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Philippe was never been one to brood. It doesn’t do much good, he’s found, to dwell on your past mistakes and wallow in the misery of yours sins. Instead, it is much more productive to engage with God and ask for forgiveness and make promises of working towards your better nature.
And if you err again?
Well, we are none of us without sin and God is (usually) merciful and doesn’t mind a work in progress as long as you try.
Navarre, on the other hand, seems to be made up of nothing but melancholy humors. He sits and polishes his sword, or stands and brushes Goliath’s coat until it gleams, and more frequently now, after her injury and the confrontation with the bishop’s men, strokes his finger ever so gently against Ladyhawke’s feathers—speaking to her in soft whispers and broods like no one else Philippe has ever seen.
(If he’s being truthful, Philippe would brood more if he looked like Navarre did: tall and handsome and all cloaked in black. It was, God forgive him, quite an image.)
But despite that, it made Philippe worry. It certainly could not be good for Navarre’s constitution for him to ruminate on past injustices.
“You brood too much. Bad for the digestion, you know,” Philippe says, tearing another piece from the bread Imperius had given them for the journey to Aquila. (He had offered wine, too, but Navarre hadn’t let them take any, sadly.)
He’s using a fallen tree as a bench while they stopped for a rest and what passed for a mid-day meal. Navarre shoots him an unimpressed look, while his fingers do not falter as they stroke the hawk’s—Isabeau’s, Philippe reminds himself—feathers. “I do not.”
Philippe had tried to bring up Imperius’ discovery about how to break the curse earlier that day and been rebuffed. He was, despite what Navarre might think, capable of taking a hint and let the subject drop, for the time being. It didn’t mean he was willing to let it go entirely.
“You do, sir. But let’s not argue semantics. What are you worrying about?”
“Whether or not the mouse I picked up might be more trouble than he’s worth.”
“Did you know my father? Because that’s what he always said about me. I don’t suppose you would’ve had the chance to know him before he passed St. Peter’s gates,” Philippe says thoughtfully, through a mouthful of bread.
Navarre makes a disgusted noise the back of throat before standing up and placing Isabeau on her perch on Goliath’s saddle.
Undeterred Philippe tries again. “If it’s Lady Isabeau you’re worried about—”
“I am not worried. I am not brooding. Right now, I am very much restraining myself from doing anything rash,” Navarre said, his voice rising with each word.
Philippe doesn’t believe him for a moment.
Well, Philippe believes Navarre was probably close to changing his mind about using Philippe’s experience and skills to get into Aquila to exact his revenge on the bishop, and would rather just reach for his sword to end their partnership here and now.
But he doesn’t believe Navarre isn’t worried about his lady.
.
As Philippe has told God many times, he is an honest man: if only he’s given the time and the space to prove the truth of his word. In the moment, his words may not precisely be truthful, but eventually he comes around to making them right.
He told Navarre, with the ruins of a once great castle around them, that Isabeau had a message for him, that she still had hope and faith in her captain.
Now, that wasn’t precisely true. Isabeau hadn’t asked him to pass on a message to Navarre, and she hadn’t said those exact words. But the general sentiment of them were truthful, Philippe knew, and when Navarre ducked his head with a small, pleased smile, he knew it had been the right thing to say.
Taking shelter from the storm in a barn and wearing a stolen dress, Isabeau asks after Navarre and it’s not that Philippe lies, per se, it’s that he’s coming to understand the man and everything he doesn’t say much better.
Perhaps Navarre didn’t tell Philippe he is full of hope in so many words, but he would have done if he had any sense of poetry. (Philippe despairs at how Navarre ever courted Isabeau in the first place, given his straight-forward nature that does not seem to understand poetic license.)
Isabeau, for one, seems to be able to see right through him. (It really was a stretch for Navarre to say he’s full of hope. Philippe might have embellished a little too much there.) She is not pleased to be returning to Aquila, and why would she be? The city did not hold pleasant memories for her.
But Philippe cannot bear to see this lady sad, and he doesn’t let them dwell on tomorrow. Instead, he asks her for a dance and is relieved when she joins him, laughing as they turn about the barn.
The distraction seems to have worked and when they break apart, they’re both out of breath and smiling in the dim light.
“So, you two speak as one, do you?” Isabeau asks, a light in her eyes Philippe might call mischievous if forced to put a name to it.
“Yes, my lady, it’s true. Anything you say to me will be as good as saying something to the captain directly,” Philippe says, brushing the fringes of his wet hair out his eyes. At least they seem to have stopped dripping at this point.
“Tell him,” Isabeau begins, but then pauses, pursing her lips for a moment—a clear habit that makes Philippe smile. “Would you please tell him to take care? And that, that.” Isabeau’s voice fades and Philippe takes a step towards her, slowly, lest he startle her.
“What is it, my lady?” Philippe asks softly.
There are unshed tears in Isabeau’s eyes and Philippe reaches out a tentative hand to place on her shoulder. The contact seems to loosen something in her and before he knows it, Isabeau turns to him with a sob.
She is taller than him and Philippe stands there, his arms awkwardly at his sides, wondering what the proper etiquette is when a lady is hugging your neck so tightly it’s beginning to be hard to breathe. He has a sudden vision of Navarre, arms crossed and angry he did not offer comfort to his lady, so Philippe raises his arms to gently stroke her back.
“There, there, Ladyhawke. What’s all this about?” Philippe says, the nickname slipping out.
Luckily, it startles a watery laugh out of Isabeau, who pulls back to look Philippe in the eyes. Philippe misses her warmth as soon as it’s gone and berates himself for it.
“Ladyhawke?”
He makes sure he’s got his widest smile on when he answers her. “Forgive me, miss. But I’ve taken to calling you that during the day. It attracts less attention than your name.”
“Ladyhawke,” Isabeau repeats, testing it out for herself as she wiped away her tears. “I like it.”
“So does Navarre.”
At the mention of the captain, Isabeau seems to remember what caused her earlier distress and her smile dims, some.
“Good. Forgive me for crying all over you,” Isabeau says, brushing at Philippe's shirt.
“It’s no trouble, my lady. I was already wet. I couldn’t feel it at all.”
“All the same. Now, as I was saying. Would you please tell Navarre to take care? And that I miss him and—” Isabeau pauses again and looks at Philippe with a look he cannot quite make out.
“Yes, my lady?” Philippe prompts.
“Would you. Is it too much to ask,” Isabeau trails off as her eyes dart from Philippe’s to his mouth and back, so quickly he might have imagined it if she were not also leaning towards him. Philippe keeps very still, and hardly dares to breathe as he let Isabeau lean in and kiss his cheek, just on the very edge of his lips. It is sweet and tender and heat pools in Philippe’s stomach because he wants her, but it twists into shame as soon as he puts a thought to it because he could never have her. And he could not betray Navarre, not like this.
Philippe knows he is not the man Isabeau loves; he’s just the one she can reach. In his mind, he knows if the curse were gone that instant, it’d be into Navarre’s arms she’d run. For a brief moment, before coming back to himself, Philippe wonders how Navarre can endure knowing what it’s like to be kissed by Isabeau and yet be unable to be with her. They are cursed, indeed.
“If you can, please give him my regards.”
“We are as one, my lady. You needn’t even have asked.” Philippe bowed slightly, as he’d seen courtly gentleman do.
“Thank you, Philippe,” Isabeau said, smiling. “He’s been so long without a friend, I’m glad he found you. And I think I’ll take my cup of sweet wine now.”
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Philippe does not consider himself a coward.
Rather, he would contend, he has a healthy, developed sense of self-preservation.
But God forgive him, he has been a coward.
He woke up to the smell of cooking fish and Navarre looking more relaxed than Philippe had ever seen him. It made him wonder if Navarre could in fact remember some of his nights as a wolf and his satisfaction at the wolf trapper’s death.
All of a sudden he remembered the night before and that Isabeau had kissed him, and her request of him. He tried to avoid Navarre’s eyes and work out how he could just not speak to him for a week before he thought he could keep himself from letting something slip.
Ladyhawke did not help things by landing on his arms as he stretched, bypassing the captain’s, more suitable arm.
It was agony to hear the emotion in Navarre’s voice telling Philippe how much he envied him and every moment he could spend with Isabeau. So, Philippe told Navarre the truth in return; well, a truth.
And since he’s been doing so well at telling the truth of late, Philippe decides now, before Navarre gets any closer to Aquila, that he and Imperius must try to convince him that the curse can, in fact, be broken. That a day without a night and a night without a day will come to Aquila and Navarre and Isabeau must be together to confront the bishop.
Navarre is not convinced by their argument.
Imperius thanks him for trying, and since telling this truth had gotten him into this mess Philippe told a lie instead. Just to try it out. (It feels awkward on his tongue, but he’s not sure Imperius notices and for that he is grateful. Truthfully.)
They watched Navarre ride off and followed as fast as Abraham could pull their cart, which despite all the wheedling and promises of apples and carrots was not very fast. If they could not convince Navarre, their last hope was to convince Isabeau.
Of course, Philippe would have preferred not to have been mauled by a wolf or nearly drown in freezing water in order to convince her.
But such is fate.
Thankfully in all the commotion, Isabeau forgets to ask Philippe how her message to Navarre was received. He is glad there is a chance to delay a little longer, but the guilt still twists in Philippe’s gut.
The next morning, when Navarre sees the wounds on Philippe’s chest, he pulls Philippe into and embrace by the scruff of his neck. Despite not having fully recovered from his nighttime swim, Philippe flushes and feels the warmth spread from his cheeks down his neck and is grateful he can hide his smile in Navarre’s neck.
He hasn’t asked God about this yet, because he’s not sure how to put it into words. He can readily admit to fantasies about Isabeau—her beauty, her strength, her tenacious desire to live and love Navarre—who could not love a woman like that?
But Navarre? Navarre picked him up as a means to an end, and for Philippe going with him was infinitely preferable to being captured and returned to be reacquainted with Aquila’s dungeons. Somewhere along the way, though, they had become more than just convenient traveling companions.
Isabeau had called them friends, but Philippe had never felt his chest tighten whenever his friends smiled at him the way he did with Navarre.
He’s no expert on love, but to his understanding that is one of the symptoms.
Philippe wonders if falling in love with both Isabeau and Navarre is a sign of God’s sense of humor or a punishment long overdue.
He decides the best course of action, is to give Navarre Isabeau’s regards just as the sun is setting. If he can time it just right, there won’t be a spare moment for Navarre to react and then Philippe can help them get into Aquila’s cathedral. At which point Navarre and Isabeau will confront the bishop, their curse will be broke, they will live happily ever after, and Philippe will be free to slink away and forget about the pair of them and try to find whatever sort of peace he can.
They’ve built a crude cage on top of Imperius’ cart and Navarre, stripped to the waist in preparation for his transformation, is making a final check on the strength of the bars. The sun is dipping low behind the the mountains and Navarre seems to pause a moment and glance towards the lengthening shadows.
Philippe takes the opportunity to crowd into Navarre’s personal space.
“Are you sure this will hold you?” he asks, shaking the cage.
Navarre smiles and Philippe’s stomach does an acrobatic flip in dread and excited anticipation. “It should.”
“Good. Good.” Philippe rubs at the back of his head, trying to work out what to say. “Isabeau asked me to tell you something.”
Navarre’s smile doesn’t widen or really move at all, but there’s a light to his eyes that changes whenever Isabeau is mentioned.
“Oh? ”
“She wanted to say, that. Well, you see,” Philippe begins, uncharacteristically timid. He takes a breath and begins again. “If you are jealous of me for with her, she too is jealous of me. Because I may reach out and touch you and feel flesh in place of fur.”
Philippe does reach out and place a hand on Navarre’s chest, above where Philippe might feel his heart. Navarre has gone very still and Philippe hopes he’s timed this right.
“And if I would give you,” he says and leans in to Navarre, placing a gentle and chaste kiss squarely on Navarre’s lips, “a kiss. For luck.”
There is a moment when Navarre’s eyes have gone wide and dark and his hand is reaching out towards Philippe, but he begins his transformation before it reaches him.
.
Philippe has never seen a curse broken before.
And frankly, he’d be happy to never see one broken again if it meant his friends remained free of any and all curses for the rest of their days.
The bishop dies by Navarre’s sword, his and Isabeau’s curse is lifted, and their fairytale can finally have a happy ending.
Philippe does not expect Navarre’s voice to ring out in the still cathedral.
“You two. Come here.”
Nor does he expect the gentle kiss pressed to his neck by Navarre, or by Isabeau on his cheek. They send a shiver skittering down his neck. Philippe wants to linger with Navarre and Isabeau, but Imperius had taken him by the hand and none too subtly pulled him away from the couple.
Imperius returns to his cart and Philippe waves him off as it trundles down the narrow street.
He looks around at hearing his name called, only to see Navarre and Isabeau running up to him.
“You didn’t think you’d be able to sneak away that easily, did you, my little mouse?” Navarre asks with a grin.
An image of Navarre, shirtless, his eyes wide and lips parted flashes before Philippe’s eyes. He coughs and hopes he isn’t blushing too much.
“Well, firstly, I am not sneaking at all—”
“What Navarre means to say,” Isabeau interrupts him with a jab to Navarre’s side with her elbow, “is that we’d hoped you’d stay with us. As long as you’d like. We really cannot thank you enough for your help.”
Isabeau hooks an arm through Philippe’s and gently guides him down the street. Navarre walks behind them, stately even in his disheveled state.
“Where are we going?” Philippe asks eventually, curiosity getting the better of him. He feels like he's being pulled along by an unstoppable force. It's probably a fitting description for Isabeau and Navarre combined attentions.
“An inn. Neither of us have lodgings in Aquila any longer," Navarre answers.
“So you mean to stay in Aquila." Philippe does not phrase it as a question. He's not sure which prospect he likes less: being far from Navarre and Isabeau or having them close and being unable to touch them like he wants to.
"I don't think we've decided," says Isabeau. "This is all still." She stops and waves her hand. Philippe gets what she means. They've been living with the curse for years and now, suddenly, it's gone. It's all so new.
They reach the inn and Navarre speaks with the innkeeper while Isabeau and Philippe find themselves a table and before long three bowls of hot stew, bread, and mugs of ale are delivered to them.
Navarre and Philippe eat quickly, but Isabeau turns her face towards the waning sun. She is so beautiful, sitting there, her eyes closed, clearly luxuriating in the feel of the sun on her skin that it causes Philippe to pause, his spoon halfway to his open mouth, and stare. A snort from Navarre startles him and Philippe ducks his head, his face burning.
They finish their meal in silence. Tossing a few coins onto the table, Navarre stands and extends his hand to Isabeau. She laughs lightly and place her hand in his and rises from her seat. Philippe is about to make his excuses and leave them when Isabeau turns to him and extends her hand.
"Are you coming?" she asks, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Navarre is smiling from behind her and Philippe feels as though he's missed some important part of the conversation.
"If you'll have me."
The words tumble out of Philippe's mouth unbidden. Granted, he had been thinking them, but he hadn't meant to actually say them out loud.
"Good," Navarre says simply and leads Isabeau who leads Philippe up the stairs to what appears to be the room Navarre rented.
There is a moment, when Navarre closes the door behind the three of them where there is total silence.
Isabeau is the one to break it, laughing joyously and pulling Philippe into a hug. When they stop spinning, they face Navarre, who has that fond smile he gets whenever he's thinking of Isabeau. He approaches them and Philippe is suddenly acutely aware he has Isabeau at his back and Navarre at his front.
It's the first time he can think of being surrounded, and liking it.
"It was not very chivalrous of you, Philippe, to kiss me like that," Navarre says, reaching out and placing a hand on Philippe's side. He can also feel Isabeau drawing patterns against the rough-spun wool of his shirt, her fingers gliding along his lower back.
"My apologies, captain. I wasn't sure how you'd react," Philippe says, suppressing a shiver.
"Could you not?" Navarre looks genuinely hurt and for the second time Philippe wonders if he missed something. He shakes his head.
"Then I must remedy that."
Navarre dips his head and pressed a kiss to Philippe's lips. Isabeau's clever hands work their way under his shirt and squeezed his sides. Navarre's tongue is insistent and he kisses with a fervor that leaves Philippe breathless.
"Can a man love two people at once?" he asks, his world still spinning.
"Yes," came the resounding answer.
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