régis aveline - ARCHIVED

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.

If he’s bent on spilling every bottle of wine he brings to the table, he’s resigned not to bring the man another. With the look of something spiteful, something riled to the point of execution, he splays one hand on the table, while the other reaches for a knife which remains from the plate of the table’s previous patron. In the very same moment that he grabs it, Degaré slams the point into the table, sweeping through the air with a sharply-cut crescent. He leans back from the table, never breaking his stare. “Have a care next time, won’t you, Régis?” He doesn’t even seem to mind much the mark that the knife’ll leave behind in the wood; his message is clear enough. With that, he spins on his heel, nods to one of his members of staff, gives them the go-ahead to mop up Régis’ mess, and walks away.

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.” 

It’s difficult to separate the gardens from Régis and Régis from the gardens, no matter how many times they’ve seen both apart from the other - they remain intrinsically linked in Sylviane’s memory, tied up in the honey-gold sunshine of a summer already a decade past. In the Obsidienne, they did not think of him by choice; here again in Val Faim, he has already flooded their senses, shouldered his way back into a position in their world, one they’d neatly excised two years prior. It’s only fitting, they suppose. He’d always taken up more space than he deserved.

Sylviane goes willingly as Régis pulls them in, free hand coming to rest lightly at his hip. They submit demurely to his hand on their jaw, seeking, but their gaze is sharp when they lock eyes. “Perhaps I would have,” they reply, arching a brow. “After all, it has been a terribly long time since we saw each other.” It’s not quite a lie - if he’d inquired like a normal person, they probably would have been intrigued enough by his overture to follow up. A novelty, to be sought after by him again - and a good reminder to the both of them that they hold the high ground above him now, favored as they are in court, while he trails in the wake of Alain Gauthier, titles stripped and standing dependent on the one person perhaps volatile than Régis himself. It’s a delicious irony.

They open their mouth to ask what, exactly, he wants from them, but his touch on their mask silences them.  It is bold - perhaps too bold, if the lingering gaze of the Empress was anything to go by - to display what they’d seen so blatantly on their face, but the Obsidienne had overtaken every available medium for them, and their mask was no exception.

Yes, they are about to say, and then he laughs, and the remembrance of why they dislike Régis is like a cold shock down their spine. A frustrated blush rises to their cheeks. It was, perhaps, too grand a hope that some of his incurable arrogance had been quashed in the two years they’d been gone, but nonetheless some small part of them had hoped. The casual ease with which he pronounces his judgement on their appearance, their experiences - it is infuriating. Truly, his arrogance knows no bounds, as even as he mocks them he moves to untie the ribbon that holds their mask on - taking, always taking.

Their time in the desert kept their mind sharp and body sharper. Their hand is on his in an instant, crushing it just a shade harder than is necessary. They take a half step back, drawing his arm down between them, pressing his hand back into his chest. “You do not have that privilege anymore, Régis,” they spit, dropping any pretense of warmth. “I thought I’d made that clear, though it appears your memory had a serious lapse while I was gone. Perhaps you should get that checked, it could be something serious.”

Sylviane is tired of playing his games, not when it means denying the truths of themselves now.  “What do you want, Régis?” Their gaze is cold,  their grip on the paintbrush and his wrist tight. “As nice a trip down memory lane this is, I do have more important places to be, so please. Do enlighten me.”

It has been a long time - but now that they are standing in the same places they once used to, closer to the space where they once were, Régis wouldn’t mind having a taste of what once was. While the anger is quick to Sylviane’s words, he thinks they wouldn’t mind a little reminiscing either. 

He catches the delicate way in which they lean into the hand that cups their cheek - a yearning perhaps? While his snicker clearly stirs something less fond within them, as if they suddenly remember that absolution is an afterthought for Régis while permission is expected. Even now, years after they’ve shared a bed, he expects it. Régis is bad at giving things back is what it comes down to it, his access to Sylviane included. And how hard would it be to snatch it back? After all, a frustrated blush kisses their cheek in an appealing way and it tempts him in the same way it once did. He could bring his lips to it, cool the heat of it or spur it on depending on his whim, and indeed Régis considers action as his long fingers continue to work at the ribbon of the mask to unravel the knot keeping that pretty face from his unobstructed gaze. 

They stop him, before the ribbon is undone,  and with the way they hold him, wrists in their hands, they must feel the way that small, quick spark of anger that shoots through him at their denial. Very bad at giving things back. Still, he douses the ember before it grows and merely lets out another laugh at their clearly heated suggestion to ‘get checked.’

“Perhaps I should.” He says and then allows his voice to grow wistful. “I seem to only remember afternoons spent there…” his eyes move to a patch of dragon’s breath clustered near their feet. He doesn’t free himself from their grip, nor lose his own grip on the paintbrush. He moves towards them, allowing the weight and strength of his body to push them backwards. It’s easy to romanticize this into a waltz of sorts. They’ve danced before, they can find the steps again. The past comes easy to him as Régis moves through the space. “And there” he says, tilting his head to the right, towards the crowned heads of irises. “-and there.” To the left, further down the lane towards the colorful bulbs of tulips. “- And, of course, here,” till the arch of Sylviane’s back hits the leaves of the hedge and they are haloed by the wisteria, bells of flowers colored like a cloudy dusky sky. “I’ll admit,” Regis says with a wave of his words, a smile a touch too assured. “I find my memory comes quicker to me as I go through the motions.” 

He finally pulls his hand free from where it’s placed on his chest and uses it to push a low hanging branch from their hair, picking at the flowers that threaten to cling to their curls. Régis may be holding Sylviane there with his own weight, but there’s no need for it to be entirely unpleasant. Besides, in his other hand, the paintbrush remains contested territory.  “I’m sure wherever you’re being called off to can’t be more important than this.” He means it casually of course; an arrogance that’s meant to be laughed off but ultimately adhered to. 

It is too easy to say this is Régis falling prey to his baser instincts. But there is more to it - the unfamiliarity of Sylviane has caught his attention. Close, only a hands distance apart, he can see it now, confirms this is no trick of the light or spellcaster’s illusion. They may not know each other as well as they used to, but it’s clear the Obsidienne has taken them in the same way that it has taken their mask.  

A pretty little thing? Agippine bites the inside of their cheek as irritation flares their nostrils. “No, they haven’t,” they answer plainly. No one has ever told Agrippine much of themself at all, which is precisely the whole point of their frequent visits to Savatier’s library or aimless wandering through Val Faim. They would give anything to hear stories of who they were before — might even dance with Régis, but Régis knows nothing of Agrippine’s past. He would have boasted of it long before if he had an inkling of their loss.

Agrippine digs their heels deeper into the floor of the ballroom. They will deny Régis tonight, if only because they get the impression that he is used to dance partners swooning into his arms after being called a pretty little thing.

As if he’s read their mind, Régis takes Agrippine into one arm and sweeps them away. Their feet trip over themselves, and Agrippine’s hand darts to Régis’ at their waist. “I never said I was bad at dancing,” they feel compelled to point out, though they’re certain they will be. 

After a few desperate attempts to wriggle out of his grip, Agrippine surrenders. What Régis wants, Régis gets; at least for one song. They shift their weight uneasily, from one foot to the other. “I’ve just… never done it before,” Agrippine tacks on, voice dropping to a low mumble by the end. Or maybe they have, and don’t remember — but is there a difference if they find themself searching Régis’ eyes for reassurance that he knows what to do as the music swells and the orchestra begins?

Couples around them begin to sway, and Agrippine’s knees begin to buckle. They lean against Régis for support before they collapse. “Are you sure about this?”

__

‘No, they haven’t‘

“Perhaps if you smiled more they would.”

It’s a joke said with heartless humor. He feels them dig their heels in, which is no matter. Régis has enough confidence for them both, more than enough strength to pull their small frame across the marbled floor if need be. His grip on their arm grows a little tighter, almost ready to lift them up - and it wouldn’t be difficult at all, would it? To simply lift and glide across the room, cutting through the dancers it as they were a boat on still seas. But Régis doesn’t miss the hand on his waist and his grin grows a little deeper, a little more self-satisfied, at that.

“Oh, mon petit chou,” he taps their nose with a forefinger when they face each other, “you don’t have to tell me you’re bad at dancing, it’s rather plain to see without you saying anything at all. Your grace on a horse clearly doesn’t translate - but don’t worry, that’s why I’m here.”

The music swirls around them, taking the shape of a melody with four quarter beats. It’s a simple enough dance with a lively tune and Régis easily remembers standing on his father’s boots, holding his father’s hands, as he learned the steps on the cobblestone streets of Côte d’Opale in his youth. It’s a commoner’s dance and if he could learn this as a child there was hope for Agrippine yet.

“Besides, do you hear that?” He says, releasing them for a moment to point to the orchestra. “It’s common time; one of those gavottes her Imperial Majesty began allowing in Court once she took the throne.” Calandre’s little renaissance had not spared the ballroom either. Régis found it fascinating that the Empress would gladly stoke the flames of such free thought while completely shackling - or even beheading - others that strayed too far from a certain ideal. It stirred an anger in him, but one of the rare sorts he was rather good at concealing (there weren’t very many of those.)

“The dance is of farm folk, so I’m sure muscle memory will kick in sooner rather than later if it hasn’t already.” He continues. “Aren’t you lucky that we have an Empress that insists on such an egalitarian cultural resurgence?” There’s just a touch of something to these words of his, on Calandre’s title more than anything else - but the sentiment is quickly lost to the dance. The dance pushes them close and then pulls away, and Régis follows as the music dictates. It’s his understanding that the flower-giving and the kissing had been taken out of the gavotte when it was lifted from the dirt fields of Celestine and placed in the jeweled court of Val Faim, but he thinks that it would be amusing to suggest this tradition to Agrippine nevertheless just to see the look that crossed their features. He has to admit though - he’s pleased when they lean into him for support. Smug that Agrippine has given in and and smugger still that he gets to play the part. 

Régis cocks his head with some shade of amusement when the question pushes past their lips, his own eyes blinking with some cruel mirth from beneath his mask. 

“Sure about what, spending a dance with you? Do you think I dislike you that much, Agrippine? What has possibly given you that impression?”

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 - 

Alain has been coiled in his own unease for the better part of a week and in many ways the explosion is the exhale he is looking for. Hippolyte’s blood is wiped from the marble of the Summer Palace with startling efficiency, though Régis is a man who rarely believes in the lasting power of blood. Names are what linger. And sure enough, while Hippolyte has been plucked from this world, his name still lingers on the lips of those who slip through the Underworld. It’s rare that the recently executed’s name is unaccompanied by a mention of Widrowem and there is still the push and pull of supposition - whether Hippolyte was there to gain favor in Calandre’s court for their neighbors or spill her blood - like the frothy tides of Celestinian Sea.

It is this state of unknown that Régis despises. Whether it be one, neither, or both, he simply wants to know. When the explosion occurs his own mind jumps to that which he cannot see. He isn’t far from the epicenter, close enough that he feels the shakes of it, far enough that only a few items are knocked from their positions on the shelf of his room at La Cour de La Reine. He feels a familiar singing of magic in his blood as it happens, the quickly strummed notes of a harpsichord. They implore him to move, just as a decorative vase comes crashing down on the exact spot he was standing in seconds before.

His first thought, when he learns more specifics on Henri and Amelie, is that the their placement is too convenient. Any good illusionist knows that in order to pull off a trick, your eye must be led away from the true point of deceit. This eats away at him as the city the realigns itself in the wake of the destruction. Over the next few days, nobility isn’t as discrete as they like to think themselves to be. When gossip is a currency, aristocrats suffer from the same sort of greed all men do. It reaches Régis’ ears quickly enough that his dearest cousin is being sent in Calandre’s place to make the rounds and sooth the heckles of those at Court. Any family worth their weight in gold and silk and opals would most likely be receiving a visit to their estate.

When Régis learns of this, he doesn’t acknowledge the slight sense of relief he feels settles in him. If Cecile is well enough to make personal visits, she most likely wasn’t anywhere near the explosion. There are few people Régis cares about, fewer still that he grows genuinely concerned for. By the nature of her station in his life, by the ties of lineage that bind them, it’s possible that Cecile is the only person in all of Celestine that could make him think twice about proceeding with his own selfish desires. In the end he would end up doing what he wanted to do - as he always did - but Régis supposed there is some significance to that slight wavering of consciousness, like the briefest flicker of a flame. 

So Régis makes his way to Cecile’s place of living and bribes the footman of her carriage, a face’s he’d only familiar with by sight not name, to grant him access. Régis positions himself so that he’s there, sitting, grinning like a cat, when the door to swings open. Indeed, Cecile doesn’t look physically affected or hurt by the explosion and that is good .