Allons enfants de la Patrie!
Jul. 14th, 2008 06:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
erastesIn honour of Bastille Day. A little snippet of Standish, because Rafe has a story to tell about the Marquis de Sade and the Glorious 14th. However, those of you who know your history will know that either the Marquis was lying to Rafe, or Rafe is lying to Ambrose...
Now sitting alone in the morning light, Ambrose held the paper in his hands. He had found it on the day they were due to leave Standish. It had been on his pillow in his own room, which he had found strange; He could not understand why Rafe had left him a note in that place, as he had not slept there since their first night together. He was holding it now. He had kept it with him for weeks, in London and all through the journey to Dover and to Paris. At times it seemed as if it was burning a hole in his side, and he would take it out in the rare moments when he was alone and read it.
It was not from Rafe. It was not even to Ambrose. It was just a few stanzas of a poem, written in an unknown hand on an old piece of parchment, the ink faded. Ambrose knew the poem, of course, and had long loved it, but now the sight of it sickened him. Jealousy had entered every line of the love song of Solomon and had eaten it away like canker worm. He knew now that the paper had been placed there by the tramp in the park, and the implications behind that were almost too monstrous to contemplate, but he had done nothing but think of them ever since. The only time he could forget his jealousy was when Rafe was touching him, kissing him. As soon as they were apart for seconds, the doubts began again.
Ambrose hated himself for this. He remembered how disdainful Rafe had been over Trenberry’s jealous neediness, and he had tried so hard to push the accusations he longed to throw at Rafe to one side, but he wanted to know the truth. How had the tramp entered his bedroom? What was his relationship to Rafe? Why had Rafe denied knowing him? Why did Rafe keep so much from him? Hot, jealous tears fell onto the parchment, and the writing, elegant and upright, smudged and ran.
“Ambrose?” Rafe’s voice was tinged with worry.
“I’m here, Rafe. “ He emerged from the curtains, tucking the parchment in the bed sheet he wore and dropping them both on the floor.
Rafe looked keenly at him and his face clouded. “What has happened, love? You have been crying.”
Ambrose’s heart was breaking, but he refused to show Rafe his jealousy, afraid of driving him away. Instead, he smiled and clambered back onto the enormous wooden bed. He wrapped his arms around Rafe’s waist, feeling the fears drop away from him as he held him fiercely, his head in his lap. “Nothing, my love,” he lied, his stomach churning with the first falsehood he had ever told Rafe. I’m just so happy.”
Rafe laughed and pulled him up to kiss him. “Strange child,” he said. He wriggled to the edge of the bed and used the huge headboard as support to pull himself to his feet. “You should be crying real tears now, then,” he laughed. “Look!” With his hands on the bed, he took a few stumbling steps around toward Ambrose. “Another few weeks and I will be chasing you around the bedroom.”
“You’ve already caught me, Rafe,” said Ambrose, his heart feeling the weight of the poem.
“So solemn!” Rafe said. “Pull the curtains, Ambrose. It’s Paris, and I want to show you all of it!”
Much later, Ambrose had almost forgotten his worries again; he was dazzled by Paris. Rafe had been spending far too much money as usual, and he had bought and bought. No one had been forgotten, Ambrose had more books, and a beautiful cane with a silver wolf’s head, Sebastien had candies and toys, and parcels were going to be winging their way back to Standish. Gifts for his sisters—an exquisite pear wood escritoire for Maria, bonnets, gloves and ribbons for Sophy, even Aries had not been forgotten. They had watched and waited while a craftsman had fashioned a magnificent leather collar and engraved it with rabbits.
Rafe had shown him all the sights of his terrible childhood, and they had treated it like a history lesson for Sebastien: the Place de Concord, where the huge Guillotine had stood menacing in the centre; the site, now cleared, where the infamous Bastille has been, now torn to pieces by the mob, the prisoners released
“Only seven prisoners in the entire castle,” Rafe told the fascinated child. “Le Marquis de Sade was one, and he’d been there for eleven years. He boasted to me once that it was he who started the revolution, by shouting from the windows that all the prisoners were being executed. It was so typical of him.”
Ambrose’s eyes widened at this admission and his heart grew heavier. Yet another piece of Rafe’s past he knew nothing about. Over the weeks, they explored Paris and the environs thoroughly. Little Sebastien was now more in love with Napoleon than ever, being in the city upon which the little general had impressed so much of his personality. Ambrose had spent hours in the six hundred-year-old university, poring over as many books as he could in the limited time, while Rafe and Sebastien had watched the soldiers drilling on the Champs-de-Mars. They had marvelled at the Tulleries and the fountains at Versailles, but Ambrose had touched Rafe’s hand and said that their fountain was better than any.
Now sitting alone in the morning light, Ambrose held the paper in his hands. He had found it on the day they were due to leave Standish. It had been on his pillow in his own room, which he had found strange; He could not understand why Rafe had left him a note in that place, as he had not slept there since their first night together. He was holding it now. He had kept it with him for weeks, in London and all through the journey to Dover and to Paris. At times it seemed as if it was burning a hole in his side, and he would take it out in the rare moments when he was alone and read it.
It was not from Rafe. It was not even to Ambrose. It was just a few stanzas of a poem, written in an unknown hand on an old piece of parchment, the ink faded. Ambrose knew the poem, of course, and had long loved it, but now the sight of it sickened him. Jealousy had entered every line of the love song of Solomon and had eaten it away like canker worm. He knew now that the paper had been placed there by the tramp in the park, and the implications behind that were almost too monstrous to contemplate, but he had done nothing but think of them ever since. The only time he could forget his jealousy was when Rafe was touching him, kissing him. As soon as they were apart for seconds, the doubts began again.
Ambrose hated himself for this. He remembered how disdainful Rafe had been over Trenberry’s jealous neediness, and he had tried so hard to push the accusations he longed to throw at Rafe to one side, but he wanted to know the truth. How had the tramp entered his bedroom? What was his relationship to Rafe? Why had Rafe denied knowing him? Why did Rafe keep so much from him? Hot, jealous tears fell onto the parchment, and the writing, elegant and upright, smudged and ran.
“Ambrose?” Rafe’s voice was tinged with worry.
“I’m here, Rafe. “ He emerged from the curtains, tucking the parchment in the bed sheet he wore and dropping them both on the floor.
Rafe looked keenly at him and his face clouded. “What has happened, love? You have been crying.”
Ambrose’s heart was breaking, but he refused to show Rafe his jealousy, afraid of driving him away. Instead, he smiled and clambered back onto the enormous wooden bed. He wrapped his arms around Rafe’s waist, feeling the fears drop away from him as he held him fiercely, his head in his lap. “Nothing, my love,” he lied, his stomach churning with the first falsehood he had ever told Rafe. I’m just so happy.”
Rafe laughed and pulled him up to kiss him. “Strange child,” he said. He wriggled to the edge of the bed and used the huge headboard as support to pull himself to his feet. “You should be crying real tears now, then,” he laughed. “Look!” With his hands on the bed, he took a few stumbling steps around toward Ambrose. “Another few weeks and I will be chasing you around the bedroom.”
“You’ve already caught me, Rafe,” said Ambrose, his heart feeling the weight of the poem.
“So solemn!” Rafe said. “Pull the curtains, Ambrose. It’s Paris, and I want to show you all of it!”
Much later, Ambrose had almost forgotten his worries again; he was dazzled by Paris. Rafe had been spending far too much money as usual, and he had bought and bought. No one had been forgotten, Ambrose had more books, and a beautiful cane with a silver wolf’s head, Sebastien had candies and toys, and parcels were going to be winging their way back to Standish. Gifts for his sisters—an exquisite pear wood escritoire for Maria, bonnets, gloves and ribbons for Sophy, even Aries had not been forgotten. They had watched and waited while a craftsman had fashioned a magnificent leather collar and engraved it with rabbits.
Rafe had shown him all the sights of his terrible childhood, and they had treated it like a history lesson for Sebastien: the Place de Concord, where the huge Guillotine had stood menacing in the centre; the site, now cleared, where the infamous Bastille has been, now torn to pieces by the mob, the prisoners released
“Only seven prisoners in the entire castle,” Rafe told the fascinated child. “Le Marquis de Sade was one, and he’d been there for eleven years. He boasted to me once that it was he who started the revolution, by shouting from the windows that all the prisoners were being executed. It was so typical of him.”
Ambrose’s eyes widened at this admission and his heart grew heavier. Yet another piece of Rafe’s past he knew nothing about. Over the weeks, they explored Paris and the environs thoroughly. Little Sebastien was now more in love with Napoleon than ever, being in the city upon which the little general had impressed so much of his personality. Ambrose had spent hours in the six hundred-year-old university, poring over as many books as he could in the limited time, while Rafe and Sebastien had watched the soldiers drilling on the Champs-de-Mars. They had marvelled at the Tulleries and the fountains at Versailles, but Ambrose had touched Rafe’s hand and said that their fountain was better than any.
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no subject
Date: 2008-07-14 07:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-15 07:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-14 07:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-15 07:33 am (UTC)*eager*
no subject
Date: 2008-07-14 11:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-15 07:33 am (UTC):D
no subject
Date: 2008-07-15 03:17 am (UTC)Question: Do you speak French, and could I prevail upon you to look over some phrases (i'll post them in my lj for ease of access) and let me know if they're correct? I have high school French and it was a long time ago. I need to check that my memory serves me correctly as I have had little opportunity to use my French in conversation.
I'd be ever so grateful!
no subject
Date: 2008-07-15 07:34 am (UTC)I'm sorry, no I don't, But if you perhaps ask Asphodeline (at the top of the comments box,) nicely she might be able to - or know someone who can.
no subject
Date: 2008-07-19 08:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-17 06:00 am (UTC)