The End of the Story, chapter 3
Nov. 14th, 2018 03:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
scripsiTitle: The End of the Story
Fandom: Versailles
Rating: Teens
Chapter: 3/?
Word Count: 1272
Characters Sophie de Clermont, Fabien Marchal
Pairings: Fabien Marchal/Sophie de Clermont
Warnings: None yet, will probably not change
Summary: Sophie de Clermont returns to Paris with a warning to Fabien Marchal, only to find she might be too late.
AN: This fic will spoil all three seasons of Versailles.
The whole fic on AO3
To be sentenced to silence and imprisonment for life was an actual punishment in Louis XIV France. Several persons involved in the Affair of Poisons received this sentence, for example.
Michel’s hand went to his sword, his brow furrowing in anger, and at that moment Sophie knew for certain she could trust him.
“What are you saying, woman!”
“Hear me out. No one has been looking for me because no one knows I’m still alive. They will only hunt a man who has fled; a dead man they will simply bury.”
Michel relaxed. “That is true. But you were already gone, so no one missed your dead body. Fabien is another matter.”
“I have an idea,” Sophie said. “ But without you, it’s not possible. I need your help.”
There was another pause, but shorter this time, before Michel nodded. “I will help you.”
Sophie smiled in relief. “Do you know when they will move Fabien?”
“I can find out, but my guess is by the next full moon, four days away. Then they can move him at night with the help of the moonlight.”
“And can you find two more men willing to help us? And a key to unlock his irons?”
“That should not be a problem.”
“Good. Then we only need a dead body. And a white horse.”
Michel who hadn’t even blinked at the mention of a corpse looked surprised.
“Why would we need a white horse?”
“Because everyone knows the Duchess of Cassel always rides a white horse.”
The four days Sophie had to wait for the full moon, were the longest days she had ever suffered through. Especially the first two days when she heard nothing from Michel, and she had to wait alone in the cheap room he had helped her find. Doubt crept in, and she jumped at every sound, fearing Michel would betray her, and he would return only to arrest her. But when he finally came he did so to confirm Fabien would be moved as he had predicted. He also took her away from Paris, to an isolated cabin close, he claimed, to the road the prison coach would take. It was small; only a single room with little more than a bed, a table and two simple stools, and outside a shack to shelter horses.
After discussing their plans again, Michel left her alone, promising to come for her when it was time. He left Sophie plenty of supplies and also a chest with some of Fabien’s belongings he had salvaged. As it was unlocked, Sophie went through it and found Fabien’s clothes and weapons. None of Fabien’s precious books were there, but at the bottom she found a parcel, so heavily sealed with strings and sealing wax it was impossible to get a peek at the content, though Sophie surmised it must be documents of some kind., There were also a well-filled purse and a few personal belongings, like a comb and a shaving knife.
Sophie busied herself with going through Fabien’s clothes, carefully mending what needed to be repaired. When she handled the garments, she could feel the scent of him, and she wrapped his cloak around her and inhaled, pretending he was there, embracing her. Something he might never do again even if they could rescue him. Sophie has not forgotten his words, and perhaps she would only free him to meet her own death.
Memories of her mother slithered through her mind like venomous snakes. Beatrice had been guilty of her crimes, but what did Sophie’s innocence matter if Fabien thought her responsible for the Queen’s death? But regardless of what would happen to her, Sophie knew she had to help him. The thought of him imprisoned without hope was unbearable to her. Images, all terrible, of what could happen to him in prison crowded in her mind, and they grew worse the more she thought about them. If Fabien had been condemned to never talk again; could he still speak? A man without tongue could not divulge any secrets.
The last day finally dawned. Sophie prepared everything she could imagine Fabien would need. He would be hungry, so she made a soup, ready to warm for him when they came back. And he would want to clean himself, so she dragged up plenty of water from the well and carried it into the cabin. When everything was to her satisfaction, she turned her attention to her own appearance.
Sophie dressed as carefully as if she still had been at Versailles. The court gown she had brought had been aired and pressed, and, not without difficulties as she had to dress without the help of a maid, she was once again clad in lavish silks and lace. With the same care, she arranged her hair in high and elaborate curls and applied makeup fit for a grand ball. To finish her ensemble, she even applied perfume; the last precious drops of what had once cost her a not insignificant amount of money.
When Michel came to fetch her, he looked at her dazzling finery with disquiet alarm. “We are not going to a ball, Duchess. This is not suitable.”
“No, but it’s perfect. We will set a stage, and I intend to make my performance memorable.”
Michel and Sophie met two other men at a point they assured Sophie would be the best place to stage an attack. They were masked and did not volunteer their names. On the ground were several cans of oil; they had agreed the best way to hide the evidence was to burn down the coach. And, next to them, a large bundle; the dead man.
Sophie, who had spared little thought before on where to corpse would be obtained, shuddered.
“Who was he?
“A self-murderer who was dragged from the Seine. Poor sod; but at least he will get a proper burial now.”
There was little Sophie could do of the more practical aspects of an ambush; she waited hidden until the sounds told her the guards had been unarmed and taken away to be tied up some distance from the coach. Then she impatiently had to wait until the lock on the door had been broken down, but then she climbed into the couch. Fabien blinked at her in the light from the lantern, his eyes sunken deep into their sockets.
“Sophie,” he said in a voice hoarse from disuse, and she almost wept from joy. He could speak, he had not been maimed. Sophie had brought his coat with her, and now she wrapped it around him, ignoring the stench of unwashed skin and clothes. Then she backed out again, allowing the men to free Fabien and substitute him with the dead man.
Instead, she went to the guards, who, even if they could not see the exchange taking place, could still see the coach. Sophie raised her lantern, making sure as much light as possible illuminated her. The bound men looked at her with some astonishment.
“Do you know who I am?”
“No, my lady.”
“I’m the Duchess of Cassel, and I have a message for the King I want you to convey. Tell him I have risen from my grave to exact revenge for me and my mother. Prison was too good for Fabien Marchal; tonight he will burn in hell.”
And as if her word has acted as the ignition, the coach burst into flame the moment she had delivered her little speech. Michel, still heavily disguised became visible on horseback, leading Sophie’s white horse so she could mount it. When seated she turned so the guards could have one last look at her, before they left, leaving the burning coach far behind them as fast as possible.
Fandom: Versailles
Rating: Teens
Chapter: 3/?
Word Count: 1272
Characters Sophie de Clermont, Fabien Marchal
Pairings: Fabien Marchal/Sophie de Clermont
Warnings: None yet, will probably not change
Summary: Sophie de Clermont returns to Paris with a warning to Fabien Marchal, only to find she might be too late.
AN: This fic will spoil all three seasons of Versailles.
The whole fic on AO3
To be sentenced to silence and imprisonment for life was an actual punishment in Louis XIV France. Several persons involved in the Affair of Poisons received this sentence, for example.
Michel’s hand went to his sword, his brow furrowing in anger, and at that moment Sophie knew for certain she could trust him.
“What are you saying, woman!”
“Hear me out. No one has been looking for me because no one knows I’m still alive. They will only hunt a man who has fled; a dead man they will simply bury.”
Michel relaxed. “That is true. But you were already gone, so no one missed your dead body. Fabien is another matter.”
“I have an idea,” Sophie said. “ But without you, it’s not possible. I need your help.”
There was another pause, but shorter this time, before Michel nodded. “I will help you.”
Sophie smiled in relief. “Do you know when they will move Fabien?”
“I can find out, but my guess is by the next full moon, four days away. Then they can move him at night with the help of the moonlight.”
“And can you find two more men willing to help us? And a key to unlock his irons?”
“That should not be a problem.”
“Good. Then we only need a dead body. And a white horse.”
Michel who hadn’t even blinked at the mention of a corpse looked surprised.
“Why would we need a white horse?”
“Because everyone knows the Duchess of Cassel always rides a white horse.”
The four days Sophie had to wait for the full moon, were the longest days she had ever suffered through. Especially the first two days when she heard nothing from Michel, and she had to wait alone in the cheap room he had helped her find. Doubt crept in, and she jumped at every sound, fearing Michel would betray her, and he would return only to arrest her. But when he finally came he did so to confirm Fabien would be moved as he had predicted. He also took her away from Paris, to an isolated cabin close, he claimed, to the road the prison coach would take. It was small; only a single room with little more than a bed, a table and two simple stools, and outside a shack to shelter horses.
After discussing their plans again, Michel left her alone, promising to come for her when it was time. He left Sophie plenty of supplies and also a chest with some of Fabien’s belongings he had salvaged. As it was unlocked, Sophie went through it and found Fabien’s clothes and weapons. None of Fabien’s precious books were there, but at the bottom she found a parcel, so heavily sealed with strings and sealing wax it was impossible to get a peek at the content, though Sophie surmised it must be documents of some kind., There were also a well-filled purse and a few personal belongings, like a comb and a shaving knife.
Sophie busied herself with going through Fabien’s clothes, carefully mending what needed to be repaired. When she handled the garments, she could feel the scent of him, and she wrapped his cloak around her and inhaled, pretending he was there, embracing her. Something he might never do again even if they could rescue him. Sophie has not forgotten his words, and perhaps she would only free him to meet her own death.
Memories of her mother slithered through her mind like venomous snakes. Beatrice had been guilty of her crimes, but what did Sophie’s innocence matter if Fabien thought her responsible for the Queen’s death? But regardless of what would happen to her, Sophie knew she had to help him. The thought of him imprisoned without hope was unbearable to her. Images, all terrible, of what could happen to him in prison crowded in her mind, and they grew worse the more she thought about them. If Fabien had been condemned to never talk again; could he still speak? A man without tongue could not divulge any secrets.
The last day finally dawned. Sophie prepared everything she could imagine Fabien would need. He would be hungry, so she made a soup, ready to warm for him when they came back. And he would want to clean himself, so she dragged up plenty of water from the well and carried it into the cabin. When everything was to her satisfaction, she turned her attention to her own appearance.
Sophie dressed as carefully as if she still had been at Versailles. The court gown she had brought had been aired and pressed, and, not without difficulties as she had to dress without the help of a maid, she was once again clad in lavish silks and lace. With the same care, she arranged her hair in high and elaborate curls and applied makeup fit for a grand ball. To finish her ensemble, she even applied perfume; the last precious drops of what had once cost her a not insignificant amount of money.
When Michel came to fetch her, he looked at her dazzling finery with disquiet alarm. “We are not going to a ball, Duchess. This is not suitable.”
“No, but it’s perfect. We will set a stage, and I intend to make my performance memorable.”
Michel and Sophie met two other men at a point they assured Sophie would be the best place to stage an attack. They were masked and did not volunteer their names. On the ground were several cans of oil; they had agreed the best way to hide the evidence was to burn down the coach. And, next to them, a large bundle; the dead man.
Sophie, who had spared little thought before on where to corpse would be obtained, shuddered.
“Who was he?
“A self-murderer who was dragged from the Seine. Poor sod; but at least he will get a proper burial now.”
There was little Sophie could do of the more practical aspects of an ambush; she waited hidden until the sounds told her the guards had been unarmed and taken away to be tied up some distance from the coach. Then she impatiently had to wait until the lock on the door had been broken down, but then she climbed into the couch. Fabien blinked at her in the light from the lantern, his eyes sunken deep into their sockets.
“Sophie,” he said in a voice hoarse from disuse, and she almost wept from joy. He could speak, he had not been maimed. Sophie had brought his coat with her, and now she wrapped it around him, ignoring the stench of unwashed skin and clothes. Then she backed out again, allowing the men to free Fabien and substitute him with the dead man.
Instead, she went to the guards, who, even if they could not see the exchange taking place, could still see the coach. Sophie raised her lantern, making sure as much light as possible illuminated her. The bound men looked at her with some astonishment.
“Do you know who I am?”
“No, my lady.”
“I’m the Duchess of Cassel, and I have a message for the King I want you to convey. Tell him I have risen from my grave to exact revenge for me and my mother. Prison was too good for Fabien Marchal; tonight he will burn in hell.”
And as if her word has acted as the ignition, the coach burst into flame the moment she had delivered her little speech. Michel, still heavily disguised became visible on horseback, leading Sophie’s white horse so she could mount it. When seated she turned so the guards could have one last look at her, before they left, leaving the burning coach far behind them as fast as possible.
