your-dandy-king
The Most Fabulous Gascon Of All
Your Dandy King of Naples | A Napoleonic Roleplay Blog for Joachim Murat
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[Rewinding slightly]
Bessières had planned on storing a few items at Murat's home as he took the Marshal and Eugene on a tour of the King of Naples' domain.
What he had not expected was a partially burned out shell with a crater out front.
"Oopsie?" Helene comments helpfully, sitting in Happy's saddle.
"Yes, oopsie, my sweet," he echoes, staring at the mess. Joachim hadn't explained this to him. Exactly what had happened here? To Marshal Bessières and Eugene, he shrugs and says smoothly, "He's not always like this."
Monsieur Bessières feels the attenuated vibrations in his being long before the air carries these new voices to him. It catches him off guard, and it is only due to his control that his expression barely flickers. Another little change, he thinks to himself, uneasily. What is happening to me? He glances at Helene, and is quietly relieved to see that she doesn't seem to have noticed.
The old school he (and his otherself) had attended alongside with Murat is up the street from the source of the disturbance. When Marshal Bessières lifts his head and asks, "Do you hear that?" Monsieur Bessières disguises his sigh of relief and fully directs his attention on that than whatever is happening to him.
"I know those voices. Soult's ADCs," Bessières replies to him. "And Lefebrve's son." Death had not improved Coco at all, and Bessières found that to be a pity. He looks at Eugene and Marshal Bessières. "It sounds like it came from the Cathedral, and I suspect they are here to take advantage of the vault Joachim keeps in the crypt. I had planned to bring both of you to it, so shall we?"
"Uncle Joachim's place is fun!" Helen giggles. "He has so much stuff!"
The two carved red doors are ajar when they get there and, upon entering, Bessières looks upon the stained glass windows with mild disapproval. Of course, when he had been alive and young, he had attended mass here, where the windows had properly honored the saints and the Virgin and Christ. In Murat's Cahors, he had, consciously or not, had replaced all of them with scenes from his own life. There was one window for each of his children, one for himself with Caroline, and scenes of battle from Jena, Eylau, and Abukir. And the window that had once only had the two of them -- Murat in his magnificent dress whites and him in his green and gold of the Guides of Italy -- has shifted. Changed. Now Duroc is there, with Helene.
Maybe he shouldn't disapprove after all.
The nave itself is disorganized, piled with slightly charred possessions that Bessières presumes Joachim had pulled out of the remains of his house.
He grasps his daughter's hand with one of his and with his free one, points at the open door to the crypt. "They're probably down there. I mentioned earlier that Joachim keeps a stash of things the living have lost. Sometimes that includes ... well, you remember the hashish dens in Egypt? Substances like that, sometimes stronger. I suggested to Joachim he should put all of that in a secure lockbox now or simply get rid of it, now that we have Helene, but I'm not certain if he's even started that yet."
With a slight bow of his head, Monsieur Bessières will offer a lit lamp to either Eugene or Marshal Bessières to take. He has to stay behind his daughter, after all, even if Soult's ADCs are the largely harmeless sort. The crypt would be an ideal place for electric lights but, alas, nothing of the kind is found here in this domain.
Helene says, mimicking him, "They're so noisy."
(@rapports-de-combat, @le-fils)
Something Old, Something New
—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—
The Prince and the Hunter (1, 2, 3, 4)
Something Old, Something New (1, 2)
—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—
... What.
Bessières shivers as the air grows colder, but he does not let it affect his expression of calm and vague concern. He recognises the passion and the heartbreak in the other Bessières's words, because he recognises the roots of it in himself.
He would not have guessed... this specific sequence of events, but he supposed that such a cavalcade of dramatic occurrences would only be fitting as a precursor to whatever the devil he had walked in upon when he came to Soult's headquarters.
... To see your beloved kissing a naked Junot, however. And apparently have a good reason as to why. That would drive any man to the brink.
He does not flinch at Eugène's analysis of the situation, but he cannot help but to feel a pang of guilt. I love you and I embrace you with all my heart, he recalls - words burned indelibly into his being.
Bessières: ... Monsieur Bessières, I am... truly sorry to hear of all that has befallen you and your family. I... do find myself concurring with Eugène's words, though of course, I do not know your family as keenly as you do.
Duroc has always tried to push himself to help, and I can see that with your relationship now... he is still trying to help as much as he can, because he is far too kind and far too gentle.
He knows the impulse to give of yourself to others, out of pity, out of sorrow, out of duty. Perhaps that is why he made such friends with souls as Eugène and Duroc.
Bessières: I am glad to hear that you are seeking aid, however. And while I remain here... I would like to help you and Helene in any way that I can.
Before I left for faraway lands, I was told that in this place, connections are important. I have not had the chance to make many of my own, by choice... But I pray that your family can weather this storm.
I do not think that Duroc or Murat will change. But I think... that is why we love them so.
He... does not know if what he is saying will help, at all.
Bessières: ... And last I heard, Abrantes was eating donated human hearts.
—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—
(( @your-dandy-king || @le-fils ))
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"They were voluntarily donated human hearts and ... other organs," Monsieur Bessières clarifies. "At least, that was what I was told." He's not sure how that's supposed to reassure anyone, but the clarification seems important.
His mind, however, is elsewhere.
Eugene's words were ... expected. And perhaps, it was the clarity he needed. His heart still ached and, he supposed, it always would, now that he considered the words of Eugene and his otherself.
Yes, he had found his orbit tightening around Duroc for the reasons that Marshal Bessières mentioned. It wasn't that Joachim couldn't be gentle or generous of spirit, and he often was. But this time, since his last reawakening, his feelings for Duroc had been different in ways he could not quantify.
(Will he see Helene grow to her full potential before his current existence unwinds again? He prays every day that he will.)
He is silent as he thinks over it some more, weighing his best friend's counsel and the words of Marshal Bessières. The cool draft in the room calms.
"Perhaps," he says slowly, as if verbalizing his thoughts out loud might help, and addressing Eugene first. "You are right. When I think on it ... we never really did ask our wives how they felt when we were forced to leave them behind, did we? It was understood that men have their role, and women had theirs. Maybe ... what I feel is finding women's labors suddenly thrust upon me, and I ... this is not what I had foreseen for myself." His offers a small, tight smile. The pain is still there. "But does anyone?"
Yes, play the role of the dutiful wife, waiting back home. He can see where Eugene is coming from, where Marshal Bessières is coming from. It's hard to wrap his mind around. Yet, did he not once say this is a chance to do what he could not with his own son?
If he had to play the role of a good wife, then so be it. He would let Duroc go do what was necessary and without complaint. He would grasp it with both hands.
Wives should expect their men to stray too, a traitorous voice whispers in his mind. He recoils from it, even as it reminds him of the vows he had exchanged, with God as his witness, that he would be different.
Nonodon'tTHINKaboutthat --
He blinks, forcing himself to refocus on Marshal Bessières, his otherself, his mirror twin bound on a different journey through this purgatory.
The man who, in one very real way, is as much of a father to Helene as "Papa Jean" is. And he addresses him next.
"Do you remember how it was our role as the eldest to help look after all our brothers and sisters when we growing up?" His voice is nostalgic, warm. Between his father's relentless expectations and his sprawling family, escaping to Cahors and school had actually been a relief. Yet, at times, he found himself missing the chaos, and he wondered if it was the same for Marshal Bessières, that sense of family. "I would appreciate greatly any assistance you both would lend and more. Again, stay however long you both wish. This house is open to you, if you so choose to stay, or I can help you look for another place. Helene is already very fond of you both, I can tell."
"Duroc is not here to say it, although I am fairly certain he would not disapprove: welcome to our family."
( @le-fils, @rapports-de-combat)
Something Old, Something New
—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—
The Prince and the Hunter (1, 2, 3, 4)
Something Old, Something New (1, 2)
—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—
... What.
Bessières shivers as the air grows colder, but he does not let it affect his expression of calm and vague concern. He recognises the passion and the heartbreak in the other Bessières's words, because he recognises the roots of it in himself.
He would not have guessed... this specific sequence of events, but he supposed that such a cavalcade of dramatic occurrences would only be fitting as a precursor to whatever the devil he had walked in upon when he came to Soult's headquarters.
... To see your beloved kissing a naked Junot, however. And apparently have a good reason as to why. That would drive any man to the brink.
He does not flinch at Eugène's analysis of the situation, but he cannot help but to feel a pang of guilt. I love you and I embrace you with all my heart, he recalls - words burned indelibly into his being.
Bessières: ... Monsieur Bessières, I am... truly sorry to hear of all that has befallen you and your family. I... do find myself concurring with Eugène's words, though of course, I do not know your family as keenly as you do.
Duroc has always tried to push himself to help, and I can see that with your relationship now... he is still trying to help as much as he can, because he is far too kind and far too gentle.
He knows the impulse to give of yourself to others, out of pity, out of sorrow, out of duty. Perhaps that is why he made such friends with souls as Eugène and Duroc.
Bessières: I am glad to hear that you are seeking aid, however. And while I remain here... I would like to help you and Helene in any way that I can.
Before I left for faraway lands, I was told that in this place, connections are important. I have not had the chance to make many of my own, by choice... But I pray that your family can weather this storm.
I do not think that Duroc or Murat will change. But I think... that is why we love them so.
He... does not know if what he is saying will help, at all.
Bessières: ... And last I heard, Abrantes was eating donated human hearts.
—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—
(( @your-dandy-king || @le-fils ))
#event: something old something new#of course Bessie is sexist#he's coming around kinda#he wanted to say more about Junot and stuff#but this seemed like a more natural endpoint for his post
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Murat was comfortable here, wherever here is supposed to be. The floor was kind of nice. It would be even nicer if Duroc joined him on the floor, then they could have fun. Now, he finds himself being pulled back to his feet. Rude. He wants to rest some more.
Shit. A white hot explosion of pain shoots through him. He grits his teeth and swallows the yelp threatening to escape him. The high ceiling spins above him. Oh, right, Duroc's right here. So is Marmont. What the hell, Marmont?
Oh,that's right. He got shot. He got shot in the fucking ass. What a totally fucking ridiculous way to go. Who did that? Murat kind of wants to punch them in the throat. He takes a deep breath and coughs. That's weird.
Why are there so many people in here? Is there some sort of ball going on? He should make sure the kids are in bed before things really start swinging.
"Hiiiii, Duroc, imma not going anywhere," he slurs. "Watcha doin'?"
(@perdicinae-observer, @le-brave-des-braves, @alexanderfanboy, @askgeraudduroc, @murillo-enthusiast)
—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—
🖼️𝑁𝑒𝑦'𝑠 𝑃𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑃𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑒🖼️
—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—
Previously...
🐱Internalised Catgirl Misogyny: ( 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 )
🎨An Interloper in the Gallery
🖼️Ney's Painted Paradise: ( 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 )
—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—
"Don’t read these things! They aren’t real, they will only mess with your heads!" — Levavasseur of @le-brave-des-braves
"...Some of you never know when to stop."— Davout of @perdicinae-observer
"DON'T YOU DARE TO KEEP ON READING THOSE RIDICULOUS WRITTINGS, YOUNG MAN!!!." — Marmont of @askgeraudduroc
Now, as he lies on the floor of a cursed house, perhaps dying again, he sees clearly once more what truly matters. — Murat of @your-dandy-king
...
"Soult I get that your excited about being a pile of scrap but this is not the time for dancing." — Napoleon of @alexanderfanboy
—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—
Have you ever seen a pile of scrap look so incredibly annoyed? Probably when you accidentally throw the recycling in the other bin, perhaps.
Soult stops gesticulating, crosses his arms and, in a huff, looks very obviously away from Napoleon. This pile of scrap is offended.
—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—
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So your husband is losing against a non-existent british guy.
How do you feel?
MY HUSBAND WON. TAKE THAT YOU NON-EXISTENT ENGLISH SCOUNDREL.
... please excuse the outburst.
#letters for bessie#bessie responds#((ooc i got this a few days ago and waited for the poll to close before answering))
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The mention of Lannes' relentless harping on "egg-laying" causes Bessières to add another mental checkmark in the list of Things He Needs to Get Back at Lannes For. Helene was the best thing that had happened to him in the afterlife, but he had no idea how to explain how she'd come to be, and he dreaded having that talk with her one day.
His heart hurts for Eugene, for the life his friend had lived in the years following, and he hears the melancholy beneath them. He had been ready to respond to Eugene and his litany of his life with words he hoped would soothe him. He knew of most of it, but it was not his place to speak for Murat regarding his views.
And then the question from his otherself causes the storm inside to finally break. The curtains rustle and the picture frames on the walls rattle at the sudden draft and he trembles. He cannot help it, for his control has been threatening to shred for some time now. While Marshal Bessières likely meant his question innocently and with the best of intentions, it shakes him to his core.
This passes as a look of blank panic on his face, as he struggles to find the words. How to even start?
"I ... I caught Duroc kissing a naked Duke of Abrantes."
The words pour out of him then like a gale, bitter, angry words. He prays that Helene is asleep as he had left her, and he keeps his voice low for her sake. The sudden draft in the room picks up, the air chilling slightly.
"After ... after the miracle that granted us Helene, Duroc promised he would be here, that he would help raise her, because he is her father too. But I watched him, always away, helping others. I suppose that's his nature, to help others, but where was he when I needed him, when Helene needed him. We talked about it, argued about it, he agreed that he would do better." He sighs, feeling his face grow hot from the deluge inside.
"For a time he did. But then I caught him kissing Junot."
"I was told it was a misunderstanding, that he was trying to help Junot with a problem." He doesn't explain that Junot had been turned into a hamster. At least, that was what he had heard, he hadn't seen that himself.
"I've tried so hard, and I'm not enough. Helene isn't enough. I-I lost my temper and retreated to my domain for while."
He looks down at his hands folded in his lap. They tremble slightly, and he does not fight it. The acid self-recrimination creeps back up. "I'm told my domain has ... unique properties that I have never experienced. Others tell me it is a place of gloom and torment, and I do not see this. For me, when I look upon it, it is a grand recollection of the fondness I had for the opera when I -- we -- lived. It is not so for others."
"I was indisposed in the private sanctuary I'd created for myself there. I suppose, after that, who wouldn't be?" Again, another bitter half-chuckle. "I'm told that Murat entered my domain to find me and he encountered ... difficulties. He left a note for Soult to come and find him if had not returned with me within a set time frame."
"Soult, Lannes, Duroc, Queen Caroline, and others entered my domain to find Murat, and perhaps to find me as well. While there, Duroc encountered a dark creature. It was not attacking, but he felt it was a threat and attacked first. Duroc, perhaps, did not understand fully what he was doing and did not expect what would happen would cost him ... his arms."
Bessières looks down again at his hands, feeling the sting of shame, and he fights the urge to simply start crying. He would not, not in front of others, even if one is his best friend, and the other is himself. "Ney isn't wrong. It was my fault, what happened. I shouldn't have stormed out like that. Duroc would have never been hurt."
He remembers now the voice he had heard, pulling him from his dark mood, the sweet, mellifluous tones that had rung in his head. How long had it been since he had heard singing, how it tugged at something within him that he could not name?
"He was in Dr. Larrey's care ... and, I do not understand. Perhaps it had to something to do with this recent plague of hysteria that has set upon my fellow men. Duroc became a woman, but also regained his -- her -- arms."
"Our reunion was only brief though. Duroc promised again to be here for me, for Helene." The conflicting storm of emotions within roils again. He wants to be angry, he is angry and, yet, it feels wrong for him to be. He's uncertain and unsettled, his mind drifting from one possibility to another.
"I know Murat is in part or wholly responsible for what happened to Ney, and he said so himself. He's gone with them to help right the wrong he committed." His lips twitch in a small sad smile. "It's his choice, but he also knows I'd never let him hear the end of it if he didn't."
"But Duroc went with them. To help." His voice turns bitter, acrid, once more. "He owes Ney nothing and he went with them. What of the help I need? The help Helene needs? She needs a tutor, someone who can help look after her besides myself with regularity. I thought ... I thought I could do this alone, but I am ... unsure."
"Duroc broke his promise to me and Helene again. I can forgive him, but I don't think I will forget this. There are others I have approached for help, and I hope they will accept. But when Duroc returns ... I still love him. I cannot help it. And I don't know what I should do."
( @le-fils, @rapports-de-combat)
Something Old, Something New
—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—
The Prince and the Hunter (1, 2, 3, 4)
Something Old, Something New (1)
—·—·—·—·—·—·—·���·—·—
"Uncle Baptiste" lets out a light chuckle. He doesn't mind at all - well, he would prefer "Uncle JB", but perhaps it is a nice contrast to "Papa Jean".
And then she reaches out, and he flares.
His hair blows, sparks dance in his eyes, and the moment is over and he blinks before staring- at Helene, at "Papa Jean", at the surging wilderness that he recalls seeing when he came across the other Bessières in that realm apparently of Duroc's.
That surge of nature...
There are a few possibilities. The other Bessières stumbled on a child whose nature is like that of his own, or he had a hand in her creation somehow, or a dalliance with someone else.
But with how she looks so strikingly like the fathers who look after her, if this Bessières was not so well composed, he would be raising an eyebrow.
As it is, he continues smiling, especially as Eugène interacts with the young girl in his cheerful manner, and his smile might be a little wan as Eugène and the other Bessières discuss Murat.
Eugène and Joachim had never quite gotten along. It had been rather awkward in life.
To aid in changing the topic, Bessières nods. He is impressed and somewhat jealous of how... domestic a life this other Bessières has attained.
But isn't that what this Bessières is fighting for? The reason why he hunts? Not so that he, himself, can retire - and he does not expect that he will get the chance to, or that even after this current mission is concluded, that he would - but so that others can have that possibility of something peaceful.
And if one version of himself can have that, and if he can protect that... would that not be enough?
Bessières: Please, lead the way to the townhouse. It would be delightful to observe the fruits of your work. And I do look forward to strawberry cake.
—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—
(( @your-dandy-king || @le-fils ))
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"Heh, you go do that, yeah. I'll just stay right here," Murat mumbles, perhaps in response to Davout's suggestion to survey the area. He's still face down on the floor and he's crashing, crashing hard. The adrenaline is gone, and the musket ball must have knicked something vital.
If he wasn't feeling so tired, he would probably wonder if this is what it feels like to die. He doesn't remember dying that first time. One moment he was alive, heart beating in his chest, and next he was digging himself out of his own shallow grave and into the afterlife. It always happens like that. Life. BOOM. Death. A time to reacquaint himself and relearn and love, and then the cycle starts all over again.
What's going to happen now?
The fireworks are pretty though. He's always liked fireworks. Some men hated the sound, it reminded them too much of battle. He supposed he couldn't find fault with how they felt. To Murat, they were harmless reminders of life's pleasures.
Duroc's here, somewhere. Duroc is speaking to him. Why is Duroc here again, shouldn't he be at home? Why is it so dark? "Someone should light a lamp," he mutters. But that would ruin the fireworks, wouldn't it? Yeah. He giggles. "Do you see the fireworks, Duroc? They're throwing a welcoming party!"
Paper. Letters. Lining the floor. Does someone own a dog? His eyes fall on the fine handwriting, with the vague sense it's somewhat familiar. Ney. Oh, yeah, he used to have some nice lettering, legible even, but he let that all go to hell. They all did.
What? What's all this?
Accusing Caroline of being a whore? Why Ney, never had the stones to say that to my face, did you? She never remarried though, not like your Aglae. What do you think of that, hm?
She should have, then maybe life wouldn't have been so hard on her and the children.
I should have done what Caroline suggested, go into exile with her, I could have watched my children grow up, I could have been there for them.
Maybe Achille wouldn't have drunk himself to death.
What I did, the things Caroline did, everything we did it was for each other and for them.
Fuck you, Ney, don't pretend you were any better. How does that English saying go? Pot. Kettle. Black. Right.
His glassy gaze tracks across more letters, and he snorts, blowing off their accusations. He's heard worse from Napoleon, and those had hurt more.
There was a time that he had loved his brother as brothers do. Then Napoleon broke his heart. Now? Now it's just complicated.
Borodino. Why you little fucking son of a bitch, Ney. Bessières has never been my camp whore.
Did I really know him anymore, then, towards the end? The man who asked Napoleon to hold back the Guard, leaving him, Ney, Davout, and Eugene, and so many others out to die? I wish, I wish so much that I'd been here for him, maybe things would have turned out better, but --
Bessières isn't the spineless coward you accuse him of being, you Alsatian whelp.
Once upon a time, when he'd faced down that firing squad, when he was about to lose everything, including his life, Murat saw clearly for the first time what really mattered to him.
It wasn't the riches, the glory, the titles, or France, or his kingdom. Or any of the other million little comforting lies men tell themselves in their last moments.
Now, as he lies on the floor of a cursed house, perhaps dying again, he sees clearly once more what truly matters.
( @murillo-enthusiast, @le-brave-des-braves, @perdicinae-observer, @askgeraudduroc, @alexanderfanboy)
—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—
🖼️𝑁𝑒𝑦'𝑠 𝑃𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑃𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑒🖼️
—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—
Previously...
🐱Internalised Catgirl Misogyny: ( 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 )
🎨An Interloper in the Gallery
🖼️Ney's Painted Paradise: ( 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 )
—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—
"The Marshal? Why is he doing this?" — Levavasseur of @le-brave-des-braves
"Ow, shit, shit, shit, thank you, Marmont." — Murat of @your-dandy-king
"Murat... I absolutely apologise if the next thing crosses any boundary that you have set on yourself... As I will only work under the utmost helpful intentions..." — Marmont of @askgeraudduroc
"SIRE! Don't push forward yet! What's going on with Soult? Is he alright?! We must regroup and formulate a plan, we're clearly at a disadvantage!"— Davout of @perdicinae-observer
"Me and Duroc could go into the house and distract him while the captain and Marmont helps Soult and Murat go back! You might be the only person he’s not mad at, you should join us in here!" — Napoleon of @alexanderfanboy
—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—
As Napoleon grabs onto Soult, more pigment and colour is shaken off as dust, and the thing that is rapidly looking less and less like Soult staggers and falls onto Napoleon. It is surprisingly light, not at all like the weight of a human body.
ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ ᴏғ ᴛʜɪs! ɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ɴᴏᴛ ʟᴇᴛ ᴛʜɪs ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋ ᴍᴇ! ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʙʀᴏᴋᴇɴ ᴍᴇɴ ɪɴᴛᴏ sᴏʟᴅɪᴇʀs ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏɴᴏ̨ᴜᴇʀᴇᴅ ɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴs ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍʏ ᴄᴏʀᴘs ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ɴᴏᴛ ʙᴇ ᴀ ʙʀᴏᴋᴇɴ ғᴀᴄᴀᴅᴇ!
When this place had enforced reality upon the others, pushing biology, physiology, blood and wound upon them, it had also pushed reality upon Soult - he who had been summoned to this afterlife through frame and canvas, through history and narrative.
Reality, for such a being as him, would have reduced him to an inanimate object. The magic fought back, of course, but it could only do so much. He was reduced, instead, to two components - the image and the framework.
The purpose of an image is to look pretty- to communicate but not much more. It was this image that tried to take command, but it could not react so easily.
The purpose of a framework is to hold everything together.
I ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏs ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ʜᴏʟᴅ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ. I ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏs ᴅᴏɴᴇ ᴍʏ ᴅᴜᴛʏ, ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴀʏ. I ᴡɪʟʟ ᴅᴏ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪs ɴᴇᴄᴇssᴀʀʏ!
Eɴᴏᴜɢʜ!
Still leaning against Napoleon, with a ragged claw of wood and splinters, it reaches over and digs the edges into itself. Shaking and with a violent motion, it begins to tear away colours and cloth from itself, pulling all that resembled the proud commander and his humanity away, disposing of this useless image
and
revealing a monster.
A monster made of twisted wooden debris and torn canvas with flaking pigment and peeling golden decorations. It is as if someone attacked a gallery full of ornate beautiful paintings with a machete. And then in their guilt, whoever it was then constructed a humanoid shape from the remains of their carnage.
The history-homunculus turns, possibly still supported by Napoleon if he has not let go or stepped back, and in unseemly frustration, it pounds on the door in front of it with the fracturing splinters that is its "hands".
It has no eyes in the scrunched up fabric that is a head. Where there could have been a mouth, there is jagged edges useless for speaking.
It can't speak, but what it would be saying if it could, would be-
Eɴᴏᴜɢʜ ᴏғ ᴛʜɪs, Nᴇʏ! Tʜɪs ʜᴀs ɢᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏᴏ ғᴀʀ.
—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—
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—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—
🖼️𝑁𝑒𝑦'𝑠 𝑃𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑃𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑒🖼️
—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—
Previously...
🐱Internalised Catgirl Misogyny: ( 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 )
🎨An Interloper in the Gallery
🖼️Ney's Painted Paradise: ( 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 )
—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—
"The Marshal? Why is he doing this?" — Levavasseur of @le-brave-des-braves
"Ow, shit, shit, shit, thank you, Marmont." — Murat of @your-dandy-king
"Murat... I absolutely apologise if the next thing crosses any boundary that you have set on yourself... As I will only work under the utmost helpful intentions..." — Marmont of @askgeraudduroc
"SIRE! Don't push forward yet! What's going on with Soult? Is he alright?! We must regroup and formulate a plan, we're clearly at a disadvantage!"— Davout of @perdicinae-observer
"Me and Duroc could go into the house and distract him while the captain and Marmont helps Soult and Murat go back! You might be the only person he’s not mad at, you should join us in here!" — Napoleon of @alexanderfanboy
—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—
As Napoleon grabs onto Soult, more pigment and colour is shaken off as dust, and the thing that is rapidly looking less and less like Soult staggers and falls onto Napoleon. It is surprisingly light, not at all like the weight of a human body.
ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ ᴏғ ᴛʜɪs! ɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ɴᴏᴛ ʟᴇᴛ ᴛʜɪs ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋ ᴍᴇ! ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʙʀᴏᴋᴇɴ ᴍᴇɴ ɪɴᴛᴏ sᴏʟᴅɪᴇʀs ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏɴᴏ̨ᴜᴇʀᴇᴅ ɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴs ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍʏ ᴄᴏʀᴘs ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ɴᴏᴛ ʙᴇ ᴀ ʙʀᴏᴋᴇɴ ғᴀᴄᴀᴅᴇ!
When this place had enforced reality upon the others, pushing biology, physiology, blood and wound upon them, it had also pushed reality upon Soult - he who had been summoned to this afterlife through frame and canvas, through history and narrative.
Reality, for such a being as him, would have reduced him to an inanimate object. The magic fought back, of course, but it could only do so much. He was reduced, instead, to two components - the image and the framework.
The purpose of an image is to look pretty- to communicate but not much more. It was this image that tried to take command, but it could not react so easily.
The purpose of a framework is to hold everything together.
I ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏs ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ʜᴏʟᴅ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ. I ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏs ᴅᴏɴᴇ ᴍʏ ᴅᴜᴛʏ, ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴀʏ. I ᴡɪʟʟ ᴅᴏ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪs ɴᴇᴄᴇssᴀʀʏ!
Eɴᴏᴜɢʜ!
Still leaning against Napoleon, with a ragged claw of wood and splinters, it reaches over and digs the edges into itself. Shaking and with a violent motion, it begins to tear away colours and cloth from itself, pulling all that resembled the proud commander and his humanity away, disposing of this useless image
and
revealing a monster.
A monster made of twisted wooden debris and torn canvas with flaking pigment and peeling golden decorations. It is as if someone attacked a gallery full of ornate beautiful paintings with a machete. And then in their guilt, whoever it was then constructed a humanoid shape from the remains of their carnage.
The history-homunculus turns, possibly still supported by Napoleon if he has not let go or stepped back, and in unseemly frustration, it pounds on the door in front of it with the fracturing splinters that is its "hands".
It has no eyes in the scrunched up fabric that is a head. Where there could have been a mouth, there is jagged edges useless for speaking.
It can't speak, but what it would be saying if it could, would be-
Eɴᴏᴜɢʜ ᴏғ ᴛʜɪs, Nᴇʏ! Tʜɪs ʜᴀs ɢᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏᴏ ғᴀʀ.
—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—
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At the mention of Duroc and Ney, Bessières hesitates, something within him twisting. He doesn't notice the spark of lightning flashing in his own eyes, or the slight swirl of a breeze in the room. The jagged edge of the tempest within teeters up against the placid countenance he shows to the world.
He wants to speak, yet he feels like he would be betraying ... whom? Duroc, perhaps. Murat is not here, and he has no one to confide in. He does not want to burden Eugene, as much as he had longed for this reunion. As for his otherself, well, whom better than to confide in than himself?
He smiles pleasantly as he locks away his inner turmoil again. His conscience wonders how much longer he can keep doing this.
As long as I have to, he thinks to himself. The same thought he had when he had served at Napoleon's side. As long as I have to.
And he begins, choosing his words carefully,
"You have seen how Murat's domain overlaps the living world? There is more. Where on La Toussaint's Day, from dawn of that day until dawn of the next, the ghost of the King of Naples may go walking among the living, when the barriers between worlds falls for a little bit ... "
He regales them with stories of how he's often accompanied Murat on his annual excursions, if only to keep him out of trouble. How the ghost of Joachim Murat haunts an unwitting family of lawyers in living Cahors on that day. That time Murat thought it would be a sweet gesture to take Bessières to Prayssac to see the tombs of his family, except that involved stealing one of those horseless carriages and Murat not knowing how to use one.
And Duroc? Bessières's voice grows more soft and one might detect just the tiniest hint of bitterness to his words. Of how Duroc's domain was one the the first they had come into contact with, that fateful reunion and ...
Bessières suddenly feels shame, thinking back on how he had drifted from Murat's side to Duroc's. But that union had also given him Helene, and Helene was something he would not and could not ever regret.
He says, simply with a wan smile, "Duroc and I chose to marry. Murat made it clear he would respect our union, but ... I missed him, and Duroc and I welcomed him in. He is still married to the Queen of Naples, however, and his love for her is as strong as ever as well."
"Now, Eugene, you must tell me of how you arrived here in the afterlife. It distresses me to hear that Montebello was not so welcoming to you. And what fortunes and adventures faired you after my passing?"
( @le-fils, @rapports-de-combat)
Something Old, Something New
—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—
The Prince and the Hunter (1, 2, 3, 4)
Something Old, Something New (1)
—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—
"Uncle Baptiste" lets out a light chuckle. He doesn't mind at all - well, he would prefer "Uncle JB", but perhaps it is a nice contrast to "Papa Jean".
And then she reaches out, and he flares.
His hair blows, sparks dance in his eyes, and the moment is over and he blinks before staring- at Helene, at "Papa Jean", at the surging wilderness that he recalls seeing when he came across the other Bessières in that realm apparently of Duroc's.
That surge of nature...
There are a few possibilities. The other Bessières stumbled on a child whose nature is like that of his own, or he had a hand in her creation somehow, or a dalliance with someone else.
But with how she looks so strikingly like the fathers who look after her, if this Bessières was not so well composed, he would be raising an eyebrow.
As it is, he continues smiling, especially as Eugène interacts with the young girl in his cheerful manner, and his smile might be a little wan as Eugène and the other Bessières discuss Murat.
Eugène and Joachim had never quite gotten along. It had been rather awkward in life.
To aid in changing the topic, Bessières nods. He is impressed and somewhat jealous of how... domestic a life this other Bessières has attained.
But isn't that what this Bessières is fighting for? The reason why he hunts? Not so that he, himself, can retire - and he does not expect that he will get the chance to, or that even after this current mission is concluded, that he would - but so that others can have that possibility of something peaceful.
And if one version of himself can have that, and if he can protect that... would that not be enough?
Bessières: Please, lead the way to the townhouse. It would be delightful to observe the fruits of your work. And I do look forward to strawberry cake.
—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—
(( @your-dandy-king || @le-fils ))
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Bessières hears the chill in Eugene's voice at the mention of Murat. It was not unexpected, but he acknowledges Eugene's sentiments with a slight nod, and says nothing more.
It was something he and Murat had never really talked about. In life, what little time they had together was not spent dwelling upon the things that caused them grief or annoyance, and that included each other's respective circle of friends. Murat was friends with Lannes, and Bessières with Eugene, and they didn't talk about it. They still don't talk about it.
"Want to walk," she demands, and he lets her down. She runs on ahead, laughing, leaving the three of them to talk if they so wish for a little while.
So he does. "If Montebello's domain is inadequate for your needs, I offer you my home here as one alternate accommodation. You need not concern yourself with Murat's objections for he will not say no to me."
His eyes flicker momentarily, his discomfort fleeting and brief. "There is also my domain, if this one is not pleasing to you. I must warn you, however, that Duroc experienced a misfortune in there, and I would not like the same to befall you."
The path to Bessières' home in Murat's domain is literally down the street from the cathedral. A momentary tear in reality reveals the living world beyond, and a glowing red sign that promises "La Cuisine Chinoise." The rip closes just as quickly, replaced by the bookshop that had occupied the same space many years before. A whiff of strange spices and oils lingers in the air for a moment as Bessières lets them in.
His personal space occupies the topmost floor of this building. A sense of privacy and intimacy clings to it, with an eclectic, cozy air. There is a single bedroom. Bookshelves line the walls, but a closer inspection of the books and some of the knickknacks reveals oddities. Eugene and "Uncle Baptiste" may recognize Voltaire, Goethe, Rousseau, and others. But there are titles and names whom are unfamiliar. Who is Hugo, or Twain, and what are these pictures that are too perfect to be mere illustrations?
"Artifacts from the world of the living," Bessières explains. "They lose things or misplace them, and the King of Naples salvages them. Here, look, here's a few volumes written by the son of our old comrade, Dumas." He shrugs with his hands, indicating rows of bookshelves. "Many of these are published long after we departed that world."
Helene runs around the rooms of her father's townhouse, her arms full of her toys, which she gleefully shows off to Eugene and her Uncle Baptiste. "Look, a horsie! I have a horsie, his name is Happy!"
The meal is a traditional Gascon-style duck confit, a dish that neither Eugene or "Uncle Baptiste" probably have tasted in a long time, with finely-aged local wine and, of course, the strawberry cake.
Perhaps Eugene misses it, but "Uncle Baptiste" will not, the thin line of worry that momentarily furrows the brow of his mirror twin when he puts Helene down for a nap after their hearty meal. Something troubles him, and it may be for the best that little ears are not around to hear.
"Perhaps I can offer you a place to freshen up, if it would please you?" "Papa Jean's" voice is pleasant, betraying nothing of whatever inner turmoil he may be experiencing.
( @le-fils, @rapports-de-combat)
Something Old, Something New
—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—
The Prince and the Hunter (1, 2, 3, 4)
Something Old, Something New (1)
—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—
"Uncle Baptiste" lets out a light chuckle. He doesn't mind at all - well, he would prefer "Uncle JB", but perhaps it is a nice contrast to "Papa Jean".
And then she reaches out, and he flares.
His hair blows, sparks dance in his eyes, and the moment is over and he blinks before staring- at Helene, at "Papa Jean", at the surging wilderness that he recalls seeing when he came across the other Bessières in that realm apparently of Duroc's.
That surge of nature...
There are a few possibilities. The other Bessières stumbled on a child whose nature is like that of his own, or he had a hand in her creation somehow, or a dalliance with someone else.
But with how she looks so strikingly like the fathers who look after her, if this Bessières was not so well composed, he would be raising an eyebrow.
As it is, he continues smiling, especially as Eugène interacts with the young girl in his cheerful manner, and his smile might be a little wan as Eugène and the other Bessières discuss Murat.
Eugène and Joachim had never quite gotten along. It had been rather awkward in life.
To aid in changing the topic, Bessières nods. He is impressed and somewhat jealous of how... domestic a life this other Bessières has attained.
But isn't that what this Bessières is fighting for? The reason why he hunts? Not so that he, himself, can retire - and he does not expect that he will get the chance to, or that even after this current mission is concluded, that he would - but so that others can have that possibility of something peaceful.
And if one version of himself can have that, and if he can protect that... would that not be enough?
Bessières: Please, lead the way to the townhouse. It would be delightful to observe the fruits of your work. And I do look forward to strawberry cake.
—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—
(( @your-dandy-king || @le-fils ))
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A song
(This song is inspired by the currently ongoing RP thread "Ney's painted paradise" in Tumblr's Napoleonic Era roleplay scene.)
1. The evening sun has your hair
the sky has your eyes
for this world was made with care
and laid out bare
and saved - a rare paradise
R. Who knows what hand cleft it
but all of it's right
It's all as you left it
when you last went to fight
2. And there is no end in sight
no morning is rising
not even the sun dares go
much further low
towards the horizon
R. Who knows what hand cleft it...
3. If only you take my hand
then you will realise
this dream was not meant to end
or morning to rise
R. Who knows what hand cleft it...
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BANG!
The second musket report makes Murat shut up. Whoever is firing, it isn't his brother in law. His brother-in-law wouldn't bother aiming twice after shooting someone. Not because he was that good of a shot, but he'd quit firing after shooting someone because he wasn't that stupid. Murat would give him credit for that much.
Holy fuck, his ass hurts. He'd forgotten how much of a bitch being flesh and blood was.
Wait, did that mean he could die again? Well, shit.
He hears Davout shout. God bless his near-sightedness. Ney was shooting. He probably fucking deserved being shot in the fucking ass then, but he wasn't going to say that out loud.
Murat needs to get the fuck out.
He pulls himself along his elbows, his ass feeling like it's on fire. Goddamn, did the bushes have to be so far away.
Then ... who's there? The fuck? Marmont. Marmont is offering him a hand. He'll take it.
"Ow, shit, shit, shit, thank you, Marmont," Murat says through gritted teeth and with audible wincing. He's still a big guy, no one's going to carry him, so he manages to wobble to a stand, nearly biting through his lip to hold in the yelling he'd really like to make but wouldn't help anyone.
Limping, he lets himself be pulled wherever Marmont thinks is safe.
@perdicinae-observer, @murillo-enthusiast, @le-brave-des-braves, @alexanderfanboy, @askgeraudduroc
—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—
🖼️𝑁𝑒𝑦'𝑠 𝑃𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑃𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑒🖼️
—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—
Previously...
🐱Internalised Catgirl Misogyny: ( 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 )
🎨An Interloper in the Gallery
🖼️Ney's Painted Paradise: ( 1, 2, 3, 4 )
—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—
"I feel that the only time when he was feeling truly like himself was when he could command. I admired it but… the more I’m thinking about it… ACHOOOO!" — Levavasseur of @le-brave-des-braves
"For the first time... I have come to my complete senses, yet I don't want to push myself." — Marmont of @askgeraudduroc
"Think we're fixing to have trouble. Try to not be the first one to attack." — Murat of @your-dandy-king
"Hm. Let's keep this tour brief now...has anything caught your eye?"— Davout of @perdicinae-observer
"Wait a minute. . . Why is it so quiet? Isn’t it a bit too early for the little ones to be in bed already?" — Napoleon of @alexanderfanboy
—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—
As described by @le-brave-des-braves...
The park is large. Probably larger than it should be. There are romantic scenes full of statues and benches. There is a lake with one single boat lazily swinging in the waves. The birds are singing their tributes to the incoming summer.
On the left side, where Levavasseur is heading, there is the Marshal’s tree. The lake is on the right. The water mirrors the surroundings almost perfectly. What might be slightly unnerving is the colour of it - you can’t see the bottom although the water seems clear.
[...]
As the Soult’s party approached the chateau, they might have noticed the cat sitting on the window, wagging its tail nervously. The moment it saw the newcomers, it hissed and disappeared in the window which didn’t appear quite as open as it would make sense.
The chateau’s facade is flawless as if it was painted only yesterday.
The bird song might start to feel eerie to you the moment you realised that the theme is getting mildly repetitive. Also, the shadows are… everywhere? It is hard to describe, but this might be the first time you’ve realised how little attention you pay to the shadows around you. Now it feels like they are pushing into your eyes and your mind and demand to be seen and perceived. It might feel overbearing to some.
—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—·—
To the beautiful surroundings, to the hissing cat, to the singing birds and the deepening shadows, Soult does not react. Oh, he has opinions, he always has opinions, that cat looks very familiar and he'd have a comment about that, the shadows are concerning, everything is too perfect, but he is just a painted veneer right now. But soon that will fade away, and he will be revealed for what he hates.
Soult: This is not a painting. But it is much like one. I can feel time passing, but it will never be time to sleep. The children are irrelevant except to lead us to Ney.
He looks towards the two groups that he ordered to split up, and calls towards them, loudly.
Soult: Return quickly and report what you see!
His teeth... are they growing into grotesque sharpened splinters, like the claws on his hand and his foot? Soon he won't be able to speak.
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🪄💞With this magic wand, your love feelings gets distorted into a yandere obsession, making you see everything in red, and allowing your darkest desires and paranoic jelaously to rise🩸🔪
After receiving this anonymous message, Bessières uses Duroc's computer thing to look up what a yandere is. He nods approvingly.
Thank you, Citoyen Anonyme. This is greatly appreciated, and I thank you for the enlightening knowledge this has imparted upon me. However, I do not think I will be needing your help. 🔪🔪🔪
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So... Napoleon win the poll.
How do you feel about that?
Oh no, how could they? Fourth place, behind his Majesty, JUNOT, and a mop. I cannot believe this. This is disgraceful. Do people really think so little of me and my beloved? What would Duroc think? Would Duroc welcome such a proposition from His Majesty? LANNES, this is all your fault! I'm going to get back at you for this, and if you think Portugal was bad, wait and see. But I think I'm going to go crawl into bed and cry for a while.
Bessières presents the absolute perfect picture of calm and dignity:
"I believe present parlance for this sort of result is 'fake news.' Now, if there is nothing else, please excuse me."
(Presumably, this is the poll the anonymous sender refers to.)
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Bessières embraces his old friend, Eugene, Helene crushed awkwardly between them. His daughter hardly notices,though. He laughs openly, heartily.
"Eugene, it's so good to see you! It's been so long, you must tell me everything that's happened!" He steps back slightly, pointing out Eugene to Helene. "This is your Uncle Eugene, Helene, say 'Bonjour'!"
She doesn't say "Bonjour." Helene doesn't say anything at all, despite her father's best intention to try to redirct her attention to Eugene. His otherself greets her, and she continues staring at his otherself, slackjawed and mouth open.
(Of course, his otherself would observe that Helene looks like himself and Duroc. Everyone does. But apparently his otherself doesn't know how Helene resembles the two of them and Bessières does not care to provide an explanation right now. Or maybe never.)
"Ah, this," Bessières wracks his brain for the best way to make a distinction for one who is essentially himself, but a different facet of the same jewel. "This is your ... Uncle Baptiste," he finally says, hoping his otherself will not find offense with it.
"Papa?" Helene asks, pointing at Baptiste and then looking at him, her face still screwed up in confusion. Her baffled expression is adorable, and he laughs. Well, she'll get over it.
She reaches out a hand to touch his otherself tentatively, and he might feel the flame within spark as if suddenly being roused and stoked. It is not like hunger, but rather being satiated, as if suddenly fed by a bellows.
"Come, the King of Naples has granted me a small townhouse in his domain. I've brought us a meal, and you can tell me all about what's happened." He glances at Eugene, remembering. "If you are concerned of accidentally encountering Jo -- King Murat, you need not worry. He is not in residence right now." He does not add that Duroc is not either.
"Strawberry cake!" Helen pipes up helpfully, with a clap of her little hands. She smiles at Eugene and his otherself, now distinguished as Baptiste.
Bessières laughs again, lightly, at his daughter's antics. "It's her favorite." He looks at the other two. There is the slightest trace of both mild embarrassment and pride. "I've had to become very resourceful at cooking and house chores. Come, my townhouse is not far from here."
( @le-fils, @rapports-de-combat)
Something Old, Something New
Previously: The Prince and the Hunter (1, 2, 3, 4)
Here, in the domain of the King of Naples, except for one day of the year, the sun never sets. Except for one day of the year, the weather is reminiscent of the last days of spring, before the heat of summer rises.
Like time captured in a bottle, the domain of the King of Naples is the village of Cahors as he had known it in his youth, when he'd been sent there to attend school. There is the ancient bridge over the River Lot called the Pont Valentre where he and the young Bessières would spend long hours dangling fishing lines off of on those days they were free to roam. And the Cathédrale Saint-Etienne, already nearly a millennium old before either of them had been born. The town jail known as the Château de Roi, and the Église Saint-Barthélemy, and the old watermill, the Moulin St-James.
The Cahors of Murat's memory hugs the eastern side of the U-shaped bend of the River Lot. And if one takes time to watch, an observer may see the intrusions. For the Domain of Murat is but a layer, a separate dimension, if one will. It is the land of the dead, the past, and ghosts, separated by a porous boundary from the world of the living.
The land of the living intrudes upon the land of the dead. Like bright afterimages, the immaterial shapes of artifacts and people from the present Age of Man glimmer briefly and vanish. One of those self-propelled carriages called a car, or a moped, or perhaps a lost pair of tourists leave behind luminous impressions upon the land of the dead. Stop to stare through a glassmakers' shop window from Murat's time, and one might find it suddenly replaced by the large windows of a shop hawking mysterious and arcane artifacts from the Present Age. And then, just as quickly, the shop front will revert once more.
Some artifacts from the Present Age, and the ages before, will find their way into the domain of the King of Naples, slipping through the cracks in reality between worlds. People are as ever forgetful, and they forget where they leave their wallets, their passports, their keys, their precious jewelry. They forget them, they lose them, and these artifacts turn up in Murat's domain. The crypt beneath the Cathédrale Saint-Etienne is well-stocked and open to any of his fellow dead who might think they might have something there they may need or want.
So too locations and buildings that may not have been built during Murat's time as a living man also find their way into the land of the dead. Here is a central plaza, where the living hold festivals and gatherings. And at one end of the plaza is a tranquil fountain, where a bronze statue of Neptune presides over a natural spring. Squint, and you might see the living world, shimmering like mirages in the desert, two statues flanking the spring's entrance: a statue of Joachim Murat, and a statue of Jean-Baptiste Bessières.
( @rapports-de-combat, @le-fils)
#event: 2 x bessie + eugene#event: something old something new#feel free to ask questions or interact or do whatever :D
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Bessières was far more nervous than his placid countenance would suggest.
He stands before the doors of the Cathédrale Saint-Etienne, holding onto Helene's hand. Putting on his uniform again to greet Eugene and, well, himself, seemed improper. If his death hadn't retired him from the battlefield, certainly caring for his daughter had.
He settled for the clothes of a country gentleman instead, from the time that he -- and no doubt they -- would be most comfortable with. Helene, however, still wanted to wear her pink Kirby overalls, and he saw no harm in indulging her.
Bessières has slowly been letting his normal self-care and impeccable grooming fall by the wayside recently, ever since Helene had come along. This, however, was an occasion. Eugene was here, and he longed to see his old friend so much.
He hears the trotting of hooves on the cobbles and echoing off of the ancient walls of Cahors.
"Papa! Lookie!" Helene gushes with a giggle, pointing towards the two mounted men who emerge into the square before the Cathédral. She's been obsessed with horses ever since Nansouty had brought over Happy to them, something that makes Bessières ridiculously proud.
He picks her up to carry her, and he can't help but smile when he sees his otherself (he can't really keep calling him that, can he?), and Eugene. Eugene, finally here at last!
He laughs. "Welcome!" He waves to the both of them with his free hand while shifting Helene against his hip. "Eugene! It's so good to see you! Oh my friend, I've missed you!"
Helene, on the other hand, stares at his otherself, her eyes huge. "Papa's here," she says out loud as if trying to work out this impossible paradox. She side-eyes his apparent twin. "But Papa is over there."
( @rapports-de-combat, @le-fils)
Something Old, Something New
Previously: The Prince and the Hunter (1, 2, 3, 4)
Here, in the domain of the King of Naples, except for one day of the year, the sun never sets. Except for one day of the year, the weather is reminiscent of the last days of spring, before the heat of summer rises.
Like time captured in a bottle, the domain of the King of Naples is the village of Cahors as he had known it in his youth, when he'd been sent there to attend school. There is the ancient bridge over the River Lot called the Pont Valentre where he and the young Bessières would spend long hours dangling fishing lines off of on those days they were free to roam. And the Cathédrale Saint-Etienne, already nearly a millennium old before either of them had been born. The town jail known as the Château de Roi, and the Église Saint-Barthélemy, and the old watermill, the Moulin St-James.
The Cahors of Murat's memory hugs the eastern side of the U-shaped bend of the River Lot. And if one takes time to watch, an observer may see the intrusions. For the Domain of Murat is but a layer, a separate dimension, if one will. It is the land of the dead, the past, and ghosts, separated by a porous boundary from the world of the living.
The land of the living intrudes upon the land of the dead. Like bright afterimages, the immaterial shapes of artifacts and people from the present Age of Man glimmer briefly and vanish. One of those self-propelled carriages called a car, or a moped, or perhaps a lost pair of tourists leave behind luminous impressions upon the land of the dead. Stop to stare through a glassmakers' shop window from Murat's time, and one might find it suddenly replaced by the large windows of a shop hawking mysterious and arcane artifacts from the Present Age. And then, just as quickly, the shop front will revert once more.
Some artifacts from the Present Age, and the ages before, will find their way into the domain of the King of Naples, slipping through the cracks in reality between worlds. People are as ever forgetful, and they forget where they leave their wallets, their passports, their keys, their precious jewelry. They forget them, they lose them, and these artifacts turn up in Murat's domain. The crypt beneath the Cathédrale Saint-Etienne is well-stocked and open to any of his fellow dead who might think they might have something there they may need or want.
So too locations and buildings that may not have been built during Murat's time as a living man also find their way into the land of the dead. Here is a central plaza, where the living hold festivals and gatherings. And at one end of the plaza is a tranquil fountain, where a bronze statue of Neptune presides over a natural spring. Squint, and you might see the living world, shimmering like mirages in the desert, two statues flanking the spring's entrance: a statue of Joachim Murat, and a statue of Jean-Baptiste Bessières.
( @rapports-de-combat, @le-fils)
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Murat is just getting used to the idea of being flesh and blood again, when it feels like something jumps up out of the grass and bites him. Except that isn't usually accompanied with a
BANG!
"OW! Fuck fuck motherfuck fuck fuck motherfucking little Corsican shitstain! Putain, you fucking shot me in the ass!"
He crumples and lies face first in the grass, still swearing in his country Gascon accent at the top of his lungs. He can feel that his ass is wet and he really really does not want to see what color it is.
( @le-brave-des-braves, @perdicinae-observer, @murillo-enthusiast, @alexanderfanboy, @askgeraudduroc)
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🖼️𝑁𝑒𝑦'𝑠 𝑃𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑃𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑒🖼️
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Previously...
🐱Internalised Catgirl Misogyny: ( 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 )
🎨An Interloper in the Gallery
🖼️Ney's Painted Paradise: ( 1, 2, 3, 4 )
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"I feel that the only time when he was feeling truly like himself was when he could command. I admired it but… the more I’m thinking about it… ACHOOOO!" — Levavasseur of @le-brave-des-braves
"For the first time... I have come to my complete senses, yet I don't want to push myself." — Marmont of @askgeraudduroc
"Think we're fixing to have trouble. Try to not be the first one to attack." — Murat of @your-dandy-king
"Hm. Let's keep this tour brief now...has anything caught your eye?"— Davout of @perdicinae-observer
"Wait a minute. . . Why is it so quiet? Isn’t it a bit too early for the little ones to be in bed already?" — Napoleon of @alexanderfanboy
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As described by @le-brave-des-braves...
The park is large. Probably larger than it should be. There are romantic scenes full of statues and benches. There is a lake with one single boat lazily swinging in the waves. The birds are singing their tributes to the incoming summer.
On the left side, where Levavasseur is heading, there is the Marshal’s tree. The lake is on the right. The water mirrors the surroundings almost perfectly. What might be slightly unnerving is the colour of it - you can’t see the bottom although the water seems clear.
[...]
As the Soult’s party approached the chateau, they might have noticed the cat sitting on the window, wagging its tail nervously. The moment it saw the newcomers, it hissed and disappeared in the window which didn’t appear quite as open as it would make sense.
The chateau’s facade is flawless as if it was painted only yesterday.
The bird song might start to feel eerie to you the moment you realised that the theme is getting mildly repetitive. Also, the shadows are… everywhere? It is hard to describe, but this might be the first time you’ve realised how little attention you pay to the shadows around you. Now it feels like they are pushing into your eyes and your mind and demand to be seen and perceived. It might feel overbearing to some.
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To the beautiful surroundings, to the hissing cat, to the singing birds and the deepening shadows, Soult does not react. Oh, he has opinions, he always has opinions, that cat looks very familiar and he'd have a comment about that, the shadows are concerning, everything is too perfect, but he is just a painted veneer right now. But soon that will fade away, and he will be revealed for what he hates.
Soult: This is not a painting. But it is much like one. I can feel time passing, but it will never be time to sleep. The children are irrelevant except to lead us to Ney.
He looks towards the two groups that he ordered to split up, and calls towards them, loudly.
Soult: Return quickly and report what you see!
His teeth... are they growing into grotesque sharpened splinters, like the claws on his hand and his foot? Soon he won't be able to speak.
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