MY FAIR WARRIOR - VERSION I

This is a story of love... Too cliched, comrade.

MY FAIR WARRIOR - OTHELLO, JAIMIENNE STYLE

Othello: Jaime Lannister

Desdemona: Brienne of Tarth

Cassio: Renly Baratheon

Iago: Petyr Baelish

Emilia: Catelyn Stark

Narrator: Dark Princess Twilight

Imagine that your lives have gone so far practically perfectly. Not a single cloud in sight. And, to make things even clearer, you are at Storm's End, soon to leave for Evenfall Hall...
What could ever make your story take a turn for the worst? Some kind of misunderstanding? Can they be actually lethal?
For love can hurt indeed, and turn against those who feel it in the depths of their hearts.
In this timeline, Jaime and Brienne, bride and groom, will feel the effect of a curse that can't be reversed...

3... 2... 1...

MY FAIR WARRIOR

the graphic version

(this is but a preview)

TWILIGHT (sounding like the Twilight Zone narrator)

Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth, opposites attract, truly in passionate love with one another.

Yet soon they will discover that love is a two-edged blade, 

and that those closest to one are the last to be trusted.

For emotions may be especially hard to control, especially in the Twilight Zone...

Was what I once felt for her true love?

Never.

It hurt far less than when I think of you...

If I were to die, I would be far more than happy...

Oh, my fair warrior...

-So this is Storm's End... Far harsher than Casterly Rock, eh?

-Is that Tarth across the strait and the mist?

-We're leaving for Evenfall tomorrow. Now I am Ruler of Tarth...

-Good morrow, and welcome to Storm's End!

-Last time I saw Renly, he was but a child... how sprightly he is now...

-Jaime and Brienne, sitting in a... There's a septon eager to bless someone here!

-I keep my maiden name. For Tarth has got no more heirs...

-Let me kiss you, my dear camp wench... my fair warrior...

Charming, Brienne! This gown can't fit you any better!

"I just hope I can wear a dress for tonight..."

-I've got her, in fact... and she will be yours if you accept this petty little offer.

-There has never been anything in between us!

-If you wish to have pretty little Sansa in one piece...

Lannister, Baratheon, Tyrell... Surnames.

And chaos is a ladder.

No true Baratheon does not drink his wine or ale unmixed.

-So what will you do now, Lord Renly?

-Is this an affront? Let me show you, upstart!

*gulp*

**gulp**

***gulp***

-A true Baratheon indeed, the spitting image of the late Lord Steffon, and of the late Lord Robert, and heading down the same path towards downfall...

-And you loved me for my misfortune...

-And you loved me for my compassion...

(-YOUR LORDSHIP! PLEASE! STOP WAVING THAT SWORD!!)

(-***Ours is the fury... Ha-ha-ha-ha!!***)

(-YOUR LORDSHIP!! HOW COME YOU...?!)

"Renly!"

-Tsk... So this is what the Lord of Storm's End is really like? 

Though this may hurt... We Lannisters will never more ally with House Baratheon.

You were the first stranger to show kindness to me.

Guess I shall repay the favour... Friends will be friends, after all!

-Watch both of them... Lord Baratheon and your bride...

-Could she ever? I mean, she's brave, true, clever, loyal...

-They are closer to one another than you ever were to her.

Somewhere across Westeros, Cersei Lannister is crying... Tywin Lannister is dying...

-But could she ever...?

-She is a Stormlander as well, after all...

Never lower your guard...

"Could she... that close... closer than I ever...

Steel yourself!

But what is really true?"

Trifling clues may shatter the most shining dreams...

"Did they... that close? Renly? Brienne? 

That was surely a kiss, a kiss which never will be mine...

She is...! But how dare?!"

"We were never meant for each other..."

"Why is he so cold, so detached, overlooking me?"

"If I can't have her at all... then..."

"Perhaps it's only the effect of all these changes he's going through."

-His kisses have seared your freckled face.

-What?

-Ain't you that wicked Stormlands sutler-whore?

-I swear by the Maiden! I have never been that!

 -Excuse me... I happen to have made a mistake.

I thought you were that wicked Stormlands camp-whore who bedded Jaime Lannister.

-...and he even rubbed embers on my cheek. Still coldly, as if his heart were somehow frozen.

What's more, he seems obsessed with the fact that Renly and I are "more than friends." 

And you know it has never been that way.

-As a wife and mother, I have had to, and still suffer, my own hardships in the ways of love.

Please listen to me.

-Please listen to me, Cat... Jaime changing from honest lover to what he has become... This is not usual at all.

There's a slight suspicion that someone is behind it.

-Please, Brienne. Give him and you a little more time. And never worry. 

It's the fate of a warrior's wife to see her spouse change every now and then for better or worse.

-My heart is still true to him, and will always be true, no matter how harsh he is or will be.

"If I put out the light inside you, how could I ever kindle what I quenched?

Pardon me, my fair warrior.

This is what is best for both of us. And for Renly Baratheon. And for the one for whose sake you will break his heart, like you have broken mine.

Farewell, my lovely traitor. I will surely miss you."

***kiss***

-Jaime? Was that a kiss? My fair warrior... Do you still love me?

CHRONICLES OF A USURPATION

CHRONICLES OF A USURPATION
The Shakespeare Day story 2015
by Sandra Dermark


Dearest Elisabeth, Astrid, and Rainer:
Had I not found this story during my pursuit of forgotten tales, these Shakespeare Day celebrations would have been as tiresome as a rainy Good Friday.
Ever since I started this Erasmus, I have been looking for more forgotten stories than ever before. And I hoped with all my heart that the quest would not be an unfruitful one. Roaming the streets of old pre-industrial Leipzig, where Bach and Goethe have walked before, and having at least learned to understand that challenging curse known as the Saxon dialect (my greatest hurdle to fit in and reach what I sought). One day, I entered one of those quaint bookstores when a little thin leaflet of a book caught my eye. "Chronicles of a Usurpation" was written on the cover, in French, in lovely Art Nouveau letters. "CHRONIQUES D'UNE USURPATION", printed in Paris in 1899. Honeysuckle motifs lined the covers. Mesmerized, I caught the booklet and opened it, and then started reading. I was struck. An irresistible urge to read the book took hold of me by surprise.
At dusk, I returned home to the tiresome GDR-era Plattenbau, so different from my usual daytime hangouts (the sacrifice one has to make to study at the Leipzig Uni), with the little pale green book in my contented hands. How much did it cost? Thirty euros. You may call it a bloodletting, but I call it a sacrifice.
So now I'm sitting before my laptop, in this Leipzig Plattenbau, as the April rains pitter-patter restlessly against the window-panes. In my hands, the little Francophone booklet. On my mind, the idea of translating it into English, into which I have found no translation. So I have decided to do it (after all, a story from those days is in the public domain).
Hope you enjoy the story as much as I have!


CHRONICLES OF A USURPATION

I.

"And why should I?", Charles inquired, shiftily looking down.
"Why? The war is over, and we have won! And our general has just married for love!", he received for a reply. "Why else celebrate this evening? The other officers think so."
"The other officers." Charles lifted his face and looked at his second-in-command. A freshly-baked lieutenant aged eighteen (and, previously, a student expelled from university for being a freethinker), who had arrived at this distant fortress shortly before the end of the war, Charles had finally managed to find a place where he could fit in. He was most certainly dashing, tall and lean, and broad-shouldered, with a shade of golden peach-fuzz on his upper lip, a cascade of golden locks tied up with a satin ribbon, and lovely eyes the light green colour of peridots. His looks certainly fit the uniform like those of none other: the breeches were scarlet and tightly-fitting, the doublet was the lovely colour of his eyes, and the coat was white as snow, lined with silver lace and crowned with glittering epaulets. Shiny black knee-high boots with silvered spurs, a cockaded tricorn hat, a sharp rapier of piercing steel, and a couple of pistols engraved with flower motifs completed his attire. No surprise than the few local ladies, his own men, and every other officer from the colonel to his fellow lieutenants, loved him completely.
The sun had already set beyond the bastions, over a night sky lit by blazing fireworks. There was a marquee in the middle of the courtyard, and there is where we lay our scene. Other lieutenants were sitting at their tables, with little steel cups full of the region's best fruit and flower liquor in hand. Yet Charles was not allowed to indulge in such pleasures. He was on guard duty that evening, for his commanding officers had decided that he had proved himself worthy of such a responsibility. This was the first time in his life he had been entrusted with an assignment of such degree, one that, ironically, distanced him from the other lieutenants. Should he take the orders or revel with the others?
The decision that Charles would make would change two worlds, the one within him and the one around him, at the same time, shaping his destiny and making history as well.

It was a realm among many others, a young realm, which had been created less than two decades before. A modest realm, yet prosperous and in peace, filled with hopes and expectations of becoming a great power. Nothing had troubled it during its brief history, save a couple of foreign invasions the decade before, and each one of them had been successfully expelled after a few skirmishes.
The ruler was a queen as young as the realm, who kept her court on the fortified northernmost and highest peak in the lands, in what appeared to be a grand palace, even a little ostentatious, from without, yet was a fortress, and a nigh inexpicable one, within. Those walls had withstood many a collision, though the front during the war was in the provinces while the Queen remained at her court, and there, she sat upon her throne since early childhood, having become exceedingly clever and knowledgeable about the history and the lore of all the realms on that continent, as well as the best and most righteous way in which the State should be ruled, from the council of regents and tutors that had hitherto always reared her within those walls, and whose purpose to guide their Liege would soon come to an end, for now Her Grace would be able to put the knowledge she had acquired to a good use. And, though the throne was uncomfortable and the crown weighed heavy upon her, she had resolved to carry out her reign the best way she could, with the aid of a young boy, the son of the regents' leader, who was destined to marry her: a lad her age, wise beyond his years, who had often found it hard to rein her in until those says, when it was crystal clear that both of them were pleased with each other, and their reign would be a glorious and lasting one. Little did they know of what soon would happen to both of them. 
The young ruler was called Reason, and her prince's name was Conscience.
Still she saw, through the twin windows on the front façade of her hold, the development of the other realms beyond her own, and she heard the words of their rulers through a device that had been installed in the throne room, and all that with a curious touch of wistfulness. 
However, she would soon unleash a chain of events that would bring a tragic misfortune upon both the realm and herself, not to mention her fiancé as well.
It all began with a lack of water, both for the court and the smallfolk, but it would end in a far more catastrophic way than anyone would expect...


II.

The sun had already set beyond the bastions, over a night sky lit by blazing fireworks. There was a marquee in the middle of the courtyard, and there is where we lay our scene. Other lieutenants were sitting at their tables, with little steel cups full of the region's best fruit and flower liquor in hand. Yet Charles was not allowed to indulge in such pleasures. He was on guard duty that evening, for his commanding officers had decided that he had proved himself worthy of such a responsibility. This was the first time in his life he had been entrusted with an assignment of such degree, one that, ironically, distanced him from the other lieutenants. Should he take the orders or revel with the others?
"Why? The war is over, and we have won! And our general has just married for love! Why else celebrate this evening? The other officers think so." He still reflected upon Jamie's words. The ten year older sergeant was a veteran of the wars, about as tall as his commanding officer, dark and sunburned, with a scar from his forehead to his left collarbone. Everything that the Fates had given to Charles (nobility, good looks, education, innocence, confidence...) had they either denied to Jamie, or had been killed within him by the horrors of war. Thus do the powers that be ruin the lives of us smallfolk, and such is the power of that harrowing experience. It came as no surprise that the scarred sergeant admired, but also envied, the still untouched lieutenant, for not having been struck by such suffering, and sought his commanding officer's undoing. Therefore, if anyone should bear the weight of the cross for all of the events that now unfurl, it should not be Charles, but rather Jamie, whose insinuations opened the curtain on these cathartic scenes.

LES ENFANTS-TEMPÊTE

LES ENFANTS-TEMPÊTE

A story freely after the tales of Shakespeare
meant for reading today,
on his birthday...

Midsummer Night, shortest night of the year.
While her husband was away, tending to affairs of state in the capital of another land, the lady of the estate knew the officer who was stationed in their keep during the uprising.
She's got a bastard son, a boy with his father's Liliene dark hair and her own green eyes. And skin of a colour between Liliene tawny and the fair one of her own realm. A half-Liliene unwanted child, who could not have been the heir.
The fey-queen, at her court in the woods, has also had a daughter. A girl with hair of light, periwinkle eyes, and slightly pointy ears. Her firstborn as well.
Cradling the cause of her sorrow, the Freelady gets on her dun mare, a dagger of steel on her belt, rides until she reaches the edge of the woods.
The fey queen comes towards her, irradiating the light of a star, bringing her heir as well.
Words are exchanged, a bargain is made, the Freelady cuts the palm of her hand and the fey drinks her blood, both infants are exchanged.
The fey queen warns the noblewoman that her bastard son and her foster daughter will both bring misfortune to seven kingdoms. The Freelady won't listen.
She rides off back to her estate birthplace, cradling her daughter, cooing her new daughter's name.

Les années s'écoulent. À la Cour des Feÿ, le lieu le plus sombre des forêts du midi (une région éternellement dans la penombre, sans animaux, ou aucun mortel ose entrer), le petit bâtard démi-Lilien est élevée par toutes les dames de la cour. Ce sont des filles toujours enfants, luminiscentes. Il y a d'autres pages et dames qui sont toujours des enfants lumineux. C'est le même destin qui lui attend. Cinq ans plus tard (cinq ans qui, par les Feÿ, sont un an du monde éxterieur), le roi et la reine de cette contrée discutant pour lui. Leur mariage semble avoir entré en crise.
Enfin, ils font les paix, mais il faut éloigner cet échangé des domains des Feÿ pour éviter de pareilles débâcles. On laisse le garçon sur la lisière des forêts, et un carrosse s'arrête en trouver le garçon au milieu du chemin. Il y a une femme de noir, une marchande Lilienne veuve sans enfants. Il le trouve et l'emporte dans la carrosse.
Pendant ce temps, les Liliens sont dévenus membres de la Ligue. La guerre est finie, en fin, mais les prejugés y restent.
Il est élevée de cette aventurière bourgeoise, et il parcourut toute la Ligue avec elle. Il apprend à lire, écrire, de la poésie, des maths. Sa mêre l'aime beaucoup. Comme les autres Liliens, elle ne croît pas aux dieux. "Hérétique", "libre-penseuse", c'est ce qu'on dit de la capitale jusqu'à les villages plus rétranchés et les groupes de fermes. Chez les Liliens, les femmes sont égales aux hommes et il n'ya pas de dieux.
Dix années plus tard. Sa mêre lui a laissé chez une amie, dans cette ville universitaire où tous les littérateurs et les gens d'État plus connus de la Ligue ont été élévés. Il n'avait pas d'amis que l'hôtesse et les enfants de celle-ci.
Un an plus tard. Printemps. Il prend congé de l'hôtesse et des enfants, parce-que il a été expulsé de l'uni. Il est libre-penseur, dit-on. Alors, il est parti pour l'armée. Là, personne ne pense pas aux dieux.
On l'embrasse et lui donne un porte-bonheur, mais pas de cheval. Un militaire doit être dur!
L'automne du même an, il gagne la forteresse et s'y enliste. Il a réçu une veste d'uniforme verte, des bottes noires, une rapière, un tricorne de soldat. Il est un três joli jeune homme, et les autres ne s'empêchent pas à coucher avec lui.
Un démi-Lilien, un étudiant libre-penseur. On dit encore cela de lui, mais il veut quitter son passé et sa réputation. Le sergent est dur avec lui. Le sergent lui fait son ordinance, pour lustrer ses bottes et son tricorne, lui faire de valet et d'échanson. "Ce gars est trop jeune pour combattre", pense-il.
Il y a aussi une jeune Liliène, une fille de village orpheline de guerre, de son même âge. Elle porte un uniforme et des pistolets, et elle les fait servir plus vite que les hommes de l'avant-poste. On appelle cette fillette "la fille du régiment". L'ordinance tombe amoureux d'elle, mais le sergent aime l'ordinance et se couche avec lui.
Et la fille Feÿ de la dame du manoir? Elle a appris à lire et écrire aussi, à jouer des instruments, composer, écrire des verses. Très savante, très intelligente, douce, bonne, tranquille, parfaite.
Une princesse de province, aux yeux violette rêveurs. Une jolie Rose-Blanche en attendant sortir dans le vaste monde et charmer tous les coeurs.
Quand elle à seize ans, le comte son pêre vient en fin la chercher. C'est de cette façon qui Rose-Blanche arrive au Palais, grand complexe baroque des environs de la capitale.
Le comte est un des sept régents qui forment le Conseil de Régence, jusqu'à la czarevna atteint l'âge adulte. Il est l'aîné de tous les régents. Le cadet, c'est un Lilien de sang pur, colonel de mercenaires. Un étranger discriminé, mais habile et brave militaire, qui n'a que vingt-et-cinq ans.
Toutes les dames courtisanes ont leurs regards fixés sur cette rivale parvenue de province. Elle même brille avec des lumières pas connues. Une douairière a offert son fils aîné pour fiancé de cette rarité.
Mais elle seulement aime le Lilien. Parce qu'il est étranger comme elle. Et parce qu'il l'aime pour son esprit, pas pour sa beauté ou son héritage.
Enfin, le fils de la douairière apprend cela et l'explique a sa mêre, qui est elle aussi une des sept régents. Alors, on décide de donner au colonel une promotion à général, mais seul si il renonce a son poste au conseil et déménage dans une forteresse de province. Il dit oui.
Ce soir, il entre dans la chambre à coucher de la damoiselle. Elle se réveille. Elle s'habille en garçon, en page ou en valet, et écrit, vite, une lettre qu'elle pose sur le lit de son pêre: le régent est encore endormi, il respire tranquille, il n'a entendu pas les passes de son héritière sur l'estrade.
Les deux amoureux partent sur les deux coursiers les plus véloces de la Cour.
Le jour suivant, le comte se réveille et lit la lettre de sa fille. Une lettre de congé et de merci. Il tombe, inconscient, dans son lit plus encore. Son coeur est brisé.

Den nye kommendanten, den yngste store fältherren, generalen frân fiendeland, har anlänt till fästningen med sin unga fru. Hela garnisonen och folket i byn nedanför har skridit fram man ur huse med blommor i hand under jubelrop.
Generalen sâg rätt läcker ut i sina epâletter och med det kryssformade ärret pâ pannan. "Ligans nya svärd" kallas han av hovfolket och det övriga herrskapet. Men här i provinsen är han en hjälte, och inga kyliga fördomsfulla blickar lär riktas mot honom.
Generalskan bar, konstigt nog, piskperuk och trekantig hatt, och byxor i vita guldbrokader. Hon var klädd som en hovman, fast man av de fina anletsdragen och händerna, och det smala livet, sâg att hon var en flicka. Troligast en herrskapsdotter som flytt med honom: ett fint krigsbyte! Fast det lâg nâgot sällsamt över henne. Lila ögon, som violer. Och en slags strâlning ur henne som fângade allas hjärtan: officerare, meniga, vanligt folk, herrskap frân trakten, kvinnor, barn, de äldre.
("Fey-ljuset", viskade kloka gumman till de minsta barnen. "En fey-flicka som har lämnats in bland oss dödlingar. Det brukar de göra, ni vet.")
En avdelning ledd av en trettioârig ryttmästare eskorterade generalen och hans fästmö till skansen. Den vanligtvis allvarsamme fältherren omfamnade den äldre sergeanten:
"Vi ses igen, kamrat!"
De hade varit vapenbröder, fast den ene blev officer och ödet skilde dem ât. "En fin skatt du har!" "Det är en flicka som flytt sitt öde. Ikväll äktar jag henne."
"Jasâ?", frâgar sergeanten ironiskt. "Lilla fröken verkar vara rätt dristig..."