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theimpossiblescheme · 4 years

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The Last of the Fires

I didn’t think it was possible for me to be dragged even farther into Cyrano de Bergerac hell, but by God @nonchalantdanger found a way. This alternate universe we’ve come up has already yielded some great results (I was already pretty proud of the first fic I wrote for it, and then reading the add-on... chills), so I thought I would take another whack at it. This takes place a few hours after that add-on--the truth has come out, Cyrano and Roxanne have more than reconciled, and now Christian has to figure out his new place in the world... enjoy!

Another greasy campfire had been lit in the camp of the Gascony cadets, but this time they finally had something to cook over it. Miraculously, Ragueneau was still pulling legs of lamb and whole partridges from his and Roxanne’s coach, which the soldiers accepted and devoured gleefully. Strains of old victory songs rang through the air, and at long last a few men could be heard to laugh. Even de Guiche, sitting with a barely nibbled-at turkey breast by the fire, was smiling more than any of them had known him to smile. The relief of triumph over the Spanish was palpable, and it had touched everyone present, young and old.

Christian wished he could feel that relief so keenly. Instead, sharp jabs of anxiety kept intruding, making it impossible for him to eat. He hadn’t seen Roxanne since he left her in the surgeon’s tent. No doubt she’d talked to Cyrano… he couldn’t imagine what they might have said to each other, though. Knowing Cyrano, he would deny everything—that he’d ever loved her, that he’d ever written a single letter, that he’d ever given Christian the smallest word to say—but Roxanne was in such a holy fury that Christian doubted very much that she would leave it at that. Perhaps they’d spent the whole time arguing—that might explain her long absence, but it was hardly a comforting though. Christian had seen both of them angry, and that was terrifying enough, but for them to be angry at each other… he’d never forgive himself for causing it. Maybe he should have… no. No, he was glad he’d said what he’d said. It had hurt tremendously, but a greater hurt would be to stand in the way of their happiness. The two people he cared for more than anyone else in the world.

Where that left him… he wasn’t sure yet. But he supposed he’d find out in time.

The fire sputtered a bit, and Christian leaned forward to stir it back to life. Through the flames, he could see a figure limping toward the camp, leaning heavily on an old walking stick. Only when the figure turned in profile did Christian recognize him and smile in spite of himself. Le Bret, though limping himself on his injured leg, turned away from one of the old supply wagons and raced toward him, pulling him into a fierce embrace. After pulling apart, the two exchanged a few brief words, and Le Bret patted him on the shoulder before returning to his duties. As he watched the figure grow closer, Christian felt his palms starting to sweat, the way they always did around… around her. What would he say now? What would he do?

Looking up, de Guiche’s lips curled in a small smirk, though this time it came without his usual contempt. “So you managed to survive after all, have you?”

Cyrano merely flashed him that dangerous grin before carefully lowering himself to sit nearby. “I had thought you would sound more disappointed.”

“Not necessarily. Surprised, perhaps, given your endless barrage of gasconades just earlier today. You sounded quite content—excited, even—to die in battle.”

“Perhaps… but Providence has given me another task to complete. I could hardly die leaving that great will so unsatisfied.” Cyrano gave Christian a meaningful sideways look, and Christian felt a new chill run through him.

“Mm.” Peeling the skins away from the eaten parts of his turkey breast, de Guiche returned the rest of it to a nearby basket and stood, swiping a delicate hand over his ribbons. “I must attend to what remains of our supplies. See that this one stays out of trouble, Nuevillette.” And he left the two men alone by the fire.

So. “You have… spoken to Roxanne?” Christian ventured, balling his hands into fists and kneading them fitfully against his thighs.

“I have, yes.”

“And she said…?”

The slightest little disbelieving laugh huffed out of Cyrano as he struggled to repress a smile. There was a look of… what could almost be described as peace in his eyes, a look Christian had never seen before. “More than I could have dared to hope.”

“She loves you?”

“… Against all wisdom, against all possible odds… I would never have thought it possible unless I were to hear it from her lips.” His expression changed as he looked back up at Christian. “Though I fear she was rather uncharitable to you, my friend.”

“Why—what did she say?”

For what felt like far too long, Cyrano hesitated, gathering all his finely spun words into precisely the right web for the present moment. “There was never a doubt in my mind,” he began, deliberately looking away and gazing toward the fire, “that your love for her, even in my borrowed declarations of the same, was sincere. You were willing to give her up entirely, as I was, for her own happiness. You say that I am your soul, but your own needs no embellishment of fine words and glib turns of phrase. I decorate mine with small glories, but yours rings golden. And yet… she insisted, for my sake or for hers I cannot tell, that your marriage can be annulled. That her love for you has cooled. And I cannot help but think that rather unfair, after all you have done for her.”

Christian felt his hands twisting tighter. He’d already cried once today, he couldn’t risk it again—not in front of Cyrano. It was true, that same thought had crossed his mind. There were no witnesses to the marriage; it was unrecorded, uncelebrated, and unconsummated. Throughout the siege, he’d entertained many a dream of returning home to Roxanne and curling up beside her under one blanket, finding her warm and willing… but no. She would be making love to a shadow, and he would have to convince himself that she truly saw him every night, not some other man with a different voice. Christian remembered that night under her balcony, her rapt silence as Cyrano practically sang to her in such words… he would never have thought of them himself, God knew, but they all rang so true. “Your name is a golden bell hung in my heart.” Perhaps he was a little in love with Cyrano’s words that night, too. He could feel that same bell pealing in his chest, crying the name of the woman he’d adored.

The woman he might never see again.

He forced a smile. “Perhaps I should take a leaf out of your book. Learn to love from afar.”

“No.” Cyrano’s voice was firm. “I have endured that torture for as long as I can remember, even when we were children together. There is no greater lingering pain than to love one who neglects or even refuses your very existence. I would not wish that pain upon you.”

“I don’t want to stand in the way of your happiness, Cyrano.”

“And I have spent enough time hampering your own--”

“Stop.” Christian ran a hand over his hair, fitfully pushing some of it back into his braid. “I wanted to say this before, when the fighting first broke out... I don’t wish to be my own rival anymore. And you have already given up so much for her. You talk about being unfair to me, but neither of us have been fair to you. She... she’s made her views perfectly clear, and if I--if I ever cared for her, I have to honor them.” Roxanne was no prize for either of them to claim. She had made her decision. Both of them wanted her to be happy... it was as simple as that.

“But is this truly what you wish, Christian?”

“Yes.” And he was surprised to find how much he meant it. After everything the three of them had been through, somehow this felt inevitable. Inevitable and only right. This was as graceful an exit he could make on behalf of two people he loved in his own fashion. “You... you have been my friend even when I have not treated you like one in return. And I can’t lie to Roxanne any more than I already have. Besides, she can’t marry two men.”

“Perhaps in a just world she might.” It was Cyrano’s half-hearted attempt to lighten the mood, but his expression softened into something gentler as he clasped Christian’s shoulder. “But in this one now, I promise you will love again. You shall find someone who loves all that you are and not merely what you pretend to be. Someone you will not feel the need to impress so constantly… you were placed in an unfair position from the very beginning, and I am sorry for it. The love you deserve is safer and kinder than what you were granted.”

“Oh, I don’t regret any of it for a second,” Christian replied, shaking his head. It occurred to him that neither of them had been so honest with each other before today, and it was almost embarrassing... and yet oddly freeing. “This is--this is going to sound ridiculous, I know, and I’m sorry… but I don’t think I will ever be out of love with Roxanne.”

“No need to apologize. In truth, I would never expect that. She is very easy to love, I’ve found.” A smile flickered back onto Cyrano’s face. “Carry that torch if you must, my friend, but a day will come when you find it too heavy to bear, and you must set it down for another to bask in its glow. And you will know that day that it no longer truly burns for her alone, and you shall be happy again.”

“...Do you really think that?”

“I do, or may I live another hundred years and never fight again.”

Christian considered his words. Ever since that night in the theater, it seemed that Roxanne was the only woman in the world, but now... now the world had opened back up again. And in so many words, Cyrano was urging him not to be afraid. “I dearly hope you’re right…” The idea of there being someone else out there in the world… as lovely as Roxanne, as brilliant, as spirited, but not quite as… well, intimidating. Someone who could listen to Christian’s damned fool clumsy words and not turn him away… someone with whom he could be more than just a pretty face and a slow tongue… it seemed so inconceivable, a far-flung fantasy. Yet Cyrano had said it with so much certainty. And he’d feared almost the same thing, hadn’t he—that he was too ugly for any woman to love? If he could be proven wrong… why not? Yes, why not…? “I should still like to speak to her before we leave. If she will allow it, that is.”

“You shall have that chance, I promise you that as well. In the meantime…” Planting his stick in the dirt before him and veering gently out of Christian’s reach, Cyrano rose slowly to his feet again. “I promised Le Bret I would help organize our return to Paris. You get some rest, and for pity’s sake eat something.”

“I will. Thank you.” Before he could stop himself, Christian’s hand shot out to catch Cyrano’s arm as he turned to go. “I mean that… thank you.” For understanding, for being there for so long, for giving him another chance... he could go on and on if only he could find the words. Thankfully, Cyrano seemed to understand, nodding and giving Christian’s arm a brief squeeze of his own before limping off. Even on unsteady feet with shrapnel in his shoulder, the white plume of freedom floated above him, unspotted and ethereal.

Eventually the last of the campfire had guttered and stopped, and de Guiche had addressed his men one last time in the dark, detailing plans for their return to civilization and offering rather backhanded congratulations for their unlikely victory. Christian barely heard him—after the day he’d had, there was such a weariness in his bones that he could sleep for the next six years. As everyone slumped back to their bedrolls and tents, Christian followed suit, unravelling his threadbare blanket from the cocoon he’d twisted it into the night before and pulling up his rucksack to use as a pillow. But there was something laying over it: a note, folded three times. He unfolded it and read the familiar flowing script—obviously memorized and written down for posterity, and not for the first time.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove.

O no! it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wand'ring bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me prov'd,

I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.

Christian couldn’t help but smile. Leave it to his friend to find the right words, even if they weren’t his own. Folding the note back up again and tucking it away for safekeeping, he curled up under his blanket and finally let himself relax.

#cyrano de bergerac #christian de neuvillette #my fanfic #While I admit that my heart will always belong to the Cyrano/Roxanne/Christian OT3 I do love this take as well.#Christian deserves someone he can be completely himself with and sometimes that was difficult around Roxanne.#And I think Roxanne realizes that she was sometimes unfair to him--whatever she thinks of him she still wants him in her life.#That's the follow-up I'll probably write at some point--these crazy kids have put up with enough heartbreak...

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theimpossiblescheme · 4 years

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Yesterday, Tomorrow, and Today

I sat on this for a while because I kept wanting to tweak it, but here it is at last--the next installment in mine and @nonchalantdanger‘s alternate universe, in which Cyrano feels less guilty than he expected about surviving the battle and Roxanne reflects on her past follies. Hope it passes muster!

Cyrano was not a man given to morbidity. In the face of certain death, he vastly preferred to laugh instead of cower, and he never considered failure a viable option. Let the Reaper come, and he would meet the scythe with steel of his own, meeting his only worthy foe in final single combat. Let him die in the same manner as a star, in a glorious conflagration that blinded any unlucky souls nearby. Without fear or compromise… that was the only way.

And yet, standing over what only hours earlier had been a desperate battlefield, blood still staining the soil, he found himself musing on how close he’d come to being cheated of that last glory. How close they had all come. The sack of Troy, the razing of Carthage, the charging wolves of Ragnarok… those were great battles, but those were mere stories. The Siege of Arras had come nowhere close—two starving armies of condemned men, denied even the honor of brave last words before the swords fell, prolonging their own starvation at the end of a cannon because it was preferable to dying by the same. As he stood by one of the supply wagons, handing up whatever weapons and artillery they could rescue, he heard the other cadets chatting blithely, as if their day hadn’t been spent charging through mud and human viscera. Perhaps they genuinely didn’t mind—they had so little waiting at home for them besides the anticipation of another battle. They would have their grand death the next time… or the time after that. It was only a matter of waiting and preparing.

It was a bitter irony… even a few days ago, Cyrano would have agreed wholeheartedly, would have stood with them and anticipated another siege with that same sanguine grim humor. Now he actually had more waiting before him than simply digging his own grave… more to live for. More that he had never considered before. As he handed up another crate, he made eye contact with Le Bret, who was standing in the wagon and stowing everything away safely. His friend looked unwell, favoring the leg that hadn’t been slashed by a Spanish sword, but more than that he looked exhausted. He looked out at the rest of the cadets and shook his head very gently, a familiar look of melancholy contemplation in his eyes. Constant, level-headed, dependable Le Bret, who loved friendships more than worthy foes, who’d defied the usual Gascon tradition of dying young… Cyrano could tell exactly what he was thinking. And for once it didn’t seem so much like his usual growling.

Of course, Cyrano would go right back to teasing him tomorrow. Today was simply a special occasion.

“Is that all of it?” came de Guiche’s voice as he rounded the corner of the wagon, eyeing the process imperiously. His numerous silks and ribbons were frayed and singed in various places, his left foot dragged a bit behind the right, and a fine cloud of ash wafted by every time he moved his head too sharply.

“A few more minutes, and it will be,” Le Bret replied. “There was precious little to recover on our side.”

“A pity they didn’t shoot at us a few more times,” Cyrano quipped bleakly. “Then we might save a few more cannonballs for a rainy day.”

“I wouldn’t give the Spanish too many ideas.” De Guiche raised an unimpressed eyebrow in Cyrano’s direction. “You survived by the skin of your teeth as it is.”

“Despite your best efforts, of course.”

“Don’t press the issue or my recent good graces too far, de Bergerac. I can just as easily send you all back to engage those louts closer to their own territory.” But the Comte’s posture relaxed again as he nodded up to Le Bret. “As it is, you may be dismissed when you are finished. We depart for Paris at daybreak tomorrow.”

“Where is Roxanne?” Cyrano asked. His conversation with Christian was still fresh in his mind—he had to gauge Roxanne’s feelings toward seeing him again. And… well, he hadn’t seen her since he left the surgeon’s tent.

“In Ragueneau’s coach. Unharmed, thank God, but unchaperoned—someone had best check on her before nightfall.”

Cyrano couldn’t help but smile to himself. Nothing would give him more pleasure. Nodding up at Le Bret again, who gave him a good-natured eyeroll, he tagged in a new cadet nearby to take over his post and took his leave, making his way across the camp. Snatches of song and chatter still wafted by, but he managed to avoid the crowd as he drew closer to the sagging, scarred, but still stately coach sitting at the top of the hill. Ragueneau himself was nowhere to be found—no doubt he was still getting the cadets very drunk on his smuggled muscatel—but there was still no sound from inside, and the curtains were drawn.

After a quiet knock on the door, Roxanne’s voice finally piped up. “Who is it?”

“Cyrano. May I join you?”

The door swung open, and Cyrano ducked inside and sat down. On the opposite bench sat Roxanne, who didn’t even look up at him when he entered. Her beautiful green eyes were downcast, her face a sullen mask, and her hands gripped tightly together against her skirts until her knuckles were white. The spirit of the Valkyries of old, of red-robed Ate crying havoc and letting slip the dogs of war, had left her. She looked so lost… and she had been so happy just a few hours ago…

Tentatively raising a hand, the stitches in his shoulder straining from the effort, Cyrano cupped her cheek and gently raised her head until she was looking at him. “What troubles you so, dear heart?” he asked softly, tracing his thumb along the line of her jaw.

Roxanne shook her head, looking down again, but leaning into his touch. “I have been such a fool.”

“Come now… I have known and loved a girl who charged across rivers and forests with wild abandon, never caring if she soiled her skirts, and a woman who threw herself into a duel to which she was merely a spectator, saving both our lives with a single parry.” He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “If ever you were a fool, it only reminded me that you were of the human race and not a seraph capable of being worshipped, but never held.”

“Do you suppose Christian thinks of me that way now?” She raised her head again, and Cyrano felt his chest contract to see tears in her eyes. “I have cheated him—I have cheated the both of you—for so long. I was so taken with the Apollo you had formed together, with his curls and your words, that I failed completely to see the golden halves that made up that whole. I said such terrible childish things to him, thinking he had grown stupid, wishing he would grow ugly…” A sob caught in her throat, and she clapped a hand over her for a moment mouth to stifle it.

“I know what you said to him,” Cyrano said slowly, lowering his hand to clasp both of hers. “I… was present at both occasions, though you did not see me.” That first time, when Christian found himself witless and terrified by Roxanne’s demands of eloquence… he was not proud of his reaction then in hindsight. He was too petty, too ready to take it as proof that Christian was unworthy of her. But their conversation before the battle… listening to Roxanne shower such praise upon their shared soul—his soul—made him dare to hope, but it also made his heart ache for Christian. Dear absurd Christian, who loved her fiercely, but in whom she found nothing inherently loveable that hadn’t been gifted to him by another. He deserved so much better.

Roxanne laughed a tiny mirthless laugh. “Naturally, you were. You must have thought me so selfish, seeing and asking for only what I wanted to see—what I had all along, but was too blind to notice. I was Narcissus vainly searching for what I found beautiful, and he was Echo repeating those beauties back at me… and I nearly let him waste away as she had.”

“You forget that Echo was a nymph once with her own voice and her own fair form before the curse fell upon her. Hers and Christian’s desires were the same—to be seen and adored for themselves. He wished desperately for your happiness and does still, as I do, but to prepare such a banquet for another while sustaining oneself on mere scraps…” He gave a mirthless smile of his own. “There are few things bitterer to endure, even for the sake of a great love.”

“And to think I have starved you both…” Another sob tore through Roxanne, and tears began streaming down her cheeks. “How could he ever forgive me for it--?”

“He already has.” Cyrano stroked her tears away with the pad of his thumb. “He bears no ill will toward you, and he has confessed to me that no matter your current sentiments towards him, he will never stop loving you. He remains a great soul, Roxanne—perhaps not the one you had pledged your own to, but one nonetheless.”

“And yet I saw it not… I saw only your words…” Her voice trailed off, and for a moment, Roxanne seemed to process his words, guilt and sudden fear warring in her eyes. “I have not said a word to him since I left him at the surgeon’s… I must find him, I must speak to him.” She started to get to her feet.

“In the morning,” Cyrano cut in gently, catching her hand again and guiding her to sit back down. “We depart in the morning, and you may speak to him then.”

“And you are certain he does not hate me? For… for loving a single man who never existed and nearly losing him twice over?”

“How could any man hate you, Roxanne?” He raised her hands to his lips, kissing her fingertips reverently. “How could we scorn the love, even the misguided love, of one so exquisite? It was love for you that emboldened Christian’s spirit, raising him to new heights of courage and nobility. And it was love for you that kept me from despair. Without attentive mother, without sister, and certainly without mistress, I have had one fair-figured friend keeping me tethered to this earth rather than hurtling towards death. You have enriched two lives, not ruined. Never ruined.”

“If either of you had died today, I would have never forgiven myself… I would have spent the rest of my life never knowing… grieving a shadow instead of the two great men before it…” Another torrent of tears ran down her cheeks.

“And yet here we are.” He cupped her face and smoothed away her tears once more. “Here I am, my love.” God, how he wanted to kiss her, but it still felt so foreign, so wrong almost, even to touch her. Seeming to read his mind, however, Roxanne leaned forward and took the plunge. As their lips met, she clung to Cyrano’s shoulders as if she were afraid she might float away if she let go, and he brought a hand up to cradle the back of her head, fingers threading through her red-gold hair. And for a long moment, all was right with the world.

When they parted, her eyes were still damp, and he pressed a kiss to both her eyelids in turn, tender as a whisper. He heard her gasp gently under his touch, and his heart sang at the sound. “Stay with me tonight,” Roxanne breathed, still clinging to him.

As tempting as the offer was… “I have to return to camp,” Cyrano replied, gently extricating himself from her grip. “De Guiche will be searching for me, and I know he shall never forgive me for any possible compromise of your virtue.” That got a watery chuckle out of Roxanne, and he reveled in that sound as well. “If I could bring you with me, I would… I will send for Ragueneau to watch the coach. You shall not pass the night undefended.”

Roxanne nodded. “And I will see you in the morning?”

“You will. I will arrange for you and Christian to talk—you will tell him everything you told me.”

“If you see him sooner than that… tell him I am sorry. From the bottom of my wretched heart.”

“Such terrible words, my love, for a sin already forgiven.” Outside—a world away, it seemed—a hush had fallen over the camp, and the last of the fires had been doused. Time for him to return. Tomorrow they would see Paris again.

And Cyrano would live to see it. With his dearest friends and the love of his life by his side. Such graces he never deserved, to stave off some distant glorious death a little longer… where would he be without them? He gave her one last kiss, a chaste one of her forehead. “Good night, Roxanne.” Parting is such sweet sorrow…

She finally smiled again. “Good night, my love.”

#nonchalantdanger #Very slowly I'm getting less intimidated of writing these characters... XD #cyrano de bergerac #alternate universe #Roxane madeleine robin #my fanfic

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