Remembrance, chapter 2
Feb. 24th, 2018 06:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
scripsiTitle: Remembrance
Fandom: Versailles
Rating: Explicit
Chapter: 2/?
Word Count: 1922
Characters Sophie de Clermont, Fabien Marchal, Claudine Masson??, Duc de Cassel
Pairings: Fabien Marchal/Sophie de Clermont, Fabien Marchal/Claudine Masson
Warnings: Non-con and abuse, which reference events in the show.
Summary: Sophie de Clermont has fled Versailles, with nowhere to go and only her memories for company.
The fic on AO3
Fabien
“Pack up your affairs and get out. You have no place here.”
Fabien Marchal’s anger felt like blows, but Sophie couldn’t understand why he was raging at her. She knew about him, everyone at court did, and she knew he admired her mother, but he had never spoken to her before. And now he was in her room, screaming at her, before rushing out, leaving a stunned Sophie to stare at the door.
Her mother gone? How could she be gone? Beatrice had left their room with no indication of going away. And why had it made Monsieur Marshal so angry? Sophie frowned, thinking hard, but then she brightened. Her mother could be too frank at times, no doubt she had said something which had irritated the King. Right now she must be on her way to a convent, to await the King’s forgiveness. It had happened to ladies at court before, and usually the King’s forgiveness came within a few months. It would explain Monsieur Marshal’s outburst too; it must ire him if a woman he admired annoyed the King. There would be a letter from her mother soon, explaining everything, and until she returned, Sophie could do as she liked.
Sophie smiled. This was an unexpected opportunity. If she and Benoit got married while her mother was away, Beatrice would have to accept the fact when she returned. But when Sophie relayed her plans to him, Benoit didn’t seem the least delighted.
“We can’t get married.”
“What? But you said-”
“I can’t afford a wife. And even if I did, I need a woman who can work. You are useless.” Benoit looked with contempt at Sophie’s white hands, which he had always been so eager to kiss. “Have you even carried something heavier than a carafe of wine? You would be nothing but a burden.”
And then he left her, and for the second time in a few hours, Sophe was left in confusion. Benoit’s rejection hurt, and suddenly she felt a little worried. Perhaps she would be sent to a convent now too, which would be dreadfully boring. But perhaps Fabien Marchal could help her? He might be angry at her mother right now, but when Beatrice came back he would want to be in her favour again. If he protected Sophie, Beatrice would be pleased.
Here Sophie was disturbed in her reminiscences by her landlady who entered with the morning meal. Sophie shook her head, smiling over how little she had understood then. She had still been a child, happily secure no one would want to harm her. When she come to Fabien with her proposition he had thought her courageous, but Sophie knew it had not been courage, but ignorance. She had not understood how desperate her situation had been, and she had continued to treat it like a game until she had found herself interrogated about Madame’s sudden illness.
Sophie sat in the chair opposite Monsieur Marshal, feeling annoyed. He had promised to take care of her, and now she sat here and had to endure endless questions about such trivial things as tea preparations. She didn’t understand the fuss, even is she was sorry for Madame. The Princess stomach pains were not something new, she had suffered from them for years, even if she had not been this ill before.
Sophie’s annoyance made her impertinent, and she felt a certain satisfaction over Monsieur Marchal’s growing irritation. Heedlessly she let the conversation veer into a path she knew, deep down, was a dangerous one.
“I do not have a life. My mother lied to me about who I was, so I have no idea who I truly am.”
“You are the daughter of a Huguenot conspirator, funded and supported by William of Orange.”
“My mother has paid for her treachery. I am merely trying to survive. I thought I had your protection.”
“Unless you are more like your mother than you admit.”
“Make no mistake, Monsieur Marchal, my mother fooled many people with her treachery, but you were the biggest fool of all.”
As soon as she said it, Sophie knew she had gone too far. She had barely registered exactly what Fabien Marchal had said about her mother as she found it completely incomprehensible, but now, belatedly, she understood. Cold fear seized her, but Monsieur Marchal only looked at her, his face betraying no emotions.
“Who prepared her tea?”
This time Sophie answered. “I did.”
To her surprise she was dismissed, and Sophie fled back to her room, her mind in turmoil. The full meaning of Monsieur Marchal’s word was now clear; her mother was dead. She would never come back, would never scold or caress Sophie again. And she had died because she was a traitor. And if Beatrice had conspired against the King, perhaps they would think Sophie was a traitor too.
Sophie’s legs certainly deserted her, and she sank down on the floor. Of course they would think so; hadn’t Monsieur Marchal said something along those lines? Had she not been questioned, only just now, questions which indicated they thought Madame had been poisoned. And it was Sophie who had prepared the tea. For the first time in her short and pampered life, Sophie was afraid. Why Monsieur Marchal had not already arrested her she could not understand, but it was surely only a matter of time.
Sophie spent the night on her knees, praying for Madame’s health, and her mother’s soul. The days which followed she spent in agony, every sound making her jump, fearing she would hear the sound of heavy boots coming for her. But nobody came. The news of Madame’s death reached her, and Sophie cried for the Princess who had always been good to her, but still no one came. The court went into mourning, and Sophie went through the motions as if she was in a dream. She had not seen Monsieur Marchal since he had questioned her, and she both dreaded seeing him again, and wanting it to be over.
When she was finally summoned, she was so by a note, not by the company of a pair of grim-faced soldiers. Sophie dressed carefully, but not even a thick layer of powder couldn’t hide her eyes, red and swollen from crying, and the dark circles around them.
There had been rumors that Monsieur Marchal had been wounded in service of the King, but he seemed his usual contained self. He looked at grief ravaged face without sympathy and motioned at her to sit down. Sophie only dared to give him a quick glance before she looked down on her hands folded in her lap and waited.
“Mademoiselle de Clermont, you put yourself in my service, but so far I have had nothing from you but insolence.”
“I know,", Sophie said meekly. “I should not have said what I did. I-”
“You acted in a rash and thoughtless manner.”
Sophie nodded. “Yes. I’m sorry.”
Then she couldn’t suppress her fear and blurred out. “Are you going to arrest me now?”
“Why would I do that?”
“I thought- I thought you suspected me of Madame’s death.”
“I always knew you were innocent. You were never under suspicion.”
The sudden relief made Sophie feel dizzy, and for a moment she thought she would cry from pure relief She was not a suspect, she didn’t have to worry anymore, but she still felt bewildered.
“But if you knew, why did you interrogate me?”
“Yes, why?”
Sophie frowned. At first she couldn’t think what he meant, but then she understood.
“Because if you didn’t, people would wonder why. And you don’t want people to know I work for you.”
“Exactly. But are you going to work for me? I need to be assured of your respect and obedience, or I will have no use for you.”
Sophie felt another frisson of fear. She needed Monsieur Marchal; if he decided she was worthless, she would have no one else to turn to.
“I will do my best, I promise.” She raised her head and looked at him, hoping Monsieur Marchal would understand she was in earnest. ”But I don’t know how to do what you want.”
“Very well.” His face softened a little. “I will teach you what you need.”
And to her, and probably also Fabien’s, surprise, they got along. He seemed to recognise Sophie's honest desire to please him, and in return Fabien was unexpectedly patient with teaching her the skills she needed. At first Sophie found it difficult, no one had ever demanded of her to pay attention and analyse what she learned, but little by little she found it an unexpected thrill gathering useful information.
She grieved her mother, and it was hard to reconcile with the fact her sharp-tongued but loving mother had not only conspired against the King, but had also been a murderess. Fabien eventually told her everything, including his own role in Beatrice’s death, and how she had tried to kill him. It was hard for Sophie, sometimes she felt she ought to hate Fabien, then she thought she hated her mother. In the end she decided to try to look forward instead. She had loved her mother, but she needed Fabien
As Sophie got to know him better, she stopped being afraid of him. At first she had found his looks coarse and his manners brusque, but over time she came to appreciate his direct manner. At court people never said what they meant, but Fabien never hesitated to tell her what he thought, being good or bad, and she learned to trust him. And though he never acknowledged her in public, he, or one of his men, always turned up if a courtier became too insistent in his attentions than Sophie enjoyed, and it made her feel safe and protected. Over time she came to appreciate how he looked as well. When she looked past the severeness of his dress, she noticed how handsome he was, and he didn’t need rich fabrics and lavish decorations to enhance it.
For some time life was good for Sophie. She had more freedom than ever before, and when the King publicly treated her with a few kind words, no one remembered how she had been interrogated when Madame died. Then Monsieur asked her to become his new wife’s lady, and Sophie’s position at court became as solid as before. The new Madame was funny and forthright, and the two girls friendship was quickly cemented.
All was well until the horrible the day the King announced Sophie was to marry the Duke of Cassel. As soon as she heard it, Sophie looked at Fabien, and she could see his surprise and dismay. He had not wanted this for her, and despite knowing no one could question the King’s wishes, Sophie could not help imploring Fabien for help. She had got used to him always knowing the what to do, but Sophie looked up into his face he looked as helpless as she felt. Perhaps Fabien could have shielded her from the worst of Cassel’s appetites just by his presence, but when was banished from court, Sophie had been left with no protection at all.
Sophie abruptly stood up. She didn’t want to think of Cassel and of what he had done to her. Desperately she sifted through her memories and latched on to the memory of one of the few who had offered her any help in the nightmare her marriage had proved to be.
Fandom: Versailles
Rating: Explicit
Chapter: 2/?
Word Count: 1922
Characters Sophie de Clermont, Fabien Marchal, Claudine Masson??, Duc de Cassel
Pairings: Fabien Marchal/Sophie de Clermont, Fabien Marchal/Claudine Masson
Warnings: Non-con and abuse, which reference events in the show.
Summary: Sophie de Clermont has fled Versailles, with nowhere to go and only her memories for company.
The fic on AO3
Fabien
“Pack up your affairs and get out. You have no place here.”
Fabien Marchal’s anger felt like blows, but Sophie couldn’t understand why he was raging at her. She knew about him, everyone at court did, and she knew he admired her mother, but he had never spoken to her before. And now he was in her room, screaming at her, before rushing out, leaving a stunned Sophie to stare at the door.
Her mother gone? How could she be gone? Beatrice had left their room with no indication of going away. And why had it made Monsieur Marshal so angry? Sophie frowned, thinking hard, but then she brightened. Her mother could be too frank at times, no doubt she had said something which had irritated the King. Right now she must be on her way to a convent, to await the King’s forgiveness. It had happened to ladies at court before, and usually the King’s forgiveness came within a few months. It would explain Monsieur Marshal’s outburst too; it must ire him if a woman he admired annoyed the King. There would be a letter from her mother soon, explaining everything, and until she returned, Sophie could do as she liked.
Sophie smiled. This was an unexpected opportunity. If she and Benoit got married while her mother was away, Beatrice would have to accept the fact when she returned. But when Sophie relayed her plans to him, Benoit didn’t seem the least delighted.
“We can’t get married.”
“What? But you said-”
“I can’t afford a wife. And even if I did, I need a woman who can work. You are useless.” Benoit looked with contempt at Sophie’s white hands, which he had always been so eager to kiss. “Have you even carried something heavier than a carafe of wine? You would be nothing but a burden.”
And then he left her, and for the second time in a few hours, Sophe was left in confusion. Benoit’s rejection hurt, and suddenly she felt a little worried. Perhaps she would be sent to a convent now too, which would be dreadfully boring. But perhaps Fabien Marchal could help her? He might be angry at her mother right now, but when Beatrice came back he would want to be in her favour again. If he protected Sophie, Beatrice would be pleased.
Here Sophie was disturbed in her reminiscences by her landlady who entered with the morning meal. Sophie shook her head, smiling over how little she had understood then. She had still been a child, happily secure no one would want to harm her. When she come to Fabien with her proposition he had thought her courageous, but Sophie knew it had not been courage, but ignorance. She had not understood how desperate her situation had been, and she had continued to treat it like a game until she had found herself interrogated about Madame’s sudden illness.
Sophie sat in the chair opposite Monsieur Marshal, feeling annoyed. He had promised to take care of her, and now she sat here and had to endure endless questions about such trivial things as tea preparations. She didn’t understand the fuss, even is she was sorry for Madame. The Princess stomach pains were not something new, she had suffered from them for years, even if she had not been this ill before.
Sophie’s annoyance made her impertinent, and she felt a certain satisfaction over Monsieur Marchal’s growing irritation. Heedlessly she let the conversation veer into a path she knew, deep down, was a dangerous one.
“I do not have a life. My mother lied to me about who I was, so I have no idea who I truly am.”
“You are the daughter of a Huguenot conspirator, funded and supported by William of Orange.”
“My mother has paid for her treachery. I am merely trying to survive. I thought I had your protection.”
“Unless you are more like your mother than you admit.”
“Make no mistake, Monsieur Marchal, my mother fooled many people with her treachery, but you were the biggest fool of all.”
As soon as she said it, Sophie knew she had gone too far. She had barely registered exactly what Fabien Marchal had said about her mother as she found it completely incomprehensible, but now, belatedly, she understood. Cold fear seized her, but Monsieur Marchal only looked at her, his face betraying no emotions.
“Who prepared her tea?”
This time Sophie answered. “I did.”
To her surprise she was dismissed, and Sophie fled back to her room, her mind in turmoil. The full meaning of Monsieur Marchal’s word was now clear; her mother was dead. She would never come back, would never scold or caress Sophie again. And she had died because she was a traitor. And if Beatrice had conspired against the King, perhaps they would think Sophie was a traitor too.
Sophie’s legs certainly deserted her, and she sank down on the floor. Of course they would think so; hadn’t Monsieur Marchal said something along those lines? Had she not been questioned, only just now, questions which indicated they thought Madame had been poisoned. And it was Sophie who had prepared the tea. For the first time in her short and pampered life, Sophie was afraid. Why Monsieur Marchal had not already arrested her she could not understand, but it was surely only a matter of time.
Sophie spent the night on her knees, praying for Madame’s health, and her mother’s soul. The days which followed she spent in agony, every sound making her jump, fearing she would hear the sound of heavy boots coming for her. But nobody came. The news of Madame’s death reached her, and Sophie cried for the Princess who had always been good to her, but still no one came. The court went into mourning, and Sophie went through the motions as if she was in a dream. She had not seen Monsieur Marchal since he had questioned her, and she both dreaded seeing him again, and wanting it to be over.
When she was finally summoned, she was so by a note, not by the company of a pair of grim-faced soldiers. Sophie dressed carefully, but not even a thick layer of powder couldn’t hide her eyes, red and swollen from crying, and the dark circles around them.
There had been rumors that Monsieur Marchal had been wounded in service of the King, but he seemed his usual contained self. He looked at grief ravaged face without sympathy and motioned at her to sit down. Sophie only dared to give him a quick glance before she looked down on her hands folded in her lap and waited.
“Mademoiselle de Clermont, you put yourself in my service, but so far I have had nothing from you but insolence.”
“I know,", Sophie said meekly. “I should not have said what I did. I-”
“You acted in a rash and thoughtless manner.”
Sophie nodded. “Yes. I’m sorry.”
Then she couldn’t suppress her fear and blurred out. “Are you going to arrest me now?”
“Why would I do that?”
“I thought- I thought you suspected me of Madame’s death.”
“I always knew you were innocent. You were never under suspicion.”
The sudden relief made Sophie feel dizzy, and for a moment she thought she would cry from pure relief She was not a suspect, she didn’t have to worry anymore, but she still felt bewildered.
“But if you knew, why did you interrogate me?”
“Yes, why?”
Sophie frowned. At first she couldn’t think what he meant, but then she understood.
“Because if you didn’t, people would wonder why. And you don’t want people to know I work for you.”
“Exactly. But are you going to work for me? I need to be assured of your respect and obedience, or I will have no use for you.”
Sophie felt another frisson of fear. She needed Monsieur Marchal; if he decided she was worthless, she would have no one else to turn to.
“I will do my best, I promise.” She raised her head and looked at him, hoping Monsieur Marchal would understand she was in earnest. ”But I don’t know how to do what you want.”
“Very well.” His face softened a little. “I will teach you what you need.”
And to her, and probably also Fabien’s, surprise, they got along. He seemed to recognise Sophie's honest desire to please him, and in return Fabien was unexpectedly patient with teaching her the skills she needed. At first Sophie found it difficult, no one had ever demanded of her to pay attention and analyse what she learned, but little by little she found it an unexpected thrill gathering useful information.
She grieved her mother, and it was hard to reconcile with the fact her sharp-tongued but loving mother had not only conspired against the King, but had also been a murderess. Fabien eventually told her everything, including his own role in Beatrice’s death, and how she had tried to kill him. It was hard for Sophie, sometimes she felt she ought to hate Fabien, then she thought she hated her mother. In the end she decided to try to look forward instead. She had loved her mother, but she needed Fabien
As Sophie got to know him better, she stopped being afraid of him. At first she had found his looks coarse and his manners brusque, but over time she came to appreciate his direct manner. At court people never said what they meant, but Fabien never hesitated to tell her what he thought, being good or bad, and she learned to trust him. And though he never acknowledged her in public, he, or one of his men, always turned up if a courtier became too insistent in his attentions than Sophie enjoyed, and it made her feel safe and protected. Over time she came to appreciate how he looked as well. When she looked past the severeness of his dress, she noticed how handsome he was, and he didn’t need rich fabrics and lavish decorations to enhance it.
For some time life was good for Sophie. She had more freedom than ever before, and when the King publicly treated her with a few kind words, no one remembered how she had been interrogated when Madame died. Then Monsieur asked her to become his new wife’s lady, and Sophie’s position at court became as solid as before. The new Madame was funny and forthright, and the two girls friendship was quickly cemented.
All was well until the horrible the day the King announced Sophie was to marry the Duke of Cassel. As soon as she heard it, Sophie looked at Fabien, and she could see his surprise and dismay. He had not wanted this for her, and despite knowing no one could question the King’s wishes, Sophie could not help imploring Fabien for help. She had got used to him always knowing the what to do, but Sophie looked up into his face he looked as helpless as she felt. Perhaps Fabien could have shielded her from the worst of Cassel’s appetites just by his presence, but when was banished from court, Sophie had been left with no protection at all.
Sophie abruptly stood up. She didn’t want to think of Cassel and of what he had done to her. Desperately she sifted through her memories and latched on to the memory of one of the few who had offered her any help in the nightmare her marriage had proved to be.
