Chapter Text
September 24th, 1890
Beaches. You hate them. To be perfectly fair, there is a whole lot of things that you hate, and not many that you particularly enjoy, but beaches, especially this one, have officially made it to the top of your lengthy shitlist.
The sand, getting absolutely everywhere. The seagulls, stealing your sandwiches. The people, your soon to be opponents in this race, always doing their goddamn hardest to piss you off.
Especially that one.
He is not that hard to look at, you suppose, but that’s his only redeeming quality. Fairly tall, long hair, pretty green eyes. Not the worst person to do the Devil’s Dance with – not that you considered it, being a respectable lady of social standing probably higher than his – that is, until he decides to open his mouth to speak.
“You an escort or something?”
Is he – is he talking to you? You quickly look left and right to confirm your assumption, seeing as the inn is packed with people at this hour and he could have been addressing anyone.
“Yeah, you. Since you were staring at me so intently for the past half hour,” he grins, flashing his golden teeth. Or grills? You hope they’re only grills.
You blush twice; first in embarrassment at being caught, second from outrage caused by him calling you an escort. As in, polite – but not so polite because his true meaning is clear from the way he eyes you – word for whore.
“Why?! Because I’m a woman?” You scoff, your mood quickly turning from relaxed to sour to downright spoiled in a matter of seconds. Mother warned you the race would be rough for a female rider, but you naively hoped the men here would prove her wrong.
Turns out participating in a respectable race does not turn a man into a perfect gentleman –but come to think of it, the gentlemen in your life are the very reason you’re here today, so, all men are shit, lesson hard learned.
“Because it takes one to know one, and you’re a snob if I’ve ever seen one. Seriously. Is that shoe polish I see sticking out of your bag? You think you’ll have time to polish those fancy boots of yours out in the desert?”
Of course. Your boots. With the fancy silver buckles and spurs. And your bag, your bag that is so full you can’t properly close it, hence the visible bottle of shoe polish…and the poetry collection of Elizabeth Browning, your favorite poet.
“Nyo-ho!” Before you can make an attempt to hide it from his grubby hands and inappropriately curious eyes, he’s reaching for the book. “A true woman of culture! The man you’re accompanying is a lucky man indeed.”
“Hey!” You exclaim, trying in vain to wrench the book free of his hold. To say it’s an item of personal value to you would be understating things. You basically grew up with the dusty old tome, and have read it so many times you know all of the poems by heart. Seeing your most precious treasure in foreign hands is more insulting than the foreigner himself indirectly calling a woman of questionable reputation for the second time this evening.
“Don’t fret. I just want to read a poem or two, the culture in this establishment is so lacking, wouldn’t you agree?” He flips a few of the yellowed pages before picking a poem that apparently caught his attention.
You can only look on with promise of murder in your eyes as he starts to read it aloud, in a confident, unwavering voice. “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach, when feeling out of sight –”
You groan audibly to convey your feelings of annoyance. The words of your most cherished author, bastardized by some village idiot in a stupid hat. Yes. That’s it. You’re disgusted and appalled. You definitely don’t think his voice sounds kind of nice, and that his recital isn’t half-bad. For an idiot.
“ – for the ends of being and ideal grace. I love thee to the level of every day’s most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.” Seemingly having enough, he shuts the book harshly enough to make you wince. “So you like poems about love? Maybe you would even like to find your true love someday? How nice! In that case, a little word of advice; stay the hell away from this race and actually live to see your wedding. Pretty things like you don’t stand a chance.” Suddenly losing that glint in his eye, the rude man pushes the collection against your chest before standing up and tossing a coin to the barkeep. “For the nice girl too. And make sure she gets a bed without fleas, will you?”
“Wait a second!” You stand abruptly, hugging the book tightly like it’s your lifeline. You refuse to let his words get to your head. Too many things – your mother’s health, your family’s fortune, your fate, especially your fate – are riding on you riding, and to hell with anyone who tries to discourage you from competing in the Steel Ball Run.
Equal parts exasperated and intrigued, he sighs heavily before turning on his heel to face you again. “What now, ragazza?”
Making a disgusted sound low in your throat at the use of his word for you – you’re educated enough to know some Italian – you close the distance between you with a single confident stride. Up-close, you can make out all the little ridiculous details that make up the enigma that he is; his lewd belt buckle, the square patches of beard covering his jaw, some strange green ball-shaped objects in leather holsters. And to think you were acting all embarrassed in front of a bizarre creature such as him! It makes you embarrassed for even having been embarrassed in the first place.
Feeling emboldened, you look him square in the eyes, mentally challenging him. “May I ask your name, sir?”
“Gyro. Zeppeli,” he offers it, staring back with intensity matching your own. He’s not grinning anymore. He looks older like this, you think, like he’s seen and done heartbreaking things. In that very moment, despite knowing him for but a short while, you decide you don’t like the look of serious Gyro Zeppeli.
“And you are?”
You don’t give him your name in return. It’s unladylike, and rude, and your grandmother would drag you by your ear for this, but to hell with grandmother. Instead, you puff out your chest, smile triumphantly and proclaim: “If you think you can bully me out of this race, Gyro Zeppeli, you’re wrong! I’m going to defeat the wind itself racing and leave the world, including you, Gyro Zeppeli, behind my horse’s back! You will feel a fool once I’m crowned the rightful winner of the Steel Ball Run, Gyro Zeppeli!”
After having yelled all that into his very surprised face, you grab your bag and escape the seedy bar, deciding on sleeping in the stable with your horse, Fleetwood, for the night. Zeppeli thinks you’re too fine and vain to face harsh conditions? You’ll prove him wrong! You’ll prove all of them wrong. You’re going to win this race, save Mother, save the money, save yourself. And there’s no one – especially not some lanky Italian stupido – who you’ll let stand in your way.