Long Way Home [Nicephore]

[PAUL CHAUVELIN]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 400px; background-image: url(http://i217.photobucket.com/albums/cc172/damijoandamija/sbg.jpg); padding-left: 50px; padding-bottom: 20px; padding-top: 10px;] damaged I am merely the product…..of the life that I've lived An amalgam of sorrows.....and the wisdom they give But the weight has grown heavy [style= text-align: center]and it's dragging me down It's so hard not to sink now but I don't want to drown

[/size][/font][/style]

chauvelin

tags || Nicephore

Chauvelin was tired. While he was in much better shape than most men of his age and 'station,' tonight he felt every one of his sixty years all the way into his bones. And it wasn't just physical exhaustion from the dancing -- including La Volte, damn the boy -- he'd spent the last several hours doing. His mind had been engaged every minute of those hours in a silent, secret mental duel, a duel he'd had to hide the fact he was even fighting. Even his heart was worn out, bruised by the sight and touch of the woman he loved, who had given her own heart and hand to his greatest adversary. The old spymaster was good -- he was, in fact, damn good -- but even he had his limits.

And then, when he'd thought it was finally over, when Margot was safely away and he was handing Rienne up into his carriage for the journey to their respective homes, he'd glimpsed Fumier just visible in the shadows across the street. The ferret-like man wasn't seen unless he wanted to be seen, and Chauvelin knew in that moment that though it was past midnight and even the moon had gone to bed, that his own day was not yet over. Snagging his swordstick from its place beneath the seat, he'd given instructions to the coachman to see his mistress safely to her destination. Then he'd watched his ride disappear down the cobbled street before joining his lieutenant in the darkness.

The report Fumier delivered on the violence that had taken place at the Mayday Parade -- and was still taking place in scattered areas of the city -- was unwelcome, but not particularly surprising. The temper of the populace being what it currently was, encouraging them to gather in large, excited groups was just asking for trouble. But canceling the festival would only have added fuel to the already-smoldering resentment, so there'd been nothing for it but to keep a close eye on the firebrands and hotspots, and hope.

So much for hope, the old spymaster thought, thanking Fumier and sending him on his way. Wish in one hand, crap in the other, see which fills up first. With a weary sigh, he drew his cloak about his stocky frame, concealing his snowy white Masquerade finery beneath its dark folds. His shoes were made for dancing rather than walking, and it would have been nice to have Abraxas to ride instead, but that fell also into the category of useless wishes. Besides, the big black horse would mark him out as bourgeois, and this was not a good night for that. At least it wasn't too far, if he took the short cut that ran close to the river. It meant crossing through a neighborhood that wasn't the best, but remaining outdoors longer carried its own risk, making it a trade off. After a moment of internal debate, his aching feet settled the argument, and he set off toward the Seine.

Had it not been for all the rest, it would have been a pleasant time for a walk. The breeze off the river was cool and not too malodorous, at least for a long time resident of the city. It was late enough that even the drunkards had staggered off to their beds, but the night wasn't so far advanced that the early rising bakers and fishmongers had left theirs. This was as quiet as the city ever got, and Chauvelin was halfway home and just beginning to enjoy the peace and solitude when a rough voice spoke from just ahead.

"Well now, boys, what have we here?"

notes ||

[/b] none yet[/div][/center][/td][/tr][/td][/tr][/table]

TEMPLATE BY ANYA OF CAUTION 2.0

LYRICS BY ASSEMBLAGE 23[/center]

[FRÈRE NICÉPHORE]

To say that Nicephore was grieving would be the understatement of the year. Why was the whole world against him these days? First God had seen it fit to claim his father’s immortal soul and commit his mortal body to decay – and even though Nicephore now had chosen the Heavenly Father over his mortal father he grieved for the man he had been, with all his mistakes – and now the people of Paris had seen it fit to start a riot. On such a peaceful, glorious and joyful day as the May Day that had been called as a celebration, they had seen it fit to toss all good resolutions in the sod, using violence! He had been there, and he had been so shocked to see it that at first, when the sinister lot of Patron-Minette had started to beat up those poor, innocent gypsies, he had not found the words he would have needed to calm them down. Others had tried it, but their demands had remained unheard. Of course they had… this young man there had spoken of France, of anger that should be channelled towards something else – but he had not spoken with the angel’s tongues, like Nicephore should have. He had failed, and when he had found his speech again that fatal moment, that horrible shot had drowned his efforts in screams.

Like Moses at the Red Sea, he had tried to part the waves of the stampeding, fleeing crowd, he had wanted them to stop and calm down, he had even reached that man who had been firing the shot and had scolded him – but the chaos had already been everywhere. Nicephore then had remembered his vocation and had seen fit that the poor soul of the shot woman could be released to Heaven, as well as he had tried to do his level best for those who were wounded. There was a man which the crowd had buried underneath their kicking feet, and he was more dead than alive when they found him. He was able to speak, but he could not move, his spine having been broken, as well as the bones of his legs and arms. Nicephore had given him the Anointing of the Sick and had seen to it that word was sent to his poor wife, that he had been taken to hospital. He had been a slater, now he would never climb a roof again.

All this, the senseless violence and its outcome weighed heavily on Frère Nicephore as he wandered the now empty streets of Paris towards his convent. Why would people do this? There was just no sense behind violence except from creating more and more of it. Why couldn’t they see that God’s ultimate gift to mankind was peace and love? Why would they carry on hurting each other? His voice was feeble against their mighty roaring and it was hard not to despair when he looked at the task he had been given. But the prophets also had despaired, and in the end had all prevailed. God’s divine will was all legitimation Nicephore needed! While he was walking, his inward prayer for the soul of the poor gypsy woman was suddenly interrupted by a harsh voice ahead of him. He stopped and instinctively hid in the shadow of a house entrance, watching a man, followed by a group of others, approach on a grey-haired gentleman that looked quite worn out from the day. Brows furrowing, he shook his head. MORE violence?! Hadn’t this day seen enough?! But yet, he did not dare to interfere, maybe the man himself was capable of deflecting their hardly veiled aggression. If, however, the man needed his help, he would give it! He would be God’s own scourge on these man, disarming them with divine truth and righteousness!

[PAUL CHAUVELIN]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 400px; background-image: url(http://i217.photobucket.com/albums/cc172/damijoandamija/sbg.jpg); padding-left: 50px; padding-bottom: 20px; padding-top: 10px;] damaged I am merely the product…..of the life that I've lived An amalgam of sorrows.....and the wisdom they give But the weight has grown heavy [style= text-align: center]and it's dragging me down It's so hard not to sink now but I don't want to drown

[/size][/font][/style]

chauvelin

tags || Nicephore

Chauvelin's spine straightened slightly and his eyes narrowed. His walk home hadn't exactly been as serene as being in his chair by the fire with his feet up and one of his fine cigars in hand, but it had been a restful sort of stroll nonetheless. He'd remained alert to his surroundings, but it had been a chance to not-think, to simply enjoy the night, basking in the sleeping energy of the city that was his home. And now, this.

Folding his hands on the head of his 'cane,' the old spymaster watched the men approach through the uncertain light of boat lanterns. There were four of them in total, ruffians all, with the feral, mangy look of river rats. They'd probably lived their entire miserable lives within a stone's throw of the Seine, sheltering in rotted shacks or beneath bridges, scrounging food and stealing what they could from passing ships. And passing strangers. They were armed and making sure he saw the knives and clubs tucked into their belts, ready to their hands. No pistols, and certainly no muskets. So, not good odds, but not bad ones, either.

"Cat got your tongue, old man?" The clear leader, the one who'd spoken before, spoke again, taunting. He was slightly shorter than the others, with a ragged scar that just missed his eye running down one cheek.

Chauvelin sighed. He was really not in the mood for this. He was tired, and cranky, and not inclined to try to fast talk his way through this latest obstacle. He was in the mood for blood. Still, he would give them one chance. Motionless and unafraid, he regarded the would-be muggers with a gimlet eye. "Stand. Aside."

His voice and manner were cold, hard, and so infused with sheer menace that even the chief ruffian hesitated for a split second. But the old spymaster could see in his face the awareness of the other rats looking to his lead. He couldn't back down, couldn't afford to show weakness, it was that easy to lose his position at the top of the slippery pyramid of power on these streets.

Chauvelin saw the moment pass and nodded fatalistically to himself. So be it. He shifted his weight slightly, repositioning feet and shoulders into a stance that any man raised to the sword would recognize in an instant. But these were not such men. The only blades they knew were the boat knives the leader and one of the others drew. Knives that were only a fraction the length of the steel the 'Chevalier' carried.

Now. A twist and a tug and the sword whispered free from its wooden sheath, the blade slashing for the leader's throat, the scabbard a club aimed at the temple of the next-closest target.

notes ||

[/b] wasn't sure how far into the fight to take it, so let me know if you want me to back it up any [/div][/center][/td][/tr][/td][/tr][/table]

TEMPLATE BY ANYA OF CAUTION 2.0

LYRICS BY ASSEMBLAGE 23[/center]

[FRÈRE NICÉPHORE]

From where he stood, Nicephore had a good overview of the scenery, perhaps even a better one than he would have liked. He did see for example that the men now approaching the innocent wanderer were armed with clubs and knives. So they were certainly aggressive, and they would try to take what did not belong to them. Why would they never learn?! Why couldn’t they just be like the lilies of the field, waiting for a good, a divine hand to care for them? Yes, their poverty was manmade, a distortion of God’s commandments, but that did not mean they could just break those commandments as well. Thou shalt not kill… thou shalt not steal. When it came down to it, only ten commands to observe in your life to live a life that God smiled upon. And yet those seemed to be broken everywhere.

And yet, what could he say?! Had he always followed them? He was a sinner like everyone, he just desired not to be, and his greatest wish was to see everyone follow suit. What a world that would be, without deceit, without pain caused by wronging others, without violence and danger! He might be a dreamer to think that such a world would be possible, but if no one ever started, nothing would change. Those who lived by the sword would die by the sword, it was a sad fact, so when you started to turn swords into ploughshares and worked the soil instead of drenching it with blood, there would finally be a tomorrow everyone would want to live in.

But he ought not to be distracting himself by his hopes for a better future, he might be needed in the present! Hastily, he focussed again on the scene before him, and what he saw disgusted him. The wanderer had tried to stay civil, had tried to avoid conflict with mere words and a show of strength, but the thugs would not be swayed! And then, the wandered surprised him by suddenly turning his cane into a deadly weapon. Nicephore had heard of such things, yet this was the first time he had seen it in action. This was no good… now violence was inevitable! This man should not have made the first step of open aggression, he was outnumbered! With worry in his heart, he watched the scene unfold.

The men were momentarily taken by surprise, but while the cane hit one of the men and caused him to stumble back, the leader avoided the slash for his throat, and an imperious gesture from him was all it needed for the rest of the men to fan out and starting to encircle him. One of them took a slash at him with a knife, while another raised his club behind the man’s back. It looked like a rehearsed maneuvre, and suddenly Nicephore could not keep himself concealed any longer. He was a peace-loving man, but even Jesus had driven the traders out of the temple with a scourge!
Fuelled by God’s holy wrath, Nicephore darted from the shadows and approached the group in a brisk pace, calling out: “Au nom de Dieu, rangez vos armes!¹ This night has seen enough violence, let us not shed more blood! This man has done you no wrong, so leave him be!”

¹: In God's name, sheath your weapons!

[PAUL CHAUVELIN]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 400px; background-image: url(http://i217.photobucket.com/albums/cc172/damijoandamija/sbg.jpg); padding-left: 50px; padding-bottom: 20px; padding-top: 10px;] damaged I am merely the product…..of the life that I've lived An amalgam of sorrows.....and the wisdom they give But the weight has grown heavy [style= text-align: center]and it's dragging me down It's so hard not to sink now but I don't want to drown

[/size][/font][/style]

chauvelin

tags || Nicephore

Chauvelin fought in an eerily expressionless silence, broken only by quiet steady breathing and the occasional soft grunt of effort. Missing the leader was disappointing – it would have broken their momentum nicely and possibly driven them off entirely with a minimum of work and bloodshed. Still, he'd laid out one of them, and these things didn't always go exactly the way one wanted. This was far from his first blade dance in a back alley, and he was still the one on the right side of the grass.

For all that his stocky body wasn't built for gymnastics or agility, the old spymaster was very strong and quick for his age. He also had the advantage of reach, both of his weapons being a good foot longer than anything his opponents wielded. They, on the other hand, had the advantage of numbers, even down one, and they knew their work well. Given time – and stupidity on his part – they'd be able to take him like wolves pulling down a stag.

Not tonight, Chauvelin thought. Not ever. Sensing as much as seeing the blackjacker shifting to circle behind him, he half-turned and sidled two rapid steps backward. The scabbard came up and across, swatting the blow aside with a sharp crack of wood-on-wood. He caught a blow to his opposite shoulder from the other follower, but it was glancing, and then he had his back against the wall.

The leader, smart enough to stay out of reach of the deadly blade in Chauvelin's other hand was just waving his men in again when a voice rang out suddenly, commanding them to stop in the name of God. It was so incongruous and unexpected that even the old spymaster blinked in surprise, but its effect on his attackers was more significant. Ever alert to the possible approach the law, they froze momentarily at the sound of authority, looking over their shoulders.

Chauvelin saw his chance and took it. It was a risk, but he wasn't going to get another opportunity. Taking a long pace and a half forward, he lunged, thrusting his sword into the side of the leader's throat. It was a perfect strike, severing windpipe, larynx, and jugular, but the movement left his back exposed. One of his attackers recovered quickly enough to take advantage of that, coming in swinging hard with a club.

The force of the crack to the old spymaster's skull was stunning, driving him backward again. Dazed, but not quite unconscious, he slid his blade free of the leader's throat, steel flashing crimson in the lanternlight lashed out blindly in the direction of his assailant.

notes ||

[/b] concussion – now Nicephore'll have to keep him awake. Poor Chauv.[/div][/center][/td][/tr][/td][/tr][/table]

TEMPLATE BY ANYA OF CAUTION 2.0

LYRICS BY ASSEMBLAGE 23[/center]

[FRÈRE NICÉPHORE]

Nicephore had spoken out of heartfelt indignation, and he had already experienced that sometimes his voice apparently COULD be laced with authority. He guessed that was God’s hand on him, His spirit endowing him with the necessary vigour when he had to speak in His name and do His work. It was needed, very much indeed, for Nicephore himself had never been a man of particular vigour. His voice usually was low and calm, tinted with a tone of surprise and a hint of childlike naivety. He wasn’t someone people automatically listened to and even when he knew he was doing the right thing, trying to convince people to communicate instead of beating each other for example, he often was laughed at. But that was alright… he was only the messenger of the truth, and they often were disregarded.

It did seem though like for a few seconds, he was succesful with his strife. The thugs he had called to step back and leave the man alone DID stop in their movements and looked at him. Nicephore smiled and started to open his mouth, when the other man, the man he had wanted to SAVE, made all his efforts moot, by slashing out at the leader with his sword while he looked away. Gasping in shock, Nicephore extended his hand in a futile attempt to stop what he saw coming, and his eyes widened at the vicious slice. He didn’t need to be versed in killing to know the man was dead, blood splattering his neck and shirt. How barbaric! How dare this man be so dishonorable! Of course the dice were cast now, there was no hope for this encounter to end peacefully. The man with the sword was met wth the consequences of his treacherous deed right away as he received a heavy blow with a club to his skull. For a moment, Nicephore feared he was done for, but he only staggered and even managed to deliver another slice in the direction of his assailant.

“How dare you! Stop!!!” he protested, trying to get between the remaining men and the man with the sword. He took hold of the man that had dealt the club blow, but suddenly realized he was sinking into his arms like a sack of flour. The man’s blade had pierced his chest, and his lifeblood was streaming out of him as well. “God have mercy…” he whispered, eyes widening even more.
The rest of the thugs seemed similarly shocked by what had just come to pass, and in lack of a leader, they exchanged uneasy glances, unsure in how to proceed. Nicephore saw his chance. “Go. You have done enough harm for one night. May it be a lesson to you that who sows violence will only reap death! If you repent, God will forgive you.” They didn’t need to be told twice. With a last shocked glance at the brutal man with the sword who had robbed them of their leader, they turned and ran, vanishing into the night.

Nicephore himself turned to the man, a sad smile on his face. “Are you happy now, brother? You are hurt and two men lost their life at your hand. This will only cause more pain.”

[PAUL CHAUVELIN]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 400px; background-image: url(http://i217.photobucket.com/albums/cc172/damijoandamija/sbg.jpg); padding-left: 50px; padding-bottom: 20px; padding-top: 10px;] damaged I am merely the product…..of the life that I've lived An amalgam of sorrows.....and the wisdom they give But the weight has grown heavy [style= text-align: center]and it's dragging me down It's so hard not to sink now but I don't want to drown

[/size][/font][/style]

chauvelin

tags || Nicephore

Chauvelin heard the voice as if it came from a great distance, just audible through the ringing in his ears. Everything around him was spinning, revolving and tilting at the same time, and he couldn't seem to keep his balance. Half-stumbling, half-staggering back a pace, he came up hard against an object that suddenly became the only real, solid thing in his world. The cane-scabbard clattered to the ground as he dropped it, fingers of that hand opening to fan out over crumbling brick and the wood of a doorframe rotted so soft it no longer even splintered, just flaked away in wisps at his touch.

A wall, he realized. And, a few seconds later, the wall. The wall he'd had his back to as he fought. He was under attack, in danger. Adrenaline surged again, adding a pulsing roar to the bell-like pealing inside his head, and his knuckles whitened on the hilt of the sword stick. The threat was there, in front of him, a tall, broad-shouldered figure that doubled, then trebled, then become one once more, before starting the dizzying process all over again. It was so dark, so hard to see, but the light stabbed through his eyes, adding to the pain already inside his skull.

So hard to see, and so hard to think. What was happening? The figure spoke, and Chauvelin heard the voice again, saying something about being happy to take lives. The old spymaster would've shaken his head in denial, but he was suddenly desperately afraid it would fall right off his shoulders, and there was no basket to catch it. The ground here sloped toward the river, and if it rolled down into the water he might never find it. He'd seen so many people, so very many, who couldn't get their heads back again.

"No," he said, his own voice echoing so strangely he wasn't sure he was speaking at all. "Can't. Have. Mine." He tried to punctuate the point with his sword, but it just wavered around between himself and the figure, no matter how hard he tried to keep it steady. "Keep. Back." Now he could tell he was talking aloud, because even he could hear the desperation in those two words. It filled him with a sudden surge of shame and fear that he could taste like vomit on the back of his tongue.

notes ||

[/b] ah, the psychedelic magic of MTBI[/div][/center][/td][/tr][/td][/tr][/table]

TEMPLATE BY ANYA OF CAUTION 2.0

LYRICS BY ASSEMBLAGE 23[/center]

[FRÈRE NICÉPHORE]

Nicephore had thought the matter to be over now, but he found himself mistaken. Instead of lowering his weapon, the man he had intended to save looked at him with wild eyes that betrayed little understanding. Had he even heard him at all?! Why would he look like this at a peaceful monk that didn’t want to do him any harm? And… was it a trick of the light or had his eyes difficulties focussing? Something was wrong here, it almost looked like the man had slipped into a crazy fit and his words only added to that impression! Was this man a poor lunatic maybe, or was he suffering from some trauma? He looked too well groomed to belong to one of the madhouses, but this air he gave himself right now reminded Nicephore strongly of what he had seen inside Les Invalides, the grand veteran hospital in the west of Paris. Those who had fought one too many fights would always continue to fight in their heads, and the slightest outward threat could turn them into berserks.

“Easy, brother, you talk in confusion!” he said softly, raising his hand slowly and placatingly. “I don’t want anything from you, I wish you no harm!” Staying calm and unthreatening was the only way you could deal with these poor mental afflicted, but you always had to look out for rash actions from their side. They could be quick like snakes and often possessed the strength of two men in their fits, so the first thing he had to do was get them both out of the danger the blade posed. But apparently the man would not be swayed and appeased so easily. He suddenly slashed and stabbed in Nicephore’s direction, and the brother was only able to stumble back in time because the blow had not been well aimed. That surprised him. What he had seen before from this man didn’t suggest the clumsiness of a lunatic at all, now that he thought of it.

He looked again into the man’s unfocussing eyes and saw him stagger, indicating that he might have balance problem, and his face contorted as if he was feeling sick. Then it occurred to him: The blow to the head! Before he had died, the second assailant had dealt a vicious blow, and even though Nicephore was no trained physician, his work with the poorest who couldn’t afford a doctor’s care had taught him many things. He needed to be quick now! Even though it went against every single one of his moral codes to use force, he stepped forward and quickly took hold of the man’s wrist, wrenching the blade from his hand with a kind of strength that surprised him himself. “Begone with this infernal instrument that could endanger more people, or worse, yourself in the state you are in now!” he exclaimed with conviction and tossed the blade over his shoulder. It slithered down the sloping ground towards the riverbank and soon slipped beneath the current. All the better.

“Now we need to get you somewhere safe, brother, I shall keep you company!”

[PAUL CHAUVELIN]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 400px; background-image: url(http://i217.photobucket.com/albums/cc172/damijoandamija/sbg.jpg); padding-left: 50px; padding-bottom: 20px; padding-top: 10px;] damaged I am merely the product…..of the life that I've lived An amalgam of sorrows.....and the wisdom they give But the weight has grown heavy [style= text-align: center]and it's dragging me down It's so hard not to sink now but I don't want to drown

[/size][/font][/style]

chauvelin

tags || Nicephore

Suddenly, Chauvelin's hand was empty. It felt cold without the hilt of the sword against his palm, and he felt naked without the blade. It and the wall were the only solid things he'd had to hold onto, and now both were gone. But there was something else now, something that gripped back. It was strength, holding him up, and he clung to it like a drowning man. The strength had a voice, speaking to him comforting words in a comforting tone, and he clung to that, too. Was it an angel? No, the old spymaster thought. Even if there were angels, none was likely to be stretching out a hand to the likes of him.

That question answered to his rattled brain's satisfaction, Chauvelin's mind moved on to the next pressing issue. Was he still alive? That took a bit more consideration. "Head hurts," he mumbled finally, unaware he was speaking aloud. "Can't be dead."

Then a memory came out of the blue that made him doubt that assessment, catching him up and sweeping him along inexorably. It was sound at first, the rasp of the rope, the creak of the pulley at the top, the rattle of the mouton in its track, the wet thunk of the blade. Then the mental image. "Their eyes move," he said, clearly and reasonably, as if continuing a perfectly normal conversation. "Afterward. Like they're trying to find the rest of themselves. Can't ask them what they're looking for, though, can you?" He laughed, then stopped. "So maybe it does hurt. Dieu, so many, so many. What if it hurt?" The thought made him inexpressibly sad, and as abruptly as he'd begun to laugh moments earlier, he started to weep.

notes ||

[/b] none yet[/div][/center][/td][/tr][/td][/tr][/table]

TEMPLATE BY ANYA OF CAUTION 2.0

LYRICS BY ASSEMBLAGE 23[/center]

[FRÈRE NICÉPHORE]

At least the man was not fighting him anymore, he seemed more surprised than appalled by having his sword ripped from his fingers, and for that Nicephore was glad. He would have hated it so much, had he needed to use any more of his strength on the man. He still seemed more or less disorientated, and the Franciscan monk was now all but sure the blow to the head had given him some damage that hopefully would not be perpetual. As much as he condemned what he had seen him do, he did not wish anything bad on anyone, especially not a mental affliction! Those people truly had to rely on charity solely, and that in a world knowing little of charity and love for your neighbour.

“You are lucky you are not dead, brother, indeed”, he confirmed earnestly, looking at the man with his childlike, wide eyes. “Those who live by the sword usually die by it, so I hope this encounter will be a lesson to you!” Then he realized belatedly that in his condition, the poor man would not be able to heed his much needed advice at all, and so Nicephore left it at that, shaking his head with a soft and sad sigh. Far too many deaths these days anyway, especially with that cholera epidemic wiping out the lower percentage of Paris’ population. And his father. Like always when he thought of the Old General, Nicephore let it be followed by a quick inward prayer for his father’s soul. He hoped God would be able to see past all the violence and see the good General Lamarque had tried to do after his military career was over. The people had loved him for it, that much was for sure, they planned a big march at his funeral. Though, if he was completely honest, Nicephore found that a little pretentious. Only the Corpus Christi deserved to be processed through the streets accompanied by a large crowd. Not the corpse of a mere man.

He listened in confusion, trying to make sense of the man’s ramblings, though he could not get more than a hunch on what he might mean. How peculiar that was! Wasn’t it said that only in purgatory and hell you were tortured by those you had wronged and killed, their eyes looking at you with neverending accusation?! Was this man in his own small purgatory now? Well, then, he would need Nicephore’s guidance even more, the guidance of a man of God!
“Be at peace, brother, these eyes cannot harm you, if you turn your own eyes towards God”, he promised with the most soothing voice he could muster and patted the man’s shoulder, and letting him weep against the rough cloth of his habit. “Even if it hurt back then, their souls are with God now, and before God there is never hurt nor sorrow. They are the lucky ones, we poor souls must stay behind and repent for what we have done. Tell me, brother, what is your name so I can pray for you?”

[PAUL CHAUVELIN]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 400px; background-image: url(http://i217.photobucket.com/albums/cc172/damijoandamija/sbg.jpg); padding-left: 50px; padding-bottom: 20px; padding-top: 10px;] damaged I am merely the product…..of the life that I've lived An amalgam of sorrows.....and the wisdom they give But the weight has grown heavy [style= text-align: center]and it's dragging me down It's so hard not to sink now but I don't want to drown

[/size][/font][/style]

chauvelin

tags || Nicephore

The voice continued speaking. Chauvelin was starting to like the voice. It was a very pleasant voice, gentle and reassuring, even if it did seem to be wearing a burlap sack. The actual words, on the other hand, were more elusive. They had a way of slipping around like fish in a shallow pond, easy to see and recognize, more difficult to grab hold of to figure out the meanings. It was something about peace and sorrow, which made sense, as in the old spymaster's experience, the two often walked hand in hand. There was also something about repentance, which he blithely skipped on past.

As the fog in Chauvelin's brain began to draw back a little, he realized that he'd just been asked a question. Frowning, he thought back, carefully fitting the most recent words into place, like puzzle pieces that formed a sentence when you got them assembled correctly. He was being asked his name, he realized, which initiated another round of thought. He had dozens of names but they all had their time and place, and none of them were right for now. So, "Paul," he finally answered with the truth. "My name is Paul." .

An atheist, he had his doubts about the prayer part, but he had no objection to being prayed for. Certainly couldn't do any harm. And if it made the voice – who, judging by the strength in the shoulder he felt beneath his hand, could take him in his current state with ridiculous ease – happy, then he was perfectly fine with it. He did wish he could see the man's face, but enough light to see by was also enough to send stabbing pains through his eyeballs and into his brain, so he kept them averted.

He was still curious, though, not even a concussion could change that. Gripping the man's shoulder to steady himself as he fought off a wave of nausea he drew in and exhaled a couple of deep breaths. Though they stank of dead fish and river mud, they brought a bit more clarity. "Who are you? Where are we going?"

notes ||

[/b] none yet[/div][/center][/td][/tr][/td][/tr][/table]

TEMPLATE BY ANYA OF CAUTION 2.0

LYRICS BY ASSEMBLAGE 23[/center]

[FRÈRE NICÉPHORE]

Nicephore was not sure how much the man could grasp from his speech in his current state, but that didn’t matter so much in the end. There was a time for sermons, and there was a time for actual help, and the question which of the two was more needed right now was easily answered. At least he had a name now. Paul. It rung a bell deep within Nicephore, but he didn’t listen to its ringing for long, as he didn’t remember seeing this man ever before. It wouldn’t matter anyway, every man was his brother in Christ and ought to be treated as such, with love and patience for their shortcomings. There might be many shortcomings with a man that had killed and maybe not only once, but Nicephore knew as well that he could not afford to act as a pharisee. Every man was a sinner, and those the most that raised themselves mentally above others.

The man seemed restored enough for the moment to ask questions of his own, and therefore Nicephore released him from the comforting embrace, but kept his hands ready in case Paul would need his assistance again in staying upright. You had to be cautious in such things, he knew that from experience, even thoug he of course had never studied medicine. To the first question, he could give a relatively easy answer, and he gave it promptly, keeping his voice level and humble. “The name God has written in the palm of his hand for me is Nicephore, and now I am Brother Nicephore of the Minor Brother of Paris. Even if the circumstances are less fortunate than could be wished for, I am glad our paths crossed tonight.”

The second question though was a little more difficult to answer. Where indeed would they go? Nicephore really would like Paul to be looked after, so just bringing him to his own house where he might be unguarded might not be the best idea. A hospital then? But he discarded the thought right the next second, thinking about the many cholera patients they had to handle. An otherwise healthy man being brought there was folly, folly he did not wish to commit. Where else to take him? Then it occurred to him and the thought was so appealing it raised his mood instantly, endowing his voice with audible enthusiasm. “I will take you with me to our convent house, brother Paul! There the Brother Infirmarius can look after you, and you can spend the night in restful peace!”

[PAUL CHAUVELIN]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 400px; background-image: url(http://i217.photobucket.com/albums/cc172/damijoandamija/sbg.jpg); padding-left: 50px; padding-bottom: 20px; padding-top: 10px;] damaged I am merely the product…..of the life that I've lived An amalgam of sorrows.....and the wisdom they give But the weight has grown heavy [style= text-align: center]and it's dragging me down It's so hard not to sink now but I don't want to drown

[/size][/font][/style]

chauvelin

tags || Nicephore

It was getting easier to understand the words, but it was hard to make sense of the order they were in, and there seemed to be some extras. Still, though the sentences were still giving Paul trouble, he liked the voice. The voice was speaking kindly to him, so it seemed only right to at least try to listen closely. Frowning, the old spymaster concentrated, struggling to shove the pulsing pain in his head to the back of his mind.

The voice was called Nicéphore. Chauvelin's frown deepened a little. Despite being an uncommon name, it was familiar to him. But he couldn't remember from where. Unconsciously, he made a fist and hit it against his leg in frustration. It was maddening, not being able to think clearly. Maddening, and dangerous. His sharp wits and keen perceptions were all that had kept him alive several times over the years, and now they were out of reach.

The voice was glad their paths had crossed, and so was he, though he wasn't sure where he was now or how he'd come to be there. Or what had happened. The last thing he remembered was leaving the Masquerade Ball. His gaze went to the crumpled bodies on the ground, taking in the stillness that could only mean death. Who were they? Had they been friends or enemies? Enemies, most likely. He didn't have very many friends.

Well, he had one friend. The voice named Nicéphore. Nicéphore was saying something about taking him to an abbey? The corners of his lips quirked upward a little at the image of an old sinner like himself among a bunch of monks, turning the frown into a sardonic smile. That would only lead to tears for all concerned. "Requiescat in pace*?" he said, in perfect Latin. "Thank you, Brother Nicéphore, but better if I didn't."

Straightening, Chauveling took a step away, and the world suddenly began wheeling and wobbling around him. As if in sympathy, his stomach came spinning up into his throat, bringing all of its contents with it. The retching destroyed what little balance he had left and he staggered dizzily, reaching out a hand blindly grasping for support.

notes ||

[/b] * rest in peace (R. I P.)[/div][/center][/td][/tr][/td][/tr][/table]

TEMPLATE BY ANYA OF CAUTION 2.0

LYRICS BY ASSEMBLAGE 23[/center]

[FRÈRE NICÉPHORE]

Nicephore’s eyebrows darted up in genuine surprise as he heard the man speak Latin, and even with a hint of humour in the words, even though it seemed to be dark humour. Everyone with enough money to attend university would speak Latin, since it was the language of science and dispute, but it still surprised the monk, especially in this moment. Apparently Paul’s brain hadn’t been thoroughly damaged if he still could think in Latin phrases. The Requiescat in Pace one was of course very common and known by many who had even just rudimentary knowledge of the language both churche and science shared, still, the gibberish people derived from what they heard in church and could not grasp was sometimes really ludicrous.

“No one spoke about eternal peace, brother”, he monished him with a soft and lenient smile. “We’d rather nurse you back to your full health, though I would hope you’d not use your regained help for more violence. There has been enough blood shed in this country already.” Not that he was old enough to remember the years of the Grande Terreur, but he was also referring to the bloodshed caused BY the men of this country, with their ruthless expansion plans and countless battlefields in the times of Napoleon Bonaparte. Whatever irony God had been capable of by endowing such a man with the name of “Good Part”. He surely hadn’t chosen the good part in life by bringing so much bloodshed and pain because he had wanted to raise himself high above others.

Having a little experience with the effects of such blows, Nicephore had all but expected something to happen when Paul made an overhasty movemen. Gladly, he was quick enough to step aside so the content of the other man’s stomach hit the ground and not his habit, but his hand still darted forward to once again stablize Paul who was certainly not as restored yet as he might have wished to be. “There, there…!” he muttered softly, reaching into one of his pouches to reveal a small piece of cloth which he handed his brother in Christ so he could wipe his mouth. “Brother Paul, I MUST insist you accept my offer. I shall not leave you alone in this state. We will walk slowly towards my convent house and there you can find help and rest.” Putting a supporting arm around the man’s shoulder, he softly turned him away from the vomit on the ground that penetrated his own nostrils and threatened to make him gag as well. What a curious effect of nature this was indeed!

[PAUL CHAUVELIN]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 400px; background-image: url(http://i217.photobucket.com/albums/cc172/damijoandamija/sbg.jpg); padding-left: 50px; padding-bottom: 20px; padding-top: 10px;] damaged I am merely the product…..of the life that I've lived An amalgam of sorrows.....and the wisdom they give But the weight has grown heavy [style= text-align: center]and it's dragging me down It's so hard not to sink now but I don't want to drown

[/size][/font][/style]

chauvelin

tags || Nicephore

For a long moment, Chauvelin clung tightly to Nicephore's shoulder, gasping as he fought to get his feet steady beneath him and his head to stop spinning. It was galling to be so weak, to have his mind so clouded and confused. He hated being helpless. Still, he couldn't deny that he was. Alone in his current state, he was easy prey for any criminal or hothead prowling the street.

Nodding (slowly and very carefully) his acquiescence, the old spymaster didn't resist as he was nudged gently around. With the cloth, he tried to wipe and spit away the sour taste of vomit in his mouth, but he could still smell its acid tang. He'd drunk sparingly, but eaten well at the Masquerade, and the resulting mess wasn't nearly as appetizing as it had begun.

The movement brought the two slumped corpses into view and Chauvelin paused to regard them. The blow to his head that had inflicted the worst headache he'd ever suffered had also taken his memory of the circumstances under which it had occurred. Nevertheless, given the neighborhood and the bodies' rough and grimy clothing, he could make a pretty fair guess at attempted robbery. And that apparently he'd given a good account of himself.

"Blood," he said, "yes, there's been a great deal of blood." The thought brought with it a wave of tiredness and, turning away, he let the monk begin to escort, and support, him down the street. As they walked, he studied his companion as best he could in the unreliable light. "Le Grande Terreur was before your time, I think. But the Second Revolution was not so long ago."

The old spymaster was silent for a time before speaking again. "There's another coming, you know," he said. "Another Revolution. I can see it coming." He laughed softly, bitterly. "I always see them coming, the revolutions and the coups. But nobody believes me. Like that Trojan girl."

notes ||

[/b] none at present[/div][/center][/td][/tr][/td][/tr][/table]

TEMPLATE BY ANYA OF CAUTION 2.0

LYRICS BY ASSEMBLAGE 23[/center]