#faimstart

𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐒   𝐀𝐑𝐄   𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓   ,   with   hedges   bracketing   the   world   in   even   rows.   The   slew   of   bodies   has   already   pushed   through   the   greenery—had   parted   it   in   two,   then   parted   with.   It   was   the   Val   Faim   way.   By   now,   it   was   branching   in   other   parts   of   the   palace,   just   a   wild   and   merry   crossing   over   the   evening   grave.   From   his   bench,   Matthieu   can   only   see   the   fallout:   snagged   bramble,   trampled   rosehip,   a   few   ribbons   thrown   over   trellises.   The   crowd's   glimmer   soughed   off   like   scales.   Something   to   be   said   for   creatures   left   alive   too   long.   They   outgrow   their   habitat,   in   the   end.   This   is   what   remains:   dead   skin,   dead   morals.   Garottes   of   silk   and   a   gallows'   aria,   where   the   man   doing   the   maiming   is   the   headliner   for   the   night.   Well—not   the   only   man.   Fortin   had   tendered   his   pound   of   flesh   as   well.

The   Chevalier   leans   his   sword   on   his   thighs,   blade   flat   with   the   earth.   He   scrapes   the   whetstone   over   the   edges,   careful   at   the   downturn,   over   and   over   in   the   gathering   dark.   The   lanterns   flicker   like   corpselight   around   the   gravelled   path.   Under   their   radius,   he   has   to   bow   his   head   to   examine   it.   Could   use   some   more   scrubbing,   if   you're   the   sort   that   balks   at   blood.   Could   use   an   oilcloth   on   the   hilt.   It's   hard   work,   polishing   off   a   man's   bowels.   It   wouldn't   do   in   a   parade;   wouldn't   do   at   all.   He   tests   the   cut   with   a   prod,   minding   his   fingers.   It's   not   his   best   blade.   It's   not   the   one   he   used   for   Auclair.   He   supposes   that   makes   this   killing   a   rather   humdrum   affair.   Not   much   of   a   novelty,   is   it   ?   Teach   a   mummer   enough   party   tricks,   and   the   thrill   deafens.   The   shine   rubs   off   around   the   dozenth   tumble.

He   picks   up   footsteps   down   the   alley.   Something   in   him   jerks,   and   something   stills.   The   Chevalier   schools   his   face   in   a   tight   pull   from   brow   to   chin.   He   levels   the   broadsword.   Squares   both   feet   around   the   hold.   The   movement   is   hewn   from   a   soldier's   bone,   and   so   it   is   soothing,   as   much   as   bone   can   be.   Matthieu   Samuel,   ringmaster   on   a   carnage   cabaret,   speaks   without   turning.

𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐅 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓 she sailed upon most days, wounds only scabbing over as the flow of time demanded it. Helene only looked upon the pyre and remembered the dead trying to claw their way from the ashes of the forgotten, the countless dead that she had cut down, the countless people she could not save. It was a wonder that she had stayed as long as she did. Brosseau was an unwitting patsy, and this was a needed show of force, but the flames seemed to burn brighter than they ever did, almost accusatory. And so, she looked. Better to drown in accusations from dead men than to give in to grief.

Despite the uproar that sweeps through court with magnetic force, a wind of iron & rumor,  the days pass easily. They burrow into one another, small, harmless creatures sleeping in the face of danger. It’s as if time itself had shucked its shell. Calandre has thrown a fit, they whisper, Calandre wept openly in front of the northern ambassador. Calandre has ordered the whole palace, the whole city refitted, swaths of organza and crates of pearls filling up the halls. Calandre has ran to the country, fled with her lover, booked a foreign ship. Imprisoned the royal painter for defying her will, for daring to sketch an unflattering profile. No, she merely sidelined them for dragging up the fetid sands of the Obsidienne, for tarnishing the peacemaker’s Eden with the promise of gathering hell.

Fiacre gives way to Maccius, and there is no end to the hearsay. In a way, he supposes there is no end to the heresy as well. Matthieu Samuel, who lives and serves at Calandre’s side, knows most of it is rubbish. Yet he is more worried about the truth hidden in the straws. It’s powdered in grains almost too fine to see, ground thinly even by the mill of Val Faim nobility, which spared no absurdity and no whit of sense. Faint, yes, but not intangible. There’s a kernel of something sharp in all that feathered chaff. Sharp enough that, if he were to clench his fist around, he’d come up with it bloody. He has no need to grow bloodier still.

And so, the Chevalier chuckles at it all. He tips his head and feigns thoughtfulness, feigns listening at all. It’s amiable or scornful, depending on who’s on the other side of the table. He sits through those garden fetes and afternoon teas, standing guard same as he ever did, with a gilded pommel and a scabbard hollowed by death. There’s only the promise of lethality to him, up there in the heart of palace. There’s only the caul of it over his eyes.

When he’s not posturing, when Calandre sends him off as if it’s a party favor, a munificent gift, he patrols the city and keeps up with the crowd. If not... relaxing, it certainly masks it well enough. He’s had little cause to regret it, until now. Today, the sun is too hot on his back, and the swarm of bodies feels more liquid than material. It’s not full afternoon until he has to duck into the nearest shade.

He finds some Hightown terrace narrower than the bend of a waist; likely a baron’s balcony, now deserted for the summer while the city gushes out into the country. He doesn’t see the fact that the table is occupied until he’s already up the stairs. As if this day needed to spew insult over injury. The Chevalier decides to make the best of it. If anything, it’ll save me a future talk. The number of people who trickled in the capital meant a list of new people to charm, investigate, or simply scare off.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐑𝐀𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 was something to behold, even more so the begging of the now deceased merchant Hippolyte Brosseau. Helene was never the squeamish one, but the blood that flecked onto the glinting stones of her heeled boots were something she was to clean, after standing so close to the spray. Executions were never en vogue during Calandre’s reign, but she does not say a word about it; only stern approval. The smokescreen of the death sent a message, an iron fist instead of a silken glove. It was delightful to watch Alain steely-eyed beneath the heel of the dead, if only she could have whispered something vaguely threatening in passing, the night would have been complete.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐀𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐓 were always some of the things that Helene had looked forward to, the gathering of courtiers and the craven, almost always one and the same. It is where Helene thrived, a game laid out where she was always the victor; multiple routes to the same conclusion. While it was never uncommon for a point of contention to appear, or an underhanded remark, she knew the dance of words well enough for someone else to stumble, for an opening to appear to where she could strike. If she were to be completely honest with herself, she enjoyed being here most days, allowing herself to flourish beneath the music and the opulence.

But having Calandre’s prized chevalier glowering beside her did take away from the whole proceeding, and that is something which she’ll have to remedy.