storypaint (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
storypaint) wrote2009-12-04 11:19 am
storypaint) wrote2009-12-04 11:19 am
Questioning (fem!Socrates/fem!Plato)
Title: Questioning
Fandom: Historical RPF
Length: 408 words
Prompt: International Day of Femslash 08: Socrates/Plato genderbent, honor for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sky_pirate_tat
Pairing: fem!Socrates/fem!Plato; fem!Plato/husband mentioned
Other: ...Kinda weird? No real attempt at historical accuracy. Character death.
Excerpt: She'd spent so many afternoons in the square at her mentor's feet that on the day of Socrates's death, she found herself beginning the familiar walk, her feet leading her to the place she had always wanted to be.
She'd spent so many afternoons in the square at her mentor's feet that on the day of Socrates's death, she found herself beginning the familiar walk, her feet leading her to the place she had always wanted to be.
Corrupted, sure. Of course the men would say that. Women couldn't be philosophers, and women certainly couldn't say the things that Socrates said. Plato had entered into the philosopher's circle as a barely literate girl; here she was, a young wife with too many questions for the life she was expected to lead.
Always ask why, her mentor had said, leaning close to make sure that Plato got the message. She was not a particularly beautiful woman, but she was striking, and a skilled orator. It was ridiculous, Plato thought bitterly, wiping the tears from her face and turning reluctantly home. Women had no vote in Greece, and every citizen did. So why was Socrates such a concern to them?
She taught the citizens' daughters to think. And now she had taught them what awaited the woman who spoke too loudly. Was Socrates beautiful in death? Plato had heard it was poison. So did she look as though she slept, as if she would wake again in a moment with another brilliant idea burning in her eyes? Perhaps it was best that she didn't know, that she went through life with only the memory of the words on Socrates's lips and those lips on hers.
She would not be dead as long as Plato lived; this, the young woman vowed. Though her visits to the square ceased, and her belly swelled, it did not prevent her from writing. She finished the first book while pregnant with her second child.
She began her own lectures with two toddlers clutched to her hands. Her children were raised to ask questions. The youngest, she thought sometimes, in the right light, looked like her lost mentor.
Of course, mother or not, corruption of the youth was a horrible crime. She lay in her cell the night before her execution and dreamed of Socrates. The woman looked just the same, even with all the years passed. She took Plato's hand as if Plato was still that awestruck teenage girl, not a mother of three and convicted criminal.
And Plato followed her into the dark, and on her lips was the eternal question.
Fandom: Historical RPF
Length: 408 words
Prompt: International Day of Femslash 08: Socrates/Plato genderbent, honor for
sky_pirate_tatPairing: fem!Socrates/fem!Plato; fem!Plato/husband mentioned
Other: ...Kinda weird? No real attempt at historical accuracy. Character death.
Excerpt: She'd spent so many afternoons in the square at her mentor's feet that on the day of Socrates's death, she found herself beginning the familiar walk, her feet leading her to the place she had always wanted to be.
She'd spent so many afternoons in the square at her mentor's feet that on the day of Socrates's death, she found herself beginning the familiar walk, her feet leading her to the place she had always wanted to be.
Corrupted, sure. Of course the men would say that. Women couldn't be philosophers, and women certainly couldn't say the things that Socrates said. Plato had entered into the philosopher's circle as a barely literate girl; here she was, a young wife with too many questions for the life she was expected to lead.
Always ask why, her mentor had said, leaning close to make sure that Plato got the message. She was not a particularly beautiful woman, but she was striking, and a skilled orator. It was ridiculous, Plato thought bitterly, wiping the tears from her face and turning reluctantly home. Women had no vote in Greece, and every citizen did. So why was Socrates such a concern to them?
She taught the citizens' daughters to think. And now she had taught them what awaited the woman who spoke too loudly. Was Socrates beautiful in death? Plato had heard it was poison. So did she look as though she slept, as if she would wake again in a moment with another brilliant idea burning in her eyes? Perhaps it was best that she didn't know, that she went through life with only the memory of the words on Socrates's lips and those lips on hers.
She would not be dead as long as Plato lived; this, the young woman vowed. Though her visits to the square ceased, and her belly swelled, it did not prevent her from writing. She finished the first book while pregnant with her second child.
She began her own lectures with two toddlers clutched to her hands. Her children were raised to ask questions. The youngest, she thought sometimes, in the right light, looked like her lost mentor.
Of course, mother or not, corruption of the youth was a horrible crime. She lay in her cell the night before her execution and dreamed of Socrates. The woman looked just the same, even with all the years passed. She took Plato's hand as if Plato was still that awestruck teenage girl, not a mother of three and convicted criminal.
And Plato followed her into the dark, and on her lips was the eternal question.