Cesario (Viola)

Really, so far, it's not that different from Illyria. Look: here's Viola, once again making her way from a gentleman's house to a lady's, stepping carefully, trying to be certain of a path she does not know well.

Admittedly, both gentleman and lady are, in this case, dragons. And actually the lady is a king. And she's not Cesario, she's-- herself, for the first time in a long time, in a very plain skirt and bodice. There's nothing to be done for her hair, of course, so the only sign of the boy she's been is her close-cropped curls.

When she reaches the mouth of a cave she's fairly certain she remembers, she approaches tentatively. It seems unwise to disturb the wrong dragon, after all.

She calls hesitantly, "Your majesty--?"

Viola is-- not Viola.

Right, well, that's nothing new. But she's more emphatically not-Viola than usual. She was in her room, minding her own business when suddenly things-- changed. She scrambled over to the mirror to take stock of what on earth was going on and found the face of a certain prince of her acquaintance staring back. Among other changes that she can only assume also belong to him.

So she is taking the hallway at a run, trying to find the actual Prince Hal-- will he look like himself? Like her?-- when she is forced to an abrupt stop by a short, smug-looking man who seems to be about Hal's own age, with clothes in a similar style. And from the look he's giving her-- Hal-- he obviously recognizes him, though Viola herself has never seen this gentleman before.

"Um," she says, eloquently, and is immediately distracted by the incomparable strangeness of speaking words and having them not come out in her own voice. "How do you?"

"O, well," the young man replies. His accent is, to Viola's ears, frankly ridiculous. "Thou hast a troubled look, good prince. Farest thou ill?"

"No, no." Oh, that was convincing. She tries for some of Hal's flippant attitude. "And wherefore should I fret? Merry as a maiden, I, and as free of care-- save, like a maiden, the pestering of importunate gentlemen."

"And full as light, I doubt not," the young man says darkly. Viola fills with indignation, then remembers that-- right, she's not a maiden. She's not even Cesario. They're just two lads having a laugh about virgins-- though not exactly a friendly laugh, apparently. "Well, good prince, look thou to thy luck, say I."

"To my luck?" she echoes.

"Ay, sir," the young man snaps back, clearly taking the repetition to be mockery. But then he slides easily back into his previous smugness. "A curse I have, and have cast upon thee. O, start not! There is no harm in't-- if my instructions speak true."

"I am sure it is not," Viola agrees faintly. Is that what happened? An angry little man with an odd accent cursed Hal, and she somehow got mixed up in it? "And I am now in much haste, else I would demand more of thee. But a man who knows not the truth of his instructions I little trust to know the strength of his own curse. Perhaps naught shall come of it-- but if it does, thou shalt hear from me, doubt it not."

There, that sounded princely, right? And to cap it off, she strides away in what she hopes is an imperious and imperial manner. Once she has rounded the corner, though, and is sure the other man hasn't followed, she breaks into a sprint for the bar.

Viola does not remember the corridor being so long, or the stairs being quite so numerous. She also doesn't remember them seeming quite so wobbly, but that she can attribute to the not inconsiderable amount of whiskey consumed by her and Hal, to whose arm she is steadfastly clinging.

She has an inkling of why gentlemen get drunk on purpose-- there is something pleasant about the giddy, dizzy feeling, and she just keeps laughing-- but she also feels heavy and sleepy and a little bit sick, and she doesn't at all like the feeling that her mouth is running a few steps in front of her head, her body's responses lagging even behind that.

"Now 'tis near-- well-- 'tis nearly near..."

It's no busier than usual, as mornings go, but by noon-- by the time she has seen that all is in order for the day's meals, and spoken to the servants, looked to the usual series of minor household crises and disasters-- her head is pounding and she feels certain her bodice was laced too tight that morning.

She retreats upstairs and sinks down onto the edge of her bed, waving away a serving girl who approaches questioningly. It's fine-- she just needs to catch her breath.