Archive of Our Own

-"Give me the list » I mumble, pacing around, extending my hand as I pass by my desk.

I don’t even have to look at him. I feel a paper sheet being placed on my palm, and I know it’s exactly what I asked for. Joseph has never failed me after all.

I take the list swiftly and skim through it as I stride towards my bookshelves.

Twenty names at most. A pair of hours should suffice.

The time is late, but in the life I lead, to be honest it always is. The amount of things to be done always outweighs the number of my days, like a wild wind blowing in my back, every time, all the time. I’m always late, so I make sure I never am.

First name, Edouard Grantier.

I look over my file shelf, find a folder with that name and open it. I find documents from the Tribunal of Vincennes, a few administrative reports, and more importantly, the result of the devoted work of Joseph’s agents and my own in the most agitated streets around the Pont Neuf. Pamphlets, essays, some leaflets, pages of poetry.

I have a frowning glance for Grantier’s most recent accomplishments . Last year, two pamphlets about the barren marriage of the King. How original . Two years ago, a dull spoof about debauched protestants.

Mh. Cumbersome, but not a threat.

I turn the folder around for a small sheet stuck at its back with personal information. Lives alone, only son to a widow in Bordeaux. Only source of income : position as a clerk at Notary Hubin’s study, Rue des Savoyards.

Very well.

-“Take a letter. ” I sigh.

Joseph, still sitting at my desk, takes a botched bite of that dried slice of bread he’s been nibbling at for the whole afternoon, picks up a blank paper sheet and dips a quill in my ink pot.
He freezes, nodding briefly that he’s ready.

I clap the folder shut, slide it back at its rightful place on my shelf, dictating :

-“Write to Lecloux, from the Assembly of Corporations. Make sure Grantier is fired by the end of the week, with no hope of being hired back by any other Notary in Paris. Let’s see how he’ll manage to spread his wisdom as he’ll be forced to go back to his mother in Bordeaux to find any kind of sustenance.”

Joseph writes, focused and quick, and when he's done, he leaves the sheet to dry on the growing pile of documents to be signed by me later on.

Good. Next name. Sylvain Wautange.

Shelf, folder.

Five erotica poems no less in the last six months, all describing nauseating orgies at the Court, two of them, marked in red by Joseph’s agent, mentioning the King himself. I pick up the latest, read the first stanza.

Dear God it’s disgusting . I might be quite in the distance concerning matters of poetry, but really, I can’t even decipher if this rubbish is meant to be amusing or just seedy. How can a sane French man even imagine his own King sinking so low?

This idiot has no idea.
I want him out of my sight.

I turn the folder around and grunt.

-“Sylvain Wautange, Rue des Epines, 21st.” I dictate to Joseph, who immediately grabs another sheet. “Assign him as correspondent in the trade outposts of Nouvelle-France. Make him understand what is going to happen to him and his family if he even considers coming back.”

-“Exile, then?” The priest asks, looking up.

I tut, sliding the folder back in the shelf with a playful tilt of my head.

-“A given opportunity.” I mutter.

My dear Ezechielli rolls his eyes a bit, maybe, but still keeps on writing.

Next name, Henri Pinson, called “ Le pinson moqueur ”.

I search though my files, find his name upon one of the thickest, oh, I see, a prolific artist it seems.

I exhale, already bored, and Joseph offers me more tea. I nod with a bitter smile, opening the folder while he rushes to the hearth where a kettle is always ready.

This one writes theatre plays, obviously popular in taverns and cabarets. I have three whole scripts, and extracts of five others. All marked in red.

All mentioning the King.

Never by name, but the metaphors are very unsubtle. They’re not even meant to stay unrecognized.

Animals, here. The Lion being weak and lazy, sucking his thumb and crying at the world, and of course, at the mercy of the poisonous red snake, whispering his will into the Lion’s dumb, docile ears.

Now, this is something I am not ready to tolerate.
It may have the advantage of shielding the King from the impact of the less popular of his decisions, since the people obviously believes they’re all secretly mine, but it makes him look weak, and this undermines everything I have been working for.

I pick up another play. Antique Rome, it seems. Jupiter, tied in a dark cave with ropes made of the lies vomited by the mouth of a monstrous Discordia, condemned to be the puppet of chaos, and letting the whole world unruled, abandoned to famine and plunder.

Discordia, of course, may be a woman, but is still dressed in red.

I curse aloud, and Joseph winces as he hands me my cup of herbs. He signs himself, because he is very much aware I won’t.

Fifteen years of painful days, of sleepless nights. Fifteen years, and they still don’t understand.
They still won’t understand.

They hate me, they’ll always do. And the worst of all that pain, is the voice within my own heart that hates me too.

I sigh, biting on that heartbreak I spend my life ignoring, and move on to the next work.

A hermetic fable written in quite flawless Alexandrines, about a child with a crown too wide for his head, crawling after the ghost of his mother, seduced and devoured alive by a huge red wolf, who finds the crown more fitting to his own brow, oh, Heavens, please .

Really? Is this what I look like? Is this what I am to them?
A dark creature famished for power?

I don’t expect commoners to understand the stakes of a nation, the balance of forces of Europe, but please , ten years ago they were all at the mercy of their local Lords, enslaved and slaughtered upon endless civil wars for wealth and land. They couldn’t see five years pass without becoming Spanish, then German, and French again at least twice, for God’s sake can’t they notice the work that has been done?

Painful days, sleepless nights. My months, my years are passing by in feverish haze, and no sunlight, no spring ever erases the certainty that I’ll die hated by the Kingdom I so desperately tried to build.

My eyes blur, oh, not again .
I shut the folder and throw it on the floor.

-“Henri Pinson.” I hiss. “ Bastille. ”

-“How long?” Joseph lets out, sitting back at my desk and picking a new sheet.

-“Confession, trial, gallows .” I just hammer, clenching my shaking hands around my cup. “I want him dead by Sunday.”

Joseph has a fearful glance for me above his quill, and I suppose he notices my hands, I suppose he reads my eyes, because after all he always does.

I don’t need his sympathy, so I blink back my tears and pick up the list again.

Next name.

Next name.

Twenty names later, my head is killing me, and I have to clench my jaw or my teeth will start to chatter. I’m cold, I’m tired, and I must have forgotten to eat again.

Twenty names later, an unholy stack of letters has formed upon my desk, made of ten warnings, five exiles, and five death sentences.

I look at the clock. Two hours exactly.

I let out a dark chuckle.

Joseph carefully gathers the paper sheets, and moves to put them away in the trunk of matters to be taken care of later.

-“What are you doing?” I cut in, unable to give more strength to this miserable voice.

Joseph turns to me, eyeing me from head to toe, and whispers in that concerned tone I know so well.

-“You can sign those tomorrow, Eminence. It is late already.”

I growl his obstinate compassion away, gesturing for the quill.

-“There’s no time to lose.” I remind him. “The Royal Ballet première is scheduled next week, and the Assembly of Ambassadors the week after. For the next whole month Paris will be swarming with dignitaries and guests of honor, philosophy and poetry salons given everywhere once every two days. I want the streets cleaned of any disrupting publications before that. I want the troublemakers out of my plate, I have enough work with diplomacy, thank you.”

I sign all documents in a row. It’s the most precious advantage of working with Joseph. He’s the only man in Europe, including the King himself, whose writing I never have to double-check.

With that, I send him off to rest, rubbing my hands together and assessing the work I could get done before my head becomes completely useless. He rolls his eyes again, I think, but I let it pass, he knows I'll always do.

There are still a few rebellious Huguenots in Guyenne just I received the names of.
After all, if I must die a monster to all of France, why not becoming one?

If you only knew, people of ignorance, if you only knew what I could do, if I was the beast you wrote about. If you only knew the pain, the suffering I could crush you under, if you only knew how death could be the very shadow of my name, if you –

Ow!

I look down at my thumb and flinch, Hell, I bit myself again.

I hiss in exasperation, wrapping my hand my handkerchief to prevent blood from ruining my documents, now, if I need to form a special tribunal for those Huguenots, I first have to list a few judges I know I can control, where did I put my register of –

Tok- toktok!

My heart skips a beat.

That knock on the door.

It’s half past two, how can she be here? She should be in bed, all respectable women are.

God, has something happened? Is she hurt , oh, please, let her be -

-“Come in !”

I bite my lips in anger. That came out far too worried again.

But there she is, intact and smiling, sunlight in my darkness, morning long before dawn. She barges in, locks the door, giggles something about Charpentier snoring so loud she didn’t bother to wake him up, and strides to me as the inescapable warmth of spring, only to stop dead, ten feet away from my desk, as I suppose she takes a closer look at me for the first time.

-“Armand!” she gasps in horror, and I instinctively hide my hand in my robes.

She doesn’t appreciate when I hurt myself.

And yet, isn’t it what I deserve, tell me, Marie, can’t you see the monster I am?
Can’t you see what they all see, can’t you see what they did write ?

The snake, the liar, the wolf of all deceit.

Does this ‘Armand’ even exist?

She passes a sullen look on my desk, and her beautiful brow knits, her red, red lips tensing with concern.

-“You’ve worked yourself away again.” She says.

She doesn’t ask, she doesn’t blame. She just states, and for that I feel infinitely grateful.

I’d like to touch her cheek, I’d like to gesture her close. I’d like to feel her warmth, springtime on my winter, but how could I, I am but a monster.

They all hate me, don’t you see? No matter how hard I work, no matter what I try.
If they could stop writing those things, you know, Marie, I could show myself differently, but they insist on mocking the King, and it’s my duty to punish them.

Marie, can’t you see, they all dress me every day in that monster skin they hate so much.

No matter how hard I work, the painful days, the sleepless nights, I’ll never be anything else.

Worthless. Despicable.

My head hurts, isn’t it what I deserve.
Oh, don’t look at me like that, I cannot deserve the slightest hint of your affection.
Go back, morning light, leave the wolf in his dark cave.

Go back, bird of summertime. Save yourself from my presence.

I lift my chin, whirl around her, making sure she doesn’t see my bleeding hand, and gather my coldest voice as I ask :

-“Have you come for anything else than this very constructive comment on my work schedule?”

She flinches at my words, a furtive cloud against bright skies, but she never was one to be waved away so easily.
Not once, not ever.

Her face lights up with the most radiant of smiles, and the hand I am hiding grips the rim of my desk so hard I feel my wound pulsating, don't look at me like that, save yourself.

Save yourself.

But this is Marie, my beloved Marie, and you can't wish summertime away. Not once, not ever.
She searches through her corsage, and pulls out a small crumpled note, unfolding it with one hand, brushing back a strand of her hair with the other, oh, please, do that again.

Lower your eyes, monster.
Snakes can't gaze at the sun.

I squeeze my eyes shut, turning away.

-”I came because I've written a new prose!” She cheers in delight.

I bite my tongue on a whimper.
She has written about monsters, she has written about a wolf.
She'll read out loud an laugh, she'll snicker at your pain.

Isn't it what you deserve?

-”I suppose it couldn't wait until more decent hours.” I spit over my shoulder, watching under my desk fresh blood pierce through my thin silk handkerchief.

-”Of course not!” Her gentle voice sings, my bird of summertime, my nightingale in gold. “It's about you!”

She has written about monsters.

The snake, the wolf, the darkness of our land.
She'll laugh, she'll laugh, she'll laugh at your misery.

No, please, don't speak, not you, not you my ray of light. It would kill me, can't you see? It would shatter my heart, and I'll never find the strength in me to make it through another day of their hate, another day of yours. I'll die, my love I'll die crying.

Isn't it what you deserve?

The soaked handkerchief falls on the floor, useless.

-”I'll read it to you!”

No, please, not you. I'll die, I'll die crying.

I watch my fingers dig their nails in the fresh wound of my thumb as if it was anyone's hand but mine. Blood is dripping between my feet now, and I may be shaking, but I can't look at her, I'll die, I swear.

-”You have eyes made of amber. This was my thought when I looked into them for the first time. You turned your head, you greeted me – and I saw a pair of most beautiful ambers, surrounded by a meshwork of crow’s feet as if it was the finest bezel.”

I freeze, my breath suspended. Did I hear alright? Was it her voice, was it my bird?
No, harsh words will come, they surely will, she only pushed me higher so I would fall for long.

She'll laugh at your misery.
Isn't it what you deserve?

-”Now I realize it’s not only about the color. Oh, it’s true that you have the warmest and the liveliest eyes of Paris – those precious brown orbs with golden hues in them. In your high spirits, they’re peaceful like autumn, in your happiness, they’re sweet as honey, whereas in your fever, they burn like a flame.”

I still won't dare to turn to her, but I still look up at the mirror behind my desk, it can't be my eyes she is talking about. Nothing much can be said about this face, nothing so soft, nothing so warm.
It can't be me, can't you see? They said I am a beast.

-”My two treasures, hidden from the world beneath two sets of dovish eyelashes. My two trinkets casted in bronze, stored in my loving memories. But above all, my pair of ambers.”

I slowly look at her over my shoulder, she'll laugh, she'l l laugh , but she is not laughing.

She is barely looking at her note, I'm not even sure she reads it. She has a gift, my Lady of Sunrise, she submitted words to her service. They yield to her, of course they do, she could make God himself whisper words to her ear.

She speaks some more, but I cannot hear, there is only heartbeat in my ears, and if I don't lean on this desk, I fear I might fall. Harsh words don't come. They may not ever.

My Lady, my summertime, she doesn't fear monsters at night.

She speaks some more about Zeus and lighting, oh, forgive me, Marie, I fear I might just fall. You don't see the snake. You may not ever.

She looks at me, and if I know the face of lies, her truth has always bathed me in light. She looks at me, oh God, she looks at me and says those words, this universe, this everything, just about those eyes of mine.

No one ever praise my eyes.

No one ever notices.

-”Your eyes cause all this, my love, and more.”

She said “my love”. Was it for me? How can it be?
How can sunrise love the waste of flesh I am?

-”They tame my anger, they ease my nerves, in melancholy they remind me how foolish my mood is if I have the greatest treasure in the world just a kiss, an embrace away from me.”

I walk around my desk and step closer to her, fifteen years of darkness, fifteen years of hate, and she appeared, as a gift from the Earth, a spring in the desert. I cannot understand how I could deserve water and air, dawn and twilight, all curled around the lines of her hands. I cannot understand, and everyday that passes, I still expect the fall.

But she looks at me, at me alone, and no harsh words will ever come of her red, red lips.

-”In happiness, seeing their shine doubles my joy, in lust, seeing their intensity doubles my pleasure. They are my light, my warmth, my solar talisman…

I come to stand before her, and she stares at me, her breath a bit short, her magnificent hair grazing the curve of her neck. She watches everything, she sees everything, and she's still there.
She's still there.

My hand is twitching on my side. I can't hide it anymore. Blood drips into my robes, red upon red.
I do not fear, I know I'm safe. Dawn is rising, summer has come.

My love, my world, she doesn't see monsters at night.

-”Your stigmata appears again.” She says with a sad smile.

And she takes my hand in hers, no, don't, you'll only soil your skin, don't, please, I am not-

-“You have holy hands, my love.”

I gasp in denial, n o, don't say that, don't ever do.
I try to pull my hand away, and hide it from her sight, a silent plea stuck in my throat, but my Lady has brought sunlight, her hand so warm curled around mine, and no harsh words may ever come.

-”Ah-ah” she sings, “I know you want to deny. I still maintain that these marks are of your personal Passion and should be treated as such. I don't consider your suffering any less worthy than this of our Lord.”

Don't say that, please don't say that, can't you see?

But she looks at me, and me alone, her truth always bathed me in light. I cannot understand, I don't think I ever will, and I will die, maybe, still expecting the fall.

-”Your exhausted eyes, your creased brow betrays you, Armand. You are in pain that rules not only over your body but also over your soul. Why your hurt shouldn't be holy to me? Why shouldn't I want to wipe your face off with the veil like Saint Veronica did?”

Don't say that. Don't ever say that.

I stand in silence, my back straight, my chin high, looking down as if I could still frighten her away.

But she looks at me, unmoved, untainted. Her hand so warm around mine.
She doesn't seem to mind my blood.

Sunlight has arrived, my Queen of summer birds. She came with fire in her hair, she came with oceans in her eyes, she came with God whispering on her shoulder and there is darkness no more.

Harsh words have never been.

Who am I to deny sunrise?
Dawn has risen, darkness no more.

Darkness no more.

I lower my eyes, what else to do, facing the sun?
I lower my eyes, offer my neck, what else to do, facing my Queen?

I lower my eyes, offer my neck, and sink on my knees with a sigh of relief.

Dawn has risen, Armand exists.

She seems to share my relief for a while, but I am not sure, I'll only look if she says so. I just kneel there and wait, my hand still in hers as if in the most sacred of proposals, my mind free at last from the burden of duty, the curse of power.

I am hers, now, darkness no more.

She leans down towards me, I hear her dress ruffling a bit. I feel her smile in the air, I know it's absurd, but after all, heaven is wrapped around her tongue.

She lifts my chin with a finger, will I ever forget how warm she always is. She kisses me, the world recedes, and I whimper into her mouth, yes, please, Marie.

Her lips linger, spring in a desert, a gift from the earth, pushing my mouth open, her slick tongue sliding in, and my free hand twitches in desire, did I moan so loud? I hope she allows it.

She smiles against my mouth, oh God, she does.

Her breath has hitched a little, my Lady even liked it.

-”Now.” She gently whispers, her ocean eyes searching for mine. “If you want me to let you touch more , you must let me bandage this hand of yours.”

I look up in dizzy surprise, and frown at my hand, I have soiled her skin, God, what have I done? I am nothing but a nuisance, I am a miserable pile of -

She kissed my hair, did she exhale my name?
She rushes away to my cupboard, I kneel and wait, I know I'm safe.
She comes back with a wet cloth and strips of clean linen, I show her my wound, I know I'm home.

She kisses me some more, her hands still stained with her care, and orders me to the bedroom.

I nod, docile, and stand to obey her.

As I do, my robes hiss in heavy silk, and her eyes burst into flames. Her hungry stare devours me whole, and I gulp around a lump in my throat. I know that promise, I've seen it before. She'll want me to please her tonight. My heart leaps in joy.

I drop my shoulders, show her I am willing to satisfy her every word, and she bites her lips in the most maddening gesture. As I move to the bedroom door her face suddenly comes alive with that poetic fever she sometimes gets caught in.

-”I need to write about red!” She exclaims, and rushes to my desk, where she knows she can find paper.

I watch her run, a faint smile on my lips I suppose, still hazed by the warmth of her presence.

When I realize what papers she sets her eyes on first, it is far too late to prevent it.

-”Marie!" I cry. "Don't-"

Her gentle face crumbles, and I feel like I could die. She reads the first letter, then the second. I see her hands shuffling through all of them, as if compelled by a greater force, oh, Marie, please

When she looks up at me, clouds have gathered against bright skies, and I remember; it's true, how mighty they always are.

The storms in summertime.

-”Armand, those are my friends.” She breathes, her voice shaken. “All of them. All of them .”

God, I cannot watch her sad, troubled eyes, please, let me die, let me die instead.

-”Marie, listen. What they have written-”

-”Pinson is the sweetest, the brightest of us all, you signed him off to death! ”

I take a step back, and another. I might be biting my hand again, but she doesn't care. Rainstorm has blurred sunlight, and tears have dripped on her red dress.

I made her cry, I swear, I'll die.

Isn't it what you deserve?

Snake, liar, chaos, red wolf.

There's a wretched cry of anguish filling the air, I think it's mine, and it only stops as my back hits my file shelf. When I do, I slide on the floor again, only this time gathering my knees against myself, curling in shame, barely breathing.

Please, let me die.
You monster, you betrayed her.

She'll laugh at your pain.

She looks away, the storm rumbles, fierce and proud, destroying everything summer had grown.
Perfumes fade and flowers wither, oceans roar and earth shivers under the wrath of her cold, cold eyes.

-”I apologize, Your Eminence.” She exhales after a while, oh no, no, please -

-”I should not discuss your decisions.”

With that, she bows , and she could have pierced me with a sword.
I wail, broken and torn, and I only see her walk away through a mist of agony.

Monster, liar.
Worthless. Despicable.

The door clicks shut. Darkness once more.
I knew I was right to wait for the fall.

***

-”Don't move, Eminence, it'll only last longer.”

I growl in bitterness and pain as Joseph applies more of that cursed unguent on my hands. It burns, God, it burns, and it doesn't even help that much. But I don't want anyone else to know, so his dark age balms will have to do.

I look down at my fingers, lord, they're useless. It's been ten days, and I already can't write anymore. There isn't an inch of skin that isn't peeled off or bruised, blood oozing from the rims of the bandages. Using my hands is a torture, the pain is unbearable, and yet, every hour at least, I find myself biting again.

-”The left thumb might be infected.” Joseph sighs.

-”It doesn't matter.” I shrug.

It is what I deserve.

It's been ten days since she closed the door upon my darkness. I stayed there sitting on the floor, unable to stand, unable to think. Dawn has come the next morning for sure, but there was no sunlight for me.

There might not ever be.

And yet, things to be done outweighed the hours of my days. Joseph came back eventually, screaming in fear as he saw what, I suppose, was left of me. There was blood all lover my hands and mouth, he told me later on, and the shelf looked like a battlefield. I don't remember much.

She was gone and I was cold, that's all.

She was gone, and I was dead.

But France wasn't, and as worthless as I felt, it seems there were still a few things left only me could get done, or so Joseph insisted, almost crying against my chest. I got up for him. I got up for duty.

This is my fate, this is my life. The red snake in his dark cave, weaving lies, spitting venom. Sun doesn't shine for monsters. They aren't allowed warmth, they aren't allowed light. No fragrances, no flowers.

Only harsh words and agony.
Only storms of summertime.

Nothing less than what I deserve.

I betrayed her.

I sensed, without knowing for sure, that she must have known most of these writers, as she stubbornly loses most of her time among street lampoon scribblers and anarchists. I condemned them all the same. Worst of all, even as I learnt from her own mouth they were all her friends, I didn't reduce the slightest sentence.

Not one. Not ever.

If they could stop writing those things, you know, Marie, I could show myself differently, but they insist on mocking the King, and it’s my duty to punish them.

I couldn't let the Crown, the State, run such risk.

I have work to do. A vision to protect, no matter the price.
No matter the price.

I have given all my life to this work. Now it has taken my sunlight too, and I am left with winter nights.

I am cold, I am dead.

Nothing less than what I deserve.

- “Read me the list of guests again.”

Ezechielli rolls his eyes at me once more, he knows I'll always let it pass. He wraps half of my fingers in thin stripes of linen, throwing glances on a paper next to him upon the reception table. He enumerates names carefully, and I close my eyes, checking them all by memory one last time.

No, it' fine. They're all safe. Those who are good enough to be noticed are loyal to the King. Those who aren't won't cause trouble.

When he has to read her name, his voice changes, and he stops listing. I open my eyes, frowning in impatience.

-”What is it?” I hiss.

-”Mademoiselle de Trélaze will be there.” He breathes, his thick black eyebrows shooting up in insistence.

Don't you think I know, I've writen this list myself.

Two months ago.
I still deserved summertime by then.

I straighten my back, pull my hand free from his fiddling, and shove them in my gloves.
I moan in pain. Doesn't matter.

-”Did your agents find any improper writing from her?” I spit.

-”No! Not at all.”

-”Then she'll be allowed in. End of the story.”

With that, I stand up, and fetch my cloak, ordering him to read the rest of the list aloud.

I have work to do. A vision to protect, no matter the price.
No matter the price.

***

The music is soft, the wine appropriate, and if that Dutch poet could make his revisited Iliad a bit less boring, The King would be perfectly pleased.

I check the skies through the windows. Nighttime has fallen, and no incident so far.

I allow myself a short sigh.

Below the platform the Table of Honor has been placed on, the Reception Hall is filled with a hundred people at least, including the Court's finest of course, and the whole Royal Family, to the noticeable exception of his Highness d'Orléans again.

Queen Anne and Queen Mother sit at Louis’ left, and I at his right, as always.
He doesn’t talk to them once, turning to me instead to ask me for names and opinions, or sliding sarcasm into my sleeve with a knowing smile, as always.

Among the crowd chattering in front of us, more than forty artists, writers, poets and comedians, the very best of Paris' gifted few, now cleaned from all rebellious minds. They slide from table to table, dueling in debates, rhymes, playlets and harmless pastiches. Every now and then, Louis rings a silver bell attached to his chair, and names one artist who has to perform a creation of his just for him.

It amuses the King immensely, and he uses that joyful authority he’s been given just like every other one he possesses: with hunger and delectation.

Sitting elegantly at the noisiest table, her laughter more delicate than any song a bird could sing, of course, she’s there . Fire in her hair, roses on her dress. Magnificent as summer sun.

She was already there, along with most of the artists, as I came into the room following the King. I thought I had prepared myself enough, I thought looking somewhere above her head would suffice. I had my gloves, my formal dress. I thought lifting my chin and clenching my teeth would shield me from the storm, but then, she bowed for me again, and the pain almost made my knees buckle.

-“A most pleasant evening, Your Eminence.” She greeted me. “As have every reason to believe your guests will meet all your expectations.”

I didn’t dare to speak with only the shreds of my own breath, so I guess I just nodded, and she turned her back on a whirl of her rich, unbearable perfume.

I had to sit, not long after that, and I fear I haven’t been able to stand since. Joseph is staring at me in growing concern, and this is something I am used to, but the King is starting to ask questions about my health too, and it is far more annoying.

Not to worry, I know my duty, there’s work to do.
I will perform. I will function, I will exist.

I can’t promise that I will live, that’s all.
Sunlight has gone, and I am cold. I am buried into the skin of a monster, so deep I can breathe nothing else but its stench. The storm rumbles, and here in the dark, the only thing I feel is pain.

Not to worry there’s work to do.
I only fainted a couple of times, that’s all.

Nothing less than what I deserve.

She’ll laugh, she’ll laugh, she won’t notice if you crumble.

I rub my eyes with my fingertips, hissing in pain as my wounds wake up. I shove those useless hands back on my lap with an enraged growl and build up a short smile as the Dutch poet is finally finished. The King applauses. I won’t.

They’ll think I’m being rude. Better that than any truth.

The King starts discussing with the Dutch ambassador, as politics and arts could never stay separated for long, and cheerful performances are revived around the tables.

The most joyful of all, of course, is still hers.

I dare a quick glance, and my fists clench instinctively, tearing a gasp of agony out of my lungs. She’s the one talking, one of her Antique poetry no doubt, since I see her graceful hands mimicking the dances of Roman Gods, and the one she’s blessing with her words, is no one but Retz again.

He’s there too, of course he is , as long as fine arts are concerned he’s almost inescapable. This debauched fool spends more time giving salons than writing sermons, but truth be told, he still writes more sermons than I do.

Monster, liar, the evil wolf famished for power.
Bad priest, despicable man.

I let out a small whimper as I shudder in this nausea I know so well.

Retz.

Cardinal robes don’t ruffle around him as they do around me. He’s not as skinny, he’s not as old. His robes are filled with strength and laughter, his face handsome, his frame sturdy.

His salons, if those grotesque spectacles of lust could ever be called that way, are famous for being only a gateway to orgies, but strangely enough, for that kind of sin no one seems to hate him much. He is young, he is charming, his eyes are green leaves and his hair is dark wood.

He’s much more summer than I will never be.
God, look at me, thin as a twig and white as snow.

He’s everything I will never reach, and he has set her sights on Marie since more than a year by now.

He’s listening to her, devouring her mouth with his filthy eyes, and I swear I would have him stabbed in his sleep, if that wouldn’t make her hate me more.

He’s listening to her, and she laughs for him, spinning around in her gorgeous copper dress, reciting rhymes with words he prompts her with, her favorite game, I remember.

She spins and turns, the most glorious of sunflowers, out of reach forevermore.

No summertime for monsters.

She dances and laughs, and if her eyes do meet mine, dark clouds gather against bright skies.

She hates me, of course she does.
I betrayed her. I killed them all.

Joseph told me she has been seen at every trial of her friends. Every day, every judgment, every hour. She visited them in the Bastille, brought them gifts, read them books.

She was on Place de Grève as they hanged high. Every time, every day.

All five of them, in the same week.

Joseph whispered she cried for every one of them, and I only wished my body could die the way my soul already had.

My sunrise, she didn’t see the monster in me.
What does she see, now that the blood I am soaked in carries the names her brothers.

Chaos, liar, the red wolf of all deceit.

She’ll laugh, she’ll laugh, she has Retz at her feet now.
You’re dead, winter night, you’re dead to her.
Just wait until you’re dead for good.

He takes her hand in is, playing the Zeus to her Hera, and if his mouth doesn’t kiss her yet, her eyes most surely already are. God, please, let me die.

There’s work to do, wretched monster.

Ow!

Oh, not again.

I force my hands back on my lap, cringing at the burn in my fingers, closing my eyes on tears of fatigue.

No summertime for murderers.

-“Are you alright, Cardinal?”

I have a start, blink my eyes clear, and turn to the King with a smile.

-“Of course, Your Majesty.” I breathe soothingly. “Is the evening to your liking?”

Louis nods with vehemence, a delighted, if not tipsy smile on his face.

-“It is perfect!” he claims. “The diplomatic guests are all impressed, and this might be a good sign, especially concerning those issues we have with England! Very well played, Cardinal.”

I let out a wider smile. The satisfaction of this man has sufficed as a reason to live all along before she came, even though, before her warmth, I couldn’t miss what I didn’t know of.

The King lets out a fond chuckle, and looks seized by an idea.
He rings his bell again, and as every time, I set my eyes somewhere near the windows, because I know she’ll be looking, and Lord have mercy, I am barely alive.

Only, it’s me Louis calls on this time, leaning over and patting my arm.

-“Name one for me, Cardinal?”

God, can’t I just rest?

I bow gently, plastering a smile on my lips again, and search through that list I have memorized.
Suppress the names of those he has already heard.
Pick the most gifted of the rest-

Oh Lord, that’s her.

I close my eyes, and whimper.

Calling any other would be disappointing him, and this evening has already cost me the most precious thing in my life. I know she’ll please him. She has God on her shoulder. She has Dawn upon her lips.

Oh God can’t I just die?

I open my eyes again, only to suggest, my face frozen, my chin held high:

-“I believe you haven’t heard from young Charlotte de Trélazé, Your Majesty. She is… very promising.”

The King nods in enthusiasm, demanding silence with two firm claps of his hands. Gaze out the windows, stay still, don't bite yourself. She may be looking, and you're almost dead.

She may never look again, and you're already buried.

She has Retz at her feet now.
Green leaves and dark wood. Look at you, all snowy skin and silver hair.

He's summer day, you're winter night.

There is no sunlight for monsters.

-”Mademoiselle de Trélazé, will you step forward?” Louis asks, and I hear the young writers at her table cheer and whistle under their breath.

I hear her dress rustle, I feel the storm rumbling.
I wish I could die, and be relieved of this pain.

I see her bowing from the corner of my eyes, and all stare at her in complete silence. I realize she has made her own name somehow, all of it very much deserved. It was a mistake, a glitch of nature, her affection for me, but the forces of the Earth never let mistakes linger for too long.

Everything is in order now.
Monsters locked in the dark, sunrise upon the world.

This is my fate, this is my life.

Nothing less than what I deserve.

Her voice resonates through the hall, warmer, I swear than any light sunrise can give, and I smother the need to fall on my knees.

-”In ancient times, Your Majesty would be probably highly praised by Lacedaemonians. Your virtues are cut from the same star they claimed it shines the brightest. A brave, cunning warrior who lives a disciplined life, possessing the wisdom to surround himself with those similar to him. Military strength and valor were things Lacedaemonians honored the most. Indeed, if we speak about the art of war, it’s them, not Greeks who should be admired. Even Alexander the Great never attempted to conquer the land of Laconia and Persian king, who threatened to raise the capitol if he arrived there, received only one word as a reply – “if”. One word spoken in the right moment is worth more than thousands spoken mindlessly. Even the best of singers should know when to stay silent. And silence, Your Majesty, is never shameful. »

The crows gasps and whispers in awe, echoes of admiration ricocheting on the walls.

Marie, my Marie, Dawn upon her lips, God on her shoulder.
It was sublime, how proud I am.
None of this was for me, how hard it hurts.

Still, I feel more than I see Louis beam in bliss and pride, as she had the wisdom to praise one of the things he often gets blamed about; the unease he has for his own speeches.

I turn my gaze at him, careful not to see her, because this is one of my weaknesses, I just like to see him pleased.

And pleased, God, he is.

The King applauses, overjoyed, and slowly, the Court follows.I feel the crowd seduced and blissful, ready to spread her name to the four winds, and while a part of me rejoices at her well-earned fame, I know she isn't even looking at me, and my fingernails digging in my wounds is the only thing that keeps me from crying.

Isn't that the story of my days? Chasing one pain with another.

Louis stand up, asks for his personal wine to be served to Marie, and both delegations from United Provinces and Rome walk closer to beg for a few more of her words. A young Dutchman among the diplomats addresses the King, then, his voice loud and clear, enough to force the whole hall to silence :

-”Your Majesty, I think I speak for my whole country, and for the Master I serve, when I express the utmost respect for France this evening will plant in the soil of my heart. I have seen tonight many gifted artists, flourishing with words and talent, only rivaling to please their King. You are a blessed ruler, Louis de France, for I have seen the tragic harm of rebellious pamphlets.”

A swift change washes over Louis, and I notice, close to my face, his knuckles cracking nervously. He steps closer to the young man, inquiring in a worried voice :

-”What have you seen? Tell me.”

The Dutchman clears his throat, his soft features darkening, and he has a vague gesture for his companions in black Protestant coats.

-”I have followed my Master Ambassador Vandersteen for years in every corner of Europe, Your Majesty, and I have seen many favorites, ministers and advisors fall into disgrace with one satire too many. I have seen my own King forced into war by pamphlet claiming him a coward. I have seen the grandest Lords of Germany dragged out of their castles and beheaded like pigs by a people manipulated by gazettes. I have seen with my own eyes wives and mothers repudiated, children exiled and fates broken, only with the might of venomous lines. Your Majesty, France can be proud to have won the heart of her artists, for their loyalty may be a strongest ally than any army could ever be.”

It's not his words that steal my breath.
It's the silence right after.

In those ethereal, almost holy seconds of complete stillness following his speech, I feel the power of words, and the way it can vanquish one hundred minds in a single minute still frightens me sometimes.

I like this lad. I'll have Joseph follow him for a while.

I expected Louis stride to the Dutchman, adding his own praise to the silent ovation of the room, but to my sheer surprise he turns to me instead, and extends a hand towards my chair.

-”Yes, young man,” he says, with a trembling in his voice I haven't heard in a long time,”my Kingdom is well maintained. But if France's glories shine as far as into the hearts of her poets, it is because of the loyalty and sacrifice of my Minister.”

Oh, God.

I join my hands upon my chest, inhaling sharply as all stares turn to me, speaking of disdain, fear, and respect alike.

I know The King had been worrying, but really, I've only fainted twice.
I know he's been wanting to cheer me up for days, but really, they'll still hate me you know.

But Louis is resolute upon rewarding me, shaken by thankfulness as he has only been a handful of times, and though I expected him to shake the Dutchman's hand, it's mine he strides towards, grabbing it in a soft move.

I know I'm supposed to stand, but I can't, I don't think I ever will. I beg him in silence, and he understands, accepting a bow given from where I sit.

He keeps my hand into his, and turns to the Hall, declaring to the crowd with a peaceful smile on his mouth :

-”Without the relentless efforts of my dear Cardinal to do whatever is necessary, God knows where france, or I, would be.”

Oh, dear God.

I give him a straight back, a high chin, I give him a short nod, a humble smile, I give him Minister, because I know I must. But Medici is glaring with raw murder in her eyes; and there is not a dozen of souls in that room who share the half of Louis' pride.

They all hate me, monster, chaos.

The red wolf of all deceit.

This evening of glory has been prepared in slaughter.
The blood on my hands, never just mine.

No matter how I tear my skin in shreds, never, never just mine.

Please, let me die.

Merciful, Louis claps his hands again, for music this time, and the crowd scatters around, rhymes and plays joyfully replaced by eager invitations for a dance. I let out a shaking breath, and gesture towards Joseph, who never wanders far from me.
We agreed that on my signal he'd lend me his arm to help me out of this, and it's now or never. It's all been without incident so far, and I don't want to ruin it by fainting a third time.

I reach out to my right, my eyes blurred by exhaustion, waiting for his solid frame to slide close, that's the main advantage with working with that man, I don't even need to look at him.

But what wraps around my arm is something smaller, something soft, and incredibly warm.

But what wraps around my arm is bright sky clearing up, and I let out a strangled sob.

She's there.
She's there.

I slowly look up, shuddering in emotion, oh, Lord, Marie.

Her face is inches from mine, she helps me stand up, her eyes glassy, her face troubled, and suddenly I can't control the flood of tears running down my cheeks anymore. She swiftly turns me away from the crowd so they don't see my cry, hiding her affliction in a nonchalant pretense about a visit to my collection of arts. None of them are aware, after all, of how she already knows everything I own by heart.

She pushes me to the door, then, and I think I see Joseph watch us pass by , are you smiling Ezechielli?

What did you see that I haven't?

She doesn't let me speak until we've reached my rooms, but I still try twice, because she orders me to be quiet then, and the sound breathes my very life back into my heart.

Once she slams close my bedroom door, she lets go of my arm, and I keep standing with great effort, only because she hasn't allowed me to kneel. I bite my lips, clench my fists upon my wounds, focus on the pain, swallow my tears, watch the lower rim of her copper dress, and wait for her holy word.

-”Look at me, Armand.”

Oh God, Armand, she said Armand.

Springtime has returned.

Apologize, monster.
Beg for mercy, wolf of deceit.

-”Marie, please forgive me-

-”Ssht!” She hisses, raising a stern finger.

I clap my lips shut. I keep holding her stare, she hasn't allowed me to look down.

I read confusion, and regret there, and I swear I wish for Hell rather than be the cause of her trouble. Silence stretches, my heart stutters, I reopen my wounds, focus on the pain, blood seeps through my gloves, harsh words will come, nothing less than I deserve.

-”I understand.” she says, bright skies clearing up.

I blink. Was it for me?

But she's looking at me, at me alone.

-”What you have done.” She explains, her brow intent, her words careful. “It hurt, it hurt a lot, but now, I understand. What that Dutchman said, how the King spoke of you. I know, now, what you tried to avoid. You protected the King. You did what you had to do.”

I hear someone wheezing, like a man fished out of cold waters, and it must be me, but I don't really care. I stare at her, Lazarus resurrected, and bathe in sunlight again, unsure about dawn, still expecting the fall.

Her ocean eyes slides from my face to my hands, and she has a knowing nod towards the gloves that hide my shame and my despair.

-”Those things you do, they hurt you just as bad. You carry them, you expiate them. Would you bleed so much, if you hadn't a virtuous soul?”

I don't know how, I cannot breathe. My head is dizzy, my eyes unclear, but I hold on to her face, her beautiful face, and how candlelight worships the rouge upon her lips.

-”Besides” she huffs with a sad smile,” Joseph showed me their writing. It was grossly balanced, foolish, dangerous. Those were kind-hearted, but stupid men, with wrong ideas at the wrong time.”

Joseph showed you- ?

I choke on a groan of protest, that's why you smiled, Ezechielli.
I feel a fickle of warmth spreading in my heart, he likes her, my only friend.

I taste the sweet of a bliss I don't deserve, and panic drains my last strength.
My heart in my ears, the world quickly fading, Marie, please -

She looks at me, she understands. Her smile changes into that bright summer joy, and something foul releases its grip around my chest.

Dawn has returned.
No monsters, no cave.

My love, my light, she might see the snake in me.
But she accepts him just the same.

-”Forgive me, Armand.” She finally breathes. “I shouldn't have left you.”

No, don't say that don't ever do-

I let out a long whimper, almost sway backwards, and she instinctively reaches out to break my fall, but I steady myself, if only for a second, Marie, please, release me.

She smiles, she understands.

-”You can kneel, now, my devoted one.”

I don't kneel, I collapse, but she doesn't seem to mind.

She only sinks down at my side, cupping my face into her hands, my Marie, she is so warm. She buries her nose into my neck, whispers sweet nothings there, her perfumes ignites my heart, and I regret my eyes can't even stay open for long. I wish I could please her, but all my strength has fled from me. The world has blurred, dimmed beyond the fire in her hair, please Marie, my summer bird, I am sorry, I am so tired -

She doesn't seem to mind, murmuring in my ear, are those rhymes, oh, say them again
She doesn't seem to mind my winter nights, snowy skin and silver hair.

Does she?

Does she?

-”So, Retz is...?” I mutter, and I feel her crumbling in laughter, her graceful frame shaking against mine.

She pulls apart gently, to stare down at me in awe and disbelief.

-”Really?” She huffs. “You're lying in my arms, almost dying from exhaustion, you gather enough strength to speak three small words, and those are what you choose?”

I wince, bite my lips, lower my eyes.

-”I am sorry” I exhale. “I thought -”

-”Well, stop.” She cuts in, with her voice of warm wild winds, her smile of gentle rule. “He doesn't compare. No one does, no one will. Now, if you're strong enough to speak nonsense, get on the bed. You'll be out cold in five minutes at this rate, and I can't carry you.”

I nod, delighted to have something to obey to, and crawl on my bed in winces and cries. Once there, I let myself fall on the side panting, quickly joined by her hands, her voice, her warmth, thank God.

Harsh words didn't come. They may never will.
Sunrise has returned, darkness is no more.

She speaks those rhymes again. It's about a chariot, and a few stars maybe. I won't remember them. She doesn't seem to mind.

She pulls out my gloves, I hear her cursing aloud, realize my eyes were already closed, and open them to apologize. She shakes her head, my blood-soaked hands in her own, and leans down to kiss my lips into silence.

I cry out, moan her name into her mouth, Marie, my love, beware, I'll stain your dress -

Her kiss lingers, from my mouth to my jaw, and my whole skin shudders in pleasure, and though fatigue won't allow more, she still chuckles with the delight she always has when she enjoys my company.

I feel something dark release its grip around my throat, and allow myself to bathe in summer sun. She doesn't see me smile at her, she's too focused on my hands, and this jar of cream she pulled out from nowhere, much better than Joseph's balms, that she applies upon my wounds.

Before my eyes give up on me, I engrave the hues of candlelight in her hair, fire against fire, the most fervent of all colors. I watch, and remember the curves of her ears, the line of her collarbone, the frills of her dress, the rim of her nails.

I take them with me, for she's never wrong about me, and I'm afraid I'll be gone in a while.

Before I find my peace in the warmth of summer breeze, I open my mouth to call her name, to praise her lips, to congratulate her for her success, to speak my pride, my devotion, my gratitude.

My love, my light, she has redeemed the monster in me.
Sunrise has returned, darkness is no more.

I know I'm safe.

I know I'm home.

I want to tell her, I want to tell her everything, but it seems I'm running out of time, and my last breath before sleep isn't as long as I had hoped.

I only have strength left for three small words, and this time, I please my Lady just fine, and tell her the ones she wants.