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firefly-hwufanficwriter-blog · 7 years

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(Fanfic) Drake’s Poetry Lesson

July 24, 2017, Monday [#262]

My masterlists: [Fanfiction.] [Fan edits.]

Title: Drake’s Poetry Lesson (MC/Drake) (5,299 words)

Story summary: The royal suitors are given a new courtship task about Cordonian culture. Against his will, Drake helps Riley learn more about traditional Cordonian music, food... and poetry.

Drake's Poetry Lesson

[I.]

As per his usual habit when there was nothing that needed to be done, Drake was lying on a cold, stone floor, staring at a cold, stone ceiling.

After the events of the Apple Blossom Festival – he still didn't know whether to be happy that Riley had wanted everybody to celebrate his birthday with him; or annoyed that she had forced him to wear a jester's hat after she had been crowned Apple Queen – Drake definitely needed some time to himself, with nothing to remind him of the outside world.

“Hey, Drake!”

Of course, Riley would choose that moment to skip happily into the abandoned cold, stone room that, before her arrival, had been his sanctuary, and his alone.

Ever since he had accidentally fallen asleep in here during their conversation after the Regatta – he had had to endure her knowing smiles ever since – Riley had made a habit of looking for him in this very room whenever she wanted to speak to him.

And while he could find another secluded spot, he didn't want to. This was Drake's abandoned cold, stone room, not Riley's!

“Hey, LastName,” he drawled, teasing her by refusing to make eye contact with her at first, instead keeping his eyes on the grey blocks of stone that made up the room's boring ceiling. “What's up?”

Riley followed his gaze at the boring ceiling, but appeared to refrain from making the obvious joke in favor of discussing something else entirely. Instead, she replied happily, “I need your help for the culture event.”

Because the 'fox hunt' – all Cordonians knew where to put the air quotes – was delayed due to bad weather, it was announced that there would be an entirely spontaneous social season event to test Liam's suitors. At the end of the week, they were to make some sort of presentation or performance that showed their knowledge of and respect for Cordonian culture.

After pausing for a rejection but not receiving one, Riley continued. “I've been practicing singing the Cordonian national anthem in my room, but I haven't tried singing in front of anybody yet. I don't really want my first time to be at the event itself. Can you listen to me and tell me how I'm doing?”

That was a good choice. National anthems were intimately linked to their homelands, and Cordonia's national anthem was no different, telling the story of Queen Kenna's quest to unite the kingdoms and how every Cordonian should embody patriotism, compassion, and strength. Singing it in front of the king and queen would show that Riley was willing to embrace the country and all its history.

Finally meeting her eyes, he put his hands on the ground and lifted himself off the stone floor into a standing position, saying carelessly, “I'm all yours, LastName. Just don't melt my ears off with your singing.”

“Very funny,” she pouted, before smoothing out a sheet of paper Drake hadn't noticed earlier and looking at it closely. “Ready?”

“Ready as I'll ever be.” This ought to be entertaining, at least.

Giving him a cheerful grin, Riley exclaimed, “Great!” and started to sing.

[II.]

By the end of the first line, Drake's eyebrows had shot up as high as they could on his forehead.

By the end of the second line, his jaw had dropped open, not that Riley saw that because she was still focused on reading the lyrics from the sheet of paper she held in her hands.

By the end of the third line, he had begun to wonder if Liam's instructors had prepared him for this particular type of assassination attempt.

Riley's voice, which held a light, melodic quality whenever she spoke or laughed, seemed to lose all its pleasant features when her tongue attempted to mix words with music.

As she sang, she somehow lingered just a breath too long on certain syllables, while rushing others much too quickly, making Drake's head hurt as he, who had heard and sung the national anthem countless times in the past, began immediately mentally corrected her musical errors, and struggled because the headache-inducing mistakes just kept on coming.

As she reached the more musically dramatic part of the anthem – the part where a woman's voice would naturally go higher, while man's would go lower – the beautiful notes that were meant to convey the passion one ought to have for one's country changed.

Riley's voice turned the difficult musical notes into a peculiar, prolonged croak, sounding like a sickly frog at the very height of the national anthem, with her voice gradually regaining some human qualities as she brought the song to a close.

Finally, she stopped. Finally.

Setting down her sheet of lyrics with theatrical flourish, she beamed as she met his eyes once more.

“So?” she asked breathlessly. “How was it? Did I do okay? Do you think I'm ready?”

Normally, Drake wouldn't have hesitated in giving her a scathing remark that would express exactly how he felt. But Riley stood in front of him, with that eager smile, that hopeful twinkle in her eye, waiting for his approval, looking just like the baby deer he had told her she was in Olivia's wine cellar – and he couldn't do it.

Instead, he explained as gently – but as clearly – as he could that if she wanted to succeed at tomorrow's event, she would have to choose something that had absolutely nothing to do with singing.

And Riley, while obviously disappointed at his less than stellar feedback, thanked him for his help, saying that she knew she could trust him and that she would try something else. She exited the room, no doubt to look for ideas, as Drake rested his head in his palm, glad that the harrowing ordeal was finally over.

Drake's head was cloudy and he felt like he wanted to throw up.

He knew why. Riley was a terrible singer.

[III.]

It had taken longer than expected for Drake's headache to dissipate, but finally, he felt that he could move again without feeling like a blacksmith's hammer was happily pounding away, using his innocent mind as an anvil.

The ringing of Riley's pitiful attempt at singing had finally left his ears – he noted sourly that he had even told her beforehand to not melt his ears off! – and he was just about to leave the cold, stone room and go upstairs for lunch when he spotted Riley turn the corner and enter the room, holding a kitchen tray in her hands.

“Good, you're still here!” she said in relief. Seeing that there was no table in the room, she lowered herself to the floor and sat down, placing the tray before her as she indicated for him to join her.

Intrigued, Drake did as she wanted and sat down across from her on the floor. From experience, he knew that he wouldn't have to ask what it was because she was already about to tell him.

“I tried cooking this time!”

She enthusiastically gestured by holding both of her hands, palms up and at an angle, just above the steaming bowl of soup on the tray, as if presenting him with the Cordonian crown jewels.

“I found the ingredients in a book and it looked like this was an important part of Cordonian history, so I'm sure the king and queen are going to love it – and you get to try my cooking first!”

Riley sounded so happy and so confident that Drake couldn't help but regard her fondly – and hope that she didn't notice. It wasn't that long ago when they were almost-enemies in a crowded ballroom during the social season's opening ball, where rather than speak to her for another minute, he left her to the mercies of the other ladies of the court because he couldn't stand to speak to her anymore.

To think that they were now in their abandoned cold, stone room together, that she was seeking him out to ask for his help, trusting his advice, trusting that he wouldn't steer her wrong... it was nice.

It made Drake feel like he and Riley had a relationship, a friendship, outside of their shared connection to Liam, and it was with these almost-affectionate thoughts – he just hoped that she didn't notice – that he took the small bowl in one hand so that he could hold it up and see its contents.

Cooking a meal in front of the king and queen would show that Riley was willing to serve, not just be served. It was actually an excellent strategy – but Drake should probably eat the soup soon, as there was less steam now than moments ago.

The low temperature of the cold, stone room must have slightly cooled its contents. Inside the bowl was some sort of dark broth with herbs sliced into tiny little pieces, and, from the weight of the bowl, he knew that there had to be meat or vegetables that he couldn't see beyond the broth's surface.

The scent of the soup, though, was unfamiliar, which was strange because Drake had eaten just about every type of traditional Cordonian food that existed.

“Interesting. And you said that this was somehow connected to the history of Cordonia?”

“Yup!”

He was glad to hear that. Cordonian dishes were traditionally very hearty because in ancient times, the majority of the common folk had been farmers and ranchers, tending to the vast fields that could be found as far as the eye could see in southern and western Cordonia.

In fact, the 'fox hunt' also included a feast that resembled a Cordonian banquet from ages past. One of the soup dishes normally served was a beef and black bean soup that was prepared for Queen Kenna's wedding feast.

Actually, according to his history teacher, the recipe had originally been for a bacon and black bean soup, but Queen Kenna's talking wolf had made an alliance with a floating octopus to steal all the bacon from the palace kitchens, and with the wedding ceremony almost concluded and the feast almost underway, the kitchen staff had no choice but to use beef instead.

Not that Drake had actually believed his old teacher. A talking wolf? A floating octopus? Yeah, right.

Perhaps that was why the soup didn't smell familiar. Drake was used to the soup containing beef, and maybe the bacon, combined with the herbs he could see floating on top of the soup, was simply mixed in with the black beans to the point that the beans had masked the bacon's scent.

Well, whatever, he shrugged. Food was food. He dipped his spoon into the bowl, drawing out a big spoonful of soup that he scooped into his mouth, preparing himself to discern the flavors of Riley's cooking...

[IV.]

...only to choke in surprise at the extremely unpleasant taste of the innocent-looking soup. Not wanting to spit anything out – no matter how much he wanted to – he chewed whatever hard thing it was that was inside his mouth into small pieces that he could eventually swallow, trying not to gag at the metallic, earthy taste that seemed to cling to his tongue and to the roof of his mouth long after he had swallowed that single, incredibly disgusting spoonful of soup.

What was that?!

“So?” Riley asked, not seeming to recognize the horror Drake had just been through. “What do you think of my cooking? Does it taste the way it should? You've probably had a ton of traditional dishes, so...”

She trailed off when she realized that Drake was staring at the vile bowl of soup with wide eyes.

“Drake?”

Still not able to speak, he slowly raised his eyes to hers, silently asking her why she would attempt to take his life by serving him the most revolting soup he had ever tasted in his entire life.

Murder by soup. How undignified.

“You look pale... you must be really hungry. Just go ahead and finish the soup, I can make more for myself later, so don't worry about me,” Riley smiled, making a shooing, 'go on' gesture with her hand.

After taking several deep breaths to try to recover from the painful experience he had only just narrowly escaped with his life mostly intact, he said slowly, “Riley... where did you get this recipe?”

“I told you, from a book, see?” She took out a book that he saw had actually been under the kitchen tray the entire time, turned it to a folded page, and began to read.

“...And so Kenna Rys, under the cover of darkness, fled the castle of her ancestors, abandoning the ancient fortress to the rein of Luthor Nevrakis, self-styled King of Stormholt. Her first night in exile, though filled to the brim with danger and despair, only strengthened her resolve to someday reclaim her homeland, her throne.

“To seal her solemn vow, she took the soil of her ancestral home and the root of the apple tree under which she played as a young child, and with these and her bitter tears made a soup that would forever remind her of her love for her people, her vengeance for her family, and of her future victory to reclaim the throne of Stormholt-”

“WHAT!?”

“I said, to reclaim the future throne-”

“No, not that!” Drake pointed shakily at the bowl of soup, which was smugly sitting on the kitchen tray, with his spoon. “Riley,” he asked her incredulously, voice rising in alarm with each proceeding word, “did you just feed me dirt-and-root soup?!”

And at that, she actually looked offended. “Traditional dirt-and-root soup! Don't blame me for the weird things your ancestors ate!”

He had no idea why this woman somehow felt like she had the moral high ground, but, rather than shout at her – he wouldn't shout at her because Riley never backed down from a fight, and not because he was worried that his genuine ire might make her cry, because he certainly would never be worried about something stupid like that – he asked her how she had found the book.

Apparently, after his unenthusiastic response to the song she had been practicing for days, Riley had panicked because there wasn't a lot of time before the event began.

She had frantically taken an armful of books on traditional Cordonian history and scanned them as quickly as she could, looking for inspiration. And when she had seen the word 'soup,' she had honestly thought it was another one of their unusual Cordonian things, like their fox hunt that didn't have any foxes.

Drake didn't bother correcting her. She would know to put the air quotes once she married a Cordonian.

Married Liam.

He got a funny mental image of Riley trying to spoonfeed Liam her dirt-and-root soup, but for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to laugh.

Maybe that disgusting soup sucked all the humor out of him. Some real food, made with real ingredients, would probably be good for Drake right now. And it would likely be in his best interests to leave before she got it in her head to perform traditional Cordonian archery or something.

He got another mental image, this time of Riley lightly tugging on his arm, cajoling him to let her put an apple on his head so she could practice archery – and that image made him smile.

Hmm. It looked like his humor was coming back.

Still, some food wouldn't be amiss. After accepting her sorrowful apology for the atrocious soup she had made, Drake was about to leave the cold, stone room when a thought occurred to him.

“Since you were really... accurate... when it came to the dirt and the roots... did you also add your own tears to the soup?”

“Huh? No, of course not, I used salt and water. Adding my tears to a bowl of soup would have just been weird.”

“Right,” Drake repeated flatly. “Weird.”

At that, he left their cold, stone room so that he could get himself a good lunch because he needed to wash the taste of dirt and roots out of his mouth... though after a grumble from his stomach, he hastily decided that for now, perhaps a glass of water would be a better choice.

Drake's stomach was cloudy and he felt like he wanted to throw up.

He knew why. Riley was a terrible cook.

[V.]

After having a delicious lunch and taking a refreshing nap, Drake was fairly sure that his stomach had settled, and he could now laugh at the situation. Looking back, it had been pretty funny that Riley had thought to feed him dirt and roots.

Maybe she was eccentric and totally crazy, but he was always sure to have an adventure when she was around, even if they were both just sitting inside a cold, stone room under a cold, stone ceiling.

He liked that.

Of course, another thing he liked was solitude, and he hadn't gotten enough of it today because Riley had dropped in on him in the morning with her song, and again in the afternoon with her... soup.

Now that it was almost time for sunset and she still had to think of an idea for the culture event, she was bound to be out of their abandoned cold, stone room, which meant that it was empty and waiting for him.

Finally.

After navigating the stairs with the careless ease of somebody who had been living in the palace for almost his whole life, he arrived at the right corridor and headed to the cold, stone room. But, as he drew closer, he could hear a voice coming from inside.

“Where was that page again? This poetry book is huge... Maybe I'll have to memorize it, but at least I won't accidentally poison anybody by doing a poetry reading... I hope Drake's okay... Oh, here it is!”

A poetry reading? Interesting idea. And a good one. If she chose the right poem, preferably something about the country's history, it would show her willingness to learn all she could about Cordonia, and that would make a good impression on the king and queen.

He felt a little silly standing in the corridor while she was inside, but he firmly reminded himself that he had thought earlier today that songs and soup were harmless, and look where that had gotten him.

Based on everything that had happened today, Drake was probably much safer out here in the corridor alone, than in there with here. While he didn't know what havoc she could wreak with dusty old poetry, he had no intention of finding out.

“My Beloved.”

Drake nodded to himself.

He knew that poem. Every Cordonian knew that poem. He wondered if she had chosen it herself, or if she had asked Liam or Maxwell for help – before he came to the conclusion that Liam probably wouldn't be allowed to help her about something connected to the event, and Maxwell didn't seem to be the type to recommend classic poetry.

And if she wasn't that familiar with the poem yet, Drake's presence might make her nervous. It was better to stay outside, close enough to listen, so that he could critique her later.

If only I

Could tell clouds to depart from that

Which is mine to protect

Command a world to awaken

Will I ever fathom the warmth

In you, my sun

My beloved

Would you let me fight for you?

Drake knew that the opening stanza of 'My Beloved' referred to the sun's power to change lives – to command an entire world to awaken, just as the poem said.

Savannah, when she had discussed it with him as part of her homework years and years ago, had remarked that it was a pity that the poem hadn't ended with referencing the moon, because that would have made the poem feel complete.

On the other hand, he had said that was too cliché – and got an apple custard tart thrown at the back of his head. But when he had turned around to frown at Savannah, she seemed unusually focused on her homework, as if she couldn't have possibly thrown an apple custard tart at her brother's head.

Riley's voice was tentative and soft when she read the first stanza. He didn't know if that was by design, or if she had judged that it was the best type of voice to use when reading the poem, but either way, Drake thought that it suited her just right.

It was rare for him to her her voice like this – normally, she was fiery and loud and making witty remarks in response to his own. Not that he would have her be any other way – but the gentle tone she was using right now... felt, right, too. Her gentle side was one he hadn't seen very often, but hearing it from a slight distance, as he was now, was pleasant, and he found himself liking the familiar poem.

If only I

Could paint a portrait of our

Pasts, kept safe in your heart and mine

Futures countless as the blades

Of verdant grass beneath my feet, yet still

Falling short of all the hope I see

In you, my haven

My beloved

Would you let me fight for you?

He supposed that Riley must have a gentle side. Waitresses would lose their jobs if they allowed themselves to lose their tempers at everybody they came across. Come to think of it, besides her being a waitress, she didn't seem to talk too much about her past – though she did tell him that she had managed to burn ice cream once.

Actually, how did she even manage to do that? As a waitress, he would have expected her to at least have some basic knowledge of how food was prepared. Drake really should have remembered that story of hers before trying her soup earlier today. The soup that she had claimed was traditionally Cordonian.

Instead of clinging to her American past, Drake observed, Riley had thrown herself completely into Cordonia. She might not understand why the Derby was important – honestly, Drake didn't either; but he did like the horses.

But she could find aspects of herself that she could show to the press to try and prove to them that she was worthy of being their queen. Yet even then, with her charming smiles and cryptic answers, the press had labeled her as 'The Mystery Woman.'

Women normally liked talking about themselves, but Riley, instead, preferred asking other people about themselves – and learning as much about Cordonia as she could.

It was as if she was forming roots here, already planning on building a life for herself here, and he didn't know if that spoke to her confidence about being chosen as Cordonia's queen, or simply to her growing esteem for a country in which she was determined to settle.

But then again, she had only seen the luxurious, glamorous side of Cordonia the whole time she had been here. What future did she see for herself here? If somebody else was chosen to be Cordonia's queen, would Riley be content to stay here anyway, but as a commoner, like Drake?

If only I

Could gather the scattered grains

Each a precious gift

Search blindly with my fingertips

Restore them to their place

Slow their treacherous fall

In you, my hourglass

My beloved

Would you let me fight for you?

This year's social season had gone by in a blink. It seemed that one moment, Maxwell was luring Riley to Cordonia, and the next moment, it was time for the 'fox hunt.' Time had passed – and passed too quickly.

Drake thought back to their walk back to the palace after eating cronuts. Riley had fallen into step beside him, and even that early on, she had already told him that with all his warnings about nobles and what the palace was like, it was difficult to get to know who he was.

How different would it have been, if Drake had know back then that Riley could be trusted? Drake wished that they had more time. He imagined longer conversations, more long talks and funny jokes and competitive races.

While ski races weren't an option in the palace, he could have told her about the game he had created with Liam, maze-tag, and had countless races to see who could reach the tree in the middle first.

Drake knew that she wouldn't think it was childish – she would laugh in the middle of his explanation, tag him, and run ahead, leaving him to stare, dumbfounded, for a second before he shouted a playful threat and chased after her.

They would play that game over again for hours and hours, one or the other always whining for a rematch to restore their maze-tag honor. And when they finally got tired, they would go to the tree in the middle of the maze.

They would lean against the trunk, breathing heavily from all the running and all the laughter, watching the sky in comfortable silence until the stars came out. He could tell Riley about the constellations Savannah had taught him, and hold back a smile as she tells him that what he said was a sea serpent looked more like a gummy worm to her.

How many starlit nights could Drake have spent with Riley in that maze?

But now, it was almost time for the 'fox hunt;' almost time for the final party of the social season at Maxwell and Bertrand's family estate; almost time for Liam's coronation. Almost time to find out if Riley was going to be somebody's wife. Liam's wife.

If only I

Could train flesh and blood and bone

To be of use, this shell, to see and shield you

Resist age and death, to spend eternity

In you, my home

My beloved

Would you let me fight for you?

The fourth stanza was a sad way to end the poem, speaking of a wish to do more and be more. The speaker clearly felt that whatever they had done, it wasn't enough. Devotion, at its very deepest, had its limits, but the poet clearly felt that endless, eternal devotion was the way things should be.

Drake disagreed. How pathetic would it be to be a shell, just lingering restlessly somewhere where they didn't belong, just waiting to be of use, having no purpose but to shield and protect? Drake found himself disliking the familiar poem.

How much time did somebody need to 'see and shield,' anyway? A lifetime was enough. Wishing for more time, for eternity, was just greedy, wasn't it?

[VI.]

Moments after reading the final line of the poem, Riley let out a small sigh. Because Drake couldn't see her, he didn't know what that sigh meant – and he didn't know why his own sigh followed shortly after, making Riley give a small squeak of surprise.

“Who's there?”

Drake opened his mouth to answer, but his throat felt slightly dry. And why did he feel so tired all of a sudden? He grasped the edge of the wall with his fingertips as he swallowed to moisten his throat, before finally giving a short, terse response.

“It's me.”

“Oh, Drake? Come on in! Why are you hiding out there?”

Noticing, even without wanting to, the fact that the wariness in Riley's first statement had given way to warm familiarity once she realized that it was Drake who had been there, he entered their cold, stone room with the cold, stone ceiling, only to see Riley getting up, smoothing the back of her blue dress with one hand as she held a book of poetry in the other.

“I finally found something I could do, Drake!” she said excitedly.

Waving the book in front of her, a finger marking the page she has just finished reading, she continued. “I chose a great traditional poem I could read to the court – I just hope they don't mind that I chose a romantic poem...” she finished with a slightly worried frown.

“Romantic?” he asked in surprise. “Riley, that's not a romantic poem. Every Cordonian knows that 'My Beloved' was commissioned by Queen Kenna Rys exactly one year after the defeat of Empress Azura. She told the poet to compose a poem, from the point-of-view of a patriotic soldier, that captured all the emotions of the Battle of Stormholt, so that younger generations would never forget.”

Drake pointed at a spot on the page.

“See that? The first three lines of the poem refer to Empress Azura – who was always called the Storm – and how the country united to defend the kingdom against her invasion. Our literature teacher told us that the poet had originally used the term, 'raging storm,' but Queen Kenna thought that it gave her too much power. So she had the poet use 'clouds' instead.”

Now it was Riley's turn to be surprised.

“But... but it sounds so romantic!”

Raising his eyebrow at her, he gently took the book from her hands to double-check that they were talking about the same poem, even though it wasn't necessary because, as he said, every Cordonian knew 'My Beloved.' And after confirming that it was the poem Drake had in mind, he started to explain the rest of it to her.

“See, the first stanza is about the whole country waking up to fight in the final battle... the second stanza is about the many possible futures Stormholt could have... the the third stanza is about the soldier saying that he wished he had more time to train so that he could be a better warrior for the country...”

He continued his way down the page.

“...and the last stanza is about him wanting to serve his country for eternity. Every stanza ends with the same line about being willing to go to war to defend Stormholt.” Drake snorted. “You must have a twisted mind to think – to think that such a historical poem as 'My Beloved' is about romance, of all things.”

It was silly of Riley. Just because something seemed like it could be romantic, like it should be romantic, didn't mean that it would be.

Would ever be.

“Drake? You're shaking.”

He looked down.

Why were his fingers trembling slightly?

Confused, Drake held them up in front of his face, and he blinked and blinked as he willed them to stop.

It worked almost completely. He shoved his hand into his pocket.

No need to see that.

“Oh, are you still feeling bad from the soup I made for you?” she asked, looking at him with wide, worried eyes. “I'll get you some dessert from the kitchens or something. That'll make you feel better. I'll be right back! And, don't worry,” she laughed, “I won't make it myself!”

With that, she rushed out of the room.

And after she was gone, he leaned against a cold, stone wall and wearily closed his eyes. Listening to a patriotic, historical poem about a soldier's love for his country shouldn't have drained all his energy from him, but somehow, it had.

Trembling fingers.

Shallow breaths.

Blinking eyes.

Drake's heart was cloudy and he felt like he wanted to throw up.

But this time, he had absolutely no idea why.

(The end.) (Word count: 5,299 words.)

First author’s note: I’ve had this idea for a while, so I’m happy I was finally able to write it 😊 I like the idea of Riley trusting Drake enough that he’s the one she goes to for help 😁 Also, it was not easy trying to write a poem that could sound romantic and patriotic at the same time 😂 I couldn’t use any classic romantic poetry techniques OR patriotic poetry techniques without giving everything away 😂 I think that this is the first sad Drake fanfic I’ve written, though 😢

Second author’s note: By the way, receiving 🦄🦄 comments 🦄🦄 on my fanfiction lets me know that YOU are interested in reading more… 😊😎 Nudge nudge, wink wink 😀😋

(Waiting for H.W.U. to come back, forever and always; 24/07/17.)

#🦄🦄 😊 your comments are wonderful unicorns to me 😊 🦄🦄#playchoices #the royal romance #firefly-hwufanficwriter original post

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