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atlasrather · 12 years ago

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The Work Of A Poet

pairing: louis x harry rating: n/a synopsis: 18th century England is divided amongst itself. kings, queens, paupers, the rich. there's no hope for a small town poet, just a lowly uneducated teenager named harry. or so he thought. bumping into the prince of his country, and even speaking with him, he fell in love. he couldn't help it, he was a romantic writer. he thought he would never see those beautiful grey eyes again. but he was wrong.

this is a story of romance, secret meetings, forbiddance, and toxicity. you can't help who you fall for

a/n: please give me feedback! i'd be highly thankful!!

There was nothing like this sort of pain.

This was the type that made you feel like you were rolling over on beds of nails, pins pricking every nerve embedded in your skin. Like a hand was materializing from the fog, reaching down, grabbing you by your neck and tossing you against a wall, the sound of your bones shattering resonating off the tall ceiling.

There was also nothing like this heartbreak.

It was like an entire army of ready soldiers had trooped over it, back and forth, wearing it out like a battlefield, ash snow falling against it, searing the wounds left on its surface. Like someone had taken it and raised it's hopes, then left it. With no warning or explanation.

That's exactly what it felt like. Because that's exactly what had happened.

He left me. Without saying goodbye.

**************************************************************

I looked up from the overly marked paper I had been working on for quite some time now. The sun was streaming through the french doors in such a way that it made it impossible to work without withstanding the bright rays in your eyes, and that was no way to write.

Being a poet in England, 18th century England no less, was no easy task.

Unless you were Shakespeare or Poe, not a soul wanted your trademarked stories or tales, no matter how well written they were. I could have written the next Annabel Lee, but no one would care unless I had legally changed my surname to Poe.

Harold E. Styles, Harry for short, is my name. Or what I preferred to go by. Nothing special, just a teenage boy with a passion for words and keen for family. I'd been writing since I was the small age of 6 and I haven't won a single award. Yet.

I can see why no one would care for my work, it was as sloppy as it came usually. Sometimes, when I had the chance to sit and toil on them until candles were required to be blown out, they turned out like a work of Shakespeare, presentable and beautifully written, every piece of poetic language in it's place.

Every morning I would go to the market and try to auction off a piece of my work, if it could be considered that. I find that poetry is more of an art, and I would prefer the title of artist, but, alas, I did not make the rules of poetry.

Even now, as I stepped out of my small cottage, after saying goodbye to my sister and mother, I thought of the world around me as art. The leaves that changed from an eartly green to a fiery scarlet, the wind that blew over the horizon, the way the women sang in front of the chapel. Everything was it's own work of art and God was the painter.

I suppose I think in poetry too, my mind works in poetic language and metaphors, it was like i thought in riddles. Any uneducated person that happened to stumble across my thoughts would be greatly confused to learn that I was actually one of them. I had never been to school, I have never touched a proper educational book in my life. I can see why this makes me 'special'.

An uneducated pauper writing proper poetry?

Who knew?

*********************************************************************

When I stepped into the town square, I was more confused than anything. White lilies filled the streets, white horses were being paraded down the walkway, all vendeurs were on their knees, praying as if God was coming to them unendured. What sort of event was this?

At that time, a horn was sung in my ear, making me fall to my knees in pain and shock, just in time for the main event.

A float, decorated in sheer linens and exotic fabrics came barreled down the street and slowed when civilians begun to cheer for it and toss flowers onto it's top. I stood there, indifferent, watching with a look of unimpressment on my face, as a head poked out of a small opening.

This man was beautiful, a tan sprinkled across his face, a slant nose that seemed to judge everyone it turned to, a mop of gorgeuos brown hair that was swept upwards, gelled to absolute perfection, small dainty eyebrows that were inset over a pair of sparkling grey eyes, that looked through the crowd of lovers and right at me, assessing the fact that I had not stopped to worship him. His eyes narrowed and he slid back into his rolling cabin, shutting the door and not looking back once as the thing rolled right onto the next street.

I nudged the patron beside me, scowling at the fresh tears that welled in her eyes, obivously tears meant for the handsome man that had just passed.

"Do you mind telling me who that man is and what business he thinks he has here?"

She looked shocked, as if he were the God and I had just asked her why him creating Adam and Eve was so important.

"Why, that was the Crown King and his son, Louis! A boy with education as high as yours should know this!"

This was the problem with the dunces in my town. They thought that just because you spoke cultured and has an averaged face, you must have been picked from the highest limb of the tree.

I mumbled a thanks, because her services helped me a great deal, and left, pushing through the crowd of idiots.

Looking back on all of this, I now realize I never actually got to sell that poem.

**************************************************************

Since there were so many people lining every entrance and exit to every part of town, attempting to get a glimpse at their new official Prince and kiss his most likely gorgeous feet, I had to take a route through the forest, just to get back home.

I hadn't really been paying attention to anything, as I had already started a new poem in my mind and i was focused on trying to remember it so I could get home and write it on the grandest of formal papers. As much as I could tell I wouldn't like this pretentious Prince, his face was stuck in my mind and heart, and I had no other choice but to use him as inspiration, a muse for my work.

I must have been very deep in my thoughts, since I hadn't seen the shadow in front of me, causing me to run right into it, a person, casually standing in the midst of the woods.

Falling back into a pile of color changed leaves, I could feel the body on top of me, grunting in the force of which we fell. I had the air knocked out of me, eyes closed, so it took me a bit to come to and see who had fallen on me.

Soon enough I felt fingers in my hair and a face on mine, lips on mine, as if the stranger had taken me for granted and kissed me, in spite of the situation. I sprang suprised at the foward nature the person had.

"What the hell?" I shouted, the tone of my voice even surprising me. "What the bloody hell?"

"I'm so sorry I did not mean to offend you!" He shouted back

He?

I opened my eyes to see the same pair of grey eyes that had been staring at me before, the same judgemental nose and soft eyebrows.

The Crown Prince Louis.

"Prince." I whispered, getting onto my knees against my will and bowing, praising the earth this commoner walked on as if he were my own personal God.

"Please don't do that, I don't deserve it, I am a human just like you." He spoke, helping me off my knees and steadying me, those eyes looking though me again.

"You have a wonderful face." He whispered, eyes widening, clamping his hands over his mouth as if he hadn't meant to say his thoughts out loud. I blushed and gave a small laugh, to reassure him.

"You have lovely eyes. I'm sure all the women tell you that."

He shook his head gently, as if he were embarassed. "I'm not all that interested in the women." He told me, blushing a great deal.

Oh.

He took out a small scroll, and a quill and inkwell, quickly scribbling something down, then shoved it into my fingers.

"Take this. I hope to see you soon ..."

"Harry. My name is Harry."

"Lovely name. I'm Louis."

"So I've heard."

He chuckled again and kissed me on the cheek, running off into the distance, leaving me stupefied, my own hand reaching up and touching my face lovingly.

#larry stylinson #louisxharry #fic #twoap

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