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luminousbeansarewe · 4 years

Text

wandering stars

ch 18: what’s taken away

pairings: none || rating: teen || characters: original characters, original clone trooper characters, b’arin apma, shaak ti

tags: um, combat? i guess?

chapter list

tagged: @yourbitchystudentartist @vultures-and-scavengers @tupdidtherightthing (message me or reply if you’d like to be tagged!)

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Kamino, Tipoca City, Clone Military Education Complex, 21BBY

Behind her helmet, Sol Tannor’s eyes flickered between points of data on the heads-up display on her visor. Live rounds whizzed overhead, a strange precipitation she’d grown nearly desensitized to. Crouching behind cover, she and Grip surveyed the data they had.

“I think that turret’s mobile,” the clone said, his voice crisp through the commlink in her ears. The full kit for commandos was new, shiny, and much more enjoyable to drill in than the old practice suits they’d had up until very recently. “The blasts are coming in at shifting angles.”

“You’d think,” came Twofer’s voice from where he, Swift, and Stone were all crouched behind more cover nearby, “they’d give us a few mortars for the final kriffing test, seeing as we’ll have them in the field.”

“You just like blowing shit up,” Sol muttered, and it would normally have been in better humor. But something just wasn’t right— and hadn’t been for a while. She felt like her awareness was dulled ever since she’d accepted the chip that Nala Se and the Kaminoans had made; while it had cut her pain down a great deal, which was a relief so profound she couldn’t describe it… something else was off. She felt a little outside her own body, and her sense of incoming fire had all but vanished. Her muscles always felt a little slow. And sometimes, even her emotions seemed blunted. Not bottled up, which was a default state she had finally begun to let go of. Just as though there wasn’t as much of them as before. That should’ve been a relief, too, maybe. But it wasn’t.

“I think we should use a V-form, but two of us can split off and come at them from both sides,” Swift suggested. “Let’s not overcomplicate things.”

“There’s an air turret, too, though,” Sol reminded him. “Can we get two head on, two flanking, and one for cover? Swift, can you take it out?”

A helmeted head popped up over a crate nearby, then vanished just before a targeted plasma blast could hit it. “Yeah, I think so. Can’t waste a second, though. Might pop up just behind everyone else, if you’re willing to draw its fire.”

“These things are too fast. It’s kind of ridiculous that we don’t have any ordnance,” Twofer said. “I mean, really. Nothing but Deeces? And vibroblades— lot of kriffing good they’ll do.”

“We’ve got what we’ve got,” Sol said, “and we’ve got each other. Let’s nail this, boys.”

For all her feeling very strange lately, Sol had managed to step into her own in a way that the clones had noticed. And, given the success they’d seen in spite of increasingly difficult training, they respected it. On Swift’s call, they sprang up and dodged blaster fire, forming exactly as they’d discussed. Swift’s first shot sent the high turret sputtering.

“Atta boy Swift!” Grip called as he fired at one of the moving ground turrets.

“On your six, Cronos,” Swift replied, following his teammates as they pushed forward. At that moment, as a trail of fire followed close on Towfer’s heels, Stone suddenly crashed into the moving turret from behind, crushing its top portion with his bodyweight and just shy of thirty kilos of armor.

“Shit, Stone! You really got it!” Swift laughed.

“I noticed they seem to respond to weapons fire before movement,” the larger clone said, chuckling. In this way, the commandos-in-training managed to dodge and weave their way through the Citadel program, outsmarting every gun and droid they came across, hot-wiring a doorway under fire, and finally reaching the last room where the blinking rod that was their final goalpost was up atop a little terraced pyramid… with a mess of airborne blaster droids between them and it.

“Stealth part’s over, squad!” Sol shouted. “Time to bum-rush them and take cover!”

“Seriously? No grenades for this?” Twofer was beyond just complaining now, as their fire battered into the floating droids before they ducked beneath nearby crates. “That seems rigged, somehow. On top of no way to do rapid entry back at that doorway, which ruined our time—”

“Can it, Twofer!” Swift was beyond worrying about it, though he would’ve agreed that the sheer risk level and lack of standard equipment going in was starting to feel a little suspect. “Now we know what to do if we ever run out!”

“Always looking on the bright side, vod,” Stone murmured before he sprang up, took out a droid, and ducked again.

“Twofer wouldn’t let us run out if he could help it,” Sol added, eliciting a chuckle from more than one comm. If she wasn’t quite feeling the usual flush of joy at their camaraderie, she could at least help them feel it. “I’m pushing the line up. Anybody wanna ride with?”

“Hell yeah!” As she ducked forward around the crate, firing at the hanging droids, Grip and Swift joined her in a dash up to the next nearest stack.

“Hey, wait for us!” Twofer and Stone came next. They both managed to take out a droid. Sol held in her distant worry that she’d barely managed half the targets she usually dropped. And her knee was, inexplicably, starting to hurt. A sharp, stabbing pain shot up from it in flashes with every step.

Suddenly, she looked up and realized a half-second too late that one of the droids had come around behind them with an almost baffling amount of stealth and was taking a shot at Swift. Before she could shout, the blast seared into his shoulder, and he let out a strangled yelp before he pointed his blaster at it and dropped it then and there.

“Swift!” she shouted, cursing her reaction time, cursing everything. It was like her bones were made of lead.

“I’m okay,” he growled, clutching his shoulder. “I still got a left arm.”

“You’re our cover fire now, unless we’re really screwed later,” she informed him. “Keep that sniper arm working, verd.”

“Got it.” Sometimes he still pushed back on her, stubborn as he was, but thankfully this was not one of those times. “You should push up, we’re halfway there.”

“Are they supposed to do that?” Grip murmured, eyeing the sputtering, toasted droid on the floor.

“Most droids aren’t that smart,” Twofer replied, an edge creeping into his tone. “And something in our HUDs should’ve spotted it if we didn’t. I don’t like it.”

“We’re commandos,” Stone said. “We’re meant to be pushed hard. Joke’s on them, right?”

“Yeah.” Grip’s grin was back, she could hear it. “Let’s waste ‘em and clear this thing. Wanna rush ‘em all the way home?”

“Quick ‘n dirty will get you shot, Grip. You in a hurry?” Sol wasn’t feeling like watching any more of her teammates get wounded that day.

“There’s only three left,” Twofer pointed out. “With Swift covering, we might just get them all in one go.”

Sol didn’t like it. These droids were fast. Faster than she could remember them ever being. If she was honest, the fact that the boys were starting to suspect just how unusually disadvantaged they were came as a relief. She hadn’t been sure it wasn’t just in her head, along with everything else that felt different.

“Humor me and only push up halfway, please,” she said. “Let’s take them in two, and double our chances.”

“Fair enough. On three.” Grip’s fingers counted, and all but Swift leapt out to rush up to the line of cover that was more or less halfway to the pyramid.

One droid hit the ground. Twofer groaned, clearly disappointed. “I hate this. This is reg stuff, not commando stuff. We’re supposed to sabotage things, not tackle lines.”

“Surely at some point we’ll have to do both,” Stone said, eternally practical. “Let’s not waste time.”

“On three again.” Once more, Grip counted. The last two droids dropped, but not before one managed to singe Twofer’s boot.

“Kriff!” he barked, jumping and then holding the injured foot up off the ground. “Somebody get that kriffing blinker!”

Sol took that as a sign that he’d be just fine, and turned to sprint up the pyramid steps. Needless to say, more little turrets slid out of the structure itself, pinging laser cannon at the cadets.

“Osi'kyr!” she exclaimed, managing to step hard on one of the barrels just as it emerged beneath her foot. The laser it had meant to shoot got stuck behind the bent metal, and a little explosion rattled its insides. “Now, this is getting on my nerves.”

“Just now?” Twofer asked dryly. But she was at the top, taking two huge strides towards the little control panel to slap the button and turn the whole exercise off. A buzzer rang, muffled by the noise suppression sensor inside her helmet, and she caught her breath as the turrets below retracted.

“Yeah!” came shouts below as the boys raised their rifles and fists. “Well done, Sol!” Beneath her helmet, she smiled hugely.

“Yes, very well done.” The voice was behind her— and before she could turn, something slammed into her back and knocked her forward onto the blinker pole and its control panel, pushing the wind from her lungs. She clattered to the side and rolled onto her back, gasping for air.

Above her stood B’arin Apma, holding a WESTAR-35 blaster pistol so she could see down the barrel. Instinct and adrenaline kicking in like they never had in any battle sim, she jerked her head to the side to avoid the first shot and swung her leg around to swipe at his. She was almost shocked that it worked, and Apma clattered to the floor in a percussion of armor.

A commotion had arisen below, shouts of dismay and disbelief.

“Sarge! What are you doing?” screamed Swift as he moved forward from his position.

“Sol, he can’t hear me, I’m on the squad channel,” Grip said. The helmets were soundproofed, so the external speakers could be turned off to let the soldiers speak between themselves. She was hauling herself upright, pain pulsing out from somewhere deep inside her chest with every inhale. “What the hell is going on? Is this supposed to be a joke?”

“That’s it!” Apma was laughing, scrambling up almost in unison with her. “There’s that Mando spark!”

“Are you out of your mind?” Sol was baffled, horrified— though, maybe after his little attempt at a pep talk a month ago, she shouldn’t have been.

“Go right so I can take a clear shot at him!” Swift’s voice came through the comm in her ear. She blinked several times, letting the HUD slip her into the private channel.

“No, Swift, his armor’s beskar. It’s blast resistant. Don’t bother.”

“What the kriff are you gonna do, then?”

As if in answer, she took a nearly point-blank shot at the sergeant’s pistol hand with a flick of her wrist. Finally, she thought, her reflexes were starting to make sense again— for how long, though? The WESTAR jerked out of Apma’s grip to the floor, tumbling down the pyramid steps and throwing sparks like rain around it as it went. But as soon as it was gone, he’d jerked his other one— of course he had two, she thought— from its left-side holster and aimed it at her. They both stood still, barrels trained on one another.

“I challenge you to best me, Sol Tannor. No weapons. Hand-to-hand only.” His voice, even from under his T-visor helmet, was almost maniacal. “This is the way.”

Suddenly, it made sense. Apma was here to prove something to her, something about her Mandalorian blood, as though he could inspire loyalty in her by making her fight the traditional duel of their— his people.

Her father’s belief that such an ideology rendered them all fools in the end rang in her ears.

“Fine,” she said, blinking her speakers back on, voice surprisingly even. “But no harm will be done to these men. Just you and me.”

“Of course. But they cannot help you, either.”

“That’s fine, too.”

“Now, wait just a minute—”

“Stand down,” she cut Twofer off. Blinking her way into the squad channel again, she added, “Wait for my signal.”

She wasn’t a Mandalorian, after all.

Holding up her hands, she placed her Deece on the ground. Apma followed suit, and they descended the pyramid to a relatively open space below.

“I’m gonna try and get a signal out somehow,” Grip said. “There’s gotta be a way to get security in here. No kriffing way this is protocol.”

“Be careful,” she urged him as she and Apma crouched and began to circle one another. Never more than now had she felt the sense of drag on her movements, though her anger was starting to bubble up, finally. And every step, every breath was painful. But that, even at such intense levels, was easier to cope with than the feeling that she was moving underwater.

Apma sprang first, which she’d anticipated. She ducked away from him, resuming their stand-off. When he lunged again, she feinted and rammed her shoulder plate into his and pushed him aside, sending them both spinning. But the man was a seasoned Mando, and he was barely shaken by the spin, rounding on her with all his strength and knocking her onto her back with his palms against her chest plate. He was trying to come down on top of her and get her into a hold. Even as she grit her teeth and felt a new pain stabbing her lungs next to the other one, she kicked upward with her plastoid boots and sent him flying over and behind her.

“Ouch,” came the low voice of Twofer over the comm. “That had to hurt.”

By the time she was on her feet again, Apma had managed the same. He was matching her at least, but with the strange disadvantage she’d so recently acquired she knew she’d flag sooner than later. They danced around each other, each dodging the other’s strikes. It was wildly hard to accomplish anything through his armor, and she knew she was better off wearing him out than anything else. On the next lunge, he landed a kick to her stomach plate with his armored knee, knocking the wind out of her again despite not knocking her off her feet.

“Okay, that’s enough!” Swift had finally lost his patience, and took all of one step before Grip lunged out to grab his shoulder and stop him— and a sudden burst of plasma caught Grip right in his solar plexus. Sol’s eyes flew wide open, his gurgling howl ringing in her ears as she spotted yet another blaster in Apma’s hand.

“Hut’tuun!” she snarled, hauling with all the fury and strength she had left into the Mandalorian’s torso. This time, the blood-red eruption of her anger seemed to propel her forward. Another shot rang out, but it flew harmlessly towards the ceiling as she knocked him over and strained her pained knee into the gap between his left cuisse and his crotch plate. Her right arm was braced across his chest, and the hidden vibroblade sprang from her left gauntlet to sizzle less than an inch away from his neck beneath his helmet. She almost didn’t hear the boys shouting, or Stone come up behind her to slam his foot onto Apma’s knee with a grisly crunch and point a blaster at his head. Finally an alarm was sounding, blaring through the room and the halls beyond it. Distant shouts rang out, and the doors of the training hall slid open.

“You’re lucky I didn’t kill you,” she hissed to Apma. “If Grip dies, I will kill you. Promise.”

“You broke the code,” he breathed, straining back fruitlessly from the blade that was so close it was warming his skin. She could hear the blackened fury, the burn of his defeat in his voice.

“Shabuir,” she spat, “I told you already. I’m not one of you. You should have listened.”

“A great pity, Sol Tannor. You now have powerful enemies.”

Her golden eyes might’ve borne holes in his helmet, had a cluster of clone sentinels and Shaak Ti herself not arrived at that moment.

“What happened here?” the Jedi demanded.

“Oh, Sarge just got it into his head to attack Cadet Sol at the end of our run,” Stone told her evenly. “But you’ll have to ask him about that.” White armor moved around them, troopers taking hold of the man’s arms and tugging as though to signal that they had it from here. Retracting her blade, Sol slid off Apma and onto the floor, power draining fast from her body. Stone hung near her.

“Let’s get you all to medical before we do anything else,” Shaak said as she watched them drag the Mandalorian away, cuffing him in spite of his clearly broken leg. “And I’m sorry, cadets. This has never happened before.”

“S’alright,” Sol murmured, reaching shaking hands up to tug her helmet off her head and suck in cool air. “Is Grip okay?”

“Your teammate is already on his way to the med bay,” Shaak assured her. Nodding, Sol made to stand up. She was nearly on the ground again when Stone’s large hands caught her under her arms.

“Easy there, little’un,” he said gently. “You need a ride?”

“Don’t pick me up,” Sol told him between gasps, voice straining against the pain in her chest. She knew at least three of her ribs were dislocated or broken or both, and folding her torso might slip one right into her lungs. Which was the last thing she needed, after today. “Help me walk.”

Swift was on her other side in seconds, supporting her with his unwounded arm. By the time they made it to medical, Sol’s vision was starting to blur.

“Hang on,” Stone warned her. “Up y’go.” And she was lifted up and laid ever so carefully down onto a bed. Finally, she saw the pinched face and massive eyes of a Kaminoan doctor.

“Get Nala Se,” Sol rasped out between labored breaths.

“Excuse me?” asked the doctor, as if she misunderstood.

“Get Nala Se and tell her I want this thing in my neck out by the time I wake up. I won’t last a day in the field like this.”

“Oh, my—!”

Before she caught the rest of the Kaminoan’s surprised reply, a curtain of darkness fell and swallowed her.

#star wars fanfic #swtcw #the clone wars fanfic #clone trooper ocs #b'arin apma #my fic #my ocs #cronos squad

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freyalor · 6 years

Note

Word prompt- Ducks! The campus ducks have been out in full force today and are actually adorable, so ducks are somewhat on my mind.

This hasn’t been an easy one. But @lustigs-maerchenland has been pushing me up to the challenge for the very specific reason that you gave the same prompt to both of us!

So here’s my piece! Have fun comparing!

A few deaths too many.

Fandom : History of FrancePairing : Louis/RichelieuDate : 1632Words : 3KRating : G

Blam!

Thedeafening gunshot makes me jump, gasping a little, and I force myselfsteady by crossing my arms tight.

Thesmell of powder hurts my throat. I hide my flinch with a sharp cough.

Nextto me, so close I can see the small clouds formed by his breath inthe raging cold, he yells in triumph, handing the musket back toTreville.Far away, somewhere beyond the poplars, a bird fallslike a stone, giving a series of faint thumps as it hits the radiantfoliages of early autumn.

Thehunting squires immediately spur their horses and disappear into thewoods in search for the small body, and soon enough one of them comesback galloping towards us, brandishing a lifeless bunch of feathers.

-“CongratulationsYour Majesty!” The boy exults as he presents the dead bird to him,head first, paws tucked back.

Itis – itwasamagnificent mallard, vibrant with lively hues of green and blue, hisbeak a masterpiece of bright yellow. A beautiful creature, just asGod has wanted it, well, until a musket bullet, made to piercethrough steel armours, tore a good half of his insides open wide.

It’snot even fit to be consumed. It’s dead. That’s all it is.

TheKing still turns to me, beaming joy, his dark hair flying wild uponthe nasty October winds, and I silently thank the bird, for what it’sworth, for having at least made this man happy. Times have been roughwith him lately, his duties forcing him twice to execute a man whoused to be very dear to him. Marillac, last August, andMontmorency, last week.

Myefforts have been numerous - andthey can be, trust me, of quite various natures– inthe hope of bringing back that smile to his lips, but my Louis is ahunter, and though he can never be indifferent to my wits andaffection, eventually, sooner or later, his pain has to be healed infresh, warm blood.

Hegestures at the dead duck with radiant pride, and I nod subtly,bowing to his deadly aim.

Helaughs, then, spins around and reaches out for Treville. The Captainreloads the musket in six expert moves and hands it back to theKing.

-“Splendidweapon, Captain!” Louis praises, and the Musketeer clicks hisheels.

-“Indeed,Your Majesty.” He muses. “A few of those in my regiment would bequite a blessing.”

Withthat, IknowTrevilleis looking at me. That’s why I very ostensibly avert my eyes.

ForGod’s sake we have talked about this a thousand times. The treasurywill never allow me to give such an expensive weapon to each andevery one of his trained dogs. They will be kept for the Royal Army’sinfantry, and that’s final. His boys spend more time running aroundwith pistols and swords than handling any kind of musketsanyways.

Trevillegrunts something under his breath, and I’m not sure it isappropriate, but I know better than to spoil my King’s newly-foundjoy with pointless bickering.

Holdingthe long, delicately chiseled weapon firmly in his arms, Louis keepshis narrowed eyes to the skies, and what he’s waiting for doesn’tfail to come. Indeed, a wave of dreadful cold has crashed uponFrance from up North, and we are in full migration season. Theskyline of Versailles is constantly crossed by graceful formations ofducks, escaping the cruelty of winter for the warmer climate of theMediterranean Sea.

Ilook up to marvel at the V-shaped battalion gently passing over themeadow. The birds follow their leader in perfect synchronicity,calling each other by sharp, modulated cries. I have seen amonghumans, I fear, less orderly regiments.

Iwon’t admire the birds for long. Louis is already clicking thematchlock, aiming, firing.

Blam!

Ijump again, biting my lips upon a whimper, cursing my nerves one moretime.

Thebirds squeak and scatter in confusion, disappearing from our sight inmere seconds. Two of them won’t have this chance, spiralling to theground in broken trajectories.

-“Ha!”Louischeers. “Have you seen that? Two of them!”

Again,the squires ride around. Again, horribly mutilated ducks are proudlybrought back to us. My King discusses the efficiency of the musketwith Treville some more, but as he turns to me, it really seems theonly thing he truly hopes for is my approval.

Andmy approval I gladly give, speaking my admiration for his skill,restraining my speech since he despises obsequiousness or fawning. Heseems to like my choice of words and laughs softly, making my heartswell in inescapable warmth.

Iam glad, I really am, to see him naturally blissful, comfortable outthere in the open, away from the palace of lies the Louvre willalways be. But I fear that beyond the pleasure of the hunt itself,this wild, feral man is also trying to impress me with his aim, theway the tradition of his bloodline most surely dictates.

Asif my love for him wasn’t granted forevermore.

Asif it could depend on a sad row of tattered birds.

Ifeel flattered, truly, by his will to draw my attention, and thereare indeed other men, in other places or other times, who would havebeen seduced by his unquestionable ability, but I have seen so muchblood pointlessly spilled upon French soil in my wretched lifetimethat even those ducks feel like a few deaths too many.

Soas Treville takes back the musket, reloads it with the same deftcompetence and returns it to Louis, I wish I could give the nextbirds a warning. I wish I could spend one month of my life, oneweek, one day, without seeing something die.

Butthe meadow is well-chosen and the time of the year is perfect, so, ofcourse, merely minutes after the last gunshot, a smaller yetcolourful flock of ducks appear over the hunting lodge’s roof, and Ibrace myself, hugging my own chest, squeezing my eyes shut.

Blam!

TheKing roars. Isigh.

Anotherdead bird is laid down with the others upon a plain table behindTreville. Another artwork of nature is reduced to a pile of bloodiedflesh and broken bones. I can bear the sight of that forlorn featheryheap for so long before my stomach sinks, and I need to lower myeyes.

Iknow I have no right to look aside. I’m just being a hypocrite. Ihave signed, ordered, and designed more destruction than this musketcould ever cause. My hands are stained with the blood of moreinnocents than any hunt could ever kill. But precisely becausethe cries of those I had to sacrifice to forge a nation worthy of myKing will haunt my nights until I die, I cannot stand the blood ofthose sinless, graceful creatures.

It’snothing more than a few deaths too many.

Asthe mighty gun is thoroughly compared to the flintlock or the heavypitchfork musket by a very enthusiastic Treville, the King spotsanother group of ducks over the Eastern woods, and snaps for theweapon to be reloaded.

Oh,please, Louis, just let them fly,I almost implore, but this sorrow I feel is but the whim of mytrouble nerves again I am sure.

Unwillingto ruin my King’s cheerfulness I keep my gaze on the ground, betweendead leaves and burgeoning mushrooms, tightening my coat around myshoulders, waiting for the killing spree to end, trying to chase awaythe ghost voices of my own damnation.

Ihear the scattered cries of migrating ducks approaching steadily, andI already bite my lips to muffle my whine at the next gunshot.

Somany deaths, so many souls. Fallen like stones upon French soil,their guts torn open by wars that needed to be waged. So many faces,so many names, waiting for me on Judgment Day, with their revengeupon their lips.

Enoughbullets, enough blood, please, Louis.I could not, in any way,love you more than I already do.

Theducks fly closer, the wind is clear. Poplars whistle under the timidOctober light, but the thunder of gunpowder, it doesn’t come.

-”Cardinal?”

Ihave a start, my eyes snapping open, and I look up with a dry gulp.

MyKing is there, his musket suspended mid-air, watching me with aworried frown upon his soft, youthful brow. Treville, over hisshoulder, is staring too, more resigned maybe, in front of what hemust think as one more dizzy spell of mine.

ButLouis knows me more than this. He knows me as I know him, more thanhis own body, more than his own soul. He gauges my face, glances atthe ducks above, and meets my eyes again.

Ilower my head, biting my lips, ashamed to be too troubled to feelenticed by his demonstration, crushed, all of a sudden, by howdifferent we’ve always been. The flock passes right over ourheads, so close he could kill three of them in one shot. He’d be soproud, he’d be so glad, overjoyed to prove his worth on somethingless gruesome than a real battlefield. He’d yell injubilation, as the instinct of his bloodline surely dictates, butthat gunshot, itdoesn’t come.

Ilook up once more to see him exhalea long, shuddering sigh instead, and the grip of his musket gives outa muffled sound as it hits the ground between his boots.

-”Youwill never be bloody simple.”He just mutters under his breath, watching in irritation the birdsfly South with disciplined serenity.

Whenthe ducks have disappeared behind the line of high poplars, he shakeshis head a little, and hands the musket over to Treville for the lasttime.

-”Thatwill be all, Captain.” He says. “Order the boys back to thestables. I will join you for dinner in one hour.”

TheMusketeer lets out half a smile. He’s frustrated, no doubt, by theuntimely end of the new musket’s inspection, but he has just beeninvited to the King’s table, and this must mean more weaponrydiscussed later.

So,all in all, he bows quite joyfully and lays the musket back in itswooden case before he runs off to gather the squires.

We’releft alone, my King and me, as the October winds ruffle the tousledfeathers of the four ducks he destroyed. He beckons me close with asharp tilt of his head, and I take three steps forward, until mycloak, as it flaps upon the cold breeze, comes to stroke his handsand arms.

Wedon’t touch, it would be far from safe, but his eyes upon me growsoft and warm, the way they do when we’re in his rooms at night, andit’s enough to cut my breath in pieces.

-”Ifmy hunting skills only fill you with horror,” he whispers, low,dreadful, seductive,“how am I supposed to charm you?”

Ioffer a quiet smile, then, the one I know he likes.

-”Louis,”I breathe, feeling more than I see the deep shudder he always haswhen I speak his name, “don’t worry, you just did.”

Hefrowns again, panting a little, his cheeks taking a colour the coldweather alone cannot justify, and I lift one finger, pointing at theskies above Versailles, where a thin line of peaceful birds cross themeadow in gentle calls.

-”Withthe duck you didn’t kill.” I tell him, and the sound of hislaughter hunts down the ghosts of my crimes just as surely as hisfine musket would.

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