#p:herbert

There was a shattered realisation after the death of his father that there was now no buffer between himself and the expectations of greatness. It choked Tristan, weighed him down as much as the body of his father had, the hundred pairs of eyes that had fixed upon them both in startled horror. He had broken down in the most public fashion imaginable, pleading with his father to rise because he couldn’t imagine a world without him. Henri had always been a rather frightening, forbidding presence, always removed and often disappointed, but he had been his father nonetheless. So much of Tristan had revolved around him - pleasing him, displeasing him, subverting and making up his expectations. He had thought, naively perhaps, that eventually his father might come to forgive him for his faults, to stop seeing his brother in his place. He knew now that that would never happen.

He had, after the initial terror of the occurrence, acted as a good son. He had organised his father’s funeral with Alexandre, with all the pomp and circumstance that was appropriate for his passing. He had stood vigil for him, and had offered up a rare prayer, dry-eyed and pale-faced as a priest commended his soul to God. Meanwhile, his mind offered him no solace, and his dreams were haunted by questions of who had taken the life of the Grand Marshal, who sought to plunge France into war. Through his own actions, he knew that Spain and France were in delicate straits at the moment, although there had been some sympathy within Tuileries towards his predicament. He shuddered to think of who might have worsened it.

Fernand had returned to the tournament looking for Marie. When he woke and went to check on her, she was gone. He wasn’t entirely surprised, but damn it she wasn’t in a state to be walking around. He imagined what someone as stubborn as Simone would do, and then went to search the stalls for her. He wanted to make sure she was alright in the light of day, and also to make sure her attackers wouldn’t return.

When Fernand couldn’t find her, he began to think maybe she had just gone home. He got distracted, half watching the events. He had some things that needed to get done today, and he’d promised Simone he’d return at a reasonable hour so they could go over things. He was lost in his thoughts, trying to think things through for once. His eye fell on a flower seller, half smiling at the pops of color, permeating the air with a scent much better than the usual muck and filth. Marie might like those. They were sunny, and colorful, like her. He had been leaning against the corner of a building, standing up to push his hands into his jacket looking for his coin purse. It was just the thing to make her feel better, he decided. Simone couldn’t fault him that.

That’s when they grabbed him, pulling him back and into the alley, the cheers of the crowd and fighting obscuring any cries of shock he gave. His mouth was gagged, blindfolded as his head was shoved into a thick sack. No matter how he struggled, he couldn’t get free. There were too many hands. A fist slammed into his stomach, and he dropped. His hands were pressed together, tied so tightly the rope stung his wrists. He must have looked as if he were in prayer, sagging forward on his knees, hands clasped. The roar of the crowd faded as he was half dragged to what he assumed must be a carriage. Once inside a man grabbed his hair through the sack, pulling him up so he could be punched again in the stomach, followed by his face.

They’re going to kill me.The thought sprung into his mind, and he knew he had to get out of there. All he had to do was open the door, who cared if he fell to the street? He swung his arms out, striking someone. Gruff voices of the men called him bastard and traitor, and he kicked, striking another one of the men. At this point he was slammed into the floor, hands holding him down as he struggled and bucked against them. Is this what papa went through?

He had tried to keep a map of where they were in the city, but he’d lost track of the roads, twisting him around until he didn’t know which way they had come from. But then he heard it, the Seine. And bells, loud and close, from Notre Dame. He knew where they were then, following the new information to the garrison of the Red Guard. His stomach managed to sink even lower.

He was thrown into a room, his eyes still covered. With his hands tied, he couldn’t catch himself, hitting the ground with a heavy thud. A boot kicked him, and when he tried to curl up to protect himself, hands were grabbing him and pulling him straight again, kicking even harder. Their laughter echoed off the close stone walls, and Fernand’s spine felt as if it had been frozen. please, not again. Please, not this. They had tied his hands up over his head, looping the rope through a hook on the ceiling. His chin touched his chest, his head dangling down between his arms. There was ripping, and the feeling on air against his skin. “Looks like someone got to him before we did.”

Fernand tried to move somehow, hide the scars crossing his back. He had never shown them to anybody. They were a horrible reminder of what he’d already been though, and he hated them. For 12 summers he had sweated through the heat, keeping some sort of covering on his back at all times. But they were exposed now, for everyone in the room to see. A hand touched the skin and he pulled sharply away, to the laughter of the men. “Oh, the little bastard doesn’t like being touched, does he?” A hand grabbed at his face, the fabric rough against his skin as the grip tightened around his jaw. The gag had been a small mercy, muffling his cries of pain and giving him something to bite.

Young Fernand had been roaming the city, collecting coins and information. No one seemed to pay attention to children, though Fernand was getting to an age where he would soon not be a child anymore. He was still small and skinny, but his body was starting to change from a boy to the man he would be.

Whenever someone did notice him, he was fast, and could slip between the busiest of streets and crowds before disappearing into one of the many twisting alleys that made up Paris. But no one saw him when he wanted to pass unseen.

He’d been watching the young man, probably in his early twenties, for a while now. He carried himself like someone who could stand to lose a few coins, and Fernand was always happy to be of service.

He moved like a shadow, something that most people never noticed, but was always there. The man was foolish enough to wear his purse on his belt, which was an easy target. Fernand had a blade, small but sharp, that he was quick to use as the man was distracted. Slice the cords, grip tightly the bag, and run like your life depended on it, because it often did.

Valentin had been working with an intense focus since the execution of the musicians, had been working alongside his captain with even more dedication, which had been a shock to all who knew him because they didn't know he had anymore to give the Red Guard than he already had.

Valentin had respected his captain's request for privacy, even if it would make things simpler to just explain where he had gone, why he had returned to their garrison with a different horse. Valentin held a deep respect and affection for all animals, but he had a particular love for his captain's horse. He had become more withdrawn since the new horse had shown up, not fond of change. He liked his routine, liked to plan things out and know what to expect.

But the Cardinal had been taken. It was a mark of failure that he had disappeared, dishonor to the whole garrison, and if one man made a mistake it was a mark of shame for everyone as far as Valentin was concerned. Valentin had been working the ranks even harder in their morning practices. They needed to be better, and the recruits knew better than to grumble where Valentin could hear.

Any port in a storm, they say. Even a viper’s den. 

He wore no crown. He wore little riches, save for a few gaudy rings that heralded back to the obscene appetites of the Church. He sat back in a simple wooden chair with enough grandiosity that one would be forgiven nonetheless for thinking it a throne. His eyes, deep-set and almond shaped, accentuated with kohl, focused on the crumpled man that had been dropped at his feet. They did not hold pity, but neither did they hold malice. The closest emotion that they held, in the dancing light of Saint Germaine’s stained glass, was a lively interest.

He rose to his feet with surprising grace for his age, which could have been anywhere from his early forties to his late fifties and made his way towards Herbert, stopping right before his battered form. “They tell me,” he began, quietly, “that you were waylaid by some bandits. Lucky that my men were able to intercept them and drive them off, or I wouldn’t be able to cherish your company.” His voice was deep and calm, touched with a humour that was further punctuated by a flicker of a smile that touched his lips, quick enough to be a trick of the light.