Concordia discors

[The author thanks everyone for reading, reccing, and slaying me with hilarious comments. Extra thanks to wisdomeagle and sathinks for being the first people to comment at minions_de_mina and break the eerie silence that otherwise prevails over there.]

Disclaimer: Mina de Malfois is an original fictional creation. These stories and characters are the sole property of the author, but she lends them out for fanfic and fanart. This is a work of fiction. No resemblance is intended to any person or persons living, dead, or online. No BNFs were harmed in the making of this fic.



When my alarm rang, I couldn’t remember at first why I’d set it. I’d been dreaming about PrinceC. The dream had started out entirely safe for work, with PrinceC and I watching ‘the Princess Bride’ together, and heated up considerably from there. I mean to say, he’d just said ‘Guide my sword,’ in a voice made husky with desire, when I was rudely woken by the noise. I crawled out of bed, deeply relieved to find this wasn’t a workday, and set the coffee perking while I showered and dressed in crisp, clean pyjamas.

Soon I was comfortably seated in front of the computer screen, clutching a large mug of revivifying liquid and waiting for the others to log on. We’d arranged an early-morning gaming session, so we’d all be present when we completed our mission, rescued Warr1or, and accumulated our points. I felt ready to face anything, even the Tented Tartanists’ rituals.

In the gameworld, it was overcast and looked ready to rain. Once we’d all assembled in the maze, Arc led us back to the main clearing, and we saw that the cultists were busily erecting a sort of open-air tent made out of some shiny, silver material.¹ ‘Ah, you’re here!’ said one of their apparent leaders, herding us inside to sit, cross-legged, on silk cushions that had been arranged in a huge circle. ‘Sit near me, pets, and I’ll help you follow our proceedings,’ she said warmly, and there seemed little to do right now but comply.

‘We’ll begin with the fanfiction reviews,’ another announced, and several of the cultists produced notes.

‘It’s traditional to begin with critiques of our recent fanfiction,’ explained the one who seemed to have taken charge of us, and Arc nodded intelligently. I sat up a little straighter, interested in spite of myself. You never know where you might stumble across interesting tips and advice on fanfiction, after all. Honing one’s craft takes constant effort and input.

Not here, though, apparently. The critiques began with a cultist, who stood and introduced herself as Christine, solemnly informing us that Meg’s latest story was one of the most beautiful she’d ever read. Meg, in turn, assured us in all seriousness that Christine had recently written the most moving fanfic she’d ever read. Their part of the ritual seemingly over, they concluded their strange duet by curtsying formally to each other and sat down again. You could tell Meg and Christine were seasoned hands at this.² Probably they’d been participating in these rituals for quite a while now.

‘Johnson,’ Xena murmured derisively.

‘The reciprocal civility of authors,’ Arc agreed.³

Then things got slightly more complicated as three young cultists rose from their places in the circle, suppressing nervous smiles and standing up as rigidly as if they faced a military review. Gerry’sGirl, reading quickly, said that Darla had written a really good fanfic that we should all read. Darla breathlessly did her bit, telling us that Mrs.Sev had also written a really good fanfic and we should all read it. Mrs.Sev, as I’d been beginning to suspect she might, declared that we should all read the really good fanfic that Gerry’sGirl had written. Exchanging relieved glances, they all sat down again, with the air of people who’d completed a daunting task and were satisfied with how they’d acquitted themselves. The other cultists smiled encouragingly throughout this performance, and applauded quietly afterwards.

Under what she probably thought was the safe cover of the noise of the cultists’ clapping, Liz snorted, rather loudly. I don’t say I blame her, but I rather wished she hadn’t, as silence instantly fell and the entire circle turned to face us.

‘Is something funny, dear?’ asked the one who’d ushered us in, and though her tone was still kindly you could sense a certain iron entering into it. These matronly types, I know from experience, can put prison guards to shame. I wished there was some way to slip Liz a warning, because she obviously hadn’t taken note of the steely-eyed gaze some of the cultists were directing her way.

‘It’s just that none of you are going to improve as writers if you can’t criticize each other’s work,’ Liz said obliviously, and I cringed. Aside from disrupting a ceremonial occasion, she was trotting out the conversational equivalent of a hand grenade there, and I rather wished she’d shut up before the whole hive was roused.

‘Oh?’ said the motherly cultist dangerously, still smiling sweetly. ‘Do any of you write fanfiction?’

There was a pause. To my horror, I saw that my companions had involuntarily turned to look at me. ‘Well, yes,’ I admitted. ‘I do.’

‘What’s your name, dear?’ purred the cultist, and I tossed my hair back. If these people thought they could make my fanfiction the target of their pent-up critiquing urges as some sort of childish revenge on Liz, they had another think coming.

‘Mina de Malfois,’ I told her coldly, and watched it hit home. There was a second silence, deeper than the first, and then a mad scramble as the majority of the cultists fell on their faces. Only their leaders still sat facing me, the faces in question now suffused with awe.

‘Your portrayal of Lord Henri Antoine Silvestre de Gravina is masterful,’ one said hoarsely.

‘Masterful!’ several echoed.

‘How wonderful that you’ve joined our circle!’ said the matronly one, sweeping said circle with a look that left no doubt she was laying claim to full credit for our having joined it. ‘This is a marvellous opportunity for us to tell you which of your extremely masculine heroes are our favourites, and what should happen next in your stories.’

And they proceeded to, at length, the younger cultists sitting up eagerly to join in the discussion of which of my heroes and scenes were the best and hottest. Several cultists confessed that my depiction of Lord Henri Antoine Silvestre de Gravina had revived their flagging real-world marriages to an, judging by the details they shared, astounding degree. Others said that they’d entirely forsaken mundane men to devote themselves to Lord Silvestre as depicted in my fanfics. I confess to a slight enjoyment of this stage of the proceedings, although Xena bored quickly and began to tap her fingers in a pointed manner. Arc leaned towards me and hissed, ‘Perhaps your newfound influence can be used to our advantage.’

Oh, right: the mission. ‘I say,’ I interrupted awkwardly, and was gratified by the respectful hush that fell over the cultists, ‘we really do have to be going, and we need to take Warr1or with us. Sorry.’

‘But what about incurring PrinceC’s displeasure?’ wailed one, disappointed.

‘When we see him,’ Arc assured her, ‘we’ll be sure to tell him you kept Warr1or in captivity for ages. He’ll be very displeased.’

‘Gosh, will he?’ said the cultist, brightening.

‘Will he punish us?’ asked one, blushing all the way down to her cleavage. For some reason she aimed this question at Xena, so Xena answered.

‘Probably,’ she said off-handedly, raking the girl with a glance that made her blush even more deeply, ‘but I don’t know if he’s a really skilful disciplinarian. He’s young, you know. Lacks experience.’ A fair number of the cultists, I noticed, lapsed into a thoughtful silence at her words.

‘Let’s go,’ Arc snapped as soon as they produced Warr1or. He was looking dishevelled in stained and charred lavender-striped pyjamas, but also, I noticed, rather buff. I suppose his avatar had built up strength points while it was managing the dragon herd.

We trudged back along the path, mostly in silence. The only one who seemed disposed to chat was Warr1or, rendered nervously talkative by relief at being rescued, I suppose, and he directed most of his remarks to me, because he recognized my name. I listened to his mingled disparagement of slash and praise of my own work semi-attentively, wondering to myself if I’d finally reached the saturation point, because quite honestly the subj. of the agreed-upon brilliance of my fanfiction was beginning to bore me. Eventually we emerged to find that a second ship had parked alongside ours, although I’m pretty sure that parked is the wrong word. It was, of course, PrinceC.

‘Mission accomplished, I see,’ he greeted us, and Arc informed him that no, it wasn’t quite, and explained that he had to hop along now and earn his share of the booty by putting on a good display of phallocentric displeasure.

‘No problem at all,’ he said cheerfully, and I shot him a disgusted look. I noted with mild satisfaction that Liz, the Elizabeths, and Warr1or all loyally shot him d. looks as well. It’s good to have back up in these things.

‘And you,’ Arc added, turning on Xena, ‘might as well go with him.’

‘Those poor women did look as if they needed my help,’ Xena said, with a grin that astonished me. I mean to say, Arc had spoken with her usual unflappable calm, but it was readily apparent to me that she was feeling some slight urge to throttle Xena, and it boggled me that Xena could grin in the face of such simmering what-do-you-call-it. ‘I’ll hike my way overland to look in on the Cult of the Gay Unicorn, too,’ Xena was saying thoughtfully, ‘and gradually make my way back to the mainland.’

‘I’m sure you’ll turn up eventually,’ Arc said, and I couldn’t tell if she was amused or furious.

‘I always do,’ Xena agreed, and turned to PrinceC. ‘Care to make a manly wager?’ she asked him, eyes glinting playfully.

He held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘I know when I’m...er...licked. But this should be fun anyway. I’ve been reading the works of Aleister Crowley lately, and this will be a rare opportunity to put his ideas into practice.’

They headed off, and we returned to the Honey’d Briar. ‘Was he kidding about Crowley?’ I burst out, as we sailed away.

‘I doubt it,’ said Liz darkly. Warr1or looked thoroughly scandalized.

‘A lot of randy teenagers go through a Crowley phase,’ Arc said comfortingly, but then slightly spoiled the effect by muttering, ‘Of course, most of them gain eventual self-control.’

We sailed gloomily back to port to add up our points.



Footnotes:
1. the cultists were busily erecting a sort of open-air tent made out of some shiny, silver material It’s a tinfoil tent. Like a tinfoil hat, but bigger.

2. Christine and Meg are clearly PotO phans; Gerry’sGirl would be a Gerard Butler fan, Darla a Spike an Angel fan (I stand corrected), and Mrs.Sev a Snape fan.

3. The reciprocal civility of authors Samuel Johnson: “The reciprocal civility of authors is one of the most risible scenes in the farce of life.” Johnson is also, arguably, a pun.