ROI DE FRANCE

Such an honor drove a very deep feeling of resonating gratitude for the executioner! Perhaps it’s the combination of praise from his King, but the man felt it in the depths of his being. He felt blessed, to receive such an honor from him! It was here that Sanson couldn’t hide the smile that would grace his lips. 

“I… I don’t remember why, but i’m sure it’s because I don’t particularly find myself at ease in front of people…” It was the truth, of course. Being around people of all kinds in such a little spot… the executioner was not fond of being a piece of attention. Even with playing something as simple as his violin, it was special to him. To be able to do something else with his hands other than snap a life into bits and pieces. 

“Ah… I can possibly show you how, although I am self taught.” 

 “Being a servant means easy hunting, doens’t it.” the thrill of humanity, of weakness with normal humane bodies, it was gone now. Event the weakest of servants can kill a man with one careful tap. his thoughts vaugely turn to the divine wind inside his own core. 

 “We can try demon boar, if you want.”

lesseize liked your post “starter call. —-”

He once killed governors for father reasons. Archer thoughts are subtle, but the thought of killing another ruling body passes through his mind, since it is part of his legend. 

 Still if he had berserk enchantment, would any ruler be safe? a passing thought… 

 “Have you ever hunted a boar before?”

       A SPARK UNDENIABLY  lights up at an interest of his being highlighted, along with the question that Louis nearly jumps at to answer like an excited child eager to answer his tutor. The urge to hold back wins in the end; propriety has taken over his being, and he settles for smiling kindly in gratitude for even asking.

“Ah… how could I ever have forgotten…” In fact, he wasn’t sure what he could or could not remember other than the terror that had encapsulated everything. Yet… such a soft tune was particularly favored by the executioner himself. 

“You… really enjoyed it that much?” 

“I’m usually requested for funerals, not for weddings.” 

The  REVOLUTIONARY GRAIL WAR  was set in an alternate timeline where it was the second war set up, in which Louis was one of the Masters in the running. Numerous unspoken secrets had to be hidden from the French royal court and to the world at large due to his sudden thrust into the world of magecraft, and he trusted a few select people with his secret: the remaining Masters, the Montgolfier brothers (in which he made use of their aviation experiments to orchestrate the downfall of a Master’s long-range specialized Servant), the Mages’ Association and his confessor in church. 

It could be said that Louis’s prowess as a magus is the same as Sajyou Ayaka’s. His mastery in Formalcraft owes largely to his immense knowledge, but he finds himself disliking having to resort to ‘the darker arts’ due to the amount of ritual-making conflicting with his Roman Catholic faith. A heavily disadvantaged Master in terms of having a weak bloodline, he was, however, among the last ones standing due to his intelligence until his decision to take the fall in the Fre.nch Rev.olution after developing a set, dying grudge against Rob.espierre (who can very well be listed as his Natural Enemy). 

The dragon within Morgan is left content at his touch, and she fights her growing urge to make him hers, to claim companionship with the man so bold he graced her hand with a kiss. She can’t possibly let this side of her win ; it would mean losing to this foolish king, and they’re not through with their little game quite yet.

She laughs now, and her laugh is almost devoid of the smugness that she was so full of earlier ; and, taken aback, she stops mid-laugh. Her mind races as she realizes she enjoys their little game - and the realization unconsciously makes her wrench her hand away from the man’s grip. The dragon roars inside her, and it beckons to stay attached to the hand at her waist - but she refuses.

“Then let the consequences come, my king.” Her expression becomes unreadable past this point - no more smiles or laughter, be it cocky or genuine. She keeps her hand - the hand that he sullied with his kiss - close to her bosom, but she makes no further movements to wrench herself away from the hand that connects them still. She, instead, furrow her brows, silently beckoning him to walk away from her.

“How foolish of me to believe you were different. You’re like the rest of them, Louis: trying to tame me.” And it’s working - the dragon wants to add - but Morgan bites her tongue to extinguish those words. The dragon within her - the blood connecting her to her sister, to her father - she refuses it. She is no Pendragon anymore, and she’ll stay that way.

       AND AS SOON  as the fire starts up, it dissipates. It leaves a trail of smoke in its wake, snuffed out due to a careful action in being caught over doing something careless. The queen reverts into guarding herself once more, not willing to abandon herself to something as dangerous as instinct, and immediately, Louis understands. 

       “No one has the power to tame another, Lady Morgane,” he says. He speaks from experience; no power can tame him, no man can keep him down, no Master can bend his will! He does not walk away nor detach his hand from her; the smile that graces his features remain gentle and kind as he imparts his own thoughts regarding the matter that hangs heavy between them. “And truly, I say to you, I do not have the intention to tame you at all. A lady is a lady, with her own thoughts and actions —  and as you are, you forever shall be.”

       Louis emphasizes on Morgan’s own independence; for what benefit would he get from taming others? Those who had sworn loyalty to him was simply out of either obligation or an earnest request that they are very much free to reject with no consequence — which ultimately led him to his downfall. The hesitation and pensiveness on Morgan’s face is palpable, completely relatable. 

Her eyes linger on the hand that covers hers, his gentle touch becoming one of the many constrasts between the two royals ; and she answers his challenge, her nails scraping against his clothes and placing small rips into the fabric. A fairy she may be, but in that moment, she felt more like the dragon she could have become.

Morgan shifts focus unto his eyes, staring intently as her nails connected with his skin. Her fingers remain in place and she smiles eagerly, awaiting for him to consent to the next part in their twisted, budding relationship. If he wanted to play, she would play with him : she prays he is ready for the consequences of teasing and enabling a dragon.

“Dearest Louis, we both know that our fun has yet to end, hasn’t it?” Her voice is a whisper still, now accompanied with what would be best described as a purring of sorts. “I’m offering you my hand. Show me the consequences of such an act, my king.”

       TO READ IS ONE  thing, to experience is another. Sections of finely spun silk part at her scrapes, the sharpness of her nails digging into his flesh making him let out a slight hiss of awareness. He is awake, very much so; the pain does that quite well, but she wills him to look at her and he does. There is no trace of the binding sort of magic in her eyes  —  he respects her greatly for it, simply because he senses her stance and intentions to ground him with her sheer will alone.

       “Forgive me,” he whispers back, his breath hot against her pale neck as he wraps his arm around her waist to pull her closer to his frame, inviting her to possibly do her worst. He asks for forgiveness simply because of propriety; a man ought not to touch a respected lady, a queen even less so. A low growl escapes his lips with the blood boiling and rushing through his veins, invoking memories of the thrill of his own manufactured madness.

There’s a reason for which Morgan is Morgan, and she’s fully aware of it. She’s made it her life mission to plot and betray, bringing down her own sister using hatred and malice, all for phantom recognition. As such, being treated like a helpless woman irks her to the highest degree, and she’d rather go back to the Throne than being cared for by an inept master.

So when he makes his intentions clear, Morgan cracks a soft smile. He brought himself to her level, treating her as his equal. His words rung true within her ; she may even start respecting him in turn. Her heels click as she makes her way towards him and places her left hand atop his shoulder. “You amuse me, my dear Louis. But know that if you do drag me down with you..” Her grip on his shoulder tightens as she brings her mouth close to his ear so she may whisper her next words. “You shall fear the consequences.”

       THE TOUCH OF ANOTHER  woman’s hand on his shoulder, as well as the manner in which she whispers in his ear, feeling her warm breath against the shell of it, is foreign to Louis. Never had he received such forwardness even in the grander scheme of things, particularly in an interplay of under-torrential danger, but he makes no move to back away from her. The fae are enchanting folk; her actions only serve to make myth into truth.

       With a smirk forming on his face, he places his hand over her slender one, near daring her to grip tighter, to make it feel like pincers sinking into his skin. The snake in the grass has coiled up and made subtle dares, and to either himself, her, or the both of them, he finds himself as amused as she when he laughs softly. A gentle laugh in contrast to a more sinister smirk; Louis has changed indeed from what his legend had portrayed him.

Morgan scoffs. Her opinion of this man - of this king - keeps wavering. She thinks he’s a fool, but an honourable one at that, and it leaves her confused. Why can’t people see her for who she truly is: a blackened soul with no hope for redemption, no hope for trust, no hope for love - a truly malevolent heroic spirit. The world - no, Chaldea - would be a far better place if people and other heroes kept to themselves and only used Morgan whenever she was needed.

She bares her teeth at the king, and a low growl escapes her lips. “You’d offer your hand to me without a second thought, hoping that I would pull you up and allow you to continue battling.” She has to repeat his words, so that they start making sense in her head - but they don’t. “I wouldn’t do that to my children, what makes you think I would help you up, a complete stranger? That’s not how it works. You don’t have to go out of your way to help Morgan LeFay. The both of us will be better off if you just leave me to rot in the dirt. It’s not about strength, it’s about what’s best for both of us. Quick advice, from a queen towards a king.”

       IT WAS NOT  as if this has never happened before, but rather, it has happened too many times to even count! Whether Louis was tainted with his own brand of malice and hatred or not, it always seemed ever so difficult to get his point across; as soon as the lady fae had said what she needed, it suddenly hits him that she probably thought him being like their foolish summoner whom they had to call Master. Empty-headed, futilely optimistic, an overall blithering idiot in the name of helping others and being uselessly kind. Yet, was that not Louis himself at his core? 

The thought of it drove a spike of unbelievable shock in the executioner, even though it should not have affected him THIS much. The King had insisted, that he (the royal executioner) belonged to them. The Gentleman of Paris, an executioner of higher works. 

The compliment had caused the assassin to fluster in embarrassment and in flattery. Contrast of the red hinted at the edge of his ears against his pale skin was hard to hide.

He had forgotten how it felt. To not really ‘belong’ anywhere after all of that. Now, standing before his King, he felt as if he DID have somewhere he belong. 

“I accept, my King. My sword is your justice, and my strength is your will. I won’t disappoint you as long as I may still be able to remain here.” The fear, for an instant, that he would be forced to forget about all of this. No servant remembers everything unless they are able to inscribe it within their own saints graph, but those words alone were enough for Sanson to cling to like a priest to God. 

He will devote himself for the sake of their protection. No one may change this. 

The sudden turn in conversation, too, made Sanson speechless at first. Although it DID make sense… sacrifices of blood were needed in order to summon a servant, was it not? The executioner thinking about it for the moment, he turned his attention back at him after his thoughts clicked together.

“So… in a way… I turned you into a servant with the necessary steps…” A morbid way of going about a transformation, even if he did not see his King again after the public execution, it still made Sanson feel breathless all the same. 

“I had no idea… but if what you are saying rings true… then you are here because of my actions. Is it selfish to say that I am blessed for this…? Ah… it may take me time to think about it, but regardless, you are here, and I am honored in being within your presence, my King. I can only pray that I may help make it worthwhile for you while we are here.” 

The sad part is that they were not here forever. They all would have to return to the throne one way or another, but as long as he can still have some more time with the King of France, then he is happy. 

       “I-IF YOU THINK  it so, then it is so, ah.....to be blessed simply because I am here....”

       Almost as if the very trace of a saintly anointed king disappeared in a blink of an eye, Louis reverted back to his penchant for mumbling, hurriedly bringing Sanson up gently as they stood together, with the king looking every bit like a bashful beagle. His face tinted red with a mixture of praise and embarrassment, Louis looked left and right so as to not let his bourreau see him shuffle about so, but like always, it’s much too late to not catch the king looking and being his natural self.

       “I wasn’t always this determined, as you comprehend....” Louis shyly said, looking down at his hands holding Sanson’s. “The world of the mages and the greater goal of reaching the Root was all very tempting, you see....and I belonged to that world for a time. I...I probably do still, because I can do a bit of magecraft here and there, but.....um.....”

       Louis’s infernal shyness still never goes away, apparently, and the king himself can only hazard minute looks up at Sanson without quickly looking back at their hands. In a sense, while Sanson spoke of being honored by his presence, it was Louis himself who was thanking God that he has his executioner by his side, or he really wouldn’t know what to do with himself should he become all shaking knees and buckling legs.

       “But if I must say something, it’s....!” he started, gathering a sense of courage in the most flustered manner possible! “I may seem really strict now, but I really am not, a-as you know...! If you say that you are honored in my presence, I-I must say that I am honored in yours, C-Charles-Henri! S-So please....please help me get through!”

Louis attention span go ZOOOOOM

Morgan pauses after he stopped talking. “Why would you tell an assassin this?” She muses, turning her head ever so slightly so that she would have the man in her line of sight. She can’t fathom why anyone would purposely go and reveal their weakness to her, one of the greatest plotters of all time? “You do realize I can end you any second, right?”

She’s mostly left confused now, her veil hiding none of it. The other doesn’t look to be dumb, far from it - he’s royalty, after all - yet he opens himself and speaks of trust. Morgan stays dumbfounded for a few seconds before she faces the king completely: she has to ask this one question. “You’d trust me with your hand?”

       WHICHEVER CLASS ANY  of them may be really is of no consequence, for Louis doesn’t really care either way! Yet, the stunned expression on the fae’s face amuses Louis to no end, though it gives her features a more natural feel. It only serves to soften an otherwise unreachable beauty in a sense that she doesn’t look as if she’s locked into a painting as she moves.

The damned condemend man that had tested his patience was someone that Sanson truly did not favor at all: Robespierre. The blue ‘God’ that would burn the sacred texts, foolishly placing himself as an idol. It was a wonder that he lasted as long as he did, but of course it was not like anyone BUT the public could do anything about it.

Loyal to even he during that time, Sanson found himself remembering the other man’s words. Despicable, like a snake. Unfathomable deaths that would quickly escalate the executioner’s already climbing numbers of those that were in need of beheading, even if it was as innocent as saying a simple word.

The pause, of course, caused the assassin to concern- but he did not press the matter. Sanson, unlike most peering eyes, was modest. He did not pry, especially when it came to his King and Queen.

“His way was as if he could brain wash everyone around him to become delirious. Even I felt the effects after each heavy blow of the Guillotine.” The streets that would bleed red. His guillotine, the instrument he had designed to bring forth a peaceful death, was ruined with the stench of death. 

“I almost did not make it till that point. I can’t recall, but I think I had lost my mind before the order was issued. It felt like a fever dream, and I saw… a lot.” Blood and bodies, even if they were hallucinogenic. Whispering words that would echo in his mind. It truly felt that he would have gone mad and ripped HIS own head off if he continued. 

“…That was something that I know I was thankful for when my loyalty was under you and Marie. I would go mad for the both of you, and me alright with it, but you never did such a thing to me. Your soul, once it was executed… and how you are now. I’m glad to confirm that my beheading did, in a way, work. I’m thankful that you did not lose your head to madness, and if that were to ever happen.”

He bowed and placed his hand over his heart. 

“I would obliged to take it into my hands FOR you. Please, allow my loyalty to protect you and the Queen while we have time here for however long God decides.”

       THEY HAD BOTH SUFFERED  much. This, the both of them know. They each had their own battles to fight, with their paths ever-crossing and meeting mid-way as they broke off again, in the strange but sure way that mages called the counter-force. Coincidence or predestination. Ordained time by the higher powers or luck. They could call it whatever they wished, but the world has an energy that connected all of them together.

       “You will now and forever be, our Monsieur de Paris, our L'exécuteur des hautes œuvres,” he commanded, delivering his decree almost as if the mandate of the heavens was still with him. “You will accept the edict of your king and queen, to fight alongside us and to execute whom you see, or whom we see, fit.”

       His hand outstretched, the king glanced at it only to find the tell-tale marks of used-up Command Seals, etched at the back like faded skin. Thus, it was a testament that his entire ordeal wasn’t a dream, that he wasn’t hallucinating as much as everyone did under Robespierre’s guile tongue, and withdrawing his hand, he chose to confide in Sanson in regards to the madness that he had taken in for himself.

       “Robespierre could never have kept his madness to himself; he simply had to take everyone along with him,” Louis disdainfully said. “As for me....my impatience for you to deal the blows upon my neck was for a reason. My dearest friend, it was necessary for me to die not only for the revolution, but to make me a Servant that would contest the Grail at the time.”

Morgan keeps to herself as she gazes up to the outstretched hand. How long has it been since a stranger willed for her well-being? She has trouble recalling, which made it all the more appalling - she wagers no one has ever been this considerate. No one ever proposed to help her up.

So she refuses the hand, content in helping herself up. “I’m alright.” There’s no falsehoods in Morgan’s voice, only confusion - only foolish people would try to help her, because helping someone means trusting them - and Morgan is pretty sure no one is trustworthy enough to take her hand. “Do not give me orders.” Confusion quickly leads to anger as she walks past the king.

        FAE ARE PARTICULARLY  proud, Louis has read; it was almost borderline amusing as to how the woman quietly hissed at him simply to salvage her own pride in not taking his hand. Bemused, he smoothly retracts his hand and keeps his smile as she walks past him, shaking his head as he follows her soon after to reach their destination.