BY DREAD THINGS I AM COMPELLED.

And finally, after no small effort on his part, wine still dripping, Degaré gives Régis the attention he so deserves. Régis expects near applause for his theatrics, but instead gets a look of such withering intensity radiates off the shorter man that it’s near better. Attention has been drawn  plenty to Régis’ sponsor as of late, but if it were a leash as Degaré suggests, at least Régis would understand that it was a something meant to be severed or snapped. The dry truth is, Alain hasn’t even given him that. No leashes, no restraints. And so Régis finds himself with something far more welcome, though far less expected - autonomy. 

“Only the barkeeps I find nice to look at.” He quips back with ease. “Or the ones I enjoy hearing say my name.” 

Régis’ pursuit of the Mane on behalf of Alain has familiarized him with all the idiosyncrasies of Degaré, or more accurately, it has reminded him of how much of the man he already knows. Aware of it or not, Régis has haunted Degaré for a lifetime. The Aveline spent a youth with Edith Lambert, an engagement turned sour not in a moment, but a rotten vessel from the start that more or less was left in the sun to decay. He’d spent that same youth tormenting this bastard brother of his fiancée as boys do with pinned butterflies. Even now, there’s no hatred to be spared between them when the meal is measured and divided, and in such a way Régis has become familiar with the way anger shifts Degaré’s features, how it changes him into something else entirely. Once, Regis left another woman’s necklace on their bureau and Edith has been furious at the sight of it. She left Côte d’Opale for a month on horse, back to House Lambert, in a storm…. and for the life of him Régis can’t remember the way she wore her anger. He doesn’t know the way it touches her eyes in the way it touches Degarés, can’t remember the exact manner a frown presses its way into her mouth and her brow. Edith was simply forgettable. Degaré was not. Is not. 

And perhaps that’s because Degaré won’t allow himself to be forgotten. Not when he chooses to wield his anger like the knife he cuts through the air (not when he literally brings a knife to a wine fight.) Régis watches the arc of it with amused interest, till it comes to a quivering halt in front of him, embedded into the wood. Can he find something admirable in the swiftness of the movement? A decision made, a decision carried through. A solid way to live. Laughter bubbles in his throat. He can’t understand further damage his own property to prove a point, but he wants to. Alain had recounted his encounter with Lambert’s bastard and how he’d almost returned to tell the tale with two fingers less than which he’d left that morning. Régis had laughed for ten minutes undeterred. He’d laughed harder when he learned it wasn’t a joke.

And then, Degaré turns around and leaves the knife to Régis. 

Régis is left with a knife. 

A knife has been placed within Régis’ reach and he has been left to his own devices, unsupervised. 

No matter how it’s spun, there’s no avoiding what a monumentally bad, colossally misinformed decision this is. Régis raises an eyebrow at the instrument and then at the retreating figure of Degaré. Swift as ever, he snatches it up, jostles it free of the wood, and grips it with his own hand. He’s not too bad at it really, in fact, knives are the preferred weapon of one Régis Aveline. It allows him to get personal in a way little else does. There’s an art to this - it’s not broadsword nor an axe. He’d liken it to rapier if he had to, if only because he handles it with a similar elegance and finesse. How this evening wound up here, he doesn’t care to dissect. But It truly is something that an evening beginning with the intentions of gathering any new whispers heard of the Widrowem ambassadors can escalate so quickly. 

To be clear though: Régis isn’t so quick to discard his plans for the evening.

He’s on his feet in an instant, sweeping his cloak back so it doesn’t drag in the wine he’s so considerately splashed all over the floor of the establishment. He catches up to Degaré, practically pounces in the way he grabs him by the arm and holds him, drags him back so their frames slot together, paralleled. If Degaré intends to turn around he can’t, lest he come to terms with the knife pinned to the small of his back. Régis uses his cloak like a curtain to shield it from any wandering gaze. No point in a drunken patron seeing something they shouldn’t and deciding this was their night to play hero. 

And oh, it is not lost on Régis that Degaré despises this - he can feel the way his touch ripples through the other. After all, what lion wants to discover a knife at their back? That’s fine and well, Régis thinks the time for courtesy is over. He tilts down low, allows the warmth of his  breath to brush across the shell for Degarés ear. It would be easy enough to write off their silhouettes as that of two lovers exchanging a quick whisper, but even with the few kisses Régis has managed to steal over the years from Degaré there has never been anything tender about them. 

“Some would say it’s foolish to hand your enemy a weapon and then immediately turn your back on them,” Régis coos, words soft, only for Degaré to hear. “So I suppose it’s in your favor that I’m an honorable man.” That laugh finally bubbles forward. His eyes mark out the path in front of them. There is a paneled hallway in front of them that winds deeper into the Mane, but if Régis memory serves (and it does), a loose plank opens up into a back room; one of the many secrets of the Mane. The hand on Degaré’s arm grips tighter to cull the storm that threatens to spill over and Régis pushes them forward. He stands close enough that it wouldn’t be difficult to press a kiss to Degaré’s temple. “Unless of course you were hoping for this, mon puce?” Régis goads with another snicker. He can feel the heat radiate off Degaré even from this distance. “I’d ventured into your little establishment to discuss recent affairs, but I’m happy to engage in other activities while I’m here.” His words carry the weight of suggestion, but Régis can’t help but also call attention to the knife at his back once more, as if Degaré could have forgotten, “But you should know this about me by now Degaré, I don’t like to wait.” 

He walks the man forward. His theories on Widrowem would fare better under the shadows of the backroom anyway. “Allons-y, Degaré,” He gives him a little poke with the knife. “Let’s see if we can find me another bottle.” 

Regis leans forward into Degaré’s back, till they are flush, reaching around him to knock the panel on the wall. It opens like a maw and Régis ignores all protests. He all but drags the man over the threshold, into the darkness.

Only the barkeeps I find nice to look at. Or the ones I enjoy hearing say my name. It’s a shameless swipe. Even if it isn’t, Degaré takes it as he takes all things from Régis: as an act of provocation. A guttural sound climbs up his throat.

They’ve been like this so long, it’s a wonder he’s not grown used to Régis’ taunts. Further, the fact that he’s not yet accustomed to the smoothness of them, and doesn’t rightly know what to do with them, satiny and unshaven, like something with a suede-effect, is cause for more astonishment still. He bridles at the velvet of it, just as he does now, snarling as he turns on his heel, like a swelling hidden somewhere in the muscle. He clenches his jaw; tight. Régis Aveline has always been really quite capable of drawing his hatred with unpremeditated ease. Degaré has experienced a lifetime of it, intimately acquainted with all its forms: playful tricks, wanton contempt, cruel remarks and entitled demands, grim flirtations, humiliations, the mortifying faux pas in being of low and scant birth. Cheap shots, all of them, sharpened like a blade and pointed at his throat. When they were children, Régis insisted upon showing his spite as if it were his prerogative, running together, bare-footed, over the pebbles of the seafront. He would take his chin in his hand, jerking it left, right, regarding him in a harsh and frivolous sort of way. He would invite Claude and Edith to pass comment, too, casting their own aspersions on the bastard as if they hadn’t done so the moment he passed over their father’s threshold, and then Régis would release him, sneering with something clever and cruel. It was a careless sort of cruelty; the type that was entirely without cause, and entirely without consequence. Ever since, Degaré has always responded by revealing his teeth, as if daring him to put his hands on him, to find out if the wild thing bites. Such is an animal’s instinct: do not all beasts bare their teeth, biting, scratching, when they feel they are being hunted?

Just so. Degaré refuses to give him the satisfaction of having the last word, never relents or gives in, nor cedes to him the power he once held over him in their youth. Back then, he was beholden to men like Régis; forced to play by their rules. Now, they are equals. Bastards both, heirs to nothing.

Now, that’s only half true. Degaré has no inheritance of his own, has nothing to fall back upon but his name, which is only half his, in truth, but he has forged a birthright of his own. And Régis, even now, stripped of all the greatness that once made him truly great, still glimmers in the low light like something vulgar. He despises him for that, and he means nothing to him, and Degaré is thinking of how pleased he is to have left him at the table having had the final word, slamming the point of a knife into the wood to illustrate his own… when Régis hoists him back by the arm, pulls him into him with all the force and suddenness of a man going for broke. The movement is so abrupt that, were it not for Régis’ body, slotted against his, holding him in place, Degaré might’ve fallen headlong.

There’s a knife at the small of his back. Régis’ knife, which had been Degaré’s knife mere moments ago. 

Well, fuck. 

Régis has always wielded the upper hand. Such is the right of patrimony, no? Esteemed heirs make quick work of sorry, pauperised bastards. Whether it’s the point of the knife in his back that causes him to realise this, or it’s in the way that Régis cants his head to the side, close enough that Degaré can feel every warm breath that passes by his lips, he isn’t sure. His entire body goes taut: he clenches his jaw, something sour and sharp pooling at the back of his throat, hands balled into fists at his side. He stares dead ahead. Degaré isn’t sure which makes him seize up more: the fact that Régis has him so entirely at his mercy, completely dispossessed, or the fact that the dog enjoys it so much. Call it intransigence, pride, the bulldog spirit of dignity and years of contempt, he’s compelled to go with the latter. In point of fact, perhaps he has never hated Régis Aveline so much as he does right now, knife pressed into his back, helpless to turn to meet him. When Régis murmurs into his ear, barely more audible than a whisper, Degaré feels a shiver thrum through him. Instead of bending to it, however, allowing it to make him yield, he straightens, looks away from his attacker’s eye, blood thrumming hard beneath the flesh. He almost laughs, cruel, beggared by disbelief. It crawls from his mouth like something harsh and throaty, like the edge of a razor. “Honourable?” he near spits, a little louder than Régis’ whisper, but still conscious of the fact that he’s being held, rather compromisingly, a knifepoint in his own establishment. “Oh, Aveline. You wouldn’t know what honour was if it ran you through with a fucking sword.”

When Régis laughs, it’s grim and mirthful. He almost recoils at the sound of it. He titters on about nothing in particular, the blade still poised threateningly at the small of his back, and all that Degaré can think is that Régis’ laugh might be among the worst sounds he’s ever heard. The bite of it is only severed by more gibes, silky as the first. Unless this was what you were hoping for, mon puce? Against his will, he bristles at it, begins to thresh in Régis’ grasp, begging release—as close as Degaré Lambert has ever come to begging, at least—his blood boiling, seething, but Régis holds fast. Worse still, he tightens his grip. As Régis pushes the both of them forward, Degaré makes his animus plain, grunting through the struggle.

When Régis leans forward to knock the panel on the wall, their bodies are flush, just for a moment. When Régis leans into him, he instinctively flinches away. At last, the man with the knife finally releases him, and the force with which Degaré bolts from his grasp makes it difficult to determine whether Régis shoves him into the room, or Degaré shoves himself.

Once he’s certain there’s enough distance between them, he spins ferociously on his heel, shoulders rolled over, greeting his accoster, who leans languidly at the room’s entrance. Degaré wears a look of convulsion: brows furrowed, every muscle around his mouth clenched, bitter words held tightly at the back of his throat, as if by a noose. “Get your fucking hands off me.” The words are almost a snarl. He straightens his shoulders, then rolls his sleeves up his forearms; a distraction, a way to occupy his hands. “You touch me again, Aveline, I’ll kill you where you stand. I’ve more than enough tools in here that’d do the trick.” He chuckles darkly. “I’m not above getting a little creative.”

A pause.

“Actually, you know what?” His anger makes no effort to subsist, but he turns his head to the side, considering. “I’d revel in the opportunity. Would make short work of you, too. So by all means,” he motions with his hand, falsely cordial, “Go ahead.” Though they don’t sound it, the words are more a warning than an invitation; an effort to demonstrate just how readily he’d cut his throat, or delight in stabbing him in the back. Degaré smiles cruelly—the sort of smile that isn’t a smile at all, not really, but a threat.

it was raining the first time he crossed the lion’s mane, raining some kind of righteous fury, and he’d been lost in his own. a year from his displacement, from odeline’s sacrifice, he’d been soaked to the bone, gnashing his teeth for… 

for what, exactly? even now, years later, he’s not sure. a relief implies a certain peace, and he wasn’t searching for a balm for his wounds, still open and stinging in the air. he was looking for a way they’d remain as scars. and scars they’ve remained. 

but he digresses. 

he remembers meeting degaré at the bar; this man with eyes that searched and roved as if he saw answers to questions worth asking within each of his patrons. doesn’t even remember asking for a drink, but remembers throwing them back in a frenzy, grunting whenever the lad tried to goad him with smalltalk and gentle probing. he ‘d been in no state for any of it, not when every memory haunting him that evening ran red with violent wanting and generous grief. it had helped though, the din of the tavern, someone near enough that he wasn’t alone, a drink with a burning to match that which coiled within his chest and lit his roiling blood aflame. 

he drank not to forget odeline, but so he never would. so he does here, years later, drowned in the dregs of her memory, in the unspoken eclipse of a newer memory, blood-soaked and curved to fit around a dagger. he thinks he sees crimson staining the pads of his fingers when degaré touches his wrist, the gesture strangely familiar, an abrupt comfort pulling him from delving too far deep. the latter memory sits in the space between them, an edifice of its own, near tangible enough for touch but the two of them evade it, look elsewhere, to drinks, to patrons looking for trouble.

“old man?” he laughs, a wide, open sound unencumbered by his usual cloying restraint. if only you knew. “this old man will drink you under the table, should you keep wagging your damned tongue like that.” he takes another swig, empties it. feels the staccato swelling of unburdening, the heat in his palms, the loosening of his limbs. he watches every step he takes in the summer palace’s periphery, but here, he can allow himself a careful recklessness. 

if not here, where he has spilled blood, then where?

it is not their way to speak of such weighty things outright, not without the safeguard of a drink in hand, so he sits upon the dream of a dream (how it feels, anyhow, distant and visceral as it is), leans in as degaré offers him harmless parcels of another’s life, like black market contraband. feels like the gifts that they are; travel through enough eras, it is the idiosyncrasies of a person that remain, the markers demarcating life as it passes. a buoyant laugh is one, twenty years. a grave forgotten,  another. 

“he is a lucky man, to have someone know him so well. the peak of one’s expression is their dawning. to have it perceived so readily by another is a great thing, indeed,” he says, leaning back against the wall, a crooked slant. offers a faint smile, tongue thick in his mouth. “are we placing bets on if he’ll be taken out yet again this evening, then? has he learned his lesson? tell me lad, do you think people capable of change?”

he’s taking degarés’ flagon, holding it up to his lips, more out of jest than any real desperation for ale, when he lifts his brow. “when have i ever fought anyone here?” he snorts, lips rising and curling as a smoke in wind. “you mistake my patronage for a kinship with your rougher patrons. i’m almost insulted.” 

shrugs.

“well. there’s the one. but i didn’t start it.”

—

Degaré hums, leaning back in his seat. Casts his eyes downward, as if singling out a splinter in the tablewood. The hum, saddled with a certain amount of levity, isn’t quite an agreement, but it appears to concede on the point without protest. No need for it; both of them know well that Savatier could drink him under the table easily, and would, but that’s neither here nor there. If he’s being entirely honest, there’s a reason he won’t drink more than his fill tonight, or any other night. Proprietor of this fine and unprincipled establishment, he is aware, more so than most, of just how unscrupulous a cup of drink can be. A flagon of wine is capable of shearing even the sprucest secrets from the most secret of men, the same way the shepherd shaves his flock of their fleeces. In point of fact, he is the shepherd, and is usually the one doing the shearing. It’s for this reason, though not this reason alone, because he’s not above admitting he can’t always handle his drink, that he knuckles under, graciously accepting defeat. Well, he’s almost gracious. He coughs playfully, answering with a smirk. “Must be all those years of experience, no?”

Degaré has come to enjoy the clever banter between them, not only because it’s entertaining and the man can match him, wit for wit, but because it conceals something far deeper between them, far darker; like a crack in the surface that fills up with wine, or blood. Savatier’s quickness to act had placed him in his eternal debt, and though he acknowledges that, usually despises that, he doesn’t feel himself beholden to the usual feeling of answerability, tight like a noose around his neck. Rather, he’s mollified by it. Savatier has his trust; Degaré wonders if he has his, too.

The peak of one’s expression is their dawning, his companion tells him. He crosses his arms across his chest. Were he anybody else, he might’ve laughed, flaring his nostrils and passing comment on the hauteur of such expressions. But Savatier, he knows well by now, means every word. A strange man, with strange rites and strange phrases, but a sincere one, with all the naturalness of his years—and more. There’s a reason he calls him old man. Degaré shrugs his shoulders, “I guess.” Cracks a finger on his right hand. “Most here know him as well as I do. How he takes his drink and how quickly he knocks it back. What riles him, what satisfies him, what amusements take hold when the place is closed. Now, I’m not sure lucky is the word I’d use,” he chuckles as he straightens in his seat, reminiscing drily over the myriad occasions he’s been forced to show the fellow the door, “But it’ll do.”

He catches the eye of one of his barkeeps, raises his hand with all the authority of a man who was born to it, and asks them to bring him a cup of water. “Is that wise, do you think?” he says, the sound of the workhand plunking the glass down at the table occupying the space between them. “Given my advantage,” he takes a sip of water, “I fear you’d think me dishonourable were I to buck the odds and fleece you of your dor. After all, I know the man well, by your own admission. But if you’re bent on tempting fortune, then by all means, you won’t catch me stopping you from trying your luck.” Another sip. “Shall we say within the hour?”

Tell me lad, do you think people capable of change? He scoffs at that. “Oh, don’t get philosophical on me, old man.” The truth of it is that he doesn’t believe anybody capable of anything they don’t want to do. And people don’t want to change; would go on being careless, or drunk, or cruel, given the chance. The man who drinks himself to an early grave night after night, only to pull himself out from the earth each morning and enter through those doors again come night, will never change. He can think of plenty others who will never change, either. “Let’s stick to ale, shall we?”

He snorts, loud. The man’s got a point. Degaré releases the glass in his hand, plonks it on the table, then leans back in his seat again. “I disagree,” he turns his head to the side, considering. “If you hadn’t started it, well, you wouldn’t be sitting in front of me.” If Savatier hadn’t swung first, slicing an arc through the air with something silver, he wouldn’t have survived the ordeal. “And I, my friend, wouldn’t be here at all.” Neither of them would have. “Floating somewhere in the trenches, maybe, or caught in a sluice.” He smiles. Thinks about the red of Savatier’s hands, and his own. “So,” he raises his glass as if in toast, “I’m afraid I must insist that you did, in fact, start that one. Lucky thing, too.” He rather likes being among the living.

Like nearly every other time Degaré beckons them to stay, Agrippine covers the ears of their heart and does not slow down. They intend to go where he cannot follow, where he cannot look at them with a gentleness that they can’t trust. They’ve seen it for themself, the way Degaré bends the wills of men; it is a mastery they cannot fathom, the way Degaré can flex his fingers and secrets come pouring in. If secrets are a privilege and the gatekey to a person’s very self, then Agrippine must assume that Degaré possesses a dark and forbidden magic; he can make you want to unravel your soul, truths unraveling like ribbons for him to keep. Agrippine intends to escape Degaré at every turn so he cannot cast his spell upon them, loosen their tongue and coax what fragments they have left into his possession. They already owe him so much; they cannot bear to deny him if he should call to reap what they’ve sowed.

When Degaré grabs their shoulder, Agrippine stills, not unlike a horse who quiets when petted. He pulls his arm back before they can register it, and Agrippine reaches for the ghost of his hand. One arm crossed over their torso, they look as if they’re trying to hold themself together. Perhaps, in a way, they are. Is not touch a tether to the body, and the body a tether to life? Degaré brings them back to themself with a touch and Agrippine holds themself there: in the comfort of the Mane, with not Val Faim’s Degaré before them but the one they knew first.

They squeeze their shoulder until they can feel the bone against the pads of their fingers. “I remembered something from before,” Agrippine tries to explain, their voice coming out all wrong, stifled as if muted by the dark. “There was a window.” Horror runs through their belly like a blade, and Agrippine’s eyes fall away from Degaré’s. “And blood. All over me, my hands…” With a shudder, they pull away from the memory and their mind falls back to a newer one, still fresh on their mind like newly fallen snow. “And tonight, watching the Empress call for their head…” The hand on their shoulder moves to their neck, calloused fingers wrapped around its column. 

Whatever words still lay unspoken in their throat falters under their touch, and Agrippine reaches for the bar counter to steady themself. “I need to lie down.”

Agrippine crosses an arm across their chest, and Degaré is immediately struck by the vulnerability of the act. One arm folded, as if protecting against something, warding something off. It is the first time that Degaré realises they are afraid of him. He steps towards Agrippine, folding his arms across his chest in a similar fashion; an act of imitation. Whether he does it to put them at ease, or whether he does it to resist the impulse to reach out, touch them, he hardly knows. Perhaps both.

“From before?” he repeats, innocent as a newborn babe. Before Degaré. After Degaré. He has always wondered what came before. After all, it wasn’t quite out of the goodness of his heart that he filled their belly on meat and ale, gave them a bed to sleep in, offered them work the next morning. He was curious. Still is. He says nothing.

Blood: all over them, all over their hands.

Agrippine confesses to him freely. This is a particular talent of his: entreating people to spill their guts with a hollow simulation of courtesy. It’s a curious feeling, he thinks, the way that he simultaneously aspires to unravel the myth of Agrippine and also offer them comfort. When they’re forced to steady themself at the counter, he shakes the riddle away, elects for the latter. He moves closer, cautious. “That was then, Agrippine.” His voice is soft, yet not quite warm, as if he hasn’t quite decided if he is friend or foe, hunter or the hunted. “This is now.” 

You’re safe with me, Degaré seems to imply, but says nothing of the sort. Perhaps he knows how hollowly the words would land.

There are only a few inches between them now. He’s close enough that he could prise just about any secret from their person, loosening their lips with a well-aimed look. He makes no attempt of it. Instead, he plants his hand at Agrippine’s shoulder, gently turning them to face him. “Come,” he cocks his head to the side, “I’ll carry you.” When he holds Agrippine’s gaze, he smiles, though that smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes; gets lost somewhere in the muscle. “Here,” he says, taking their hands in his, guiding them towards the back of his neck, “Put your hands here.” He places one hand at their back, the other beneath their legs, then lifts them up. “All right?”

Having secured Degaré’s attention, it’s safe to let hers wander, if only for a moment. Gisele’s choice to disregard his hangers-on has been exacted with the same deliberation as everything she does, but this choice, perhaps, requires slightly more will than most. She allows herself a flicker of a glance at his onlookers, and that’s enough for a pang of something to rip through the space within her ribs, tearing at some deep-buried, delicate parts of her she wasn’t consciously aware of until injury demands her attention. That’s always the way of internal matters, only noticeable when in agony– At the best of times, you remain completely unaware of your organs, but the precision of pain can sketch out the contours of everything beneath the flesh: you always know which precisely part of your chest to clutch at when your heart fails or exactly how narrow your windpipe is when there’s something lodged in it. The wounds left over by the eschewal of the Court’s good opinion had hardened over virtually the moment they were incurred, but even old scars may reopen under unexpected strain, and the veneration of her old friend is nothing if not strenuous, even if that strain is irrational and wretchedly pathetic. It cannot be called envy, not properly, because she knows that neither she nor Degaré actually want the attentions of the Court. Sure, he seems to be enjoying it and, yes, she desperately wanted it once, but that’s hardly equivalent to wanting it now. 

Perhaps her earlier comparison to internal organs was misguided– what she feels is more akin to phantom pains in the wake of a hack job self-amputation of a diseased extremity, brutal but necessary, cauterized and forgotten. Not envy, but simply a hyper-awareness of absence. Not true want, but base muscle memory. She doesn’t need anyone but herself and neither does he and that’s how it’s always been (momentary madness of hers aside) and that’s how it will always be. 

Unfortunately, all the rationalization in the world could not wipe away the ache so neatly as she’d have liked. Though she once again goes for drollery, the hollowness of her delivery continues unaltered. “Do give me a little more credit than that. It took active, concerted work to avoid the ridiculousness of the trends for so long.” The pause that follows is too quick, too soft to be considered pointed, but all the same, her gaze dips down to his clothing for a moment, lingering over the intricacies of the design work and allowing for her to arrive at conclusions she will, as ever, neglect to openly voice. There’s no exhibited disapproval, none at all, but it still isn’t too difficult to guess the kinds of verdicts she has reached. “Granted, I won’t argue against their loveliness, the birds’ and the trends’; They’re awfully lovely indeed. Personally, I would prioritize other choice words to describe them, but lovely will do in a pinch.”

Gisele gives a short, considering hum. “Am I to take that to mean you believe it was me holding out hope and not, in fact, Court worsening? I wonder whether your faith in it’s constancy is pessimism or optimism.” 

It takes her only a moment to catch on to Degaré’s charade and join in. Gisele gasps, presses hand to heart as if overcome, and then drops into a curtsy the exact right height and length for someone of her rank to an equal before taking his hand. Beneath her mask, she is all wide eyes and sunshine smiles, and when she speaks, it is with the imitative chirp of an ingenue, stark against the usual satin slick of her voice. “I’m always sentimental, don’t you know? It’s the consequence of having such a warm, tender heart as mine.”

“Are even miracles not enough for you now, dear Gisele?” Though he mocks, Degaré would not be, by any stretch of the imagination, even remotely surprised. Nothing is ever enough for Gisele. Nothing is ever enough for him, either, and he supposes this is what causes the invisible rope between them to recoil, taut, when one wanders too far from the other. Gisele is terrible, greedy and entitled, dangerously volatile, vindictive and at times entirely without conscience. Degaré is slippery and cunning, spiteful, almost always thinking of something underhanded; his malice emerges from his pride, his contempt from his calling to show his true mettle. They are not so far apart. “Very well,” he sighs, smiling coyly. Around fifteen years of companionship has taught him that, more often than not, indulging Gisele in such trifling matters is providential. “My congratulations on nine years so diligently spent—your constancy is admirable. I do hope your plans for the next nine are a little more ambitious, though.”

They study each other for a moment. The way that Gisele’s eyes roll over him does not escape his notice, nor does the way they linger at Cyril’s handiwork, making suspicious work of her patterning. Perhaps he is a hypocrite, mocking the nobility for their petty details while dressed in fine clothes, but Degaré doesn’t say it, nor even think it. He is blissfully unaware of his own sanctimoniousness. He could study her in much the same way: he could scan over her gown, let her eyes wait there until she feels him judging her for it, before moving on and saying nothing. If he accuses her with this stare, Degaré doesn’t acknowledge it. He and Gisele might avoid frivolous trends, mocking the nobles for their foppery and treating their empty dazzle with contempt, but they still dress themselves in the finest satins and the most expensive silks. Their derision is only slightly less artificial than the gentry themselves. “Of course,” Degaré says, refusing to speak on it. “Hardly proper among polite society, I should expect. Present company excluded.”

Fortunately, he would rather be accused of hypocrisy than affected piety.

Degaré practically scoffs, though he is not being flip this time. “Don’t be ridiculous.” A tray of champagne flutes passes by and he takes one, drinking from it. “Whether court worsens each time Her Imperial Majesty mandates our attendance, or whether I no longer have the patience to tolerate it, I hardly care. If I have faith in anything, it’s that the cream of Celestine’s society are as trite as they are vain.”

Gisele has struck a nerve; he is bristling. He would go on bristling, were it not for the ridiculousness of the charade between them. It does not escape his notice that Gisele knows this would cause him to bristle: to be lumbered in with such cruel fatuity is, for him, an intolerable plight. Degaré grins affectedly. “Come, Gisele. Melodramatics don’t suit you.” He threads his fingers between hers on one hand, presses the other to the small of her back, inviting her to put her free hand around the back of his neck. “We both know you’re just as malicious as I am, beneath all those trimmings.” They sway drolly to the music, clearly set apart from the other nobles. In spite of its biting cynicism, there is something intimate in the act; in their closeness. Sometimes, when they are like this, he thinks: nobody else can know me as you know me. There’s warmth to it. Other times, he thinks: I know you. I know everything about you. That, he finds, is colder.

He can think of places in Val Faim he would rather be than the Gold Quarter, but Degaré supposes it beats the Silver Quarter. All that ostentation and vanity, heads swelling not with thoughts and vagaries but with tall, feathered hats and fine satins, cloaks made from premium silk, masks ornamented with precious stones from the richest Celestine reserves. To his left, a merchant barters glibly with a noblewoman clearly inexperienced in the art of careful negotiation, and to his right a blacksmith sharpens a blade at his whetstone, sparks scattering upward upon impact like an inverted shower. There is always enough going on here, he reminds himself, that for all the merchants that gesture out to him, call for his good attention, there are far more interesting things occurring here than the bastard son of Lambert.

This, of course, is what leads him to catch on to a scene worthy of his investigation, well-concealed behind a throng of people taken in by a street performance, raining dor upon it. The figure at the centre of the crowd swallows and spits forth fire, and hidden behind that exhibition lingers none other than Liane Touissant: spymaster, siren, with as many secrets in her arsenal as he does. More, perhaps. Instead of her usual honeyed look, however, lined with something nauseatingly obsequious, she wears an expression of gritty determination. There is nothing pleasant or glacé about it; there is no mask to conceal the resolve there.

He watches as Liane slips into a backstreet at the mouth of the crowd, and with a quick glance left, right, Degaré follows suit. What he stumbles upon, he decides, is well worth the effort. Liane is bent—really quite menacingly, he might add—over the cowering shape of a girl who, by some stroke of misfortune, has found herself backed against the brick by Calandre’s spymaster. The two secret-keepers have shared a good amount of obnoxious exchanges, spitting churlish words and poisonous threats between minor amusements, but this is something different. This is something vulnerable. This, he thinks, is something valuable.

Degaré silently arranges himself against the wall, mere paces from Liane and her victim. He leans into it, folding his arms across his chest, crossing one shin over the other; languid. He coughs exaggeratedly. “Hello, Liane.” He brings his gaze to his fingernails, picks at the dirt beneath them, smiling grimly all the while. “Fine evening, isn’t it?”

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍: the 8th of fiacre 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: labatoire d'etienne 𝐖𝐇𝐎: @degares​

          𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐀 𝐒𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐅𝐔𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐏𝐄𝐎𝐏𝐋𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐋𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 have bore witness to the inside of Etienne’s laboratory, and only a small handful of people ever would. With Degaré, though, things were different, for his presence in Etienne’s lab predated the lab itself— when the lab was nothing more than an old wobbly table at the center of the single room he rented. Even Degaré’s belief predated anything remotely resembling his success— when Etienne’s creations were immaterial, merely the summation of his ideas and musings. In reality, his closest companion’s belief was one of the few reoccurring fixtures in Etienne’s life. It was something to take comfort in, even for someone like him who rarely saw the value in humanity past their immediately usefulness. For even a monster’s existence was contingent on the knowledge that someone out there still believed in them.

         He’d been hard at work for some hours, so much so that his thin undershirt had welded into his skin from sweat. He’d had a breakthrough earlier that day— a flower he’d stumbled across while briefly being with a lover in the most Eastern part of Celestine. It was a Black Lotus, a slow acting poison meant to gradually flood through the veins of those who ingested it, before halting their blood flow in its entirety— the victim eventually succumbing to injuries related to the brain being cut of from blood circulation. Etienne knew this one would be a popular choice in the Underworld, for its slow acting release allowed the person responsible to be long gone by the time the poison took action. His lips curl into an impish smile, visible still beneath the mask he wore in order to protect himself from the poison’s toxins, as he proceeded to close the vial of what was now the first prototype.

         “I’ll need your aid in ensuring this beauty gets the proper name it deserves,” Etienne informs Degaré as he stores the vial away for future replication. “The Black Lotus is too in your face. A poison like this calls for something far subtler.” His eyes flutter upwards to meet those of his companion whose insight he valued to the highest degree. “What do you think? I’m partial to révélation, but I don’t love it.”

—

There’s fellowship between monsters. Degaré is not a monster, but he is certainly not a moralist either, and takes no issue with Etienne’s line of work. In fact, he has always encouraged it, wondering with sordid curiosity how many of the men he has known have met their end by something of Etienne’s design. He often imagines a nobleman calling him by something contemptuous in the morning, then meeting a terrible end by evening; incidental, like something that happens between meals. Over the years, Etienne has become to him more a brother than a friend. Something closer. Is there something closer? Degaré is no poet, far from it, he is not even a sentimentalist, but perhaps he will ask one. To him, he is Etienne, who taught him how to dress a horse and ride one. He is Etienne, who taught him how to make himself invisible, how to make men see him, and how to know when either option suits him. He is Etienne, who taught him how to strike deals like a devil, and how to break an unbreakable will. Is there a name for that?

He is sitting on a stool in Etienne’s laboratory, his face concealed by a mask. Etienne carefully transfers his prototype and, behind the mask, Degaré finds he is in a contemplative mood. His eyes scan the other vials, lining the countertop. Something a great deal worse than death fills these glasses, but just as he says, he is not so didactic a man as to turn away from such things. He has a morbid curiosity; one with necessary distance. He is fascinated by them, and has always listened, quite engrossed, while the vintner spun the mind’s eye of his future into reality. Degaré eyes the vials with a mitigated sort of ordinariness. They have always been there, as he has.

“Black Lotus.” Degaré moves the word around in his mouth, as if getting used to the shape of it. “Hardly discreet.” He raises an eyebrow, thinking. “Is discretion the aim?” He can only hypothesise: were he in the market for poison, he likes to think he’d be a little smarter it. Avoid handing over dor for something with a name so damning that he may as well get caught in the act. He shifts in the stool. “Perhaps you need something more… seductive. Something that feels all swank when it comes out of your mouth.” He feels at liberty to joke about this: all the trim and garnish of the aristocracy, as if he is not one of them.

“Something so unforthcoming you’d hardly know you’d just ingested poison. That’s the trick, no?” He leans back in his seat, lifts his arms above his shoulders, knotting his fingers together behind his head. “Unless, of course, you already had plans to put your neck to a chopping block? Lose your head to one of Her Imperial Majesty’s swords?” He jests whimsically. Deals made in the dark are not quite enough to land yourself an appointment with the executioner, he doesn’t think, but with the upcoming celebrations, he hardly thinks the Empress would be receptive to theatricals. He turns his head to the side, his expression dubious beneath the mask. “Velours. Would that do?”

𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐃𝐒, the force of personality making the room seem a little smaller in comparison, a fairytale made manifest. Her husband had taught her once, to create advantages upon entering conflict with the enemy, openings for yourself were not to be tolerated, and the environment had to be controlled to create the most desirable outcome. Helene knows control, and Helene knows nobility—it is one of the reasons that she was a good advisor for Her Imperial Majesty, and why they both have stayed in power for so long. All the pomp and circumstance transcend gesture and turn into blades in the dark, all of which could be pointed at a throat, towards the marble, along with the tatters of their reputation.

The Lion’s Bastard is an ally, inasmuch one could ally with the king of their own little territory filled with cutthroats and scavengers. Helene could note them as admirable, reigning over drunks and the secrets of nobles, but she would never dare try and step foot into the Lion’s Mane, where social ruin and the threat of an ambush could only await her. He was content to his world, and she was content to her own. On days like this, where their worlds seemed to collide in a fury, she could only assume the role of which she was born to play, the severe noble, unwavering and traditional. Degaré had learned to play with finesse, and while she did not underestimate him, their dance continued, the sweet song of secrets and intrigue playing along their strings.

“A little ceremony has never hurt anyone, my dear, and with your network of secrets and my connections, we’re always due for a little grandeur. It’s the least Val Faim has to offer us, wouldn’t you agree?” She waves at a seat next to him, and sits, the wine at the table opened earlier so as to aerate, making their simple exchange of information a little more pleasant under the light of a wonderful day. Helene’s estate was lush, pleasant, though the stain of memory hardly dimmed her emotions, it did serve as good fuel for conversation.

“I was assured by Lord Marais that this port was one of his finest. Naturally, I would have been wary of an apothecary masquerading as a vintner, but there’s hardly anyone within his league within the east of the Empire.” A sip is taken, before her eyes look at Degaré, piercing through the mask, down to the bone, down to the soul. A technique honed through the ages. “But I’m sure you have more interesting things to tell me, rather than commenting on the port, I assume. Or has The Lion’s Mane grown quiet after our dear Lord Brosseau’s passing?”

He will give Helene this: the way that she commands a room is impressive. The fact that she has stood so long at Calandre’s hip does not surprise Degaré at all, but it doesn’t make him shrink back either. In a way, his low birth is a convenient sort of shield, making him impervious to the artifices of the nobility. He has spent something close to a lifetime studying the deceptions and dealings of the court, their sharp practices hidden in frills. He has watched for smoke and mirrors, optical illusions, the sleight of hand. Studied the way that tongues wait, poised, behind their teeth. He has learned all of their gestures as perfectly as he has learned the movements of every dance, so much so that they are also his gestures, now, his dances.

He has no grand estate, no ancestral reserve, no power at the court; but still his pockets are deep. Secrets are about the most valuable currency there is, but his tenacity has taught him something more valuable still: cunning genius, competence, a deftness which belongs to the elite alone. Bloodied hands. Never their own, someone else’s. Certainly, Helene Farrow commands this room, she commands a great many things, he’s sure, and while Degaré will grant Helene her dignities, while Degaré will indulge her in polish and propriety and other civil things, Helene Farrow does not command him. She knows this, he thinks. It is why he sits at her invitation, accepting the port.

A little ceremony has never hurt anyone, my dear.

A cough of laughter threatens to emerge, but he catches it in his throat, swallows it with a sip of Etienne’s vintage. Now, that’s not strictly true, is it?

But he has not come here to talk of abuses and insults. He has not come here to comment on Etienne’s port, either, but he does so anyway. “I am even less a vintner than the apothecary, but the two go hand-in-hand, no? The apothecary deals in medicines and salves, and I should think a good vintage is the more tolerable anaesthetic of the two.” Helene’s stare peels through him, like a carving knife. He almost shivers. Would, if it wasn’t also a tool in his own arsenal. “Are you after the secret to a good wine, Lady Farrow? Marais’ vinification process, while lucrative, is a secret I would have trusted to a missive.” 

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍: 1st of Maccius 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: The Lion’s Mane, Degaré’s room 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒: Closed, @degares​

The Lion’s Mane is the opposite of a place Cyril would actively seek out and, if Degaré wasn’t the owner, the tailor is sure she would never have stepped foot inside of it. She’s sure it’s a nice establishment for those that enjoy the environment it provides but she is also aware that, in the midst of its rowdiness, she is easy prey. Had it not been for the fact that she’d been Matthieu’s company a few times and Degaré’s the other times, Cyril knows she might have seen enough to keep her away for forever. 

But she’s not standing in the middle of The Lion’s Mane at that moment. Instead, she paces from one side to the other in Degaré’s room as he does his books, wanting to say so much but unaware of how to even begin. So, she studies the place. It’s Degaré’s, there’s no doubt about it — there’s something about how bare it is that has Cyril feeling like everywhere she looks, her friend’s essence is screaming at her. Only the necessities. 

Cyril lets out a small sigh. “You know, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to decorate this place a little bit. It’s nice the way it is… Sort of. Add some light, make it so it relaxes you after the end of a busy and loud day.” Cyril isn’t introverted by any means but there is an obvious distinction between how at ease she is with people she’s known for as long as she can remember versus those she’s just met. 

—

Nights that Cyril decides to call by are nights that he gets nothing done. Instead of managing his affairs, he lingers poised behind the bar, chin in his hands, like a beast lying in wait. Degaré Lambert is not quite the most physically imposing man in Val Faim, but he curdles the blood in his own way; wields words like a weapon, knows exactly where to stick the point of the knife. His less seemly patrons eye her with a crude vulgarity, their eyes tarrying over her the same way a butcher leans in to inspect a cut of meat, wetting his lips. He will kill any man who lays a hand on her. No. He will kill any man who thinks about laying a hand on her. Let him have no more incentive than that; he has torn men’s throats out for less.

The Mane is no place for Cyril Beauchamp. Cyril, who takes every word as a gesture of innocence. Cyril, who sings ever-so sweetly. Babysitting tonight, Lambert? His patrons will tease as he attends her, but good-natured honest as their jests are, they never find purchase. Even when he cannot hang by her side, like a loose thread at a sleeve, like some capsized impression of a knight, his watchful eye never strays. It shadows her every movement, and, more importantly, perhaps, it shadows everyone else’s, too.

But they are not in the Mane. Right now, they are sat in his rooms: he at a desk, head bowed over ledgers, and she, pacing restlessly behind him. When she speaks, Degaré rolls his eyes. The act is so inflated, it’s a wonder they aren’t permanently dislodged in the back of his skull. “I like it as is, Cee.” He speaks coldly, dismissively, his attention still on the books, though the harshness of his words is easily undermined by the endearment. Hidden fondnesses, like a hieroglyph. “But if you wanted to decorate,” he says, turning in his seat, “Well, I s’pose that’d be all right.” 

Degaré almost smiles. Not quite. He briefly returns to the books at the desk, then closes them, tidies the inkwell away. He curls up in his seat, then redirects his attention onto Cyril. “Something’s bothering you. What is it?”

date: the fourteenth of maccius location: the lion’s mane open to: all

Impatience, thy name is Medraut Galant.

Espionage is so mundane, all work and no play, and Medraut hasn’t the faintest idea why Roth would send him to gather intel and sniff out Amelie’s whereabouts when the veteran Chevalier’s well of patience runs thrice deeper than his own. If he thinks too long on it, he’ll no doubt connect the dots of Roth’s design, and will see with clarity the blueprints of his intentions: mercy culminated in a sly attempt to keep Medraut occupied while also keeping him far, far away from the eye of the storm that nearly swallowed him whole all those years ago. For this reason, he doesn’t think too long on it.

Cloaks and daggers have never become him, and though he sits at a lone table in a dark corner of the Mane, and though shadows limn his person, and though he’s dressed in shades of black and gray, there’s a kind of restlessness that rolls from him in waves, one that conspicuously marks him as unbelonging to this place, these people, this city. He’s ill at ease, too unfocused to convincingly break bread with the Mane’s patrons and ply their tongues loose. With a quiet huff of frustration, he surveys the room for what must be the thousandth time, searching for clues hidden in plain sight. He knows he’ll find none, not here, not anywhere in Val Faim. In the marrow of his bones pulses a truth that he’s loath to swallow: there’s only one place in Celestine where secrets grow like weeds, and his stomach turns at the thought of returning to his motherland. 

Impatiently, he drums his fingers against the tabletop, eyes tracking the sea of faces before him, trying in vain to find the devil in the details. His gaze drifts to the right and snags on the two bruisers circling each other in the Mane’s makeshift ring, knuckles bloody, teeth bared. Longing colors Medraut’s eyes a brighter shade of blue, and without meaning to, he leans closer to the ring. An itch that he can’t scratch pulls the skin of his arms and hands taut, and he clenches his fists to ward off the restlessness of them, the draw to violence, the hunger for it. 

“Amelie!” he hears a girl shout, and his head snaps to the left, eyes scanning the crowd. The Amelie in question embraces her summoner, and when she turns to greet her other companions, Medraut can see that she bears no resemblance to his Amelie, not by any stretch of the imagination. It’s a dead end, as he knew it would be: another fruitless lead. This is useless, he thinks. There’s nothing to be found here. Only in the Underworld will he find fruit ripe for harvest. 

He teeters on the tightrope of his emotions, legs wobbling, one misstep away from falling right into the waiting maw of his anger. Only in the Underworld. Only in the Underworld. Only in the Underworld. Prone to intense emotion, and cursed to always be moved by it, his frustration reaches its boiling point, and he finds himself caught too deep in the quicksand of his anger to tread it. With an angry swipe of his arm, he swears colorfully and hurls his tankard of ale at the wall to his left. The wood of the tankard splinters, clattering to the floor in pieces, and a spray of ale rains on the table adjacent to the wall. The patrons nearest to him huff and puff in equal parts surprise and outrage, and he earns some sidelong glances from others across the room, but none are brave enough (or stupid enough) to approach Calandre’s wardog, who everyone knows is keen to bite any hand, even those that try to feed him. Only one person, it seems, has the gall to step forward: a looming figure that he can sense more than see, for his eyes remain shut tight, the bridge of his nose pinched between his thumb and forefinger as he tries to recollect the reins of his temper. “If it’s the mess that troubles you,” he bites out, voice scathing, “thank Odeline it’s only spilt ale, and not spilt blood.” And not your spilt blood, he doesn’t say.

—

How long has it been, since Brousseau’s head was taken over Calandre’s limestone floors? Four weeks, maybe five.

What he means to say is that it has hardly been long since the hapless lord met his end amongst the trappings of court, the prying eyes of just about everyone in Val Faim fixed at his neck, yet the wound is no louder than a cautionary tale. People have not forgotten, per se, but for all the people whisper between teeth of tragedy, or the inherent justice of Fortin’s sword, they each agree that the fool’s demise is little more than a word to the wise. Something your nurse might have warned you about, back when you were young, as she tucked your sheets around you. But Degaré knows well that any chainmail can be penetrated, noble or not. Every breastplate has its weak spots, and while golden carapaces do a good job of seeming impressive protective coverings, the iron is easily undone by the executioner’s blade swinging down.

He speaks of Hippolyte’s untimely death with a certain lack of refinement, a commonness, but he is a bastard, and such things are second nature for him, no? He had stood before the Empress, looked Brousseau in the eye, then Calandre herself, and proclaimed he cared not a whit for the man’s fate. Do what you must, Your Imperial Majesty. If it’s justice you’ll have, then have justice. He is but a bastard: who is he to challenge the punishments and edicts of the Empress? He doesn’t put his neck on the line for people he likes, let alone strangers. Certainly not nobles. He has seen firsthand what happens to necks when they do so.

People have already forgotten, in any case. Whatever had been said of Calandre’s justice, or Calandre’s cruelty, is swept under the rug now. It does not surprise him. Even if there were not other affairs to think of, it would not surprise him. Whispers are always drowned out by something louder, something more easily seen; the fact that it is to an explosion that they owe such things had been entirely coincidental. On this point, Degaré has heard accounts of all sorts: to some, the much spoken of mages are radicals, but for others they are heralds with a secret, forewarning of the end of days. He has never much been a man of faith, but he does believe in magic. He has seen it, so he believes it. He saw Brousseau’s head knocked from his shoulders. He did not, however, see the explosion, nor the mages that caused it, or anything else that followed. For that reason, Degaré reserves his judgement.

When Medraut hurls his tankard of ale at the wall to his left, Degaré isn’t far away. The sound of it, and the sound of patrons murmuring beside him, offering grunts of disapproval, stirs him. When the wood splits itself apart on impact, the liquid of the cup spilling forth like a fountain, he answers it. Such things are instinct. Ah, call it what remains of the past month’s celebrations, or every other occasion which called for a cup of ale thereafter. Good for money, certainly, but a surefire way to see blood spilled. Degaré has pulled apart more fistfights in the last six weeks than he cares to count, and while he doesn’t wish to involve himself in yet another, destruction of his property also won’t do. When Degaré draws closer, the very image of irritation, he realises that he knows this face. Not well. Hardly at all, in fact. Medraut Galant had been a fixture here, once; caused dor to flow as easily as wine, as readily the blood he spilled. That had been before. Before the Mane was his, when he tucked himself in hidden corners, hooded. He remembers the face, though.

When he looms over him, Medraut doesn’t meet Degaré’s eye, doesn’t even open his own. “Is that a threat, dog?” He enunciates clearly, his voice a low growl. “Empress’ gallants cross swords with innocent passersby as well as enemies and traitors now, do they? Now, that’s hardly a virtue worthy of the name.” Pushing a man known equally for his rage as his onslaught to the point of execution is unwise, perhaps, but he knows how to deal with such beasts. In fact, he has a bullring for such beasts, and he knows as much from experience as he does whispers that this one fights better than most. Tonight, though, the pen is closed. “If it’s blood you’re spilling, you won’t do it here.”

𝐰𝐡𝐨: @degares​ 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧: 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐢𝐮𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞: 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐧'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐞

Salt lingers. It clings to his cloak - the spray of the sea dusting him - speaking of a day spent pacing the docks of the Azur Quarter. It finds its way into his lungs, settles on his tongue, so he is thinking of it long after he’s left. More than that, more than lingers, salt burns. He can see it in the eyes of the two Windrowem ambassadors who step onto Celestine shores, housing the open wounds of supposed injustice. Régis finds the timing of this visit impeccable. For a marriage that has been long promised, for a treaty far from exalted, he doubts Hippolyte’s death has gone without heated comment. Alain has his own thoughts on the matter and Régis holds back, standing by the crates unloaded by cabin-boys and deckhands, as Gauthier greets an old friend who descends from the gangplank. The sun beats down on the silvery silk of his cloak as he watches with a gaze befit the woodland fox embroidered onto the fabric. 

He steps away, footfalls no more than a whisper of a raven’s wing, though an omen all the same. In the Gold Quarter, he quickly scribbles a letter to his sister, careful not to get ink on himself in his hurried writing, asking her opinion on the three that have arrived. His letters to Adrienne have always been brief, forcing her to find the compassion between the letters, the caring between the spaces - but she has always been good at this and so their love has never wavered. Night falls as Régis finds a man to make the delivery and while Régis has never been one for good faith, he knows the right amount of coin creates a certain kind of faith all on his own. The letter will get to his sister in Widrowem safely and once the matter is taken care of, he turns to his own suppositions, turns them in his mind, holds them under the scrutiny of his suspicions. And then, whether his mind wills him, or his body, Régis is unsure - but he finds himself crossing the city. When it comes to speaking of conspiracy there is only one place to go. For matters of action, he will descend into the Underworld, for matters of secrets though… the Mane is a siren’s call. 

Closing hour ticks closer, as he strides towards the den of vice. A crowd still persists despite the hour - no shortage of secrets tonight evidently - refusing to be shaken. Funnels of yellow light guide him towards the proud-standing building, falling from the unblinking, watching windows. Régis always thought these rays looked like a lion’s mane, with the way they haloed around the establishment. ( He’d once gotten close enough to Degaré to ask if this was where the name came from, or if there were nobler - or even pretentious - intentions behind it. But Degaré had done that foolish thing that he always did, taken one step closer and then three steps back, as if he were a man that suddenly remembered that fire burned him if he got too close. Régis didn’t want to be an object lesson at the end of a cautionary tale, didn’t want to be the one to teach Degaré about the dangers of such things, he simply wanted Degaré to take him in his hands and burn.) 

But that was neither here nor there. 

If Degaré sees him, he shows no sign of it. 15 minutes pass and Régis grows impatient at being ignored. He swipes a bottle from an unattended table, finds himself a seat at a table in the corner - one by the door to a backroom he shouldn’t know about and positions himself like a guardian. Degaré will have to go through him if he wants access to the rest of the space and Régis has no qualms of stopping Degaré in his own establishment, perhaps even pulling him into the hidden room. At worst he loses a few fingers, at best - 

He catches the glance, figurative, a hurried look of blue tossed his way - and Régis’ face splits into the grin. The gaze is turned away, just as quickly as it comes, a shooting star that might not be more than a trick of light. Nevertheless, Régis catches it and is emboldened immediately. He won’t be ignored. With one swift movement he finishes the dry wine in his cup and takes the half-empty wine bottle between jeweled fingers. In a decisive gesture he upturns it onto the table, keeping his gaze fixed on a Degaré that refuses to look. For a moment, the wine catches at the bottleneck and then, suddenly at the mercy of gravity, begins to slosh all over the table. It splashes over the worn wood, spilling onto the floor and somehow, miraculously, all of the spatter avoids him. ‘Luck,’ he thinks. It’s a scene; other patrons watch though Régis pays them no mind. The last drop falls and the empty bottle gets slammed down onto the table a little harder than necessary. His glass jumps. “Oi, proprietor!” Régis calls out. He holds none of the roughness of the drunkards or the fighters or the usual fare to be found here. His words are almost languid. “Another bottle for the table if you will.” He holds up the empty bottle in question and no less than taunts. Honestly, if Degaré wants to be spared the trouble he should have just paid attention to him upon his arrival. Maybe he’ll learn. Maybe he won’t. Régis will delight in it either way. “And I would make it fast. You wouldn’t want me to take my coin elsewhere would you?”

Recent affairs, for all their theatrics, have been plenty good for business. 

Whispers always catch in the Mane, but these past weeks have been something of a different shade; there are so many threads for Degaré to grasp at, they almost slip through his fingers entirely. He runs them through now, turning them over in his mind: bloody execution without trial, a phantom-trace of dissent, sentiments made plain over flagons of wine. All this, he has already passed into the hands of Helene Farrow, leaving her to vices of her own. The debris which now waits to be swept from the feet of the Prophet’s Tomb has not escaped his noticed either, but it is not nearly as interesting to him as the arrival of Widrowem’s delegates, promising to carve out peace with their tongues while simultaneously sewing tricks into their sleeves. Is that not an ambassador’s job? Only a fool claims to know nothing of the conscientious efforts made in hopes of winning Calandre’s hand; any who fail recall the number of times they’d failed are surely some sort of coenobite. 

Every secret that arrives works to pen itself over the last, overwriting the vellum with more ink. But never mind all that.

Degaré lingers at the bar, feeling the dogged stare of Régis Aveline upon him. That, he finds, bothers him a great deal more than hidden ambition or senseless onslaught. The man can’t leave him alone, won’t leave him alone, whether on Gauthier’s orders or his own. It’s about as efficient a tactic as any, he supposes, loosing his hound upon him for fear of losing a finger by his knife. The stratagem hardly matters; he will not yield. Degaré will not yield here, either, will not turn and meet Régis’ stare, will not invite him to approach, to get his hands on him. When he steals a cursory glance, he fancies it’s his own fault when he catches him doing so. He instinctively snaps his head back. From there, the scene unfolds with a certain predictability; Régis causes an elaborate scene, then demands the bastard attend him. When his employ hurry to clean up his mess, Degaré raises a hand and calls them off, decides to tend to the dog himself. That’s what he wants, no?

When he reaches the table, he practically snarls: “Is that what you think?” He folds his arms over his chest, as if warding against something. “Your patronage is of no consequence to me.” Degaré’s jaw tautens; the brace is unmistakeable. The darkening of his expression is just as inconspicuous, as is the way he holds his breath at the back of his throat, braising there, but the words are delivered across the table with a certain composure, exercising the essence of control. Hardened, cold as ice, but peel apart the words and you expose the resentment of it all, the same way wildfowl exposes its bare neck to a beast. He has a rough go of concealing it.

Unfolding his arms, he relaxes into the confrontation, but his mouth is still tight around the muscle, his hands still balled fiercely at his side. Intense dislike thrums through the countercharge: “If the leash you answer to has you hounding every other barkeep in the city to make ends meet, then by all means—” Degaré leans a little closer, close enough to press down with both hands against the wood, his voice quieter this time, though no less inimical, “Take your dor elsewhere.” The man’s a damned thorn in his side, always has been, and he’s not two bits of silver to rub together in any event. Degaré keeps the wolf from his door well enough without the coin of Régis Aveline.

Not this one, though. This wolf wastes on something relentless.

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: the lion’s mane 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍: 11th of maccius, evening 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇: @degares

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐒 𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐏𝐓 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄. It may well be the case. The attempt on the Imperial Librarian’s life the week previous had rendered him death’s plaything once again, and the need for watchfulness in its aftermath has left him hard pressed for downtime. He no longer ends his nights swaddled in the fine cushions of his own small quarters ( an occasional visitor thoughtlessly tangled in his arms ), but ends them slouched against the wall outside of Savatier’s door. Still as a stone-carved sentinel, eyes pinned to entrypoints.

Tonight, the night lands the odd pair in the Lion’s Mane. Savatier visits with company nearby, within sight and earshot. Iseult leans across the bustling counter, snagging Degaré’s attention with an appeal for an ear.

“I know, I know, you’ve missed me terribly,” he purrs ( voice harder-edged than usual, a certain irritability part and parcel, now. )

All their previous tête-à-têtes have possessed a certain decorum. A nimble dancing through the forms of friendship— sharing secrets only between the long, drawn sips off tankards of ale. Tonight, Iseult simply leans their weight on an elbow, cants a masked face in toward the other— the surrounding patrons far too inebriated to pay them any mind— and rolls a dor down the knuckles before flipping it into the proprietor’s jar. There’s more where that came from.

“I need a favor.”

“Have I?” he says drily, leaning his elbow into the wood.

When they approach, he is managing his personnel, handling orders, stacking glassware and pouring drinks, and when they lean in, he’s listening to Iseult too. Degaré scoffs, rolling his eyes, though it lacks his usual disdainfulness. Plays more like amusement. “Your dor, maybe,” he answers, still pouring, “Must be said, my coffers are never quite as full as I’d like them to be when you’re not in the spirit of almsgiving, Rayne.”

A favour, they say.

There’s no need to perform a party piece on how favours are costly, how such things don’t come free, especially from him. Lambert’s bastard charges compensation for every stolen whisper, every boon offered, every moment spared. Though he won’t presume to guess at what Iseult does with his information when they leave the tavern, slip into the night, he’s certain that, in their profession, they know what whispers cost. Degaré bargains an empress’ ransom for just about everything, even words. Especially words.

“Just like that?” he says, almost coloured surprised. Almost. They’re not usually so frank with each other, so blatant in their backchat, speaking freely and openly of treaties and transactions they might make between them. He is so used to insinuation and things left unsaid that, stripped of their usual badinage, Degaré is almost taken aback. Again, almost. He watches his benefactor toy with the dor before making an offering of it, then leans his chin against his fist.