#<-girl who has at least two copies of the antigone at home

[swallowtail-ageha]

Imagine a translation of the Satyricon where instead of proper italian they use campanian and crotonian dialects... shall never happen but imagine...

[inthegroundontime]

Title: A Matter of Perspective Rating: K+ Ships: Rudyard/OC Summary: In which Rudyard’s in-laws struggle to see what Cordelia sees in the man she married.

Cordelia Roach’s parents believed three things about names. Firstly, Mr. and Mrs. Roach believed that a monosyllabic surname could only be improved upon by a multisyllabic and mellifluous first name. None of their children had a name shorter than three syllables. By contrast, they believed that middle names should be short and secret and so it was not until Cordelia was fifteen that she learned her middle name was “Anne”, which was an anticlimactic moment in young Cordelia Anne Roach’s life. Finally, the Roaches believed that names carried meaning and the most meaningful names in all the world were those from literature. When Mrs. Roach discovered that she was pregnant with twin girls, it dawned upon Mr. Roach (who would one day become “Dr. Roach” for this hypothesis) that he could test this hypothesis by naming the eldest and youngest for the least and most dutiful of Shakespearean daughters. 

Desdemona Roach consulted her parents when she chose careers and boyfriends alike, eventually marrying her father’s TA after being granted parental blessing three times. Cordelia Roach consulted no one before deciding that she would write a compendium of obscure musical instruments and travel the world to do so. She certainly did not consult anyone when, after three years of traveling, she settled on the island of Piffling. And if she consulted either of her parents before marrying Rudyard Funn, she never told Rudyard who upon asking Dr. Roach for Cordelia’s hand over Christmas was told rather tartly that he’d be better off asking Cordelia if he wanted an opinion of consequence.

Dr. Roach thought Cordelia married Rudyard as another act of defiance. He never liked the man and, naturally, that meant that Cordelia liked him. He and his wife had indulged their daughter in numerous boyfriends up to this point - bohemians and lawyers and everything in between – and no sooner than receiving the seal of parental approval, Cordelia would break things off with the boyfriend. They never once liked Rudyard, who had once expressed his dislike for Shakespeare after someone had foolishly handed him Cordelia’s eggnog. One sip of alcohol had sent him on a long-winded rant about the faults of “King Lear” and the rules of inheritance that ended with the revelation that he had a twin sister, who he’d left to spend Christmas alone – all cardinal sins in the Roach household.

Mrs. Roach thought Cordelia married Rudyard because he was the safest option. For all his unlikability, Rudyard Funn was steadily employed as a funeral director and the only things certain in life were death and taxes. After spending three years adrift in the world, Rudyard was by far the tamest and most stable of choices Cordelia could have made in a husband. The fact that he scandalized her parents served as a bonus, but not the impetus of their union.

Desdemona, however, knew that neither of her parents was correct. Cordelia had rung her the day she met Rudyard to announce that she had met the man she was going to marry. Desdemona had been cooking dinner for her boys – Demetrius and Lysander – when the telephone rang. When she answered it, she expected to make a little small talk with her sister before Cordelia announced her next big adventure across the globe. Instead, Cordelia wasted no time with a preamble.

“I’ve met the man I’m going to marry,” she announced instead of saying “hello”. It wasn’t unlike Cordelia to get straight to the point, but it was unlike her to speak of marriage. Desdemona clicked her tongue.

“That’s nice, love,” she said. “And how’s the music shop going?”

“He came into the music shop with the most beautiful mandolin. One of the strings had broken and he wanted a new one and a tune-up, but he’d been very clearly doing it himself for quite some time.”

“I see.”

“You don’t understand,” Cordelia continued, “I thought the instrument was from the 18th century. But he said it was very early 19th and he was right!”

For courtesy, Cordelia waited three weeks before asking Rudyard Funn out and the more phone calls Desdemona got, the more she believed her sister was right that she would one day marry Rudyard Funn. When Cordelia made up her mind, she was not easily swayed. They shared a few obscure interests, but chiefly they shared self-confidence bordering on fearlessness. One thing they did not share was common sense. Cordelia was a sensible woman, a bit overzealous for most people, but competent and capable.  The only time Desdemona visited Piffling before the wedding, she watched Rudyard drop his watch into a casket and have to tear up the planks himself, once the family was gone and only Cordelia and Desdemona remained to witness. When he found it again and reconstructed the casket, Cordelia sighed patiently and said, “It’s the little, human things that make you fall in love, isn’t it?” What, then, were the big ones that kept her in love with him? Desdemona was never really sure. She’d been back to the island only a handful of times – which was more than their parents – especially during Cordelia’s pregnancy.

“We’re hoping to only have one child,” Cordelia said. “I’m sure I don’t have to explain to you what being a twin is like.”

Desdemona hugged her teacup tighter between her hands.

“You realize biology is against you,” she said. “Twins tend to run in families and both you and Rudyard are twins.”

Cordelia waved a hand.

“We’ll take our chances,” she said. “I just wouldn’t wish the kind of pressure Dad put on us on any of my children.”

“He would have done it whether we were twins or not,” Desdemona pointed out. “That’s just Dad.”

“But that isn’t my style. Or Rudyard’s.” Cordelia’s hand settled atop her swollen belly. “And anyway, we won’t know until the baby is born.”

“You should go for a sonogram.”

“Now look here,” Rudyard said, emerging from the kitchen and wiping his hands on a tea towel. “We won’t be invading our child’s privacy during what may be the last moments of peace he or she knows before being forced to join society.”

“The doctor doesn’t have a sonogram machine,” Cordelia explained.

“That too.” Rudyard sighed. “Are you sure you want to deliver on Piffling? There’s still time to change your mind…”

She didn’t and three months later, when their daughter was born, Cordelia had been given so many painkillers that she lay passed out in her hospital bed while Rudyard, Desdemona, and Rudyard’s twin sister, Antigone, took turns holding the baby and hovering around her. 

“You need to name her,” Antigone said, handing the baby back to her brother. “Rudyard…”

“I’m waiting for Cordelia,” he said as if it was the most rational response. “If that means the baby doesn’t have a name for an hour longer…”

“Rudyard…”

“Two hours.”

“Didn’t you and Cordelia have a list of names for both genders?” Desdemona asked helpfully. Her brother-in-law loved lists and Cordelia had always appreciated cataloging. Rudyard patted down his trouser pockets and paled. 

“It was in the other go bag,” he confessed. “I meant to make copies but…”

“Jesus wept.” Antigone threw her hands up. “Isn’t this just typical?”

“Remind me to judge your split decisions when your wife is in labor someday,” Rudyard snapped venomously. The baby made a fussy noise in his arms and he shushed her, rocking her in his arms. 

“I’m going to get a coffee,” Antigone said. “And when I come back, I expect you to have your shortlist ready to review.”

She disappeared from the room, leaving Desdemona alone with Rudyard for what must’ve been the first time since they’d met. Silence ensued. 

“You know,” Desdemona said after two minutes and she felt sure Antigone wasn’t coming back any time soon, “my family has rules about naming.”

“Yes, so I’ve heard. I quite admire them, even if I think you and Cordelia should both be in therapy for what your father tried to pull with you,” Rudyard said. “But only a multisyllabic name would do with the last name Funn. And something serious. This child will one day run Piffling’s only funeral home.”

“Our parents favored Shakespearean names.”

“Shakespeare was a hack. Give twelve chimpanzees enough time and typewriters and they could just as easily write Hamlet.”

“I’m sorry you think that. Ophelia would be a lovely name.”

“Oh, yes. Ophelia and Cordelia. The rhyming wouldn’t at all make me feel like the odd man out.”

“Then pick something that doesn’t rhyme,” Desdemona said. “There’s Juliet, Beatrice, Rosalind-”

“Will you forget Shakespeare for a moment?” Rudyard snapped. “Cordelia and I agreed to expand our options.”

“To what? Dead authors and Greek tragedies?”

“As a matter of fact-”

“Christ.”

“That’s how my family chose to do names. It’s every inch as viable as the Roach Approach.”

Desdemona raised an eyebrow and stared not at Rudyard, but at her newborn niece, pink and wrinkly and looking out at the world with unfocused eyes. She softened a bit.

“Maybe not a Greek tragedy,” she said softly. “Do you really want to condemn her to a lifetime of sorrow?”

“Antigone turned out perfectly fine.”

Desdemona made a skeptical sound. Rudyard looked up and then nodded.

“Right. Fair enough.” A pause. “Are there Greek myths with happy endings?”

“Not for the women in them.” 

Rudyard’s shoulders slumped and he eased into the armchair in the room. He cast a weary, side-along glance at his wife’s unconscious form. He looked helpless for a moment but smiled with sad fondness. 

“We talked about using musical terms. Cordelia liked ‘Allegra’ but I think it’s a lot of pressure to name your child ‘Happy Funn’. Imagine all the smiling she’d have to do.”

“What did you like?” Desdemona asked.

“Cordelia told me we couldn’t name our child Mandolin.”

Desdemona’s jaw dropped so far, it was practically unhinged. When she finally found her voice she said - “Where is the middle ground on this?”

Rudyard frowned. 

“You said not to ascribe Greek tragedies to her, in light of Antigone and what have you.”

“We’re only brainstorming until Antigone gets back. What did you and Cordelia both like?”

“Calliope.” Rudyard’s voice was small and soft. He smiled down at his daughter. “It does double duty - it’s a musical instrument and a greek goddess. One of the muses. It fits all the syllabic requirements and I can so easily imagine leaving all my worldly possessions and accomplishments to Calliope Funn, even if she takes after her mother and prefers to be a musician. I would be so proud of her either way.”

“I think you have a name.”

“Yes, I quite think so too.” 

For the first time, Desdemona saw a little something of what Cordelia did in Rudyard. When Cordelia came to, she was so pleased with the name and the baby - Calliope - that there wasn’t time to tell anyone that she’d realized why her sister stayed with Rudyard Funn.