“Contra Mundum”

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪Pairing — Phoebus De Chateauper x Scholar!GN!Reader

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ Summary — A passionate scholar and apprentice in theology finds in the encounter of a young lieutenant to revitalize them of their purpose to pursue their love for humanity. Meanwhile, Chateauper finds himself beyond enamoured by the scholar, not only struck with nostalgia but also a glance at another life of what could be.

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ Tags — fluff, two-POVs, no use of reader or y/n, love at first sight, one-shot

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪Author’s note — Time is set around before Phoebus departs for the 100 year war. The captain mentioned is the same one that was whipped during the movie in the dungeon scene. This is also my first fic!! Hope you enjoy :)

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖wc — 796

The lurid floral patterns of the Persian velvet, encircled the crumbs of grasping knowledge and futile epiphanies, all etched on ink marred parchment. The scholar adjusted their falling spectacles on the bridge of their nose, their sight momentarily creating a startling blur that immediately snatched their focus. Illuminated by a lonely golden effulgence, were endless scrawls in preparation for their disputation upon the simian and abstract freewill, and its question towards the existence of divinity.

Beyond a discussion exhausted yet not expanded, it made the student crease their sweating brow to their one dimensional a attempts of enlightenment and swiftly proceeding their way into the dungeons of the Palais de Justice, where it accumulated youthful, revolutionary, pitiful, and narcissistic heretics such as this dreary pupil.

Heaving a heavy sigh, they once more scarred the parchment with linear neatness with what their quill can allow upon the topic and first few weak supports that held it. With their poplar desk polluted with erections of literature and

misery — the scholar withdrew the drapes that shielded their quiet disquisitions, the gilded rays spilling invitingly within their burrow.

The cool zephyr kissed the jaw of the gilded lieutenant, the steady quiet rhythm of hooves upon cobble with the gentle chimes of the argent armor of his comrades. It was the earliest dawn where Phoebus De Chateauper was on duty under his esteemed grey bearded capitaine.

Raised in the flaxen pastures of his estate in the Provence, the fetching young man remained wary with each pace deeper into the crevices of Paris. His nose scrunched with each passing stench coming from infested alleyways, to the occasional dung under his boot from neglected creatures of the capitol. It was far from the cushioned fragrant parlors, the abundant banquets, and the humble training grounds of Chateau P—, but the juxtaposition proved quaint to him, and the Sun God did not recoil in disgust at the sight of crippling edifices and forsaken traces of life.

He continued to walk by the side of his superior, until a penumbra from the edifice of a rather humble yet fashionable townhouse, briefly looming over him. He wouldn’t have paid much heed to this common man’s lodging, until a parchment of sorts mimicked a wounded passerine, and grazed the soldier’s coarse leather boots. He craned his wide azure clothed neck up, only to find a figure, their eyes widened and hand stretched out their window, lips parted to a presumably inaudible gasp on Phoebus’ end.

“Merde!” Cried out the tenant. “A thousand pardons, lieutenant! I did not mean to litter!”

But the enamored sun could not take offense to how the moon had pleaded.

The way they spoke was all too familiar to Phoebus, a nostalgic echo of his days in the military academy. However, their intellectual countenance came so naturally, free of the pretentiousness of loquacious masters, to the foolish schoolboys who only entertained the perverted arts. Exhaustion weighed evidently upon them, he himself is an apprentice to rigidity, but no less — this scholar, in gaze and pallor alone, burned with brimming life, while their ink spotted hands — nimble with the quill, quivered slightly (unnoticeable if Phoebus was not so fastidious) as it try to withdraw from the light.

It had been many a summer since the young lieutenant stirred, for duty always prevailed the whims of the heart. But this was no whim nor pursuit for the amorous pleasure promised to honorable servants of the God and law. A curiosity more intimate and subtle, the kind that lingered as a carried hymn by nature’s breath. Phoebus bent down stiffly to take hold of the fallen scrawls of the scholar, his lips curling faintly upwards.

“Worry not. That—“ He holds up the discarded parchment. “Has been noted. However, do keep your belongings in order, as we do not wish for the undeserving common man upon such brilliance.” He calmly replied, accompanied by that smile only familiar to his courting lads and mistresses.

His eyes land upon a lexicon of theology, interwoven with the matters of “freewill”, “reason”, “human autonomy”, as well as a scatter of Greek and Roman names Phoebus hasn’t heard from since his days in grammar school, enkindling longing for the hazy afternoons of mocking crusades and burying his head in the comfort of prepubescent innocence.

The scholar, seeming to acknowledge his advice, nodded, and dismissed themselves back to their burrow, withdrawing from the light. But not without their departing words — “May the sun illuminate your path, even in scarlet and silver.” They exclaimed, waving as the soldier soon departed their line of sight.

“The moon’s prayer is my most honorable will.”

Self-proclaimed saint Claude of Paris

Idk if I forgot any bulletpoints, but lmk if somethings should be added to the Canon or Fanon side >:)

- Animatic, music by Yaelokre

____________________________________

________________________________________

Yippieee finally finished it!!

"Paris, the city of lovers is glowing this evening.

True that's because it's on fire

but still, there's l'amoooour"

The Woman Who Had Two Navels and Tales of the Tropical Gothic, Nick Joaquin.

“PERICO: To feel that driving urge, that imperious necessity to write poetry, a poet needs an audience; he must be conscious of an audience- not only of a present audience but of a permanent one, an eternal one, an audience of all the succeeding generations. He must feel that his poems will generate new poets. Well, poetry withered away for the writers of my time because we knew that we had come to a dead end, we had come to a blind alley.”

Started: 03/11/19

A Portrait of the Artist as Filipino (1965)