#versailles fanfic

[unclefungusthegoat]

Now complete! Thank you for all your support, it’s been wonderful! You can read the finished fic at the link above, or the final chapter under the link below!

Please see AO3 for tags/trigger warnings.

ILLUMINE

The Chevalier de Lorraine lies in his sickbed, keeping the first of two promises made. His lover is away at war. Fever wracks his body. Delirium brings dreams of the desperate and drowned. And the allure of laudanum promises to lead him sweetly to his grave.

Yet even after the darkest night, comes the dawn.

And with it rises an unlikely angel.

My take on the Chevalier’s opium withdrawal, and the birth of his friendship with Liselotte. Post S2/Pre S3.

Part One:  L’obscurité

Part Two: Le Rêve

Part Three: L’aurore (below)

Part Three: L’aurore

When he finally awoke, a gentle mist diluted the morning sun. It was an empathetic light, stirring him gradually with a wispy caress. The sheets beneath him felt clean and laundered, and the sweet scent of petals perfumed the air, carried to him on a soft breeze that peeked past the curtains. No doubt hiding the residual stench of death that he knew came from him.

But still, air filled his lungs. He could hear the birdsong.

And the pain had gone.

The Chevalier pulled himself up onto his elbows, feeling the muscles tremble weakly. The room was empty. No sign of the wiry haired surgeon, or ghosts foul and fair, or even a maid, arms laden with linen. Had it all been a nightmare? A terrible, agonising dream that had at last reached its end? Would Philippe come thundering through the door, like Zeus with epicene splendour, to linger at his Ganymede’s side? Would they once again be young and brazen, as they had been before the wars? Before the laudanum, the spy, the arrests? Before they had seen each other at their very worst?

He feared not.

He feared they would never quite be the same again.

But someone had placed a vase of fresh flowers within the room. The source of that perfume, that ambrosia of the air. Next to the window, upon a vanity, all green stems and thin leaves, with dainty clusters of pale yellow petals. At their heart, a flush of orange, vibrant and defiant. And the very sight of such beauty brought his spirit soaring, for those delicate, fragile flowers were imbued with a meaning, with a love far deeper than any he had ever known.

"Good morning."

The sound of her voice interrupted his thoughts.

Liselotte had appeared at the door, once again dressed in the silks and jewels of her standing. Like the Chevalier, she often chose blue, though she had more of a taste for periwinkle than the Prussian blues he usually opted for. Her hair was curled into her signature tight ringlets, and her cheeks were rouged a little… but the Chevalier could see the dark circles of sleeplessness beneath her eyes… and the looser fit of the bodice over her belly.

“Good morning.” He summoned in reply.

Over she marched, to lay a hand upon his brow, and he noted she seemed pleased with the result. Taking her seat beside the bed again, she watched him bring himself up to an almost seated position against the pillows. The effort of it made him gasp for breath.

“How are you feeling?”

“... less than rambunctious.” He groaned.

She nodded.

"Well, that’s an improvement on ‘one foot in the grave’, at least.”

He was intrigued by the way her knee was bouncing anxiously beneath her skirts. He didn’t believe her to be the shy type, but then he supposed they’d never actually spoken when he was sober (and his reputation preceded him, after all). Not once could he recall sweeping into her bedroom, or watching her dance the courante upon an evening, without a dash of… it… to help him endure. A strain within his temples flared if he thought upon it too greatly, for some of the memories were lost altogether.

Be thankful that is all that is lost.

In that warm, maternal tone, she was continuing, and he reminded himself to listen: “Your fever broke last night, so I've sent for some breakfast. You ought to try and eat something. You've lost more than a little weight."

His eyes made their way back to the mignonette laden vase.

Wondering .

“It’s good to see you properly awake. I’m sure you’re desperate to get out of this room, but Monsieur Fortin insists you stay in bed for one more day. Instead, I thought a walk tomorrow would do you good, and today, you could teach me to cheat at Meslé, and then we could both learn to play Cribbage . It’s English, so it’s bound to be dreadful. If you’d care to join me?”

“The flowers…”

A wry smile.

“Yes. I thought they'd cheer you up.”

He didn’t know what to say. What could you say to such a gesture? Mercifully, it was not long before footman descended to break the silence, with a silver serving dish of broth, fresh brioche (somehow still warm, despite the arduous route from the kitchens to Philippe’s rooms), orange slices, grapes, pastries decorated with strawberries and creme, and a decanter of drinking chocolate.

He watched as she carefully curated a small plate for him. His stomach complained loudly and he cringed at the sound of it, as if that were the greatest humiliation he'd endured over the long days he'd spent here. The dish was laid upon his lap, before she approached the feast herself. And it was then the Chevalier noticed his nightshirt was clean. Someone had changed him into a fresh one since he was last almost-conscious.

I owe her my life, he realised.

She was already tucking heartily into a pastry, licking creme from her fingers and humming in satisfaction. Quite unlike them all, he thought, and it made him smile. How tiring Versailles could be. How lonely, and how perilous. And here she was, with her woollen gowns and quaint matching hats, and the eating habits of a provincial innkeeper… and he could finally see why Philippe was so taken with her.

She was a maverick.

Just like us.

"You… you look nice today." The Chevalier murmured into his food. “That colour… it suits you.”

“I should hope so. You chose it.” She reminded him.

“Did I?�� He feigned ignorance, “Well, I suppose someone had to rescue you from looking as if you herd goats.”

She laughed.

“Between you and Philippe, it could be argued that’s all I do.” She popped a grape in her mouth, and chewed through her words. Eating for two already, the Chevalier surmised , as her plate boasted a sumptuous spread thus far, and became more spectacular by the word.  “You should know I wrote to him this morning, to tell him you’re through the worst of it. Hopefully it should reach him before he crosses the Dutch border. Ease his mind before battle.”

Battle. So Philippe truly was gone… and here he was, left at the mercy of the scandal-hungry predators that stalked the halls of Versailles, without his prince to shield him.

He’d often been told that pride was a sin, and it could not be denied he’d made a drunken fool of himself frequently since returning from Rome… but sometimes, such questions were a matter of self - preservation.

He cleared his throat.

“Does everyone know? Of my… immoderation?”

“Why? Are you hoping for a scandalous account in the gazette?” She grimaced at the look of bleary horror that crossed his face, as the sarcasm passed him by. “Sorry, that was in poor humour. No, I thought it best to keep it quiet. The King knows, of course. He and the Queen made rather a point of how they disapproved of my attending you.”

The Chevalier scoffed.

“I am sure Louis would prefer it if I didn’t recover. He considers me a nuisance, no matter how noble my intentions.”

“Perhaps. But I think he was pleasantly surprised you were keeping your promise to him.”

That Louis harboured anything resembling respect towards him was beyond belief. Laughable, really, and not even a generous stipend, or rooms in the east wing, would change that.

“Well…” He sighed, “Sobriety and truth are some of my more recent acquisitions. That and a new hatred for poetry.”

At last satisfied with her quarry, Liselotte returned to her bedside perch, laden plate in hand. He noticed her footsteps were soft and silent upon the parquet, where she wasn’t wearing shoes, and couldn’t help but feel foolish. Here he sat, so abashed, like a servant waiting to be scolded. Feeling like a stranger in the rooms he had long called home, while she… she, who he had once considered an interloper, had made herself so at home.

Here they sat, like soldiers at a fireside on the eve of war, ignoring the truth of why they both came to be there.

“Eat,” She urged when she saw he’d made no move on his breakfast, “Even just a little bit.”

Tentatively, he selected an orange segment, and nibbled at the corner. The sweet juice burst upon his tongue, sensationally tangy, offering to bring life back into his ailing body. And yet… What good did it do? That glorious, vibrant citrus, dragging him back to his life of gluttony and wantonness. What good would it do, without… without the final wrong being righted? Without a fresh start? Without this chapter, blotted with tears and bitter disdain, being torn from the manuscript and replaced with something new?

He swallowed the segment, and watched her a moment longer. Chewing on choux pastry. Pale, from many nights playing sentry at his sickbed. Slowly swelling with Philippe’s child.

Best to pull the splinter out before it festers any further.

“May I speak freely, Your Highness?”

Liselotte snorted.

“Since when did you feel the need to ask permission -?”

“Please…” His eyes grasped at her, begging her to listen, “... allow me the courtesy.”

She frowned. Casting a look over her shoulder, searching for intruders or interrupters, (perhaps a persistent Monsieur Fortin, or an ever inconvenient Bontemps), she set aside her plate in trepidation. Then nodded, unsure.

“Alright.”

A deep, shuddering breath.

Say it, Philippe.

Be brave. For once.

“I feel I must… explain myself. Apologise. Although,” He grimaced a shy smile, “now that I have begun, I’m not sure I know how to…”

She sat patiently, allowing him to gather his thoughts. The fog of sickness was still lingering, but as Philippe’s battalion would wade through the grime and detritus of war, so too would he find the words to justify his misdeeds. He hoped he would not mumble, would lend precision to his words, though so far his voice remained weak from days of disuse, and his hands, twisting at the bedsheets, threatened to expose his rising sense of discomfort.

The silence dragged, excruciatingly inarticulate, until…

“Him.” Liselotte offered, “Tell me about him.”

Yes.

Yes, he could talk about Philippe for hours.

Forever, if he could.

“Yes, I… I suppose he was the start… Is. Is the start. Philippe is… he is the light by which I walk." The Chevalier said, and the words, like the sunrise over the horizon’s brow, soon kept emerging, "He is my… dearest friend, my love, my keeper… my king. And we are entwined. Not only by choice, but by the world. They can’t ever pass judgement on Philippe for his deviancy,” He laughed ruefully, “... but I am quite the suitable whipping boy. A man of my unique position, must be on my guard in everything I do… because if I am guilty, he is suspected, and if he is suspected, I must be guilty. If I am disgraced, he is undermined. If I am ashamed that the world thinks me a heretic and a whore, I am ashamed of him too. Since I was fifteen, I have played my part openly, without restraint and without shame. We have both lived in spite of those who would destroy us.”

The shadow of the moment, of the past week, of the months, the years, of intrigue and treason and poison and death, drifted over him again, and his nerves wavered.

“But I am hardly perfect. Far from it. And in my imperfection… I have come to devoutly understand the fatal difference between us.”

“... Which is?”

“Is it not obvious?”

She gave no sign of predetermining his thoughts, simply waited for the answer. And as he did, he could not hold back the resentment . The festering bitterness.

“I am not a fils de France, Your Highness. My brother is not the king. We may pretend we are equals but we are not. I am…" He swallowed heavily, "I am beneath Philippe, and reminded of it constantly. If we overstep the mark, as we are wont to do, it is I alone who is punished. If Louis and Philippe are at odds, I am the conduit for retaliation. If I fall, from favour or from grace, I fall alone. And he…"

His voice betrayed far more emotion than he had intended, a dangerous crack threatening to surface.

"And he… will replace me. As easily as replacing an old handkerchief.”

He had never said it aloud before, not even to Philippe. And oh, how it hurt more than any laudanum ever could. That most crushing fear, that lingered like a tumour at the very heart of them. He tried to carry on, breath heaving in his bosom, “This past year, I have fallen further than I dared imagine. I made a mistake that should have cost me my head. I betrayed him, I admit it. But I was forgiven. Allowed home, for a second chance. And instead of our happily ever after, there was…”

The words failed him.

“Me.” Liselotte answered.

“Yes. You.”

He couldn’t read her, her face carefully arranged to give nothing away, like every noble lady who learned to keep secrets and opinions buried deep. Had he upset her? Given away too much? Was his every word poisoning her against him, as he had so feared?

“You must understand,” Desperation crept onto his lips, “Your predecessor and I were not friends… to put it mildly. We were like magpies, fighting over the same shiny coin. Neither inclined to share. I wanted Philippe. Henriette wanted them both. She’d been unable to marry Louis, and becoming the duchesse d’Orleans was the consolation prize. But still she took to Louis’s bed, and to Armand de Gramont's, who had Philippe’s affection before I… and then wondered why her husband couldn’t stand to touch her. All the while knowing who he is. Knowing his heart. She couldn’t bear to see him happy, when she wasn’t. We tormented one another over it, she and I. We forced each other to live in fear. And in the end, she was dead…”

A fleeting thought of the bloodstain, still ingrained into the wooden floor, inches from them. No amount of scuffed servants’ knees or soap could remove that lasting trace of the dying princess, who in her hour of need, had fled from her husband’s side and sought comfort in the chambers of the king.

“... and I should have been so lucky.”

“Philippe told me you’d been imprisoned.” Liselotte replied, reverent as a church mouse, and the fading dreams of the Chateau came flickering back.

“Yes. It seems sweet little Minette had begged the king more than once to lock me away, and he felt compelled to honour her final wish.” His face flushed, and he hoped the shine of the strawberries upon his lap would prove a convincing excuse. “I spent a month as her guest in a fortress off the coast of Marseille. Far worse than the sound of being quartered, it seems, is that of typhoid taking hold of men packed twenty to a cell. Far worse still… of giving up hope. Of finding comfort in… in….”

He gestured lamely at himself, at the result of it all.

Liselotte stared at him.

“Philippe… I would never do that to you.”

He wanted to laugh at her, in spite and petty disdain. He wanted to tear at her naivety with his nails, as if he were a ravenous wolf upon a hen. The old Philippe de Lorraine, the evil spirit of the Palais-Royal, surely would have.

But in those simple words, in honesty and promise, came a baptism. An absolution. A freedom unlike any he had known. And his whispered admission, shaking as those petals on those gifted flowers, was as true of heart as the princess who sat before him.

“I know.”

Outside the window, and in the passages beyond, Versailles was stirring. They were both long accustomed to the soft patter of servants’ slippers within the walls. But now a growing sense of haste impressed upon the air in the room, as if at any moment, the splendour that concealed them would fold open like origami and their confidence would be exposed before the entire court. He turned his body to face her.

“It has taken me to the very brink of death to admit it... but I confess I allowed envy to get the better of me. I allowed my fear to blind me.”

“You were protecting yourself-”

“I was making everything worse. I assumed you would be her. That we would be at each other’s throats for the rest of time. But I see now, I have been unfair to you. I owe you my life. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

There.

Fumbled. Inelegant.

But true.

She sat forward in her seat, the silk of her dress rustling in the silence. And, as she had done through so many restless nights, she took his still trembling hand. Warming it with patience and understanding. And it was not… offensive. Rather… grounding. As if she were a rope, tethering him to the mast in the midst of a careening shipwreck.

"Apology accepted."

Relief cast off from every inch of him, shucked off like a brocade cloak sodden with rain. He raised his eyes to the heavens and sighed. Returning a gentle squeeze to her hand in a silent declaration of gratitude.

"You must think me pathetic. Wretched, and troublesome, and a fool.”

"I thought no such thing.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you had. You’ve been far too kind to me, Your Highness, when I have not deserved it.”

“Liselotte.” She corrected firmly, “My friends call me Liselotte.”

He wiped at his sodden cheeks, and a laugh awash with scepticism escaped him.

“Is that what we are? Friends?”

"I told you. I'm not here to be your enemy. I’m not here to drive you apart."

The kindly embrace of the mignonette flowers, the flowers she had gifted, came over on the breeze once more, and he imagined his face, buried in that ebony hair. Kissing those porcelain lips, tasting the wax that tinted them rouge. He prayed for a miracle, that he would know such a paradise again. It seemed Liselotte felt it too. Saw his thoughts. For a whisper of a smile appeared as she watched him bear his heart.

“I saw straight through you, you know.” His eyes were closed, but he felt her wedding ring, cold against his skin, as she ruminated. “The ambitious maitre-en-titre�� attached by every part but the heart. I saw they’d all fallen for an elaborate charade. That beneath it all, you love him. More than anything.”

“That does not excuse my behaviour.”

“Maybe not, but it certainly explains it. Besides,” She chuckled, “Your heart wasn’t really in it, was it? I heard far worse back in Heidelberg.”

“Clearly I am losing my touch.”

“No, I don’t think so. I was very much warned of the Chevalier de Lorraine upon my betrothal. Even Louis thought to give some friendly advice on the subject, once I arrived.”

He couldn't help the triumphant grin that crept onto his lips.

“Did he use scoundrel, hellion, or reprobate?”

“All three. And you’ve certainly lived up to it…” Her eyes widened in recollection, “If one has a… a, what was it? Oh yes, a predilection for making assumptions.”

A faint memory, hazy words in a feverish dream.

“Assumptions”?

“Yes. On how welcoming your husband’s sweetheart should be to his new wife, so soon after being finally rid of the last.”

The sorrow and the fear had all but passed now, and they revelled in mirth like old friends.

“Ah, the years may pass, but we are yet to outgrow our youth.” The Chevalier sang, and finally felt that all was well. It was odd to have spoken so openly to her. Yet somehow he felt a trust he couldn't recall feeling since… well, since Philippe. She was now resettling his breakfast into his grip, and he was quite sure he wouldn’t be permitted to speak anymore without making an effort at it. Brioche seemed the safest option. It smelled heavenly - buttery, with a hint of brandy - and felt like clouds under his fingertips.

They ate in comfortable companionship, as conversation turned to lighter matters.

“I loved him the moment I saw him, you know.” He mused, breaking the brioche in two, “France’s neglected little princess, with flowers in his hair. I had to be patient, of course, but I knew I would do anything to have him. To keep him. After all, I have very little of my own. I’m the third of six children, a second born son, just like Philippe. Every year that passes, my homeland is amalgamated further into France. My brother inherited most of what my father left behind, and what little I was bequeathed, I squandered on gambling and clothes and wine.”

“Isn’t that what all middle children do?” She teased in return.

“Alas, no. I was destined for the army… or the cloth, if you can imagine that.” He felt stronger now, and took another healthy bite of brioche as he spoke, “My mother didn’t know what to do with me. Reluctant to take my place in the world, with a loose tongue, no fear of God, and a taste for fucking other boys. It is easy to forget here, Your High… Liselotte, but were Philippe and I not born as we were, the church would have put us to death by now.”

She winced at the thought, but he shrugged it away.

"There’s no point in dwelling on it. The only thing you have to worry about, my dear, is how they will judge you. For this.” He gestured to the air between them.

“‘The church?”

“ Always. But no, the vultures in the salon."

“Ah. Well, perhaps it’s my ‘funny German ways ’ talking, but I couldn’t care less about what the salon thinks of me.” She licked chocolate from her lips, “And neither should you. Although I’m sure it would interest you to know that most assumed your absence at court is respite after your heroics.”

His body ached at the memory of the act - the recoil of the pistol, shuddering through his muscles. The adrenaline, pounding through his veins, at the sight of Philippe’s glassy eyes and bloodied face. Young Sophie, weeping over the dead man, as if he were more than a fetid, plague ridden rodent, to be stamped out at the earliest opportunity. And what a fine shot it had been. A moving target, from thirty feet, fueled by enough laudanum to render most men unconscious. People should write songs and sonnets of it.

“Suppose it makes a pleasant change.” He cast his hair back, cavalier in his pride, “To be the hero of the hour…” He paused, “What did they say?”

“Hmmm, courageous, dashing, who’d have thought it-”

“No, no, not them. Those ploucs at Heidelberg. About you.”

“Oh, endless comments about my plainness. How marriageable I was, that I was a wild child and should have been a boy. I heard pretty much everything imaginable, sometimes even to my face. But to them, I would now say ‘Ende gut, alles gut’.”

He hummed in agreement, and with a knowing smile, she continued, “Ah. Du sprichst Deutsch?"

A commonality he had hoped to conceal. “Ja,” He admitted, with a reluctant sigh, “Ein bisschen.”

“Yes, I thought you might. From adjacent kingdoms to adjacent bedrooms. Philippe tells me you speak Italian too.”

"Less than impressively. Still, needs must, when you are cast adrift so far from home.” Never had he been so achingly lonely. Not being permitted home on pain of death, felt quite different to separation by women or war. But yet now, sitting here in the company, and care, of her, it was Philippe he pitied. He wondered not who was sharing his bed… but who was holding him through the nightmares. Through the terrors of war. Who rubbed his feet, and washed the dirt and sweat from his brow? Who, if not his Chevalier, or this woman, full of grace and kindness beyond measure?

The sunlight illuminated the room, their bedroom, and the two unlikely friends, daubed and dappled in golden hues, as if it were the Sistine Chapel.

“We promised we’d take care of each other, didn’t we?” He asked.

Her hand instinctively moved to her belly.

“Yes. Yes, we did.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

“If you hadn’t been here, I fear I would have been quite alone.”

He saw her freeze. For an agonising moment, he thought he had misjudged. That she might finally abandon her cruel game, and make for the door. Let in the world, with their hawkish habits, to peer at and laugh at how foolish he was, that he believed Madame would show decency to him. And the vicious cycle would again be in motion, and would not rest until they both lay in the cold earth, devoured by the worms and creatures of the dark.

Instead, she moved, and laid a soft kiss upon his forehead.

A surge of exhaustion overwhelmed him, as he felt her lips upon his skin, his eyes closing as he drank in the sensation of her tender touch. It was more than a kiss. It was a seal, stronger than any wax or steel lock. An acknowledgement of a singular shared purpose - a devotion, to one man, whom they could love and serve and protect in equal measure… in kindness and trust absolute.

"Right," She said after a moment , pulling away, "Come on… Meslé."

She produced a set of playing cards seemingly from nowhere, intricately hand-painted with wild flora and foliage, all vermilion and emerald and verdigris. The Chevalier yawned, as he watched her shuffle.

"Very well, mein Engel, but I warn you, I am quite the dab hand.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it. I know you have some tricks up your sleeve. Teach me your ways.”

She dealt him two cards upon the bedsheet, and opened the purse of counters to sit beside it. He examined his odds. Considered his strategy. Perhaps I should play the gentleman and let the lady win?

“You take the first turn, Philippe.”

Ah. A necessary correction to be made… before I show her how a master plays.

“Please call me Lorraine, my dear, else you will find yourself in knots…” He cooed, “And not the silk kind our mutual friend can be persuaded into on occasion.”

She smirked at him, then at her own hand, and he had the happiest feeling she wasn’t such a novice after all.

"Lorraine it is, then."

[angelasscribbles]

What Once Was

Fandom: Vying for Versailles (Romance Club)

Summary: Renee married someone else. But what happens when Alexandre comes back into her life?

“Madame, you have a visitor.”

Renée looked up from her writing desk curiously. She hadn’t been expecting anyone. “Who is it, Beatrice?”

Beatrice had served Renee since she had first set foot in Versailles all those years ago. She had risen from lady’s maid to maîtresse d'hôtel. Her duties now involved overseeing all the other household servants at Chateau de Marly.

“It’s Monsieur Bontemps, Madame.”

The door to the study swung wide as the mistress of house backed away, revealing Alexandre, his fingers twisting nervously at the hat clasped in his hands.

Renee rose from her desk with surprised delight and swept across the room to greet him with a hug. “Alexandre! This is a pleasant surprise! Wait….” She drew back with a worried crease across her brow, “Is all well? The king—”

“The king is fine, Madame.”

Her good mood faltered as her eyes tracked his face noting the agitation in his stance. Very little rattled the king’s spymaster. “Then why are you here?”

“I was hoping we could have a private conversation.” His eyes darted around the room. “May I come in?”

“Certainly, but I think we would be more comfortable in the small sitting room.” She stepped out of the study and led him down the hallway to the smallest of the sitting rooms. It was cozy, plush, and private.

She gave Beatrice instructions to send a maid in with tea service then she shut the door. Turning back to him, she crossed her arms and studied him closely.

He was fidgety, clearly wound up about something, which was completely out of character for him. She couldn’t help the smile that crawled across her face as she took in his agitation. “Do I still make you nervous, Alexandre?”

“You do have a way of knocking my equilibrium off balance, Madame.” He gave her a small smile.

The affection and heat in his gaze sent butterflies exploding through her stomach. “That is good to know, Monsieur.”

He arched an eyebrow skeptically, “You think me indifferent to you?”

“Perhaps.”

“I could never be indifferent to you.” The pure, undisguised longing on his face sent shivers cascading down her spine.

There was a brief lull in their conversation as the tea was served. Renee watched the maid retreat as she stirred her tea. With her eyes focused on the cup in her hand, she softly said, “You should have stayed.”

“Renee…I couldn’t stay in close proximity to you knowing I could never touch you again.”

She glanced up at him and her tone was sharp as she told him, “Those were the choices you made.”

He sighed as he carefully sat his cup on the table. It was the same argument they’d had before he had left for Geneva to serve the king’s interest in Switzerland. “You didn’t choose me.”

“I did. I simply didn’t choose only you,” she reminded him. “And it’s not like you were ever going to marry me anyway.”

“A spymaster—”

“I know. Believe me, I remember all your excuses.”

“They weren’t excuses.”

“Weren’t they?”

He didn’t answer. He had told her that they could never be a couple. He hadn’t had a noble title back then and his work made it almost impossible to conduct a love affair. But when she had accepted a proposal from the Prince du Sang, it had felt like a knife plunged into his heart.

He drew in a deep breath and decided to tell her the truth. “There’s something you don’t know, Renee. I did approach Louis about a possible match. The king had been offering to ennoble me for years. I thought, maybe…”

Renee jerked in surprise, nearly spilling her tea in the process, “What?”

“My request was rejected out of hand and when Philippe got down on one knee in front of the entire court a mere day later, I understood why.”

Louis loved him like a brother. But Philippe was his brother. And he had probably asked first. The prince was a better match for her anyway. He knew that.

Renee quickly sat her cup down and tried to quell the shaking in her hands. “Alexandre…why didn’t you tell me?”

“After witnessing firsthand your pure joy at accepting another man’s proposal? What would have been the point?” He had, instead, determined to keep his distance from her.

And yet when their paths crossed, he had found that he still could not resist her. “Do you remember that night in Paris, right before your wedding?”

Madame de France, princess, duchess, and marquise did not blush easily, but her cheeks colored at the reminder. “Of course I do. But why are you bringing that up? Why are you bringing any of it up now?”

“Pardon?”

“Why discuss these things now? After all this time?”

“Ah, yes.” And here was the reason for his visit. “Do you remember when you told me that you would recognize me anywhere?”

“Yes. And you said the same. What does that have to do with why you’re here?”

“Only that I by chance saw you last time I was in Paris on the king’s business. I only saw your profile as you climbed into your carriage, but I knew it was you.”

“And you didn’t think to say hello?”

“I started to but then I saw your son.”

“Louis-Philippe?”

“Yes. One of the servants handed him up into the carriage to you and I got a clear view of his face, Renee.”

Her heart stopped. “And?”

“And he favors neither the prince nor a certain count that you are overly fond of.”

She ignored his reference to Armand as her heart started to thump even harder. She knew exactly who the child favored but she wasn’t going to make this easy on him. Her hands and her voice were steady as she looked him directly in the eye. “What are you asking me, Alexandre?”

“Is he….is he mine?”

She jumped up from her seat and stalked across the room to stare out the window. After a long pause, she replied, “You are not a father in the way that Philippe is. You do not tuck him into bed at night nor ease his fears when the thunder booms. He does not know you.”

He stood and followed her across the room, resting a hand on her shoulder. “That’s not what I’m asking, and you know it.”

Without turning to look at him, she whispered, “Yes, he was conceived that night in Paris.”

Alexandre’s world tilted on its axis. He had known, of course, the moment he had seen the child’s face. But to have confirmation…. He dropped his hand and stepped away from her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Anger flared through her as she spun to face him and flung his own words back at him. “What would have been the point? You ran away from me fast enough the moment you didn’t like my choices.”

“But a child, Renee!”

“By the time I knew I was with child, I was already married! What would you have had me do? Put it in a letter so your enemies could use it against us both? You well know how easy it is to intercept correspondence.”

He nodded in acquiescence. He could not fault her logic. “And the Prince du Sang... does he….”

“Philippe knows. He does not care.”

“I find that hard to believe, Madame.”

“Did you think we were cuckolding him every time we were together?”

“Well…”

“I told you, before he even proposed, what our arrangement was!”

“Yes, but I—”

“You what? You thought I was lying?” She stepped closer. So close she could smell the vanilla and cardamom scent that always clung to him. So close that she could feel the heat radiating from him, sense the tension in his body, “I may lie to everyone else in service to my king and my country, but I have never lied to you nor him! I do not lie to the people that I love.”

Alexandre froze, shock, pleasure, and disbelief coursing through him at her words. She loved him?

Oblivious to his reaction to her unintentional confession, she plowed on. “And your assertation that I would have divided loyalties was preposterous! My loyalty to my husband would never put me at cross purposes with you, Alexandre and you know it! Philippe loves his brother and is loyal to him. Furthermore, I do not tell him everything that I know or that I do. He understands and respects the need for discretion when it comes to my duties as a spymaster! He would never ask me to betray—”

“Alright! Alright!” He held both hands up in surrender with a bemused chuckle.

“It’s not funny, Alexandre!” She stood in the middle of the room, just inches from him, cheeks red and chest heaving with emotion.

He was struck nearly speechless by her beauty. She was even more breathtaking when she was angry. How was that possible? He took an involuntary step toward her.

She froze, her eyes trained on him, but she didn’t back away.

He took another step toward her, this one purposeful.

They stood, unmoving, staring into each other’s eyes; two hearts pounding in anticipation. He lifted a hand and reached out for her just as the sitting room door banged open.

“There you are, my love! I—oh! I didn’t realize we had company.” The prince stopped short, causing the chevalier who had been hot on his heels to collide into his backside.

Alexandre jerked his hand back and stepped away awkwardly. “My prince! I…” he executed a low bow. “So lovely to see you again.”

Philippe’s eyes took in the valet’s flushed and guilty expression and then his wife’s stoic demeanor. Renee had not backed away when he entered the room. She had stood her ground. Her ire was evident and he smothered a smile. He understood everything. “It’s always a pleasure to see you, Alexandre, but let’s not pretend you came here for me.”

“I….” For the first time in his life, Alexandre was struck completely speechless.

Renee finally moved, closing the distance to greet her husband with a hug and a quick peck on the cheek. She murmured in his ear, “He knows about Louie.”

“Hm,” he hugged her back, but his gaze was trained on his brother’s spymaster.

Renee moved around her husband to greet the chevalier with the same hug and kiss she had just given her husband. “How was grouse hunting?”

“As usual, we didn’t find a single grouse but at least we didn’t end up drunk in a fountain again.” The chevalier laughed at his own joke as he returned her hug. Not a day passed that he didn’t count his blessings.

There had been a time when the king had been adamant that Philippe make a political marriage, likely to some English noblewoman who would expect fidelity from him. He would forever be grateful that Louis had allowed the prince to marry Renee and that Renee had never blinked at the relationship between the two men. Now he practically lived at Chateau de Marly and was both a godfather and cherished uncle to their son. They functioned very well as a threesome and while his whole heart belonged to the prince, he wasn’t completely indifferent to Renee.

He also liked the life they had built together very much so he glared suspiciously at the intruder. “Why are you here, Monsieur Bontemps?”

Finally recovering, Alexander stiffly replied, “I had some…business to discuss with the duchess.”

Renee snorted. “Business? Is that what this is, Alexandre?”

He flushed scarlet which caused the other two men in the room to laugh.

The prince spoke first. “Let’s drop the pretense, shall we? Renee and I have no secrets from each other nor do I keep secrets from the chevalier. His discretion is not in question. You may speak freely. Everyone in this room knows that Louis is your son. So why are you really here?”

“Do you wish to challenge me to a duel, Monsieur?” Alexandre asked carefully.

Philippe looked at him askance. “Why would I do that?”

Alexandre shook his head slowly. “Most men in your position would.” It was dawning on him that Renee had been telling the full truth of the matter. Philippe showed no signs of rage or jealousy.

Of course, it was an open secret at court that his affair with the chevalier never ended, but for most men indulging their own desires did not mean they were tolerant of their wives doing the same.

Philippe’s face broke into a wide smile. “When have you ever known me to be like most men? Come now, stay for dinner and we can discuss everything.”

“As tempting as that sounds…I have some urgent business matters I must attend to tonight. However….”

“Yes?”

“With your leave, I would like to visit the child. As a family friend, of course. I would never disclose the true nature of our relationship to him.”

“You want a relationship with our son?” Renee asked so quietly he almost missed it.

Turning to face her with beseeching eyes he answered her. “If it pleases you, then yes.”

Renee closed her eyes briefly as she fought against the onslaught of conflicting emotions that collided inside her at the thought. When she opened them again, she blinked up at him. “I think I would like that very much.”

Profound relief swirled through him at her answer. He had not known what to expect when he knocked on her door, but things had gone better than he could have imagined. Turning his attention back to Philippe, he asked, “And this is alright with you?”

“It is. You’ll find Louie is a capricious and wild little hellion who delights in his friendships with children and adults alike. I think he’ll be good for you.”

Alexandre barked out a surprised laugh. “He’ll be good for me?”

“Yes….” Philippe drawled out with a mischievous grin. “I think you need to loosen up and he’s just the person to help you do it.”

The king’s valet turned to go but an idea had taken root in his mind and he could not let it go. Turning back he asked, “And your wife?”

“What about her?”

“May I have permission to resume our….friendship?”

“Oh, he wants to court your wife!” The chevalier chortled out loud.

“Monsieur,” Philippe shook his head. “You disappoint me. I thought you understood. You do not need my permission. You need hers.”

Alexandre turned slowly, his heart thudding in his chest. “Madame. I would be most grateful if you would agree to indulge me in a conversation soon. I think we have many things to discuss.”

“For how long?”

“I’m sorry?”

“How long will these discussions go on? When do you leave again?”

He nodded in understanding. “Given today's revelations, and assuming you will continue to welcome me as a visitor in your home, I will start making the preparations to return to my house in Paris immediately and permanently.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

She regarded him thoughtfully for a moment and then she nodded. “I would like you to get to know our son and I would be open to you and I having a conversation about where we go from there.”

He couldn’t help the smile that crawled across his face. He left the chateau with a spring in his step.

The truth was, he had not been happy since he’d left court shortly after her wedding. He hadn’t thought he could share her, open relationship with her husband or not. But an even larger concern had been his fear of openly loving her, thereby making her a target for his enemies, which were many.

He would never be comfortable being physically affectionate with her in front of others, he was more private than that, but if there was still a relationship to be had with her, there couldn’t be a more perfect cover than her marriage. No one ever had to know what she meant to him, or that he had a child. They could therefore never be used against him.

The thought of rekindling what they once had made him feel something he hadn’t felt in a long time….happiness.

It was entirely possible that things had worked out for him after all.

[reneedenoailles]

Snaring the Spymaster: a Fanfic.

hi !!!! i just wrote this <3 starring a manipulative vfv mc and a close to death alexandre. please feel free to let me know if you have any thoughts or such !

for context, renée here is named "victoire", on bright influence + calculation path, romancing louis on official mistress

possible tw for mentions of (implied) animal abuse, and (implied) daddy issues, as well as like renée destroying alexandre emotionally

HUGE SPOILERS FOR THE VERY END OF THE BOOK.

La Bastille, 1667.

Footsteps echoed throughout the halls, causing Alexandre Bontemps to snap out of his reverie, soon realizing how cold the ground of this prison cell was. Prison… Never in his life had he thought the King - whom he worked to serve since boyhood - would lock him in the prison reserved for traitors to the Crown. All because of her… Victoire. The one he brought to court - who he thought he could use. He hated to admit it, but she had outsmarted him. Never, in his thirty-nine years of living, had he felt so silly. He had been outplayed. "This way." He heard de Montlezun speak, right before he turned.

And there she was. The Queen. The strongest piece on the board. He turned, scowling as he saw the source of his troubles. She had her usual smirk painted on those dark red lips, a smirk that Alexandre despised more than anything - the very same smirk that caused him to end up here. "Didn't think you one for prayer." Victoire finally spoke, causing him to get up. Standing so tall, and yet, so… inferior. She smiled up at him, gold jewelry shining in his eyes. "I am not." He quietly replied. "But sometimes one tries to rely on the ones from Above, if those on Earth fail him." Even through his quiet tone, Victoire could hear his inner anger - the anger he's worked for so long to keep hidden underneath his wicked smiles. "I know you poisoned the Queen." "I have no idea what you mean." She viciously replied, of course - knowing exactly what he meant by that. They both knew, but clearly, one of them had the upper hand. "All I know is that you killed her, and tried to frame me for both, the attempted murder of the King, and the murder of the Queen."

Alexandre got closer, tenaciously gripping onto the jail cell's bars - getting his face as close as he could. His features, clearly affected by both his age, and this recent turn of events, hardened, displaying his anger. "You will never get away with this." "Looks like I will." Victoire, on the other side, could not possibly look any brighter. This felt cathartic to her, breaking free of Alexandre's control, and becoming the Queen of France, although she wasn't so sure of that last part - it all depended on Louis. Queen or not, what mattered to her most was established: control, and by association, revenge. She was elated at the mere thought of Alexandre's head on the chopping block, waiting for the sword to fall down on him.

The Duchess of Marly's inner arrogance killed Alexandre - he hated her. He HATED her. And he hated himself. For bringing her to court, for not beingsmart, for miscalculating… He shook the bars a little, voice raising. "You're a witch ! You're nothing but a lowly, disguting witch ! You'll burn in Hell for this !" He yelled at her, which simply made her laugh. To her, that was hilarious, watching Alexandre's mask slip off. He had made her cry before, and now she could crack him open, like an egg. A freshly picked egg from a chicken's nest - the chicken, in this case, being the King and his little creatures. "I'd suggest you speak to me on another tone, Alexandre." While she was smiling - her voice seemed more commanding, as if she were chastising her maid. It instantly shut down Alexandre, as she continued. "I am the Duchess of Marly. You WILL speak to me on another tone - while you may fancy yourself the little title of Valet, at the end of the day, you are a servant. A peasant, I'd even go as far as saying. Do not forget the King was generous enough to have you die by the sword, like a noble. I could always change that…" She wrapped one of her hands around a bar of the cell, that empty look in her eye making him shiver and back away.

It was as if she had no emotion, her eyes showcasing a form of pure, yet disastrously calm madness. "I could always talk to the King about you." Victoire's lips curled into a smirk - one that displayed how much she actually held Alexandre in her palm. "You could be burned, like a witch. Like Bonne. Poor her." She didn't even mean those words, but the chill running down Alexandre's spine somehow… excited her, in a way. The memories of two years ago, the Valet blackmailing her, were still very fresh in her mind, so now that she had gotten the upper hand, she was going to at least have fun with it. "Maybe you'll be on the breaking wheel. Or maybe…" She saw his fear, in those eyes, and how much he was trying to conceal said fear. "I'll have you quartered, like Ravaillac. He did kill a King… And you poisoned a Queen."

"I did not ! You liar !" "Do not bark at me." She quickly responded, leaning in. "Your father must have trained the dogs better than that." At that thought - seeing how he immediately recolied - she decided to keep going. She wanted him not only weak, but broken after this encounter. She wanted his mask to completely shatter. "I wonder how he would feel, if he saw you right now. What a disappointment his beloved son must be. More worthless than the dogs he trained." "SHUT UP !" Alexandre suddenly yelled, tears streaming down his aged face. Victoire stepped back just a bit, letting go of the bars. She had never seen Alexandre cry, she didn't even know he could do that. But that ? It pleased her. She couldn't help but allow a little smirk to appear on her beautiful face, seeing him be the shadow of the man who blackmailed her. His father must have brought back painful memories, it seems. He was entirely humiliated. Reduced to this ; a crying mess, on the floor, his knees giving away as he looked up to the woman who had kneeled down, to be on his level.

"A shame, really. We could have been spymasters together. Equals. You would've taken the men's court, and I, the women's. But you decided to be greedy, and bit off more than you could chew. Now look at you. Like a bad, undisciplined dog."

Her smirk was still overwhelmingly present, looking down at him. The way she looked at him - it wasn't like a woman looking at a man. It was like a chess player, looking at a pawn. Victoire leaned in, voice low, yet clear enough for him to hear.

"I own you, Alexandre."

And with that, he watched her get up, and dust herself off. Not even addressing him a last word - nothing. Simply turning on her heels, and walking away. He gripped onto the bars, watching her leave, waiting for the moment she would turn around and look at him.

"VICTOIRE ! VICTOIRE !" He screamed her name, louder, and louder - as loud as he could, loud enough to lose his voice. He still hoped that she would turn, but she was already gone. And there he lied, all alone, in his cell. In the dark.

This was the end for him.

[ostick]

[vera-dauriac]

Hi hi Vera! 💜 For the fic ask game, any or all of the below!

🍥 What's your favorite fic you've written?

🍛 Have any comments, tags or reactions to one of your fics every made you laugh or cry or both?

And my own question (which you totally don't have to answer!), which is:

🥙 Do have any big or small parts of any already published fics that you'd like to go back and change/expound upon/turn in a different direction?

My best!

🍥 What's your favorite fic you've written?

This is a hard one, not because I love all my fics, but because there are two I’m especially fond of that I think are really well written. Considering, I’ve posted (checks AO3) 84 (!) fics, I’m going to allow myself two.

My favorite one shot is definitely my first Athelar (Vikings) fic, Weaving.

My favorite multi-chapter fic is my my longest Louis/Philippe (Versailles) fic, A Slow Eclipse.

🍛 Have any comments, tags or reactions to one of your fics every made you laugh or cry or both?

I have received sooooo many lovely comments over the years, and somehow I’ve managed to ensnared a few loyal readers, and I have to call out 3 of them.

@loveel-who I’m pretty sure is the only person who has read everything I’ve written, and she’s so wonderful about leaving comments. Even if it’s a fandom she doesn’t know, I give her some quick background and maybe a gif, and she dives in and loves it. She’s the best and always tells me my smut hot.

@automaticdreamlandkid doesn’t just leaves comments. She leaves these giant walls of text screaming about every single thing she likes in the fic, and every one of these comments makes me giddy.

@storyskein has often been my enabler and someone who has kindly helped me with fics, even when it’s not her fandom. But she also left what might be my favorite comment ever, and I’m not sure if it made me cry, but I get a little choked up when I think about it. Her comment on Weaving said, “for all the amazing smut on this site, erotic joy is actually really rare, and you captured it.”

🥙 Do have any big or small parts of any already published fics that you'd like to go back and change/expound upon/turn in a different direction?

When I first started posting fic, I absolutely did NOT know what I was doing. For a long time, I toyed with going back to my original Athamis (The Musketeers) series The Debts We Make, and rather than being a slightly disjointed series, I wanted to make it a proper multi-chapter fic that was more novel-shaped than the slightly random thing it is. I never did, but part of me still thinks it would be an interesting exercise.

Thanks so much for asking! Others can feel free to drop me asks from this list.

[gothic-thriller-dawn]

Why has no one made a series set in 17th century France about Vampires living in the the court of Louis XIV? Like the series Versailles; but it’s vampires.

The costumes, the scenery, the cast, it would be perfect. Members of the court mysteriously found dead within the palace, all blood drained from them, horrifying tales of creatures of darkness haunting the streets of Paris at nightfall…..trying to keep the secret of what they are from being discovered….

Why is this not a thing?!

(Well, I wrote (still writing it) a story based on this idea.)

[laysidel-dekie]

Think I just wrote the most niche ff ever for the most niche fandom ever. My life trajectory continues to astound me but here I am. If anyone exists who has watched Versailles and fell hopelessly in love with the character of Louis and was fascinated by his relationship with Bontemps (and is not afraid to explore it from an erotic perspective), this is for you.

[yume-fanfare]

about 1/6 into the rose of versailles, im not enough of a francophile for thisss

[readerofthebooks]

Hi! So I’ve been thinking, that I’m going to start writing on here, I’m happy to write any genre ( fluff, angst, smut, etc) and just ask about the fandom, I’ll do most if I’m aware of them, I am willing to watch some films if they’re really wanted, however Star Wars is a no cuz I fall asleep :)

Btw, I will not write: non con, underage sex, pedophilia, gore, horror ( cuz I literally am scared of everything ), racism, homophobia, transphobia, fat phobia or anything like that . I can’t think of anything else, so just use your heads, if it’s wrong, don’t ask cuz you’ll be blocked ( ALSO I DONT WRITE OMEGA VERSE OR FURRY STUFF cuz I personally don’t like it)

[katiajewelbox]

This is an actual Escaflowne and Rose of Versailles cross over piece of fan art, captured in the wild! 

I found this illustration while reading an excellent fanfic about Dilandau and the Dragonslayers by Mickaelle on A03. This very well written story is about the Dragonslayers’ backstories and it has lots of imagination, action, heartwarming scenes, and witty humour. This is the only fanfic where Miguel La Variel is as much of a Gigachad as he is in my fanfics. Plus, the author is apparently French so she’s writing about people from an alternative world version of her own culture! 

I was astonished to see this fanart embedded in one of the chapters - there’s Miguel chilling with his 18th century counterpart Andre Grandier! These two guys have so much in common... they have a transmaculine boss/partner, they are always getting captured and abused, they are blue collar French dudes trying to navigate a more upper class world, and facing danger on a daily basis. They are also both Gigachads IMHO.

So why aren’t Dilandau and Lady Oscar having a deep philosophical conversation about their gender identities at the bar? That’s my only issue with this otherwise charming folk art image. 

 Disappointingly, these characters do not interact in the main story and it seems the author just included this a throwaway inside joke since she also like Rose of Versailles. 

I would have liked to ask Mickaelle’s permission to post this but I couldn’t find a direct message option on A03. Mickaelle, if you are reading this feel free to get in touch.

Link to the fanfic: 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/15442122/chapters/35843346

Remember, Dilandau x Miguel is the dark and twisted version of Lady Oscar x Andre!

[unclefungusthegoat]

Part two of Illumine, my Chevalier and Liselotte fic is here!

The Chevalier de Lorraine lies in his sick bed, keeping the first of two promises made. His lover is away at war. Fever wracks his body. Delirium brings dreams of the desperate and drowned. And the allure of laudanum promises to lead him sweetly to his grave.

Yet even after the darkest night, comes the dawn.

And with it rises an unlikely angel.

Part One: L'obscurité

Read on AO3

Part Two: Le Rêve

Read at the AO3 link, or below!

Tags: Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, Opium, Fever Dreams, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Vomiting, Graphic Descriptions of Corpses, Period-Typical Homophobia, Medical Procedures, Medical Inaccuracies, Historical Inaccuracy, Imprisonment, Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied Sexual Content, Near Death Experiences, Child Death, Animal Abuse, Restraints

Part Two: Le Rêve

A rap upon the door.

Cutting through the thin sheen of peace.

And the low, discrete murmur was unmistakable, even though the Chevalier’s ears were buried beneath the blankets. Drool wet the fabric beneath his cheek.

“I’m afraid the King insists, Your Highness-”

“Please, Bontemps, explain to His Majesty, I will not leave him.” Liselotte was clearly trying to keep her voice hushed, but it seemed Versailles was built to echo, “Monsieur Fortin says the Chevalier is at a precipitous moment in his recovery. If…” She swallowed, bracing herself, “... If the fever claims him, my husband would never forgive me if I wasn’t at his side.”

Bontemps’ weary disinterest was louder than any reply he could make.

“His Majesty understands your anxiety over this matter. Nevertheless-”

The words seemed to fade, replaced by the sound of the Chevalier’s heartbeat thudding in his head. It felt as if a troupe of horses had trampled his body, for every inch of him hurt, every limb felt useless and bruised. To turn on his side, or rearrange his nightshirt, was an ordeal akin to Sisyphus. And still, that dry mouth, longing for that taste. Still that need . That burning within.

What had she said?

"If the fever claims him."

I’m dying, he realised, as sleep claimed him once more.

I’m dying and I shall never see him again. 

***

The smell of sickness bled through the stone. It was far from the first time typhoid fever had broken out within the Chateau d’If, where the men were crowded in thirty or forty to a room. Fresh inmates often brought pox and lurgy from the mainland, and there was not a soul about the rock who cared for their fate. One less Huguenot troublemaker or political upstart would not be missed.

But this fever had taken hold with the grasp of an ancient god upon the thunder. Now the dead lay face to face with the living, and the living prayed for death. The floors were fouled. The cells were stifling with decay. Death claimed every inch of the fortress, every minute of the day. So lost were the sorry bastards in the cells below, the priest couldn't read rites quickly enough, for as soon as one perished, another needed attending. 

The Chevalier could hear the bodies being dragged out and thrown into the sea.

“Exile is as good as death.” He recalled Madeleine de Foix purring once, over the fate of some unfortunate social climber, “But the Chateau is surely worse. It does not do for a nobleman to be forgotten in such a place.’

Had he been forgotten?

It certainly felt so.

There had been no word sent from Versailles. No sign of release papers, or a royal pardon. He was not permitted to write or receive letters, nor to speak to the prisoners in the adjacent cells (though why he would ever want to eluded him. He was not that desperate for idle chit-chat). Payment enough had been made for a private cell, but not a penny more had been sent for further comfort, not even from his siblings, who amassed quite the fortune from their abbeys.

It seemed now though, four days into this latest bout of malady, even the guards had forsaken him, the rancid stench of an epidemic lingering in the fibres of their cloaks and tunics as they idled past on their patrols. The regular guard had not visited at all today. No meagre ration of soup had been delivered and the chamber pot remained soiled. He’d done his best with the fire, but the embers were fading fast, and he was too cold to try again.

February in Marseille might as well have been December in Siberia. There was no glass in the window to protect from the storm, and the wind bit at his cheeks and fingers. From his cell upon the top floor, he could see the Mediterranean sea lashing upon the rocks, and had there not been stone walls preventing him, the Chevalier was convinced he would have thrown himself in to be drowned. 

Better that than spend one more moment pretending that he would ever go home.

He was not one to pray. His faith had faded early in his youth, and all but died when he realised that having a passion for one's own sex invariably left him damned. But now he knelt before the rotting straw mattress with the diligence of a monk, and begged for God… anyone … to heed him.

“Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae, Amen.”

He pressed his lips upon his clasped hands, tears spilling onto the white knuckles. The Latin was fumbled, forgetful, despite being endlessly repeated since he was a boy. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine the cold floor beneath him was the marble chapel of Versailles. That the scrape of flesh against the floor was the shuffle of congregants to receive communion. That warm breath would tickle the back of his neck, as Philippe - darling Philippe - approached behind him to whisper something sinful.

Goddamn it, he’d even take Bossuet’s chastisements, if it meant he was home to hear them.

Another body cast in.

And another.

And another, and another, and another, and another…

***

Now he stood beneath the moon, knee deep in cold water. There was no salt in the air, or tide pulling him adrift. Instead, the water was still and shallow, soaking his breeches in a most rude and unbecoming fashion. He could not remember how he came to be there. It seemed perhaps he had been drunk or in the throes of a tantrum, as he so often was these days.

Still, the Palace was but a distant silhouette. The shape of it cast an impossibly long shadow across the water. and though there seemed to be golden light in every window, there was no one close enough to witness him in such a state. 

Had he sleepwalked?

There was talk the King wandered in his sleep. Perhaps it was catching. As Louis’s palace polluted them all, so too did his afflictions.

And yes, the Chevalier hated the outdoors - mosquitos in the summer, every opportunity to catch your death in the winter. Mud and rain and birdshit on the marble steps. But the fresh air felt freeing tonight, away from the confines of the Palace, a gilded prison by any measure. Away from seeing how Philippe’s eyes wandered; to his wife, to the weasely little poet, and if they were not to be found there, they would be upon his armour, hungry for another war.

Had they fought again?

No.

Well, probably, but not this time.

No… 

Had he not been…?

He could have sworn he’d been in Marseille but a moment ago.

A memory, Philippe, nothing more…

But maybe…?

…maybe…

… Why couldn’t he remember?

He reached for the phial tucked into his coat, and found, to his delight, a droplet of laudanum left lingering at the bottom. He leaned his head back to let it dribble into his throat, the morsel pulling away all worry and care of what his prince might be up to over there in the light. At least he still had one great love, one constant, which never failed to bring him ecstasy.

Something moved around his ankles.

He nearly lost his footing. The phial dropped with a quiet plop into the depths, never to be found again, for the water was black as a crow’s feather, and he could not see his own reflection, let alone the bottom of the fountain. 

It moved again.

Whatever it was, it wasn't small. He couldn’t remember the King having fish brought in, though he wouldn't put it past the man to have had his gardeners go to the ends of the earth to collect a sea beast worthy of the corners of the map. 

His eyes bulged. And summoning a faint wisp of courage from within, the Chevalier moved his hand to the surface. His fingers dipped beneath. Not quite enough to risk his whole hand should the creature have teeth, but certainly a ring or two if he were not fast enough. The water was heavy, like oil, slick and slippery. It smelt sweet, like violets - the same powdery scent that greeted him upon opening his snuff box.

But there was nothing below.

Nothing but his stockinged feet.

He hissed a laugh at his foolishness. It was surely time to return to the Palace, to slip into bed beside Philippe (if his bed was not already occupied ). To let his warmth lull him to sleep. 

But first - the phial.

He reached down again to retrieve it, confidence rising as the shallows fell-

- and with a surge, the water slipped from the form that broke free from the depths.

A human form.

Shoulders and a head bearing pretty brown curls, lit by that oversized moon.

Crying out, he stumbled back, but her rotting hands caught the front of his coat. He could see the bone where they'd been eaten away by some ravenous creature. Could see moss threaded through her hair. She seemed so frail in nothing but her shift, and without the haze of opium, to look upon her innocent half-naked form felt lecherous. Dirty. Almost sacrilegious. To look upon her felt unholy in every way imaginable.

It couldn’t be, it wasn’t possible…

But the drowned, bloated face of Isabelle, gaped and gasped for air.

Her wide eyes searched his face.

“Is this paradise, Monsieur?”

He choked on the stench of her, on the stale breath she had not been permitted to take, now released.

“Will you kiss me, Monsieur, as you did that night? I had never kissed a man before.”

“Leave me be!” He shrieked, pulling at her fingers to release him, but she held tight. Nausea churned within his stomach as he was forced to look upon her. At the water that dribbled from her lips, at the tinges of green beneath her once rosy skin… at the love bite on her neck. Once so young and full of hope and promise, had she not been the plaything of jealousy, and led into the embrace of iniquity and desire.

His embrace.

“Will you love me, Monsieur? Am I to be your wife, now you have touched me”?

“Let me go- please-” His voice died in his throat.

“No.”

And she leant in to whisper in his ear.

“So too will you drown.”

***

Who is screaming?

Surely a madman was loose about the palace, to make such a racket as that? Perhaps this stranger, clad in black, who insisted on assaulting him? The stranger seemed mad, with his wiry hair, and instruments eerily like Marchal’s. His eyes bulged. His words were garbled.

He is here to rob me , the Chevalier realised, for the stranger clung to his limbs with unsympathetic force, and showed no sign of relenting, no matter how vigorously he thrashed. Rob me, arrest me, send me away again, away to the King, to the gallows he promised me. I learned my lesson, did I not? I learned, as I promised I’d learn, but no, my stallion, you and I both know I never learn. And now this thief is here to kill me, to rob me, to empty my coat- this fine coat that you paid for, my darling! You see what he took, bastard that he is, he knows it’ll stop the pain, it’ll all go away and I will be your mignon again, your Philippe, as you remember me, before I was sent away! She said one drop to sleep, Philippe, just a drop, Philippe, just one, it can be our secret, darling, just a drop, my darling, can’t you see it hurts -

His legs were spasming, the muscles already taut and pained from disuse. Feet, scrabbling against his captor, ruching the sheets.

And still, the godforsaken screaming .

“You must hush, sir, or I’m afraid I shall be forced to tie you down.”

***

"... She wasn’t the first, was she?"

Mignonette's face was contorted with anguished fury. With loathing . But his voice still held that exquisite softness, that vulnerable, hushed quality that held more beauty than lark song to the Chevalier. And, oh how perfect he was in his powder and rouge, laced lovingly into his favourite corset, just as he had on the day they met. How fine he looked, with his cheeks flushed and his hair wild, even if it was in service of accusation. 

Mignonette’s slight body was trembling in rage.

"Are you so set against my brother? Against me?"

The Chevalier couldn't recall what he'd done, but it broke his heart to see his love so tormented.

I am always with you, he wanted to proclaim. Did I not kill for you? Did I not think of you every day I languished in prison? Have I not held you in your darkest nights, and been your companion when all the world believes us wicked? Will I not follow you into the depths of damnation, all for want of your love?

"My darling, I have no idea what you mean, the very thought of hurting you is-"

"STOP IT. STOP SEDUCING ME WITH YOUR POISONOUS WORDS!" Marching across the chamber, Mignonette’s hands began to tear at his slate grey skirts, lacerating the fine silk. He cast it away, leaving it withered upon the floor, rubbed at his face with his palm, smearing the Chevalier’s handiwork into a pink watercolour rash. He ripped the jewels from his ears, letting the lobes weep in pain. “You’re a VIPER. A snake in the garden, set upon me by those who wished to keep me insignificant! My brother! My mother!”

“Your mother adored you!” The Chevalier dared to take a step forward, arms raised as if pacifying a defensive bull, “As do I! You are my very soul, Philippe, never mind the very soul of France! Please, if I have wounded you, if I have cut you to the quick, tell me! Tell me how I might be better! How I might return to your good graces, how I might heal your pain-!”

Such flattery did not assuage Mignonette’s wrath, for his fingers moved to the petticoats, the white silk. The sound of seams snapping was akin to broken bones.

“Philippe… Philippe, stop- you love that gown-!”

“I loved YOU.” He screamed, “And you repay my love by poisoning my WIFE.”

The bottom dropped out of his stomach.

Had he not been here before, heard this before?

“...That’s absurd.”

“You deny it?” Mignonette snarled, “You command me to deny my own eyes?” He flung out an arm, scratched in his haste to undress, towards the bed.

What?

And yet suddenly he saw her, strewn amongst the bloodsoaked sheets. Liselotte, arm impaled by a too-big lancet. A shrieking lamb was tied beside her, thrashing its head in fear as its blood nourished her lifeless veins. Her eyes saw no light, her mouth agape, dribbling bile and foam, her flesh so pale it could have challenged the mist and snow. Like Henriette, bloodied spittle stained her nightgown. Viscera vomited in agony. That boisterous spirit… gone.

Her babe withering within.

The Chevalier felt sick at the sight of it.

Surely, he hadn’t-?

Mignonette’s face was now so close to his. What remained of his gown hung loosely from him, skin like alabaster beaded with sweat. His lips, plump with desire, but worried to the point of splitting. A calm had come over him, his breath heavy in his bosom. His thumb moved across the Chevalier’s cheek. 

“Do you see her, my dear Chevalier?”

He knew he’d see her in his dreams for all eternity.

“She wasn’t the first, was she?” 

“... What?

"You poisoned her too, didn't you?"

Somehow the Chevalier already knew the answer.

Still he asked.

"Who?”

That gentle whisper, once saved for sweet nothings between the raptures of sex.

“Henriette.”

The prince’s eyes were stormy with grief. The Chevalier shook his head, almost imperceptible, but for the man who was his world. Yet to his world, he spoke his truth, and it was not the truth he had hoped they would bear witness to. It came with a smirk. That wit, that irreverence, so often his downfall.

“I would be lying, my love, if I said I hadn’t thought about it.”

Mignonette smiled.

That beautiful, sad smile.

That lonely, silver smile that so often was confined to the shadows.

“You’d do anything, wouldn’t you? To stay by my side.”

A nod.

“Anything.”

And Mignonette gave a soft sigh.

“My brother was right about you.”

The Chevalier decided there, in the embrace of his truest love, that surely this could be no dream. 

For the dagger between his ribs, twisted at that precise angle as to sever the heart, felt more real than any kiss they’d ever shared.

***

The night came once more, and he lay curled upon the bed.

Someone had stripped him of his nightshirt now, in a desperate attempt to cool him down. And he lay naked as the day he was born, modesty preserved only by a thin sheet. Exhausted, drenched in sweat, with bruises upon his wrists and ankles. An aeon of nights with no respite from the pain, from that thirst, had left him collapsed upon her - his angel - unable to struggle, unable to die. His head, cradled in her lap. Her fingers stroked his hair, in lieu of a lullaby. Like a wounded baby deer, he whimpered, weak and shivering.

Through the open window, a harpsichord serenaded from a distant soiree.

“Where is Philippe?” He barely whispered.

He wasn’t sure if it was the first time he’d asked. Philippe’s banyan robe - one of beautiful ochre and grey silk - was somehow in his grasp, had been laid out, to be crushed in his grip as a child clings to a blanket. The lavender perfume of his lover so near confused him, for how could he be here and yet not be? 

No one had ever cared but Philippe.

Philippe… and her .

“He promised,” Every word, every breath was fainter, “He promised he would love me again…”

Had he the strength to look up, he would have seen her grief upon her cheeks.

“He will.” Was all she could think to say in return, “He does.”

[oscarofversailles]

Anyone else fall in love with Victor-Clement de Girodelle?

I’ve been falling in love with Victor from the Rose of Versailles recently. Maybe now that I am getting older, I can appreciate his character more and look at him as less of a “villainous rival” to Andre but as an actual viable option for Oscar. I wanted to start exploring a bit more of his character and POV through this recent one-shot fanfic (https://archiveofourown.org/works/41691915) 

Anyone else feel the same about Victor?

PS: I don’t often like to promote my fanfics, but FFN has been down for DAYS and my story has slipped into an abyss, never to be seen, so I wanted to give it some visibility and communicate with readers!

[goldenheartgirl1]

Rose and Marigold Ch.1-Crimson Petals

Summary: Oscar had really only begun her early years in protecting the queen, but upon one day she finds a stranger that was on the brink of death. However, when she awoke from her wounds the woman could not remember anything, not even her own name. They carry on together through the revolution of the people of France.

(A couple side notes: It was pretty difficult keeping track of the ages and time jumps they did in the anime, so I apologize if not everything is accurate I did what I could. Also, this is just a short story based on the events in the anime, I recommend you watch it)

(takes place before episode 5, during 3 year gap before episode 5, oscar is 15)

Bad omens can be presented in different ways, a crow appearing in your room, crossing your fork and knife at the table, losing a stone in an engagement ring, all of these symbolize bad luck. When the morning was present upon the spring day, Oscar was presented with a good and bad omen, one being that she nearly stumbled down the steps and the other being that she dropped her knife while eating. Thanks to her reflexes she caught herself on the railing, but when she dropped the knife it was in front of her Nanny who was picking up the leftover dishes. Of course, Oscar paid no mind to the accident at first until her nanny spoke with superstition and excitement.

“Mademoiselle Oscar! You must be meeting someone new today!”

“What do you mean, nanny?” The blonde soldier asked as she picked the knife off the floor, her sapphire blue eyes relaxed but her expression remained neutral.

“Dropping your knife means someone new, a friend perhaps!” The older woman replied enthusiastically, she was always one to believe in superstitions while Oscar was indifferent about the subject.

“Nanny, I do not believe in omens such as that,” Standing up from her seat, Oscar set the knife on the table beside her plate and brushed off her white shirt and fixed her cravat. She wore her casual green vest, dark green knee-length pants, white socks, and brown shoes, the perfect outfit for a day when she did not have to protect the princess. “I am going out riding with André, we will be back before lunch.”

Walking out with her nanny calling after her to be safe, André was already outside in the yard with their horses, he smiled and climbed onto the saddle of his colt while Oscar climbed onto hers. “What was that all about?”

“Nothing, just nanny talking about superstitious means.”

Both gave a smile and gentle chuckle before they took off down the road, internalizing a race in their minds as they picked up speed. Their competition did not remain on the dirt path, but extended to the woods and the two raced side by side through the greenwood, for a moment it gave Oscar a peace of mind. The sun showered them with a delightful heat while the breeze chilled their skin, morning dew was kicked up under the horse's hooves and birds sang melodies in the trees. It was a perfect morning for a ride, for a day to do nothing, to be alive and witnessing the beauty of France. Soon, the two friends slowed down to let their horses rest and stopped by a nearby lake, both climbing down from the backs of their noble steeds as they watched the glistening water.

André groaned as he stretched his arms over his head and spoke in a relaxed manner. “Nothing is better than a day like this, it has been too long since I have really enjoyed a day.”

“It truly is a beautiful day,” Oscar replied with a content smile, moving her left hand over her sword subconsciously. “To breathe in the fresh air and not be surrounded by conspiracies and gossip is relaxing.”

“I imagine it is also nice to get away from all the women who fawn over you.” André teased, only receiving a warm hearted glare from his friend which resulted in him laughing.

“André, perhaps we should have a duel-”

Before anything else was said a carriage road by on the path behind them, riding in a frenzy that could rip the wheels off the axle with such speed. Being curious as ever, the two ran up the hill and watched with surprise as the carriage continued to ride down the path in haste. André was making a comment about the danger of riding so fast but all Oscar could focus on was the blood on the path from where the carriage came from. Sprinting to the blood spot on the road, the path led down to the forest area which took no time for Oscar to run down and find more blood. André hastily called after her but she was preoccupied by finding the source of the attack and her eyes widened seeing a body on the grass.

“André! Get the horses!”

“Oscar? What is it?”

“Don’t stall, go!”

Oscar knelt down to the figure that was covered in a dark brown cloak, but the knife embedded into their abdomen was apparent along with the blood seeping around the blade. The royal guard removed her vest and placed it around the hilt of the knife, determined to slow the bleeding as a groan emitted from the victim. Slowly she moved the hood back and was shocked to see a fair woman with wavy copper red hair and freckles lining her nose and cheeks, Oscar had never seen someone with red hair such as hers. The stranger could not have been much older than the blonde, and her appearance of a commoner judging by the tattered brown pants and unclean white shirt, she did not even have any shoes on her calloused feet. André quickly returned with the horses and assisted Oscar in getting the woman to sit up on the horse, slouching over despite Oscar using her arm to hold the woman up to her chest. Oscar grimaced as blood seeped through her sleeve but it only urged her forward, giving commands to her steed to hurry while André sped ahead to the nearest doctor in the area. Upon arriving, Oscar hurried to get off the horse and carefully held the woman in her arms, bringing her to the bed that the doctor had prepared and laying her down gently.

André and Oscar were asked to wait outside while the doctor worked, both feeling antsy if they had made it in time to save the girl, but even more so the blonde was angry at who could have done this. “Who could have done this? It is beyond cruel to drop someone in the middle of nowhere with such a wound..”

“Perhaps that is the way they wanted it.” André grumbled, his arms crossing while watching his friend pace back and forth in the room. “If it was the ones who were in the carriage then they could have been trying to hide evidence of some sort. She is certainly not from here, I’ve never seen anyone with such red hair.”

“Neither have I, if she can stay strong then she might be able to answer our questions.”

Time passed slowly for the two until Oscar insisted that André should go tell nanny about the situation, and while he did protest leaving her alone he eventually yielded when it was suggested the stranger may need a place to stay. It could have been mere minutes but it was most likely hours, Oscar was leaning on the wall and glanced at the door when it finally opened, immediately she stood tall to look at the doctor. “Is she alive?”

“Yes. It is a miracle you found her so quickly, if you and your friend did not find her so soon then she may not have survived.” He replied with a calm expression, a common facade for doctors to learn to avoid showing distressed emotions. “The worst of it is over, she certainly must have an angel looking after her, the blade avoided her vital organs and the stitching was clean.”

Oscar’s shoulders relaxed by his news and questioned. “How long do you think until she regains consciousness?”

“I am unsure, she did lose blood and I noticed lots of marks on her body along with a large bruise on the back of her head. Whoever harmed this poor woman has been doing it for years.”

A cold dred coiled in Oscar’s stomach, the abuse she received from her father over the years was something she learned to tolerate, but who knows how long this woman has gone through this suffering. “I see..how long will it take for her to heal?”

“I would say a few months, at least six months and hopefully by eight months she will be able to resume normal tasks. But anything strenuous could tear the stitches, I can provide medicine if you wish.”

“We can manage, thank you doctor.”

Although doctors from the palace would be available for days, the countryside doctors could not always spare the bed for more than two days for emergencies just like this. After getting a bit more information and paying the doctor, Oscar had to carry the woman back to her horse and carefully ride back to her father’s home. It was a slow ride but the royal guard did all she could to make sure the stitches would not tear and that the stranger would not fall out of her grasp, even through the old clothes Oscar could feel the thin body was practically all bones. The only thing that provided minimal comfort was the shallow breathing from the red-haired woman, who she managed to prop up against her chest. What started as a peaceful morning has already become a stressful day, Oscar began to question the omens from earlier in the morning. As she arrived home, André was already waiting for her and ran over to help get the woman down from the horse, then of course Oscar’s nanny was anxious to get their unexpected guest to the upstairs guest room. The royal guard explained the situation to her father and nanny before leaving to the back yard to fence with André, their swords clashing with vigor with sharp clangs of metal and hissing when the metal scraped at odd angles.

By night there was still no sign of the girl awakening, and the following morning Oscar went to check on her before dawn to make sure their guest was still breathing. The room was quiet and the sky painted with purple and light blue, beside the bed was a small table with a basin of water and washcloth that nanny was using to heal the girl’s bruises. Oscar walked slowly to the bed to limit any noise as she watched the stranger, who was nude so her nanny could get her new clothes and watch her stitches, carefully taking the girl’s right hand as she looked at the bruises on her arm. The marks were all consistent with someone forcefully pulling or grabbing onto her, there were also visible signs of malnourishment by how thin her muscles were. Strangely enough her arms looked capable, most likely from working since a young age, and her face had no marks whatsoever. Suddenly the arm in Oscar’s grasp let out a violent twitch, making the blonde look at the stranger in surprise as a pained groan slipped past her delicate lips.

Setting her arm down gently, Oscar waited patiently and took the wet washcloth to place over the girl’s forehead, which evoked another groan. “You are safe, could you please try to wake up?”

By the soft question another soft gasp left the woman and slowly her eyes began to open, revealing the most beautiful hazel eyes that Oscar has ever seen. While the iris was mostly brown, there were speckles of gold, green, silhouettes of gray, and even hints of blue in them. All the colors seemed to reside in this girl’s eyes as if a rainbow itself had been reflecting in them, they blended perfectly to show off each color in a powerful and yet subtle way. Her eyes focused on Oscar, her face contorted to a look of confusion and fear as she sat up and yelped in pain by her careless action. The blonde soldier quickly helped her lay back down, noticing the way the girl flinched and pulled the covers closer to her chest, and spoke with a firm but concerned tone. “Do not move too quickly, you were hurt, I have brought you to my home to recover.”

Nothing was said from the other as she looked around in alarm, her hands shaking as they held the blanket to her body. Oscar was unsure how to proceed with this person but decided to ask a fairly easy question. “What is your name?”

Finally, the hazel eyes focused back on Oscar, her brows pinching in confusion and uncertainty at the question. Her lips moved slowly, opening and closing as if losing her words the moment she wanted to speak, then her eyes flicked to the basin of water and immediately lifted the basin with shaky hands to her lips and gulped down some of the water. She did not even stop when some splashed onto her skin or the sheets, Oscar could only watch with worry as the woman took her fill. Soon the basin was set down, now barely containing any water at all, and the fair skinned woman looked at Oscar before asking in a shaky but silvery voice. “W-where am I?”

Oscar thought about it for a moment and decided it was best to give her guest some exposition on their situation. “My name is Oscar Francois de Jarjayes, you are in my family's home of Jarjayes. My friend and I were riding horses when we found you, stabbed and bleeding out in the forest. We sought out a doctor to heal you before bringing you here to rest. It is spring of 1770. Now, what is your name?”

A distraught look crossed her face, her hazel eyes lowering their gaze to the sheets as she muttered helplessly. “I..I do not remember..”

“You cannot remember at all? Not even your family? Friends? Your home?”

“N-no!” The sharp but pained voice snapped back, hazel eyes meeting sapphire as her eyes welled up with tears. “I cannot remember a thing!”

This was an unwanted and unexpected turn of events to Oscar, her neutral expression melted into shock as the woman began to look at herself and her surroundings in apprehension and bewilderment. Calmly Oscar stood and hurried to the door, calling for her childhood friend and ordering him to ride to the doctor and retrieve him, but never made a move to leave the room. Even after André’s departure, the stranger continued to look around and then proceeded to hide under the covers as she examined her own body, leaving Oscar conflicted on how to comfort the person that did not know their own name. The royal guard simply stood at the door and waited, looking away from the red head to give her some privacy and resisted the urge to speak when she heard more gasps of pain and whimpers of helplessness.

[zee-has-commitment-issues]

17, 23, and 26 💜

Hey love! 💜

17. What highly specific AU do you want to read or write even though you might be the only person to appreciate it?

Wilmon Pirate Arranged Marriage Idiots to Lovers AU.

23. What’s a trope, AU, or concept you’ve never written, but would like to?

A 5+1 fic. But also, once again and unrelated, the Wilmon Pirate Arranged Marriage Idiots to Lovers AU. It's been bouncing around in my head for too long.

26. Would you rather write a fic that had no dialogue or one that was only dialogue?

hmmm... I think I'd prefer a fic with no dialogue, but this was a very difficult decision, not gonna lie.

ask list.

ask box.

[randofanficrecs]

Today's random fanfiction is from the L'Échange des princesses | The Royal Exchange (2017) fandom. Rien à voir. by AngelicaR2

Chapters: 1/1 Words: 336 Fandom: 18th Century CE RPF, L’Échange des princesses | The Royal Exchange (2017) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Mme de Ventadour & Marie Anne Victoire d'Espagne Characters: Mme de Ventadour, Marie Anne Victoire d'Espagne, Louis XV de France, Louise-Élisabeth d'Orléans Additional Tags: Spain, Versailles - Freeform, 18th Century, Drabble, Hope, Travel, differences Language: Français Summary: [L’Échange des princesses] : Drabble. “Marie Anne Victoire n'a rien à voir avec Louise-Elizabeth, et Mme de Ventadour espère sincèrement que cela ne va pas changer.”

[lightningbreath]

I HATE ganlink and ganzel, but, mostly, I HATE Ganondorf.

I swear, how can there be people who ship a demon who always seeks to FUCK WITH THE LIVES OF THE KINGDOM AND THE PROTAGONISTS and say that "" oh, but he's a victim "", "" oh, it's Hylia's fault""" , "" ain, but look carefully """.

Look, nothing!!! I swear, every time I see fanarts or fanfics or the number of people who support this with the shitty excuse of """ oh, Link/Zelda will show what's good about him"" (that's when it's not a romanticization of rape or abusive relationship). And you know what's the worst, it's the fact that Nintendo's shit makes him ""physically attractive"" since it seems like if you're physically attractive you can do whatever the fuck you want and people not only will forgive you, as he will glorify you.

My God, Ganondorf isn't even a gray villain, with layers, NO!!! He's just the typical shit villain who wants to dominate and kill just because he likes (and no, neither do I). come with Ganondorf from WW, because that was ridiculous, "" oh, I just wanted a better place, I just wanted the wind"" and then he tries to invade a Kingdom that isn't his and condemns the gerudo and Hyrule, he he's just a selfish spoiled brat who tried to play the victim).

And I'm not even going to talk about Ghirahim's ship with Link here because it's ridiculous and disgusting, ""haha, let's ship Link with the guys who screwed up his life for active and passive because GAY SEX, haha""". I hate sidlink and malink, but at least the stories and fanarts are cute, the relationships are healthy and, most importantly, MALON AND SÍDON NEVER TRIED TO FUCK LINK'S LIFE!!!!

I like fanarts that place Ganondorf, Zelda and Link as "unlikely friends" or with Zelda and Link destroying or mocking Ganondorf but that's it, if you want to do a story where he finds the Light, do it. BUT DON'T INVOLVE LINK AND ZELDA IN THIS, THEY HAVE NO RESPONSIBILITY OR DUTY IN """RESCUING GANONDORF"""!!!

All games say that Ganondorf is only king because he is the ''''chosen one''''. If there's anyone who enjoys the '''divine monarchy''' it's this son of a bitch. Another thing, seriously, just because there is a conflict in Gaza (it seems to ignore what Hamas does to its own people) and because he is dark-skinned, he cannot be a villain? Please, it would be a problem if all Gerudos were portrayed as villains.

It makes me sick to see how a part of the fandom always wants to find a way to make Ganondorf a '''gray villain''' when they aren't crying and kicking because Nintendo doesn't justify all his actions as a '''poor thing and as Hyrule is the great hidden evil'''.

And the stupidest thing is why these people ask this, since it seems like they can't ask for more '''complexity''' from Ganondorf without talking about his shitty race, I'll bet my house that if Ganondorf were a white man, clearly heterosexual, no one would say anything about him being a cartoonish villain.

The mistakes of the royal family of Hyrule have never been hidden, some even come to light (the history of the Yiga, the Civil War in Oot), but it seems that these people would only keep quiet if Ganondorf decimated all the Hylians. , because Hylians are evil and how dare you insinuate that a dark-skinned man from the Middle East is a shitty person and a tyrant who uses his people as instruments and blah, blah, blah.

''''Ain, but Ganondorf from Wind Waker'''', the truth is that little happened to him. That little speech of his is the same one in which Hitler told the Jews in the concentration camps that ''''Germany was destroyed by the First War and the Treaty of Versailles was destroying his people and that he only had the noble reason to empower the Germans. and that he only wanted the good of his people.'

Sounds ridiculous, doesn't it? Well, that's basically Ganondorf's speech.

And finally: Zelda has imperialist propaganda. Well, what's the problem? It's incredible how foreigners deify the Republic because of course, the only shit is the monarchy.

The monarchy in Latin countries was going well, with its ups and downs like every system of government and then BOOM, France, USA and England start to interfere in the politics of other countries to plunge them into wars and make it '''' democratic republics'''' completely dependent on them, a great plan, and now, the Latinos want to exchange American imperialism for Chinese, remaining slaves but changing owners. I would love imperialism like Zelda's, the races have a lot of autonomy of their own and even in the cruelest moment of the Hylian monarchy, they still managed to be self-sustainable. Ganondorf has always been a tyrant, who put his people in misery to use them as justification for his actions.

You complain about Rauru and the Hylian monarchy, but Ganondorf never wanted what was best for the Gerudo, he never wanted to live in peace with other races, he wanted to INVADE lands that weren't his (it was always implied that Hylians existed before). the Gerudo) if you have someone who is an imperialist who takes advantage of the "divine right of monarchy" that being is Ganondorf. I am very happy when I see the Gerudo prosper without the thorn in the side that is Ganondorf, I am completely in favor of that the '''gerudo men''' no longer exist and they are the incredible Amazonian tribe that they always were.

That's it, I've had this installed in my heart since I joined this fandom and finally, I'm at peace.