philippedonadieu-blog

[philippedonadieu-blog]

herxtiic:

He found himself comforted as always by his presence, and as Philippe hazarded to prayer despite his specific requests, the corners of Tristan’s lips quirked up unbidden, eyes still closed. “Bastard,” he teased with another soft smile. “What would you do if I were clever enough to stay out of trouble?” His voice was warm despite its weakness, and he opened his eyes to meet the dark gaze of his friend. “No, I’m not,” he amended, quietly, nearly carelessly, but there was a shadow of something in his expression that revealed more weariness and fear than he would ever allow to be explicitly shown.

“Nothing,” he reassured him softly. “Just a little company.” He turned his head more fully towards him. “They say they’re uncertain when I’m to be allowed out,” he griped. The darker consideration of how much mobility he’d have didn’t pass his lips. “Can you believe that? I can’t even track down the idiot who shot me. What is the world coming to?” His words were light-hearted, no will for true revenge in this instance evident upon his face. He was aware that they balanced on the precipice of war with Spain, and that this might have tipped them ever closer. As much as he wasn’t amicable to those who shot him, as a rule, he didn’t want the deaths of thousands of his countrymen.

It was irony, of the highest order, he’d consider later. He had trained his entire life for battle, but when the opportunity presented itself, he hesitated at the thought.

“Mm, probably,” Philippe joked, shrugging a shoulder. Without the barest hint of his parentage, Philippe assumed bastardy was a likely story. “Perhaps then I’d get to try my hand at trouble,” he suggested. It was hard to tell who was the better subject of such a joke. Perhaps it was Tristan, given that trouble seemed to have attached itself to him like a shadow. Or Philippe bore the brunt, for his sheer ineptitude at discovering trouble even when it laid itself politely at his feet.

“Someone shot you,” Philippe murmured in response, “what’s the world coming to?” Naturally, it seemed like a risk given Tristan’s occupation. And his newly elevated position. And his responsibilities at court. The list stretched onward in Philippe’s mind, yet he refused to treat it with any semblance of logic. Whatever the fact were, the only one that mattered was that someone had decided to shot his friend. Someone wanted him, specifically, dead. There was no logic to be found in that.

“If only there were a single other Frenchman with a speck of interest in locating your would-be killer,” he parried, even as the dark thought of war crept into the back of his thoughts. Swallowing the bleakness, Philippe considered Tristan as he twirled the rosary between his fingers.

“Whoever it is, you don’t seem to hate them?” It came as part-question, even as Philippe seemed entirely convinced. Some part of him exalted it, whatever it was in Tristan that pardoned another over the question of his own life. However Tristan chose to think of it, it felt like grace.

“Why now?” he finally asked. The choice of target seemed obvious enough. And priests heard plenty of rumors, digested the concerns of a restless public. But, perhaps foolishly, Philippe had hoped they couldn’t truly have stumbled so close to the brink, not irreparably so.

Little Sheep Dog || Tristan & Philippe

[philippedonadieu-blog]

Being Death provided little downtime. However, inhabiting the body of someone who rightfully belonged in the ground allowed for a stunning array of recreational options. Thanatos wasn’t necessarily acclimated to smelling the roses. Neither was Philippe. The foot they now shared, driven by the murky coupling of their personalities, wiggled almost imperceptibly underneath the table even as everything else remained utterly still.

Having miraculously walked away from a gunshot wound he had no business surviving, Philippe had been compelled by everyone who had ever known his name--or read it on even the most basic of military documents--to go home, get some rest, you’ve earned it. It had been nearly a month since he’d returned to Paris on leave. He itched to leave, to be somewhere else, to feel more.

At the prickling sensation of being watched, his foot stilled. He could feel something infinite about the other. Another immortal. The realization carried less intrigue than usual. Paris, he had realized up returning, was at present swollen with immortality. Still, he glanced up as they drew nearer.

“Have we?” Philippe replied, not impolitely. He couldn’t immediately place the figure before him. He squinted up, examining the face haloed by the afternoon sun. Memory was a funny thing. All of Philippe’s recollections slid around among a hundred thousand lifetimes of others. He sifted about for the right one. “Forgive me. Remind me where I’ve had the pleasure?” he smiled, setting aside his anthology with a wave of his hand that morphed into an invitation for the empty seat across from him, “I’ve got time.”

Then he realized what had drawn their attention. The butterflies, of course. For his part, he rarely noticed them unless his attention was called to them, usually by the wide eyes of a nearby child. Setting aside his anthology, Philippe gently lifted a particularly marvelous blue specimen from his sleeve and offered it up. With a shake of his shoulder, not unlike a horse, the rest fluttered to a planter hanging from the fence.

“All the more so for their emphemerality,” he agreed, teeth escaping into his smile as he wondered just who had approached him. And what, precisely, did they believe they’d come across?

Death be not proud || Herbert & Philippe AU

@philippedonadieu

Her recent shift in routines meant that Astraea started spending less and less time on the streets in the morning, but she still takes her increasingly rare moment of early rising to do a healthy jog around the neighbourhood, which always includes a visit to her newfound and favourite bakery and ends with her swinging by her original work place. A modest though popular café in which she was previously employed and known to give the baristas generous tips as a guest.

This morning was no exception, and the weather was far too pleasant that sleeping in would practically be a sin. Finishing her morning route and freshly exiting a small and elegant shop with a small bag of pastries, the goddess of purity traipsed along the bustling streets with a contented and polite grin on her face, eventually making her way to the café a block away from from a metro station which would usually be her passage home.

The café however, was more empty than usual. And instead of the fluttering of customers, something else caught her eye instead. Some other kind of fluttering.

She approached the figure sitting by a single table outside beside a fence, and only chimed in daintily when their gazes connected. “Philippe, is it? We’ve met before,” she smiled, her gaze drifting about as she was evidently distracted by the amount of butterflies that settled themselves on the seated man. Astraea knew he was no mortal, or at least not anymore, but she has yet to figure out the exact identity of the other, and although the butterflies seems to be giving out a direct hint, she can’t help but feel like she’s been led in the wrong direction. “I didn’t expect to see you. I used to work here.” She told him, flashing him another grin. “I hope I didn’t disturb you reading.”

“The butterflies—they are beautiful.” She commented softly under her breath, feeling obligated to address them, given how much they captured her attention.

[philippedonadieu-blog]

“I’ve seen so many young men over the years who think they’re running at other young men.

They are not. They’re running at me.”

- Death, The Book Thief

Mythology AU: Philippe as Thanatos, death personified

the inevitable:

Name: Thanatos

Current human form: Philippe Donadieu

Age: 26

Height: 6′ 2″

Born: Paris, France

the inescapable:

Occupation: combat medic (former), hostage negotiator (current)

Residence: Paris, France + frequent travel

Parentage: orphan

Languages: all; commonly French, English, Spanish

Skills: singing (particularly evoking emotion); recognizing immortality and life span; granting instant, painless death; soothing, unnaturally persuasive speech; inspiring thrill-seeking, risky behavior; startling strength, iron grip

Other notable traits: perennially cold hands; while many wild animals avoid him, butterflies tend to land on him if he sits still

the gritty details:  

Thanatos takes over the lives of those who should have died, those he deems particularly worthy. Philippe was a combat medic, then a hostage negotiator. Deemed by his comrades to have particularly good luck, Thanatos rather enjoyed the boy who cheated him. Besides, Than always held a particular fondness for children who entered the world at the same moment their mothers left.

The longer he evaded death’s grasp, the more Thanatos respected Philippe. He sat in rooms and listened to Philippe talk people out of his arms. But one day, luck ran out. A cowardly bullet should’ve been the end of Philippe Donadieu. However, Than found this too inelegant to allow.

As long as Earth has known death, Thanatos has walked among her inhabitants. He’s accustomed to being an unwelcome presence; sometimes even among immortals he is misunderstood, feared, and hated.

He is not necessarily a god. As Death Itself, he finds himself in contact with gods from all manner of pantheons, including those who wield him as their weapon of choice. Among the gods of death, there are those that have particular affection for him and others he disobeys wherever possible. 

When collecting a soul, Thanatos is invisible to mortals who are not dying themselves. Immortals, however, can still see him.

Able to sense when a being will die, he can detect other immortals in his presence.

When walking among mortals, a sudden drop in life expectancy will catch his attention. Often, Thanatos intercedes on their behalf. He’s been seen stepping on the shoelaces of children toddling too close to the street on more than one occasion.

He represents merciful death, with a gentleness that echoes his twin brother--Sleep. When he is required or forced to manifest in other more violent ways, Thanatos will sometimes rebel.

Depending on his mood and the nature of the mortals around him, his presence can incite increased risk-taking.

His brother twin brother, Hypnos, frequently joins him on Earth. But not this time. Thanatos rarely mentions him, but can hardly sleep these days.

[philippedonadieu-blog]

chasseuseartisane:

“Liar.” Marie’s lips quirked into a more natural smile for just a moment. “Who takes the priests’ confessions when he lies?” She knew what he’d meant, and she felt very much the same. The children at the orphanage were a part of her life, a part of her family. The children didn’t have much, but they had Marie’s love, and she was certain most of them saw her as something of an older sister. 

But she was too quickly reminded of why she was here. 

She knew confession was inviolable, but this wasn’t a confession, which is where her concern stemmed from, or at least a part of it. Talking about everything that had happened, everything she felt, she knew it wouldn’t be easy, and she’d feel like she was doing the wrong thing just by speaking the words. But he kept trying to reassure her, although she was sure he didn’t realise that at least one sentence made it worse. “There’s really no one that can help me.” Even if she went to someone who would believe her, trust her, she knew nothing could actually be done about it. “Except Him, of course, but I’d rather He helps those who need it most.” The children, Rene, there were so many people she was more worried about. 

His promise was enough for her so she nodded. “Merci. All I need is for someone to listen. The rest, I’ll just have to hope for the best.” If no one could help, she’d just have to have faith. Before, that’d always been easy, and although her faith in God wasn’t shaken, her faith in people was. 

Once inside his office, Marie took a seat, smoothing out her skirt to try avoid talking for just a minute longer. She didn’t know where to start. Where had everything first started going wrong? When she’d met Bert? No, she’d been defending herself from a thief, that couldn’t be her fault. Trusting Simone and Fernand? Perhaps, but Marie couldn’t help but think the fault did not lie with her for that. 

“It’s all very complicated.” Marie tried to sort her thoughts out. “Things have gotten so… messy, I suppose. A tangled web, and it’s not something that can be fixed, not by me anyway.” She met his gaze, hoping this wasn’t a mistake. “People keep letting me down. Or I keep trusting the wrong people.” 

Smiling in spite of himself, Philippe bowed his head in concession. “I’ll assign myself something suitably dreadful as penance, don’t worry,” he promised with a chuckle.

The smile slid from his mouth at her next words. Naturally, his gaze traveled towards the sky, as if the ceiling above were entirely invisible. But Marie spoke his thoughts even before he was required to articulate them. Philippe bowed his head once more in agreement, bolstered that she at least had faith to carry her through beyond any human influence. He refused to say anything so pithy as to suggest that God saw fit to grant Marie particular trials because of her strength. Or that He had time for all. He did, of course. And Philippe felt certain she understood as much without his intervention.

“Always.” The word was as assured as Philippe’s future, one full of listening, one promised to cradle the secrets of others. But it came easily, as if to suggest she had truly asked for nothing at all. Philippe charted a roundabout course to his desk, pausing to straighten several books on the floor-to-ceiling shelves as his finger trailed their spines, attempting to let her collect her thoughts.

When he did sit down, he was struck by the peculiarity of it. There was something striking about the starkness of it all, listening to a confession--or, something equally solemn--without the gestures at privacy built into the confessional. Philippe pulled a deep breath into his lungs, nodding his head. Complication seemed to be a given.

“Is that to say that there is something--someone--involved who could fix it?” he asked curiously, as a distinction from helping, “or perhaps that it could be repaired, to some extent?”

“The former, I should think. Believing in another person can hardly be your fault,” Philippe ventured next, however naïve a sentiment it may have been on its face. “It’s a testament to you and it makes more severe any betrayal.”

Messy. Irreparable. His thoughts leapt, unbidden and wild, to a memory over a decade old: Tristan’s face in the light of a burning abbey, blood on both their hands, spattered on their clothes. The metallic tang of it flooding his lungs. A phantom echo of betrayal, as he’d perceived it at the time, burned in the back of his throat. For the longest time in Philippe’s youth, it had all blurred together. The death of the Abbé, Tristan’s leaving afterward: it was all one crisis of faith. Philippe swallowed the memory. Nothing more than a wry smile crossed his face.

“And so, whatever happened, this was someone you believed in?”

Innocent Eyes || Marie + Philippe

[philippedonadieu-blog]

❝ The fear of death follows from the fear of life❞

Philippe as Thanatos, the God of Death

[philippedonadieu-blog]

simone--baptiste:

Simone eyed the little boy as he rounded the corner, though her focus latched onto his sister, Catherine, who hid behind a book shelf. While not something she broadcasted to those outside of the Court of Miracles, Simone tended to go to the orphanages to teach the young girls there how to read and, in some other cases, offer them a couple coins for information. The girl was one of her students, her intelligent brown eyes smiling at her as she clung to what looked like the book from the shelf.

“You’re practicing with these books?” she asked her. Catherine nodded and stepped toward her, whispering how her brother, Olivier, had over heard something. Smiling down at the girl, Simone gave her a sol. “Come to me later.” Olivier dashed down the hall and his sister was quick to follow, calling a brief farewell as the priest she had been looking for appeared a few moments later.

“So you are here,” she stated as she followed him toward wherever he was going. “I had been looking for you for a while.”

At his mention of the rosary, she glanced at the beaded necklace in her hands and shrugged. “I found it,” she said simply. After a moment’s pause, she murmured, “I just came to talk. I…It’s true that if I were to give a confession, you’re not allowed to say what I’ve confessed, yes?”

“Please accept my sincerest apologies for the time you’ve had to spend here,” Philippe drawled, glancing sideways at Simone. “Speaking of... pass many days at the orphanage, Mademoiselle?” his gaze traveled as he spoke in the direction the children had vanished, “how Christian.”

Lips arcing almost imperceptibly more, Philippe raised a brow at Simone’s casual dismissal of the relic between her fingers. “In a pocket?” he suggested with airy politeness.

The smile only retreated from his face at her mention of confession. Philippe weighed the request. Since arriving in Paris, he thought, he must have collected more secrets than in his entire tenure at the Abbey. Of all the surprising voices to reach him through the screen of a confessional, Simone’s had never been one. Philippe was certain. He wondered again about the rosary.

“Aspects of confession are reserved for Catholics,” he said finally, stopping in his tracks to look at her, “absolution, namely.” The unasked question hovered in the air: are you?

Philippe ran a hand through his hair, studying the woman in front of him. She, like any other, deserved honesty. “Simply put, you’re correct. No priest may violate the seal of the confession,” he eyed Simone closer still, trying to eke some understanding from her inscrutable features, “if it reassures you, the punishment is excommunication.”

Guilt | Philippe & Simone

[philippedonadieu-blog]

chasseuseartisane:

Is everything alright?

The simple answer was no. Oh, she wasn’t hurt, not physically. She wasn’t in any immediate danger, that she knew of, and nor was Marian or the orphanages Marie loved. But nothing was alright. Marie decided to wait until they had privacy before she answered him. “The children are all well, don’t worry.” The smile she gave him was one of understanding. If he’d come to visit her, she’d immediately worry that something had happened to one of the children.

She started walking in the direction he’d gestured, twisting the edge of her sleeves in her fingers. While fidgeting was a habit she held even at the best of times, it’d become more noticeable lately. She used to be able to hide it, so that she didn’t look so restless and wild, like her aunt used to accuse her of being.

“I needed someone to talk to. I couldn’t think of anyone else.” She was too frank to hide that from him. “I was wondering, if I tell you these things, will you treat it as sacred as confession? You won’t tell anyone? Even though it’s not a confession. I’ve done nothing wrong.” The last sentence held a hint of heat in them, defiance that anyone could think otherwise. While she was no saint, she’d had to go to confession before, it was never for anything too serious. “I just… I don’t know who else to talk to, but I can’t keep it all to myself.”

Marie hated asking for help, she hated feeling weak. She’d always preferred to tackle her problems herself, but this was all getting to be too much for her. She felt like someone had set a trap, and she’d walked straight into it and now she couldn’t move without being hurt. Keeping it to herself wasn’t helping.

Philippe’s shoulders relaxed slightly with Marie’s reassurance. “Then I won’t worry for them,” he said though they both knew this was something of a lie. Still, his smile spoke gratitude despite this impossibility. Worrying after them had become a secondary occupation, a habit whose roots sunk so deeply into his life that Philippe could look at them, happy and whole before him, and still worry. He’d more said it to politely imply that he remained troubled for another involved in their conversation.

Falling in step beside her, her hands caught in his peripheral vision. He’d never noticed the gesture before. In fact, Philippe had never had cause to consider Marie’s hands in general. Thus far, they been most notable when disappearing--he’d initially noticed them in the realization that she stitched pockets into her dresses. They wound the tension between his shoulder blades with their minute persistence. He folded his hands behind his back to stay them from tangling with the crucifix around his neck in automatic sympathy. 

He listened in silence. Aside from an initial bow of his head out of gratitude for such trust, his face remained impassive. It was an automatic reaction to the suggestion of confession, the practiced step away from judgement. Once she’d finished, Philippe considered for a moment longer. “Confession is inviolable. You’ve done nothing wrong, as you’ve said... If you tell me in confidence some burden that stems from the sins of another who is unrepentant, they aren’t naturally protected,” he admitted, “if you ask me to treat this as confession, I also cannot tell anyone else who might help you.”

They reached the door to his offices and Philippe’s hand rested lightly upon the ornate handle. He watched her expression, wondering if perhaps there was someone else who might have some more earthly ability to assist her. “I don’t want to know that you are in danger and that I can’t do anything,” he continued.

“But my duty isn’t to what I want. If you would like, I’ll listen. I won’t tell anyone what we discuss-” he crossed himself with his other hand and touched his crucifix, “I swear, just like confession.”

Innocent Eyes || Marie + Philippe

[philippedonadieu-blog]

herxtiic:

He stirred, turning to the faint sound of a voice beside him. Slowly, Tristan’s eyes opened, blank for a moment before understanding finally dawned. He was in Tuileries, in the palace, and he was as safe as he could be for what he had been thorough. Slowly, he willed his own hand to move, smoothing down over his own chest, his entire torso swathed in bandages. When he turned his head, he saw Philippe there, and an exhausted smile touched his lips.

“Don’t you dare pray for me, mon ami,” he teased quietly, his cough weak that followed. “I do not think that God is much in the business of doing favours.” After a long moment, he reached out, resting his hand lightly on Philippe’s. His skin was tacky and a bit overheated. “Still, I’m glad you’re here. I’m not very good at dying, and nor am I good at sitting still. A distraction is always welcome.” He closed his eyes, summoning strength. “Are you here for last rites, or out of optimism?”

Philippe’s voice faltered at the rustling sound. His eyes trailed after Tristan’s minute movements, following his hand as he discovered for himself in one fell swoop what Philippe had been slowly observing since entering.

“Lord, please grant your servant, Tristan, enough sense to understand that his request comes several years too late,” he continued pointedly, a smile leaking into his plea. His voice was bolstered by the teasing air, even the attempt at it putting him at ease. That was Tristan. “But no more sense than required, please, Heavenly Father. For then he should be ruined and I’d have no use for him...” Philippe continued the rest of his prayer in near silence, watching Tristan as he mouthed more solemn syllables. His gaze suggested that Tristan could hardly hope to prevent such a thing. The hand caught Philippe by surprise. It was surprisingly warm, a bright point of contact where it collided with his own. He gave his friend’s palm a squeeze.

“Well, you’re not dead,” Philippe observed calmly, as if suggesting that perhaps God had managed a small favor. One for which, it was apparent even behind his attempt at lightheartedness, he felt particularly grateful.

“We’re so blessed your sense of humor remains uninjured,” he deadpanned, “you’ll have to do with the latter, as I don’t habitually smuggle the body of Christ in my pockets.” Still, Philippe twisted about in his seat to take in what else the room contained. “Can I get you anything?” 

Little Sheep Dog || Tristan & Philippe

[philippedonadieu-blog]

“Father?” Philippe glanced up, smiling at the child who hovered at the threshold of his office. He was from the orphanage, but he and his younger sister seemed to prefer stealing away to Saint-Eustache whenever possible. Old enough to be allowed out in their free time--or perhaps reaping the benefit of too few adults to mind the constant swarm of children--they would suddenly appear when Philippe rounded a corner, standing on one another’s shoulders to fetch books off the shelves. Philippe couldn’t say he blamed them. The orphanage was bustling at any hour, noisy even when the children were asleep for the sheer number of them under one roof. But the church, outside of services and festivities, was blanketed in a gentle hush.

“There’s a woman looking for you-” the boy, Olivier, hesitated a beat. Then came a critical piece of information: “a Baptiste.” Conveniently forgetting to illuminate just how he’d come to memorize the hierarchy of the Parisian underbelly, Olivier dashed down the hallway.

Eyebrow raised, Philippe stuck his head into the hall. Olivier had disappeared without a trace, but the priest smiled in seeing that the boy had been right about their visitor.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” he inquired. He gestured politely that she was welcome to join him, eyeing the rosary. “That wasn’t on any of your supply requests,” his lips curved into a smirk, “it’s lovely.”

Guilt | Philippe & Simone

@philippedonadieu

Despite Simone’s usual aversion to church, even she had to admit that the place had a strange peace about it. The soft murmurs of prayers and the quiet way the priests moved around seemed to calm her mind, even though she knew that this place was not one where she should relax.

The only reason she bothered coming in today was because she heard that the Cardinal was not there today and she wanted to speak to Philippe. It had been over a week since she killed the spy and while she mostly managed to brush everything under the rug, she couldn’t help but feel off. She spoke to Fernand about it briefly, but she wanted to hear someone else’s opinions for once.

She walked down the pristine hallways, the stolen rosary hanging from her fingers as she looked around for the priest. “Philippe?” she called out in a hushed tone. Her voice echoed off of the empty halls, wondering if she was unlucky enough to go to the church on a day where he wasn’t there.

[philippedonadieu-blog]

Little Sheep Dog || Tristan & Philippe

@herxtiic

The news stumbled into Philippe’s consciousness unexpectedly, folded into the undercooked center of an otherwise unremarkable side conversation. They came dripping from the mouth of an equally uninspiring bishop.

Tristan, how tragic. Shot. Grievous injury. How curious.

It was all wrapped in a tone that carefully walked the razor’s edge between pious and indulgently judgemental—Philippe had to remind himself to maintain the same benign expression he had worn throughout the rest of a meeting. After all, Armaud brought him to these meetings to observe. He was a lone speck of stark black in a pool of lavish purples and His Eminence’s blood red—not intended to be seen, really, let alone heard, amongst whatever business the Church conducted in the walls of the palace.

The Bishop paused to pepper his gossip with a series of appropriately sanctimonious invocations of God and His will while taking bites of crumbling pastry. Of course he was fucking eating, Philippe mused uncharitably. His knuckles grew white on the chair, willing himself to remain seated. Otherwise bereft of reaction, he mined the portly clergyman’s speech for more detail. He stared at a crumb on the man’s brilliantly purple shoulder for fifteen minutes. A recess was called, as if their meeting were somehow strenuous. Philippe slipped through a gilded door.

He navigated the palace via a mixture of the Bishop’s vague description and the direction of several guards. Some recognized him from his regular appearance in the Cardinal’s wake. Others, perhaps, recalled seeing him walking the halls with Alexander. It occurred to Philippe only when he arrived that perhaps it all should’ve been concerning, the willingness of so many working in the palace to help shepherd a priest to the place where Tristan lay. He paused at the threshold, hand jumping off the doorknob to perform a cross before he forced himself to enter.

Air temporarily forgotten, Philippe stepped over to the bed without a sound. The silence surprised him, noticeable only in its sudden shattering by his own deep breath as he realized Tristan’s chest was still rising and falling stubbornly. Philippe’s mouth twitched. Tristan looking the same as he always had when asleep. Paler, perhaps, and blanketed in opulence, but he was the same to Philippe. His friend’s name caught in his throat and Philippe forced himself to swallow it. He shouldn’t wake him. Instead, he allowed himself only a gentle sweep of his fingertips, pushing hair from Tristan’s forehead as he considered the Bishop’s words again: grievous, tragic. And Duc. He’d used that one as well, hadn’t he? Philippe tried to reconcile them with the prone figure of his friend. He failed. 

Stepping back, Philippe rubbed his own forehead in exhaustion. There was one convenient chair, no doubt the seat of many worriers before him, and he dropped into it. How many had known before him? Flinching at the thought, he raised a hand. “In nomine Patris-”

[philippedonadieu-blog]

Philippe saw her enter before he himself crossed the threshold of Saint-Eustache. He caught the figure from the corner of his eye. Marie slide through the doors ahead of him as he hovered, sharing the last of a warm baguette with the dog that had taken to finding him each morning and following him about the streets wherever the day carried him. Philippe had been sizing up the mutt, contemplating how much trouble it would be to get enough water to bathe it and let it sleep on his floor. He was running the already-made decision through its paces when he realized that he recognized the dress that had vanished into the church.

“Until tomorrow, my friend,” he murmured his companion. He gave the stray one more scratch behind the ears before turning inside, curiosity piqued in recognizing Marie. While she’d appeared before, he knew she frequented her childhood church. She had never appeared among the faces he gazed upon while reciting mass. His immediate instinct, much like the very first time she’d appeared in Saint-Eustache, was to wonder about the orphans for whom they both cared.

Stepping inside, Philippe glanced around at the various believers deep in prayer. Crossing himself, he stopped short at Marie standing not too far within the doors. Closed eyes were hardly out of place within those walls. But something in Marie’s expression unsettled him and he bit his tongue, unwilling to interrupt her.

“There’s no such time,” he reassured her easily, straightening his collar as if settling into her words, into standing beside her like it was precisely where he’d intended to be. “Are you- is everything alright?” he asked, eyes tracing the angles of her face. They weren’t so familiar to him that he could say for certain that anything there was out of place. Still, he gestured towards his own offices, with their merciful silence and walls that functioned in the opposite manner of those grand echo chambers where they currently stood. He couldn’t fathom that she’d wandered all the way there simply to bask in the splendor of the building, however beautiful it may have been.

“Were you searching for something in particular?”

Innocent Eyes || Marie + Philippe

Marie needed someone to talk to. Of the people she trusted, only one knew what had happened, and she didn’t want to tell the others, for too many reasons to count. They’d worry, they’d feel conflicted. No, it wasn’t their burden. But she didn’t feel like she could talk to Marian about it. His temper had been under control for so long, but this entire situation made matters worse. She knew he’d wanted to confront Bert, even if that meant taking on the entire Red Guard, but she’d begged him not to. She couldn’t lose her brother too. 

It didn’t leave her with many options. Her priest, a kindly old man who’d known her since she was a little girl, was just another of those who’d worry, and with his age, she didn’t want to cause him any stress. He had a mostly peaceful congregation, something like this wasn’t something he could understand. 

It was when she was distracting herself with the children from the orphanage she realised there might be another option. Philippe. The children adored him, she’d found it easy to talk to him, even if that’d been about old wounds that had healed over years ago, not new like the fears that had wormed into her mind. 

Marie stood inside the church with her eyes closed, trying to convince herself this was a good idea. It felt a little strange, planning to talk to another priest instead of the man she’d been confessing to for the past twenty years. Back then, her confessions had been little things like eavesdropping or fighting with Marian and the neighbour’s boys. She’d gotten into trouble for both more than she should have. As she grew older, the confessions about her temper stayed very much true to her past, but the rest fell away.

Hearing footsteps, she opened her eyes to look at Philippe, taking that as a sign that she shouldn’t just walk away. Marie thought she’d drown in her fears if she didn’t speak to someone, and she knew just how easily she could fall into loneliness if she let herself. It’d been hard work, pulling herself together after the loss of her parents, and only Marian saw through the smiling facade to know that she was more fragile than anyone could tell. 

“I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.” Even if her mind was made up, Marie knew she’d end up winding around the subject at first, at least until they had some privacy. She hated to talk about things that upset her, even when it was necessary. She’d focused on the more cheerful things for so long that it’d become a shield for her. 

@philippedonadieu

[philippedonadieu-blog]

based off this incorrect quote

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chasseuseartisane:

Marie watched with satisfaction that she’d gotten the size right as he tried the gloves on. “Oui, he’s very clever, that one.” Marie nodded in pretend solemnity before smiling back at him. “Merci. The children like you, so I thought you should know it’s appreciated. Jean simply suggested it first.” Marie knew that the circle of adults that geniunely cared for orphans was very small, so as the unofficial big sister of orphans, she took it upon herself to be eternally grateful for each additional one.

“To the orphanage?” Marie was a little surprised by his question until she remembered that he had not been going as long as she had. While she didn’t hide the adoption, she rarely actually spoke about it unless asked. “My brother and I were adopted. I was just a baby, had no name or nothing except a ring, when I was left at the orphanage. We could have easily been one of those children if it weren’t for our parents, so… we try help when we can.”

She shrugged slightly, not liking to make a big deal about it. It simply meant a lot to her family, it wasn’t something she did for the gratitute or to improve their chances of getting into Heaven, although Marie knew people who performed small acts of charity for either or both of those reasons.

“Well, I suppose he and I will keep up our reading,” Philippe mused, as if Jean had managed to buy off another few months of affection with his gesture.

Philippe’s lips quirked at her answer. It was a nice, simple. There was no underlying sense of obligation, nothing of the specter of duty or charity not for charity’s sake. He supposed people assumed he went there for work, as if the priesthood doled out specific tragedies for each abbé to take under his wing and make of particular concern. But his smile was mostly for the sudden familiarity of it, the sense of sitting next to someone who had just revealed herself to be more like him than he’d known.

Still, Philippe considered his own luck to border on absurdity. The first time he’d visited an orphanage had been at age nine after he came to live at the Abbey. And, in seeing the reality, he ran. So perhaps now his constant visits were, in part, a subconscious penance for unwittingly escaping the same fate.

“I was left in the forest,” he heard himself say, “and my family’s cook found me. They kept me, rather than send me away.” His eyes turned briefly upwards, as if baffled by the cosmic alignment that had led to him not being lost in infancy in the shadows of ancient trees. In angrier moments, he wondered what sort of people left a baby to the woods at all. Better an orphanage with no shoes, never enough beds, surely. What sort of human, he wondered, would do that?

“They sound wonderful,” he said, clearing his throat, “your parents.”

Merci || Philippe + Marie

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herxtiic:

The click of the door closing behind them set his teeth on edge, nervousness suddenly coursing through his blood. Not that he expected it do, or truly understood the reasoning behind it. Philippe was one of the closest people to him in the world, he had always been able to tell him any adolescent secret that had been in his heart, hardly needed to in any case. They could sit in silence, side by side, and sense often what the other felt, or needed, in wordless understanding. 

Alone, out of all of his secrets, he had kept this one, and it rankled him that he had. Perhaps if he had shrugged it off casually when they were boys, it would not have been so great of a surprise now. Perhaps he had been foolish to think that Philippe might loathe him more than any other man due to the strength of his faith. He hadn’t been fair to him.

“For not telling you sooner,” he offered quietly, a loose shrug mirroring unhappy eyes, regarding him. “I can’t ask you to forgive me for something I cannot change, Philippe.” Tristan’s voice was soft, his gaze tired and troubled. “I know what people…what people say about this kind of thing.” He sighed, and dragged his fingers through his hair briefly. 

“I always have,” he admitted. “As long as I’ve known who I was attracted to, I knew I was attracted to both men and women. I didn’t always want to admit it, but there was only so long that I could hide who I was.” He hesitated, biting briefly at his lip, anxious, but he wanted to be honest, give Philippe the whole truth. “I—-I have a male lover now,” he murmured. “It’s a sin, I know. I’m not asking for acceptance.”

He raised his head, and looked into soft brown eyes that radiated conflicting emotions. “Philippe,” he began, hoarsely, and out of instinct, he rested his hand lightly against his shoulder. “Philippe, it’s me. You know me. This…this doesn’t change any of it.”

“…does it?”

Philippe hooked a finger through the chain of his crucifix, pulling it subconsciously from his neck to loosen a the grip of a collar he wasn’t even wearing. Some maid had kindly lit a fire. It crackled with obscene merriment in the corner and Philippe pivoted away from its heat. Tristan’s shadow was sprawled across the wall, stretching even onto the ceiling in the flickering light, and Philippe watched it shrug.

It hadn’t occurred to Philippe, in all his racing thoughts, that part of the pang in his chest was something separate from sin, from damnation or anything so earth shattering. It was just a broken heart, human and jealous and common. It was the sharp pain of mistrust. Tristan hadn’t told him. Hadn’t thought that he could. Somehow, Philippe had done that. He searched wildly for another moment in his life where he knew he’d made someone fearful. Nothing came.

“Perhaps it’s not forgiveness-” he began, slowly, “that you need.” Absolution was for envy, for cheating on your wife at cards, for lying or a hundred thousand other things that his parishioners dragged into his confessional. They shed the things they did like a second skin and left them for Philippe to worry over. Their sins were things they did, not what they were. They did not make apologies for being.

“They’d say you’re damned,” Philippe whispered, words leaking out of him. He wanted to swallow their sound. He wanted to gnash them into incomprehensibility, wanted to smother them until they could never be real. The muscle in his jaw spasmed, rippling through his cheek. “And I don’t know how to stop them.���

His chest felt tighten, the throb of his heart living in the back of throat. It was the same sensation that suddenly seized him in moments of solitude, standing among the gut-wrenching opulence of Armaud’s residence. It was all the things Armaud would never know about, all the seconds Philippe clutched tightly between his ribs and left only to God. It tasted like blood welling in his mouth from the many-ringed hand of a holier man bent on grinding the sharpness from his tongue. Doubt.

Philippe felt understanding shift beneath his feet like sand. Beliefs he was unwilling to sever bubbled to the surface. Every day he recited the same list of names: Alais, God rest her soul, Armaud, Herbert, Heloise, Helaine… Every day in prayer Tristan’s name lived on his tongue, on and on for so many years that they swallowed the time they’d actually spent together whole.

“Maybe it changes me,” he murmured finally, reaching out his own hand, “but no, mon frère.” It felt oddly small, Tristan’s shoulder under his palm.

“It doesn’t,” he promised, and something like a chuckle escaped him in spite of himself at the realization: “it couldn’t.”

“Wherever... wherever you go, I’ll go with you.”

kyrie eleison || tristan & philippe

[philippedonadieu-blog]

Break my muse in 15 words or less.

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simone--baptiste:

Simone raised an eyebrow at his greeting, the surprise clear on his face when she appeared. While it was nice to know that she could still seemingly appear out of nowhere, she was annoyed that he hadn’t been paying attention enough to notice her. What if she had been a thief instead–or rather a thief that would have robbed him instead of asking for favors.

“I don’t think so,” she said plainly, choosing to ignore the smirk on his face. The Church was full of the Cardinal’s men and the last thing she needed was for someone to recognize her and send word to him. At his motion for her to take lead, she started toward the end of the alley, already knowing of a place near a tavern that was safe for them to talk to.

“Nothing too serious,” she told him vaguely, not wanting any lingering ears to catch her words, despite knowing that the odds of someone overhearing her was slim at best. “But I think a priest like you should be able to take care of any problem I have.” She shot him the smallest of grins as she started toward the tavern.

“No?” Philippe replied, maintaining innocence, “rest assured it’s an open invitation.” Mademoiselle Baptiste, it seemed, shared her brother’s distaste for faith. He fell in step behind her certain footfalls. With this opportunity of her back turned to him, his brows furrowed at the thought of his world without such belief. It proved an impossible feat, severing himself from his own understanding. The idea leeched the color from the edges of the world, as far as his imagination was capable of carrying him.  

Her voice reached into the sudden thoughts, pulling him back before the threat of any suffocating depth. He rearranged his face into its usual pleasant, crooked smile. 

“I don’t have any holy water on me,” he retorted, considering the intersection of ‘any problem’ and ‘a priest like you’ before adding, “and you have more of my money in your pockets than I do at this point.” 

We Meet Again | Philippe & Simone

[philippedonadieu-blog]

✧

I would kill you. ✧ I would physically hurt you. ✧ I would attack you unprovoked. ✧ I would manipulate you. ✧ I dislike you. ✧ You annoy me. ✧ You scare me. ✧ You intimidate me. ✧ I hope I intimidate you. ✧ I pity you. ✧ You disgust me. ✧ I hate you. ✧ I’m indifferent toward you. ✧ I’d like to get to know you better. ✧   I’d like to spend more time with you.✧ I’d like to be friends with you. ✧  I’m unsure what to think of you. ✧ I’m unsure how I feel about you. ✧ You are my friend. ✧ You are my best friend. ✧ You are my mentor. ✧ I look up to you. ✧ I respect you. ✧ You are my hero. ✧ You inspire me. ✧ You are my enemy. ✧ You make me happy. ✧ I want to protect you. ✧ I would fight by your side. ✧ I consider you an equal. ✧ I think you are beneath me. ✧ I think you are above me. ✧ I would lie for you. ✧ I would lie to you. ✧ I would sleep with you. ✧ I would sleep by your side. ✧ I would hug you. ✧ I would kiss you. ✧ You are family to me. ✧ I would die for you. ✧ I would kill for you. ✧ I would trust you with my life. ✧ I would trust you with my most precious belonging. ✧ I would trust you with a secret. ✧ I would trust you with my biggest / darkest secret. ✧ I love you (platonically). ✧ I love you (romantically).