captain of the guards.

Michel takes solace in very few things – rather, he is allowed very few things to take solace in. Above all else, however, routine has reigned king, emperor, empress. It is the one thing that has allowed him his sanity in such a time of difficulty and distress which started off as a long week and dragged out to become several long years. A key part of said routine? Tea-time with Victoire. Odeline willing, he’s never missed the chance to have a good cup of tea in the morning and sit. There’s a certain kindness to being miserable together, a humor in shared cynicism and despair that waits for them both around every corner.

So – when Victoire had missed out, his heart had broken. Maybe not severely, but just a little bit. A tiny splinter. Thus, because Michel is not above pettiness, he’d made his choice late last night about how to handle the poor Captain when he’d come along knocking. The silent treatment. This drags out a long, almost infuriating amount of time, but his grudge wins out over his disdain for awkward moments, and he makes it through half a cup and Victoire looking like he’d been close to falling apart.

Michel raises his brow at the offered pastry, leans over the table, and plucks it out of Victoire’s hand. He finishes it first before speaking, wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Dearest, loveliest, and most merciful. Next time I behead someone and am forced to feel bad about it, I’m calling on you to heap praise on me until I recover.” It’s a joke he’d never make otherwise, but they share a certain understanding of things that he relishes in. “Tell me about these ill-timed meetings. With the Empress? Someone else?”

the first victory: michel took the pastry. the second victory: michel smiled. victoire had learned long ago to count each victory as he earned them; he was feeling particularly victorious this morning. victorious to the point of dangerous --- but the silence had been broken. they would move on. 

( until victoire messed up once again. but he tried not to think of this. )

“i’m happy to stand beside you and throw praise in your direction at any point. it is the basis of our relationship. you, in need of praise; me, willing to give it.” he punctuated it with by pointing at each of them. “you, far broodier; me, far more handsome.” 

he leaned back at the question, trying ( and failing ) not to avoid michel’s gaze. 

—

There is no denying that Rowan is lost. Utterly, inextricably, embarrassingly lost. Oh yes, they think, let’s go for a nice evening walk, see what awaits us, and pathetically wait for Cassian to drag you out. Is there anything more sanity-inducing than irritation-fueled rants at yourself? Probably not, but they’d like to think that is the true peak of coping in the midst of what feels like plain idiocy. Every corner they turn meets them with green shrubbery. Everything that looks like it may be a landmark, in fact, is not a landmark.

There’s a bench, but when they go a mere six feet further, there’s another bench. So many fucking fountains. Statues of emperors and empresses of old (and one new, egregious, proud, absolutely terrifying to look at) stand and watch vigil, and it’s making them feel so claustrophobic their palms are beginning to sweat a little.

How does this make anyone feel relaxed?

Step forward, if you please. It’s a voice with the twinge of authority to it, and while in most other situations they might have run the other way, in this moment all they can feel is relief. “Oh, thank the gods.” When they step into view, they’re met with someone they know they’ve seen the face of before. One of the Captains? A Commander? They wrack their brain, attempting to come up with answers, and fall short. “I’m sorry, but I am very lost.”

lost. lost... so this was what victoire had resorted to, hm? helping lost ducklings find their way home. his grip on his weapon slackened slightly as the individual stepped forward, and while victoire was not quite ready to let down his guard ( lost --- surely, it could just as easily be a half-hearted act ), he was also exhausted with the day. if the other was simply putting on a play and decided to attack, so be it. at least victoire might finally get some rest. 

“you ought to leave breadcrumbs behind you if you get lost this easily,” he returned. he looked at the other, trying to place face to name. this was his great burden: he dealt with so many people, he should be far better at remembering the details about them. unfortunately for victoire, it was one of his many failings. this person might be some great faraway king or some shallow merchant seeking acclaim. 

did it particularly matter? 

…

Sainte can’t help but laugh now - how different her life is from someone like him, someone with, at least in a way, a more normal job. Perhaps a more normal life. It’s something she truly doesn’t want to even consider. Her career may seem unsavory to some, to be sure, but at least she has evenings off. Usually, that is. 

“It seems horribly unfair,” She says, her tone thoughtful. “That a free evening is such a novelty. Although, I suppose you do have one, now, and yet you’re still squandering it with work? They must have trained you quite well.” She is being trained herself, though, isn’t she? Is she really one to talk, when deep down she feels that her own job has tied her to the palace, to this city, like the Empresses guard dog? 

She shakes the thought from her head, focusing on other things - the flower. “Not always strangers, no. But I rarely keep them for myself. What’s the point in their beauty if you don’t share it with others?” 

“with the way you speak about beauty, you sound like a true romantic --- which is really the most dangerous sort of person to meet in a garden.” certainly far more frightening than someone with a hidden knife; at least a knife only served one use. a flower had many. and he did not want to look at the flowers surrounding them and see all shades of their color, the way they tilted and shivered under the dull light of the evening sky. exhausting. 

he plucked the flower from behind his ear, twirling it between his fingertips. how easy it would be, to get swept up in it all. how lovely. 

“trained, am i?” he much preferred the term disciplined, or perhaps committed. they were far friendlier, although they still managed to make him sound solidly like a stick in the mud. “i would hate to part with such cruel words in the air, dear flower giver. and in an effort to prove you wrong, that i can indeed enjoy my evenings off, i will let whatever assassin might be traipsing around creep into the summer palace and stab the empress’s heart.” 

▒

Beneath the grinning snarl of his bestial half mask, Ghislain bears a grimace of his own, a sign of his nervousness. Though, the only one Victoire would see is the way he adjusts his perfectly-aligned spectacles for seemingly no reason. “I’m not an assassin?” He feels the need to interject that point, though the words feel strange on his lips. Certainly not something he thought he’d be saying tonight. 

Still, Ghislain can’t help but feel like he’s missing something. Like he’s interrupted a conversation or he’s somehow bothering the Captain. He’s unsure, which makes him even more uneasy since he’s realizing in his mind that he hasn’t bothered to look up in the sky since he showed himself to Victoire. The threat of the griffin remains a source of anxiety, but Ghislain tries his damndest to channel his father in that moment. Tonight could be a pivitol point for him if he plays his cards right.

“Much better, mon amie! I’d be indebted to you if you helped, though perhaps we should find the most influential group. Has the Empress retired already?” It’s easy to ignore the awkwardness he feels with a goal at the forefront of his thoughts. “You see, I’m but a humble merchant. Well … not so much anymore. I’ve positioned myself as the new dock master at Quartier Azur and would love to demonstrate to Her Majesty my success in my new position.”

Again, his hand goes to his spectacles, this time to hide the shifty way his eyes dart around. “Though, if that’s not possible noblemen would work fine for tonight. We should go. Now. Right now, yes?” he presses with a sudden urgency. The imagery of a griffin devouring his insides is enough to make Ghislain tremble beneath his lavish garb.

victoire couldn’t help but feel that familiar edge of disappointment --- of a slight annoyance, both at himself and at the other --- when the seemingly inevitable question came. the empress. it always came down to her, didn’t it? her name was written in the stars, in the mountains, in the very breath of their lungs. and victoire couldn’t help thinking: well, of course it is. it should be.

“her imperial majesty is in her imperial bedchambers at the moment. sleeping. as we all should probably be.” his tone was overtly formal now, but he turned on his heel, gesturing for ghislain to follow. the last thing he needed was to upset some humble merchant, although the thought of leaving one for the griffin was almost enough to make him smile. 

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍: the 24th of maccius 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: terre noire 𝐖𝐇𝐎: open    

          𝐈𝐓 𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐋𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 a person’s efforts were best dedicated to something aligned with their strengths, something, Nella, Etienne’s only employee at Terra Noire, assured him several days ago, but that did not change her decision to take the week off, and leave him to run the shop, and most dreadfully, interact with customers. A bonus, nor a raise would sway her either, though Nella still welcomed the idea of either in the near future, she’d assured him. Perhaps this was when having multiple employees would have come in handy— but he knew the odds of stumbling across another person he could tolerate long term were slim to nothing.

          Every moment spent above the surface meant another moment spent away from the lab, and Etienne progressively grew more irritable in its absence, busying himself with straightening several enchanting fragrances displayed on the shop counter and opting not to look up at whoever entered the store. He could only hope his performance of obliviousness was convincing enough. Only several moments pass before he decides identifying the customer would be in his best interest, perchance he fell victim to another assassination attempt. “Have you come here with a purchase in mind, or are you just browsing, as they say?” Etienne asks point blankly, for this would determine the remainder of their interaction. “If you are here to browse, consider arriving more prepared next time. There are only so many options to be had with a perpetually unchanging inventory.” Every customer meant a new opportunity to break the record for least amount of time spent with him in the store.

victoire, for all his hemming and hawing about the part he played, was far from a subtle man. he looked the role of captain of the guards --- his clothing, his weapon, the mask upon his face all declared his position. and his position declared his intent. ( shops these days seemed to have a way of finding trouble. sometimes walking through them served a good reminder for the owners to keep their delicate sleeves as far from trouble as they could stand. ) 

at the man’s greeting, if it could be called such a thing, victoire nearly snorted. he ought to try this approach in his line of work; perhaps he could scare would-be assassins away with bad manners. 

“i’m afraid i’m too fond of window-shopping to prepare fully ahead of visiting such a fine establishment,” he returned, an obnoxious amount of cheer in his voice. “besides, i’ve learned some shops have more in their hand than they’re willing to show to just anybody.” there was no evidence of such a thing here, of course, but victoire had long since learned that so long as he pretended to know what was going on around him, he could bluff his way through anything. “is this place yours?”

"don’t look at me like that.” the silence had sat between them for long enough that victoire had begun to fidget. it started with the gentle wringing of his hands, but it was sure to move to the incessant tapping of his foot if michel didn’t speak soon --- and odeline forbid that it move to the rocking of his chair. the tea sat in front of victoire, untouched; he eyed it, turning the cup this way and that, just to give himself something to look at beside his friend across the table. 

…

The truth of it, really, was that Sainte didn’t know where she was going, really. She was just going somewhere, too awake to sleep, too restless to sit over a pint in the Mane, so with her sword and her cloak, she goes wandering. Perhaps to someone else, this would seem like a dangerous proposition, with whatever lurks in the city’s shadows. Sainte is not afraid, not really, she’s far past cowering away from the shadows in her life. 

The gardens are even more beautiful at night, and she’s let her guard down, just a little, reaching up to pluck a flower from a bush when she hears the voice. 

She knows him in passing - As she does many people under the employ of the Empress. 

Stepping out of the shadow, she smiles beneath her mask, holding out the flower, as a token of sorts. “Surely the Empress doesn’t keep you working this late at night, de Chevin. Or is this just a hobby of yours?”

victoire would have imagined her a specter from a long-forgotten story ( perhaps even the infamous monster of the maze, intent to lull him with a gift ), if he had not recognized her. even in his recognition, she looked the part: smile, mask, flower. what a wonderful song she would make. what a wonderful killer too, if she had the mind for it. 

he reached his hand out, almost without thought, almost without care, and plucked the flower from her. it was a pretty thing, sturdier than one might imagine from the gardens. he tucked it behind his ear, letting it settle against his mask. 

some captain of the guards, hm? 

“you wonderful soul --- i would love to exist within the workspace you’ve established in your brilliant mind. evenings off... can you imagine?” did she get evenings off? was that something he could ask the empress for? “i just got off duty, so i suppose, in a manner of speaking, it’s habit more than hobby that’s brought me here.” 

he wished he had some sort of token in return, something that stated, hello, i am going this way, will you walk with me a moment, i enjoyed your flower immensely. perhaps that was too much to ask from a token.

“do you often give flowers to strangers, or might i consider it my lucky day?”

Matthieu’s easy gait was cut at the stem, a double-take shaping up on his face. He sidestepped the Empress’ guard and hitched an eyebrow. “You alright there, de Chevin? Sporting blades in the shadow?” The mockery was close to hand. He kept his scorn winched around his fingers like a scabbard two sizes too big, knotting if you sat down faster than you could swing it. For Fortin’s pets - Fortin’s own leeches - he could even give it a particularly sharp thrust.

Though perhaps courtly bites, and courtly bitternes, were more akin to arrows. In that case, all Matthieu had to do now was reach into his quiver. Jam packed with snide remarks as it was, he could whip any one of them out for the evening’s benefit. In the many-tiered gardens, there were no spectactors; just the gravel, ground thin and even; just the sun-swept petals, already turning rotten with sugar in their bough.

He could even have pretended to be an assassin for a moment longer, if he’d timed it right. As it is, the best way to wring some fun from this was to pretend the guard acted skittish, jumpy, amateurish.

The hell of it was, Victoire had a point. These days saw everyone jumping half to hell at the nearest whoosh. Each creak and crackle had been gaining monstrous proportions, both in court and without. It was often how it went, when it came to the toppling of a throne. And what were gathering spies and mounting bombs if not the telltale signs of one?

For the tenth time that week, Matthieu thought about where his loyalties lie, and where is head would if he made the wrong call. For the tenth time, he batted it away. Instead, he jerked a tight gesture over his shoulder. “There’s a hole in the hedges. Some twelve feet from the main fountains. I figured, yeah, no bloody use in locking those gates every night if you’d just let any fucker cut their path through the briars.”

insufferable --- that was the first word to come to mind when matthieu stepped forward. a string of words followed close behind, each punctuated by a clear threat that victoire tried his best to swallow before it shaped itself on his lips. he was mostly successful. “if i was sporting my blade at shadows, dearest ser samuel, i would be in blessed silence right now.” a shallow smile lit his features as his hand loosened on the hilt of his blade. “unfortunately for the both of us, you are a very solid, very real mass of flesh.”

▒

And half his pay would be wasted on his gamble, for Ghislain Gallois is the furthest from ‘assassin’ one could get, though he is currently slinking through the gardens. The threat of the griffin weighs heavily on his mind second only to the worry of making a fool of himself before the nobles that linger at Court.

Ghislain has his name to back him, yet he still doubts his ability to network and socialize with them. He needs their respect and acceptance more than anything, but such sentiments will allude him so long as he’s out here in the gardens afraid to even turn the corner of the hedge he sidesteps along.

It’s to his relief that he hears the voice of a man not a beast, and willingly presents himself, grand bow and all. “Messer,” he starts, taking note of the Chevalier’s distinct visage. The Captain himself. “I apologize, am I interrupting something? I merely was hoping to have talks with what noblemen remained tonight. I don’t do well with crowds…” Ghislain finds himself rambling due to his nerves. He can’t help it really, and would’ve said something to indicate his fear of being devoured had he continued. But that’s an outcome he can only see ending in humiliation so he closes his mouth for a second to think through how he’s going to get the Captain to escort him safely without appearing weak. “The Palace isn’t off limits tonight, is it?”

“should the palace be off limits tonight? yes, certainly. it’s not. it should be, but it’s not.” a sigh, released between his teeth. that would make his job too easy, but it would do him well not to complain about such a thing with a stranger. it would be akin to holding a sign that said ‘easy to rob!’ in front of your house. 

victoire glanced at the other man, a slight smile at the grand bow he gave. well, wasn’t that refreshing? “are you sure you’re not an assassin? not even a little bit?” it’d almost be easier to knock out and drag in the man than it would be to cater to the well-dressed individual; escorting him felt far too near to the role of glorified babysitter that always seemed to attach itself to victoire’s name. “hm, i’m not usually wrong about these things, but you’d be far different from the others if you were.”

as if suddenly remembering his manners, victoire stopped in place. protocol, dear vic, protocol. 

it was simple really: victoire did not have time to go for a drink, to parade around the lion’s mane, to rest --- he did not have time for such a thing, but the night was quieting. his shift had ended. there was breath in his lungs, and the thick smell of flowers was settling on his skin with an ease he could almost appreciate. ( almost. he so did love to complain about the flowers on occasion. ) maybe he would have time tonight. 

victoire was walking away from the summer palace, but he could not help it; his eyes roamed over the bushes, seeking danger. expecting it. and as if not to disappoint him, he heard the sudden footfalls of another. 

“i’ll bet half my pay it’s another assassin,” he muttered to himself. “alright,” he called with a flourish of his hand. please don’t be heading to the summer palace. “step forward, if you please. let’s get this over with, yes?”