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Fic: Sharpe's Demon
Title: Sharpe's Demon
Crossover: Sharpe/The Prophecy
Pairing: Lucifer/Sharpe
Rating: NC-17
Author: Alex
Word Count: 1500
Warning: Whimsy.
Beta: the always excellent![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kimberlite.
Disclaimer: No profit made, no harm intended.
Note: My final contribution to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sons_of_gondor's Reflections: Fifty Days of Sean.
Summary: Some souls are more stubborn than others.
Seringapatam, 1799
*
The stench of battle drifted in through the window, a noxious compound of black powder, smoke, blood, and rotting flesh. Decay occurred quickly in Seringapatam, almost too quickly even for the ravenous vultures, who circled lazily before landing amidst the carnage, knowing their bellies would be well-filled. Richard Sharpe ignored the smells, the cries of the wounded, and the harsh caws of the birds. He was too busy shoveling in his dinner with one hand and fingering his new store of gems with the other. He’d already traded a small but very pretty pink pearl in exchange for an evening with an Indian lass, a gorgeous creature who’d bathed him thoroughly and anointed him with sweet oils. Good to know that commerce remained strong even in times of strife.
Sharpe scooped up the last mouthful of lamb and vegetables in a rich sauce and washed it down with a deep draught of arrack. He leaned back against the wall, belched contentedly, and closed his eyes.
“How’s the lamb, Dickie?”
Sharpe leapt to his feet, grabbing for his stolen sword and scattering a handful of jewels across the floor. He squinted into the darkness beyond the feeble light of his single candle. “Who’s there? Who the bleeding hell are you? Come out before I empty your guts on the floor!” His heart pounded like a sledge as a dark figure detached itself from the shadows and took a step forward. Sharpe had been eating and drinking blissfully for nearly half an hour without noticing anyone watching. “How long have you been skulking about there?”
“Which question do you want me to answer first?”
“Both of them,” Sharpe snarled. “But first I want you to get into the bloody light so I can see you.” The figure stepped into the candlelight. He was pale, bearded, with glittering eyes. He wore a black wool coat that reminded Sharpe of the succession of Methodist ministers that had paraded through the foundling home he’d occupied as a nipper. They’d been free with their fists, for all they’d proclaimed to be men of God. Sharpe scowled in instinctive dislike. “Get your hands up, you bastard.”
The man bared his teeth in a grin and raised his hands palm-out. In the dim illumination of the candle, they looked smooth, almost burnished. “What was the first question?”
“Who are you? And wipe that smile off your face before I do it for you.”
“Nobody important. A traveler. A thief. A beggar. A stranger in a strange land. Like yourself.”
Sharpe narrowed his gaze. “What are you doing in Seringapatam?”
The smile widened. “Collecting spoils. Also like yourself.” The stranger patted his pocket, then lifted his hand again.
The man was entirely too comfortable. By all rights any fellow with a keen-edged steel blade a handspan from his heart ought to be at least a little apprehensive. “Spoils, eh? Let’s have them, then. Go on – empty your pockets.”
“Ah. My spoils aren’t precisely what you’d call tangible. And even if they were, you wouldn’t be interested in them.” He began to sing off-key. “No glory I covet, no riches I want; ambition is nothing to me –“
“Shut up!” Sharpe hated when people used words he couldn’t understand. “Don’t be so sure of that. Do it. Now.”
The stranger shrugged, then obediently turned his pockets inside out. They were empty.
Frustrated, Sharpe jabbed the sword close to the man’s chest. “All right, where are you hiding them – up your arse?”
“Now there’s a thought,” the man said. “Don’t worry, Dickie. My pockets and my bumhole are both empty. Lucky you.” His eyes gleamed with malicious good humor.
Sharpe had had enough parleying. He stepped close to the stranger and rested the tip of the blade against the man’s throat. “Listen to me, you sodding bastard. You tell me how you know my name, and you tell me this instant.”
The man reached up and wrapped his hand, marred with blackened and broken fingernails, around the blade, and wrenched it out of Sharpe’s grip with no apparent effort and oddest of all, no blood. He laid his free hand on Sharpe’s shoulder and bore down.
The hand was hot, and felt as heavy as an anvil. Sharpe found himself on his knees, scarcely able to move, helplessly staring into the stranger’s brilliant eyes. They were blue, with flecks of gold that seemed to dance and swirl in the flickering light. Dimly, he heard the sword clatter to the floor, but couldn’t rouse himself to grope toward it.
“I know everything about you, Dickie. I know your mother was a prostitute from Cat Lane who gave birth to you when she was sixteen. Your father was a farrier, ugly as sin.” A laugh bubbled up from the stranger’s chest, and he put his lips next to Sharpe’s ear. “He had a tendency toward early completion, and most of your erstwhile brothers and sisters wound up sliding down the soft-skinned inner thighs of an assortment of London whores. You were the only one who took. Imagine that.
“I know you joined the Havercakes thanks to the efforts of Obadiah Hakeswill – not a personal friend of mine yet, but he’ll be in my pocket soon enough. I know he’s the reason your back looks like a plowed field. I know that you killed the Tippoo Sultan and stole that pretty red ruby you were fondling a few moments ago.” He stroked hot fingertips down the side of Sharpe’s face. “What I don’t quite know...Dickie...is why I can’t lay claim to you the way I’d like to. You’re not like the rest of the talking monkeys. You have all the makings of one of the hellbound, but you keep eluding me. Why is that? You haven’t said a prayer since you were five. You thieve and lie when it suits you. You’ve committed murder. And yet He seems to be saving you for some purpose. Ever receive a divine visitation, Dickie?”
“I haven’t the first bleeding idea what you’re talking about, but I’ll tell you this: no one claims me.” The words seemed dredged out of the pit of Sharpe’s belly. The man’s strength was terrifying, and his voice was as softly insinuating as a drift of opium smoke. And yet, rather than being frightened, Sharpe found himself enrapt. “No one.”
“Don’t wager your soul on it.” The stranger’s mouth descended on Sharpe’s, and it was sweeter than honey. His hand drifted to the front of Sharpe’s trousers, unerringly locating his stirring erection. Slowly, he guided Sharpe down until he was flat on his back atop his bedroll. He drew off the tattered red jacket, the worn boots, the bloodied shirt and trousers until Sharpe was entirely naked.
Sharpe knew he should fight, but that mouth felt so wet and soft and warm, and the sensation of fingertips brushing across his bare skin doubled, trebled, quadrupled, until he trembled and writhed under the stranger’s touch, crying out hoarsely. There were a hundred hands stroking him, a hundred mouths lapping at his naked flesh. At last he surrendered to the stranger’s hands with a deep, shuddering groan, shocks coursing through his body.
*
When he awoke, the stranger was staring at him. A thin moonbeam shone into the window, alchemizing sunburnt skin to pale marble. Sharpe gathered his shirt up and covered himself. “Thought you’d gone.”
“Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”
Sharpe was confused. “Let you suck me.”
The man laughed. “I haven’t touched one of your kind in...in a long time. I’m surprised you survived.”
“Go on, you weren’t that good,” Sharpe snorted. “There were a lass in Sheffield who –“
“Shut up.” The man rose to his feet. “You’re right – I can’t claim you yet. Someone thinks you’re a soul worth saving. I have my doubts. You’re almost savage; I can’t fathom it. But I’ll be watching you. Open your hand.” Sharpe reluctantly put his hand out. The man pressed something hard into it, and folded Sharpe’s hand closed. “Think about it. I can give you riches...pleasures...power. You’d be most formidable in a different army.” He backed toward the moonlit window. “But remember – you’d be all mine. Body and soul.”
Sharpe frowned. He’d taken the King’s shilling; he was owned enough. “Not bloody likely. Who the devil are you, anyroads?”
The man grinned. “Exactly. Goodbye, Dickie. We'll meet again sometime.” The moon fell behind a cloud, and the room went utterly dark.
A frantic noise as of dozens of flapping wings arose from the window. Sharpe rose on unsteady legs and rushed to it, but the man had gone. Sharpe shook his head; bad arrack. Like as not he’d be sick for days.
The moon emerged from behind the cloud, and feeble light spilled back into the room. Sharpe opened his hand and gasped at the sight of a diamond the size of a robin’s egg. Stunned, he moved back to the window and peered into the foul-smelling night, but there was no sign of Sharpe’s demon.
End.
Crossover: Sharpe/The Prophecy
Pairing: Lucifer/Sharpe
Rating: NC-17
Author: Alex
Word Count: 1500
Warning: Whimsy.
Beta: the always excellent
kimberlite.Disclaimer: No profit made, no harm intended.
Note: My final contribution to
sons_of_gondor's Reflections: Fifty Days of Sean. Summary: Some souls are more stubborn than others.
Seringapatam, 1799
*
The stench of battle drifted in through the window, a noxious compound of black powder, smoke, blood, and rotting flesh. Decay occurred quickly in Seringapatam, almost too quickly even for the ravenous vultures, who circled lazily before landing amidst the carnage, knowing their bellies would be well-filled. Richard Sharpe ignored the smells, the cries of the wounded, and the harsh caws of the birds. He was too busy shoveling in his dinner with one hand and fingering his new store of gems with the other. He’d already traded a small but very pretty pink pearl in exchange for an evening with an Indian lass, a gorgeous creature who’d bathed him thoroughly and anointed him with sweet oils. Good to know that commerce remained strong even in times of strife.
Sharpe scooped up the last mouthful of lamb and vegetables in a rich sauce and washed it down with a deep draught of arrack. He leaned back against the wall, belched contentedly, and closed his eyes.
“How’s the lamb, Dickie?”
Sharpe leapt to his feet, grabbing for his stolen sword and scattering a handful of jewels across the floor. He squinted into the darkness beyond the feeble light of his single candle. “Who’s there? Who the bleeding hell are you? Come out before I empty your guts on the floor!” His heart pounded like a sledge as a dark figure detached itself from the shadows and took a step forward. Sharpe had been eating and drinking blissfully for nearly half an hour without noticing anyone watching. “How long have you been skulking about there?”
“Which question do you want me to answer first?”
“Both of them,” Sharpe snarled. “But first I want you to get into the bloody light so I can see you.” The figure stepped into the candlelight. He was pale, bearded, with glittering eyes. He wore a black wool coat that reminded Sharpe of the succession of Methodist ministers that had paraded through the foundling home he’d occupied as a nipper. They’d been free with their fists, for all they’d proclaimed to be men of God. Sharpe scowled in instinctive dislike. “Get your hands up, you bastard.”
The man bared his teeth in a grin and raised his hands palm-out. In the dim illumination of the candle, they looked smooth, almost burnished. “What was the first question?”
“Who are you? And wipe that smile off your face before I do it for you.”
“Nobody important. A traveler. A thief. A beggar. A stranger in a strange land. Like yourself.”
Sharpe narrowed his gaze. “What are you doing in Seringapatam?”
The smile widened. “Collecting spoils. Also like yourself.” The stranger patted his pocket, then lifted his hand again.
The man was entirely too comfortable. By all rights any fellow with a keen-edged steel blade a handspan from his heart ought to be at least a little apprehensive. “Spoils, eh? Let’s have them, then. Go on – empty your pockets.”
“Ah. My spoils aren’t precisely what you’d call tangible. And even if they were, you wouldn’t be interested in them.” He began to sing off-key. “No glory I covet, no riches I want; ambition is nothing to me –“
“Shut up!” Sharpe hated when people used words he couldn’t understand. “Don’t be so sure of that. Do it. Now.”
The stranger shrugged, then obediently turned his pockets inside out. They were empty.
Frustrated, Sharpe jabbed the sword close to the man’s chest. “All right, where are you hiding them – up your arse?”
“Now there’s a thought,” the man said. “Don’t worry, Dickie. My pockets and my bumhole are both empty. Lucky you.” His eyes gleamed with malicious good humor.
Sharpe had had enough parleying. He stepped close to the stranger and rested the tip of the blade against the man’s throat. “Listen to me, you sodding bastard. You tell me how you know my name, and you tell me this instant.”
The man reached up and wrapped his hand, marred with blackened and broken fingernails, around the blade, and wrenched it out of Sharpe’s grip with no apparent effort and oddest of all, no blood. He laid his free hand on Sharpe’s shoulder and bore down.
The hand was hot, and felt as heavy as an anvil. Sharpe found himself on his knees, scarcely able to move, helplessly staring into the stranger’s brilliant eyes. They were blue, with flecks of gold that seemed to dance and swirl in the flickering light. Dimly, he heard the sword clatter to the floor, but couldn’t rouse himself to grope toward it.
“I know everything about you, Dickie. I know your mother was a prostitute from Cat Lane who gave birth to you when she was sixteen. Your father was a farrier, ugly as sin.” A laugh bubbled up from the stranger’s chest, and he put his lips next to Sharpe’s ear. “He had a tendency toward early completion, and most of your erstwhile brothers and sisters wound up sliding down the soft-skinned inner thighs of an assortment of London whores. You were the only one who took. Imagine that.
“I know you joined the Havercakes thanks to the efforts of Obadiah Hakeswill – not a personal friend of mine yet, but he’ll be in my pocket soon enough. I know he’s the reason your back looks like a plowed field. I know that you killed the Tippoo Sultan and stole that pretty red ruby you were fondling a few moments ago.” He stroked hot fingertips down the side of Sharpe’s face. “What I don’t quite know...Dickie...is why I can’t lay claim to you the way I’d like to. You’re not like the rest of the talking monkeys. You have all the makings of one of the hellbound, but you keep eluding me. Why is that? You haven’t said a prayer since you were five. You thieve and lie when it suits you. You’ve committed murder. And yet He seems to be saving you for some purpose. Ever receive a divine visitation, Dickie?”
“I haven’t the first bleeding idea what you’re talking about, but I’ll tell you this: no one claims me.” The words seemed dredged out of the pit of Sharpe’s belly. The man’s strength was terrifying, and his voice was as softly insinuating as a drift of opium smoke. And yet, rather than being frightened, Sharpe found himself enrapt. “No one.”
“Don’t wager your soul on it.” The stranger’s mouth descended on Sharpe’s, and it was sweeter than honey. His hand drifted to the front of Sharpe’s trousers, unerringly locating his stirring erection. Slowly, he guided Sharpe down until he was flat on his back atop his bedroll. He drew off the tattered red jacket, the worn boots, the bloodied shirt and trousers until Sharpe was entirely naked.
Sharpe knew he should fight, but that mouth felt so wet and soft and warm, and the sensation of fingertips brushing across his bare skin doubled, trebled, quadrupled, until he trembled and writhed under the stranger’s touch, crying out hoarsely. There were a hundred hands stroking him, a hundred mouths lapping at his naked flesh. At last he surrendered to the stranger’s hands with a deep, shuddering groan, shocks coursing through his body.
*
When he awoke, the stranger was staring at him. A thin moonbeam shone into the window, alchemizing sunburnt skin to pale marble. Sharpe gathered his shirt up and covered himself. “Thought you’d gone.”
“Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”
Sharpe was confused. “Let you suck me.”
The man laughed. “I haven’t touched one of your kind in...in a long time. I’m surprised you survived.”
“Go on, you weren’t that good,” Sharpe snorted. “There were a lass in Sheffield who –“
“Shut up.” The man rose to his feet. “You’re right – I can’t claim you yet. Someone thinks you’re a soul worth saving. I have my doubts. You’re almost savage; I can’t fathom it. But I’ll be watching you. Open your hand.” Sharpe reluctantly put his hand out. The man pressed something hard into it, and folded Sharpe’s hand closed. “Think about it. I can give you riches...pleasures...power. You’d be most formidable in a different army.” He backed toward the moonlit window. “But remember – you’d be all mine. Body and soul.”
Sharpe frowned. He’d taken the King’s shilling; he was owned enough. “Not bloody likely. Who the devil are you, anyroads?”
The man grinned. “Exactly. Goodbye, Dickie. We'll meet again sometime.” The moon fell behind a cloud, and the room went utterly dark.
A frantic noise as of dozens of flapping wings arose from the window. Sharpe rose on unsteady legs and rushed to it, but the man had gone. Sharpe shook his head; bad arrack. Like as not he’d be sick for days.
The moon emerged from behind the cloud, and feeble light spilled back into the room. Sharpe opened his hand and gasped at the sight of a diamond the size of a robin’s egg. Stunned, he moved back to the window and peered into the foul-smelling night, but there was no sign of Sharpe’s demon.
End.
permission to translate your fic
These two are good together, Sharpe and the Dark One. Unexpected, though. I had a flashback to an old novel called "The Monk" by Matthew Gregory Lewis. Both texts are highly symbolic. I agree that the Lucifer would enjoy company of Sharpe, but cannot claim his soul.
After watching "Frankenstein" with Benedict Cumberbatch, I had tried to read "The Monk" visualizing Benedict as the Monk. So far the experience was strange. The whole thing turned out to be too grotesque to be believable. I decided to treat it as a daydreaming of an honest monk in his grotto - just like "Alice in Wonderland". Perhaps I should do it again - with Viggo as Lucifer. Anyway...
...may I ask your permission to translate your fic to Russian, please? You will get the link once it is ready. I will translate it myself and ask couple of friends to beta it. I can also translate the readers comments for you, if you wish. The publication will contain link to the original text in the header for those, who prefer original.
I have checked the web. Nobody had attempted it yet, it seems. If someone had asked you, and got permission - please let me know.
RE: permission to translate your fic
I've never ever heard of "The Monk" but I saw that Amazon had a free download, so I snapped it up. Thank you. I wouldn't mind visualizing Benedict as a monk. Yum. :D
Certainly you may translate it. I'd love the link when you're through, and I'd love to see the comments as well! That's very nice of you to offer. Thanks again!
Re: permission to translate your fic
As for "The Monk", I guess I got lucky. I went to see Merry Shelly's "Frankenstein", performed in National Theatre in London in 2011 and filmed for satellite transmissions into movie theaters worldwide. I have taken the novel to read on my journey to Munich for the play. I have told my colleague from England about it all. It turned out she was a huge fan of gothic novels as a teenager. She even had a couple of books with her. She told me about the difference between classical novel and a gothic one. I had borrowed copy of "The Monk" from her and slowly went trough. Another friend, a librarian from Moscow, who new the novel, suggested this little trick with visualization and had requested the feedback. For that I had to read it slow, getting in as many details from the text, as possible. Checking myself for reactions as I went. In the end the thing had become so grotesque, that I had to pass it all as a vivid dream journey that turns into a nightmare. Try it! Merry Shelly wrote her novel age 19. This one was also written by a very young author, a man, though. He had published it under alias and had not revealed his authorship for quite a time. My copy of the book was old, with many notes on the margin. I could see reactions of my friend, that had added an extra dimention to the whole thing. I had returned the book with many thanks, telling her about my experience. Measure for measure, I had given her my copy of "Sherlock - bbc" to watch. She ended up going to Munich a few months later to watch Benedict play the Creature in "Frankenstein"... LOL!..
Perhaps I should try to read it again making another replacement - Viggo as Aragorn. Perhaps putting someone like Ben Whishaw as The Monk. He had played Henry II in "Hollow Crown"...
Re: permission to translate your fic
I am looking forward to The Monk. I very much enjoyed Frankenstein [the novel] and the Benedict Cumberbatch/Jonny Lee Miller film as well, so if it's anything like that I'm sure it'll be splendid. Thanks for the recommendation!
Re: permission to translate your fic
translation into Russian
http://anchan-uk.livejournal.com/364570.html
I tried to publish it on AO3, but they are in the middle of the move to new servers. I decided to wait for couple of weeks.
Translation was made almost immediately after we talked. It was checked by beta, who helped me to tune couple of last slash sentences just right.
We published it for several thousand participants in a huge fest where about 200 fandoms compete with each other in six different rounds, three of which were with texts.
I will give you the links to the fest, but all content in Russian. One has to register and set date of birth in his profile to 18+ to get access to the content. Menu is also in Russian, sorry for that!
Anyway, here is the group of several drabbles and minis, including the translation:
http://wtfcombat2015.diary.ru/p202451935.htm
Here is all we generated for the game, including avatars, videos, texts, collages etc:
http://wtfcombat2015.diary.ru/?tag=5210585
Your nickname and link for the original fic were in the header. Mine was not given till a few days ago according to the fest rules. Viewers saw the list of team members, but were not aware who was doing what until the end.
Couple of team members went through both original text and the translation to get the fix twice and compare the flavors. Both praised the translation.
My beta loved the fic very much. She is very experienced, since she is captain of Tolkien team, one of a few monster fandoms with lots of content. She writes and translates from English and Spanish herself. She was the first reader. She loved is so much, that she requested an alias "Sharpe's Demon" and replied readers comments from it through the game.
I will translate for you all relevant comments and post them here.
to be continued...
comments (1)
I looked at the story from Sharpe's Universe, since I am not familiar with "The Prophecy". I like description of the camp and Sharpe's meeting with... the Demon? Or, perhaps, his own Alter-Ego? I am not surprised that he had over-reacted a little. That's our Sharpe, all right. Demon sure had his fun and fair share of mocking, making me to snear as well. Well, we all know what is worth bargaining with the Demon. The bed scene was logical in the story, tough a bit unexpected so early in the game. The author had made it tasty, with lots of volume, yet staying within the given raiting (PG-13 for translation into Russian). Demon's monologue is outstanding. I am wondering if we know anything about Sharpe's father, or I have forgotten the stories. Hints to Boromir are transparent and easy to pick. He indeed had lost his life there, bending to the will of the Ring. Anyway, I would like to say many thanks to the author for his Sharpe and his Demon!
Reder 2:
This mini have given me chills - hardcore realistic descriptions and the story about Sharpe's parents. Lucifer is even more creepy without his usual horns, red coal eyes and sharp teeth. Though he does tell Sharpe, that he is somehow different from other talking monkeys, you have got all the traits of fallen human nature, and yet somehow I cannot get my claim over you, and you do slip away. And Richard gradually discovers that he indeed have taken the shilling, and will not belong to anyone else but the King. Still, the angst and worry does not entirely dissolve. Sharpe is... somehow different here. I also got a problem with a couple of modern slang words the translator have given Sharpe. Sure thing, Richard does swear, but one would expect slightly more common obscenities.
My reply to both readers from alias hoganscout
Thanks, guys! After reading the fic and watching a few clips from "The Prophecy" with Viggo-The-Demon, translator decided to use the obscenities that bite. A lot of traditional ones have lost their edge, like the "bastard". I have used the ones that would provoke someone on a dark street nowadays. That how the cross of "The Prophecy" and "Sharpe" feels like in original.
"The Prohpecy" is a b-type trash movie, a genre almost nonexistent in Russia. A bit akin to "Dogma", judging from those 15-20 minutes from youtube. Not sure if that is my type of grass, though, it is a bit too strong.
Interesting details about private life of Sharpe's mom and dad are on Lucifer's conscience, that is neither in our books nor in movies. Our team is plotting to get the translator drunk enough that he will watch and love both "Dogma" and "The Prophecy". The translator swears upon his honor and Wellington's mustache that this is not gonna work.
Stay with us, don't worry, be happy, here is some brandy. We all do know that Dick Sharpe keeps his honor, fight for King George and goes to Heaven in the end, like the rest of them good pagans, Amen!
Our team member poacher with violin to hoganscout:
The Prophecy" does not deserve such wrongful accusations! Its makers have smoked much less grass then the team of "Dogma" creators. Simply because they are not Coen brothers. However, I would give them anything for Arch-angel Gabriel. Every time he appears on screen, my Sally drops anything she had in hands and just watches in ave. Good thing the move is so old, I would get jealous otherwise.
hoganscout to poacher with violin:
Since you know both canons better than me, do pray tell us! Are those mentioned modern words appropriate in this setting, or rather not. If necessary, I will kick the translator to sober up and try again.
Reader 2: hoganscout, easy on that poor translator, lad! Next time I will bring him a bottle of rum, better quality that this horrible stuff you are drinking. Thanks for the explanation, accepted.
Reader 3: do not know "The Prophecy", nevertheless, the story is fantastic! So intricate from the Demon. So rough and down-to-Earth from Sharpe.
hoganscout to Reader 3 and the rest of the croud:
Many thanks for your kind words! We will not give our Dick Sharpe away to no-one! Neither God nor the Devil! We need him more! More brandy!
comments (2)
Reader 4:
Dear Team, you are song and sunshine, you have made my day, please keep giving us happiness! ;crazylove;
hoganscout:
Thank you for your kind words, we keep working. Visuals are coming!
Reader 4:
I loved the texts, expecially "The Sharpe's Demon", very tasty piece of fiction indeed!
hoganscout:
Thank you, we will pass your praise to the Author. The Author, it seems, loves both gods and demons. The other day he had fallen Loki from the skies right on the doorstep of poor Frankenstein's Creature, from the play of Nick Dear in the National. Which is logical, taking into account that Dick Sharpe can take care of himself, while the Creature, after the death of his Master, can hardly cope. And needs some help.
Reader 4:
Oh my!.. I hope that the Creature did survive THAT.
hoganscout:
Yes indeed the Creature did survive that. But just before the hot scene, Loki, on a whim, had given the Creature good looks and clean breath. The Creature got sad and retorted, that God needs an illusion because he cannot bear to stay close to the Creature in its true body, let alone making love. Loki accepted this reasoning as sound and returned the Creature his normal looks. Than made love to it, said farewell and went back to the skies. The trout had broken the ice, the first spring flowers broke through the snow, and the reader rejoice for the Creature, sending second thoughts about Deus ex Machina to Hell. Such was power of the text!
Reader 4:
Soo, dear scout, you are describing such interesting things! I am going to read it straight away! Tough the Creature is definitely not my kink. Where is the link?
hoganscout:
Here is the link. NB! slash, Mature Rating! This is not my kink either. It is fascinating, tough, to observe certain symmetry while running both stories against each other.
Reader 4:
Fascinating indeed, especially in relation to "The Sharpe's Demon". I did download "The Prophecy" - so much the story about these to had affected me. Kick your translator to sober up and give it a try!
hoganscout:
Mission accomplished (evil laughter)
comments (3)
Sorry, dear sirs, please forgive me for falling asleep right in the middle of conversation. I am not so young anymore. Well. Concerning the modern words. Lucifer, as played by Mr. Mortensen, is a troll. Elegant, sophisticated troll. All of them are trolls and proper bastards, those Angels in the movie. I recon, the angels from "Supernatural" are what they are because the makers got knocked on the head by "The Prophecy" in their early twenties. With Christopher Walken as a lead. The movie at that point had almost produced a fandom, it is logical to consider "Supernatural" as one of its spin-offs.
Anyway... both Angels and Lucifer in there are showing off like Hell with their differences from the Mortals. Not only that. They wrongly consider mortals in their essence as evil, greedy and double-faced creatures, and mirror precisely that with irony and grotesque. Yes, they speak dirty, not eat but devour, kill left and right. But look funny because of that fundamental mistake. They look funny, but strangely vulnerable and somehow... beautiful.
Anyway... the first movie is beautiful, watch just that one, no need to continue, there is a risk to spoil the impression.
hoganscout (with facepalm) :
thank you for this thorough explanation! One ought to listen to his pals and do what they say...
Reader 5:
At first I started to wonder about strange behavior of Sharpe. Than came back to square one, checking time and place of proceedings. Called myself an idiot and started again, with new eyes.
Those eyes have witnessed a strange story of a man, who had a visitation from the high Power. The Power came to claim his soul - and could not. Than the Power tried to grasp exactly - why? - and failed. Why indeed this moron, talking monkey, cannot be taken?
Clear-cut phrases and typical soldier talk together with scene setting talk about decay. Can one recognize Richard Sharpe there - very young and wild and not yet committed to the Army? I could not also answer the Demon's question "WHY". I can see directness, honesty and recklessness of more mature Sharpe, though not very clear. That is correct. He is just a step ahead from his orphan years and killing of two men. One is left to wait and hope that his soul will gradually turn from graphite to diamond.
I would say, this story is not trivial and clear-cut, but it leaves the reader with strong aftertaste. It gets to you and catches you. It is well translated, tough I also found you translation of a "bastard" a bit off.
hoganscout:
Thank you! Translator indeed plans to go through the text again before publishing it on AO3. And check all those words again, including "bastard". But here is a little problem. For a modern Russian speaker, the word "bastard" sounds softer, than when we hear it from an officer from the ranks, who did not know his father until this Power of the high order have told him a thing or two. Here the word is used in its early, offensive sense "unlegitimate kid, born out of wedlock". It could cause even punch in the face. Translator was looking for a Russian equivalent, that might provoke such a punch turning quarrel on a dark street into a fight. But he intends to check it one more time. Thank you once again!
comments (4) + visuals
One cannot argue that Sharpe could indeed have such an adventure. Sharpe would hardly blink an eye, though for Lucifer this turn of events was probably quite unexpected. Mistaking, for a split second, Lucifer for a Methodist... amazing, just amazing, well done, Author! The story was quite unexpected, surprise upon surprise, and addictive at the same time. I did not look into original simply because I did not suspect for a second that I am reading translation. Flowers to the translator, for discovering such a gem and doing such a good job!
hoganscout (blushing): thank you for nice words and flowers! I will pass your praise to the Author.
------------earlier comments from our team members----------------------------
poacher with violin:
Looks like I am the only one who knows the second canon. So trust me here, both of them are very very real. As if they just walked out from their respective movies. Vultures - fantastic reference sending reader to the first book. The story Lucifer told Sharpe about him - very much yes, this bastard all the way was having fun quoting mortals their secret evening prayers, explaining, who actually was listening while they were asking God for help.
I do not like shash that much. But here it was so sudden, that all I could feel was WTF! :lol: But, I recon, readers will love it - the story is tasty, fresh, very much alive, and yes. If I were in Devil's shoes, I would insist on personal inspection of that stubborn soul that does not comply and keeps slipping away. Ahem... inspection in more than one way?..
team member 1:
Oh, slash, and so sudden! I also did not get, what it was! But I love the story. Ahh, why is it so short? I would love to see 5000+ words! :hot:
me, replying both:
I did not get the impression of a sudden sexual contact. The Devil was getting closer and closer, and than desired contact, or sparring, at minimal range. He kept peering into this soul, trying to see why the hell he cannot get it. Also... The Davil had played with Sharpe, just like Sharpe himself was playing with that large gorgeous ruby. This mirror is intentional, I guess, because of appearance of the huge diamond in the end.
poacher with violin:
The problem here is not in Lucifer, but in Sharpe. Not every gorgeous girl can get our Sharpe in her bed; and here is a stranger, unknown, with strange stories and claims. I keep wondering why Sharpe allowed that instead of shooting half way from the hip without a warning.
me:
Perhaps this Devil had learned a thing or two about good kissing through the last thousand years? And is dark, handsome and charismatic?
team member 2:
I love it! Sharpe is indeed a soldier with both hands in blood up to the elbows, BUT. He also does good things, so the Devil can look, but cannot claim this soul. Fantastic concept! I keep thinking about a film called "Constantin". Concerning bed scene... correction here. A concept of a "proper officer" did exist at that time. But not a "proper soldier".
me:
Indeed, in Sharpe novels there is a clear cut between good and bad guys. The bad ones, like General Loupe, love making others life miserable. Those are bad all over - Loupe, Hakeswill, Simmerson... Those guys go straight into Devil's pocket. As for Sharpe and his boys... they are not killers, they are hired guns, soldiers, who took King's shilling. These guys are never guilty for following orders, not than, not now. Up to a certain rank - not guilty. Because good soldiers should belong to their commander entirely - soul and body, and this is right and proper. Hence - God's people.
This idea is underlined in the end of the story. Sharpe recons that he had already taken King's Shilling. So he belongs to King George and that is that.
bonus
these were done by my little sister from Vladivostok. The following stuff is mine.
Here is something that have eaten lots of my time. But was fun.
I have painted the soldiers and shoot them for creating tutorial, picture gallery (http://anchan-uk.livejournal.com/363964.html) and demotivators:
Thank you once again for your fantastic story! Please keep writing, I will keep reading your texts, regardless of the fandoms. Majority of people who were discussing the work are away. But if you want to say something or to chase a particular person, I can try to find out.
I am away for two weeks from tomorrow for the Easter break. Should be back by April 12.
So, thank you once again for your participation in this project. In two weeks I will post the fic to AO3 and send you the link.
Here is a little something for you from our team:
Please, pretty please! Keep writing!!
RE: bonus
Re: RE: bonus
translation of "Sharpe's Demon" is now on AO3
http://archiveofourown.org/works/3830566
I have passed your thanks to some of the people who wrote comments.
Best regards!
Re: translation of