me. )

And so, that said, enjoy!


Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, but for the words.

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[blockquote][b]I.

?at the seams?[/b]
Arthur/Gwen || 'Merlin'

[i]Don't dream too far
Don't lose sight of who you are
Don't remember that rush of joy
He could be that boy
I'm not that girl[/i]

~ ?I'm Not That Girl?, by Idina Menzel, from [i]Wicked[/i][/blockquote]
The picture Arthur presented in that moment was, in a word, ridiculous.

He was sitting on the floor of the Lady Morgana's chambers ([i]sprawled[/i] was a more accurate description, but Gwen was determined to keep a hold on herself, even within the confines of her mind), with his long legs stretched out seemingly forever (and she thought to scold him for the work he'd create for Merlin later, really she did); his blonde hair tousled, and his expression playful. He had her laundry basket propped up on his knees, the dozens of rich colours inside clashing with the dark tones he favored that day, as he proved himself to be more jester than prince once again.

Gwen, who had been trying to go about her duties, was sitting next to him, attempting to get her mending done. There was a feast that night to honor some troll or the other (Gwen did lose track at times) that Arthur had slain, and Morgana had been very insistent that she was to wear her scarlet gown that eve.

Her needle came sharp and quick as she narrowed her eyes at the ridiculous man next to her. She wanted to tell him to get up and leave her be. But he would just smile that smile that swallowed his eyes and say that he would tell any onlooker that he was looking for his father's ward, and really, it was not all that rare that he tormented the help ? just look at poor Merlin, and -

?What are you doing?? she finally let her tone hold a sharp edge, forgetting that he was her lord and superior in that moment.

?I am trying to decide which one better fits my complexion,? he returned, holding up a dark violet gown, and a rather pale pink one; one to each cheek, as if to model the colours.

Gwen rolled her eyes heavenward. ?The pink,? still she returned, her eyes narrowed, and Arthur sighed as he placed the dress down.

?Well, you are no fun,? he complained, a pout upon his lips.

?Some of us have work to do,? she said, pointedly.

Arthur's eyes brightened, an opportunity sought and seized. Gwen felt something inside of her tighten at the look, and wondered if this was how the troll felt before it was felled.

?Here, let me help you then,? said he, and took the dress from her hands. Amused by his earnestness, she let him have the needle and thread, strangely intrigued. It was hard to be cross at him when he was so set on being endearing, and she did so wish that he would let her be. Let her be until Uther's reign had ended, and then he could make good on the promises in his eyes -

She cut that line of thought as

 

Book-Geek: Why thank-you. Jane and Edward can be my soul to write, and Merlin and Labyrinth both are fantastic views, as well.

Nat: That was half the fun in writing the Mistborn one. The bittersweetness killed me dead while writing it. And truly, there can be nothing better than a good Sarah/Jareth ficlet. The fanfiction world needs more glitter and eighties classics, that's all I'm saying. As always, thank-you for reading!

mavjade: Well then, you must have fantastic taste in music. And thank-you for all of the kind words. Mistborn is an amazing trilogy by Brandon Sanderson, and I highly recommend it. It is awesome.

SilSolo: It seems to be a favorite line. Thanks for reading.



~MJ

 

Author's Note: Because my muse said so. Who was I to argue with her when this made her get off her kiester and actually write something?

Notes on Ficlet I: In honor of Phantom's 25th anniversary. Thank-you guys for singing songs in our head for the last quarter century, this humble phan is eternally in your debt.

Notes on Ficlet V: Because it is official from the Les Miz camp that there will be a movie version of the play. And my fangirl heartstrings automatically did a leap and a twirl and a dozen other acrobatic things. (And then, Deb Talan's song there is Fantine's soul. Obviously. And so, I could not resist. )

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[color=purple]
[blockquote][b]Playlist Two[/b][/blockquote][/color]

[blockquote][b]I.

?like players at the keys?[/b]
Erik/Christine || ?The Phantom of the Opera?

Beethoven's Piano Sonata no. 14, ?Moonlight Sonata?, in C minor (Instrumental)[/blockquote]
She awakened to the sound of music.

Such was not an oddity, not here, far beneath the surface of the earth. Here, music dripped from the pores in the rockmass, and sang in the dips and rises of the catacomb walls. Song whispered in the lake; it echoed in the ripples upon the water. Melody knew its form within the gilded pillars which supported a monument to music more opulent than any Charles Garnier could have dreamed to build upon the streets of fair Paris, far above them.

And yet, Christine Daaé was the sole one to pay homage to the beauty of the music around her. The song rose with the time of her breathing, with the flutter of her eyes as she slowly gathered herself and returned to the land of awakening. Away from dreams.

Or into a dream, she thought, her mind slanting with a wry bitterness that was not altogether foreign to her as of late. (Not now. Not after.) The music he played [i]knew[/i] her; knew her in an unholy bond which she had once thought to be the affinity of angels. Now, once the curtain had been lifted and the trick had been revealed, the melody he played was Eve's damning fruit before her.

She sighed at the turn of her thoughts. The music beyond her dipped as well.

By the time got out of bed to face the day, the music had faded. She hummed to fill the silence as she dressed in pale and simple tones ? ever a flower left to wilt underground, she hoped to remind him ? and tied her hair back with a ribbon. She had no mirror to assist her, (not here, never here), so she felt for wayward curls and smoothed her skirts, and decided herself as done up as she could be.

When she stepped into the main halls of the house on the lake, she found that she was alone. The candles were lit in a thought for her dislike of the dark ? for he was as used to the shadows as she was to the light. She found his note next to her awaiting breakfast, his slanted and childish script begging her pardon for his departure, and assuring her of his quick return.

She ate in silence. When she rose, the candle in her hand fought the shadows away from her gown.

With nothing left to do but wait, she sat in the music room and looked over the song she was to learn that day. She followed the notes with her eyes, and hummed them in the back of her throat as she imagined them full and unchained upon her tongue.

When her song faded, she took a seat before the grand piano. Curiously, she pushed aside the song that was selected for her, and spied the melody which had roused her from her sleep earlier. The notes upon the page were sloppy, the ink blotting and running in numerous places ? for Erik taken with an idea was nothing that hand and pen could keep up with - and the notes before her spun and flew, incensed. Even so, the tale they spun was delicate. The song was simple and wistful where the notes upon the page were red and defiant and so very angry.

Carefully, she set her fingers against the keys. They rested lightly, dry and warm against the cool and smooth ivory. Gently, she pressed down, playing a simple scale, and in response she heard the piano sing. T