The Cardinal

Armaud Rossignol

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Soft is The Voice | Armaud&Sybille

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theinnocentflowwer:

“I think Millais has plenty of attractions,” Sybille said with a pleasing shrug, resisting the urge to look Armaud flat in the face as she did so. She couldn’t help that he was so fascinating to watch, the face of a clock with hands moving deliberately, precisely due to the inner workings of the gears inside. What Sybille wouldn’t give to lift up the back and take a peek at the machinations inside… “I only hope that Millais doesn’t take my arrival as a bad omen.”

They arrived at the church after a stretch of comfortable silence. Sybille bit her tongue along the way, taking the hint that the priest had other matters on his mind to teeth. She made note of his upset at the door being left ajar, and gave a sigh of relief once they were shut into the warmth of the church.

“I’ve met a few people, yes,” she said in answer to his question, aware that as she spoke he was already trying to find someone to pawn her off to. “Never exchanged much more than pleasantries, and there have been too many names for any to stick.”

Before he could decide who would be the best ear for her to rattle off to, Sybille stepped forward and placed her hand on his arm. “Father,” she said, voice low. “It may seem rude of me, prying even, but how did the boy die?” The people around the room were very tight-lipped about the whole affair, changing conversations quickly when she lingered on the subject. She wouldn’t let this question escape him, staring him bald in the face. “I only want to… understand what everyone must be going through.” She dropped her gaze, let go of his arm and stood demurely; the outsider wanting to help, but prevented by her own ignorance.

Armaud startled at the unexpected pressure on his arm and stiffened on reflex. Her touch was innocuous enough, but there was something–something forceful, tyrannical–about her hand on his arm that demanded his full attention to that point of contact. Even through the layers of clothing did a chill seep through to his skin. He tried to suppress a shudder, but he felt his eyelids flicker close for just a moment before he could stop himself.

When Sybille let go of his arm, Armaud was still reeling from the casual move. It puzzled him and troubled him in equal measure. How unsound of mind was he that something so trivial was affecting him? The people around the pair paid them no attention, but Sybille was watching him, and it made him more nervous than he could understand. Armaud disliked any act of weakness in front of anybody, even though she seemed not to notice anything amiss with his strange reaction. He coughed once, delicately, into his hand.

“Well, it is a sensitive topic to be sure,” he began, a little glad to turn the focus away from his strange behavior. “The circumstances around Dorian’s death are, ah, are peculiar. I guess that’s a way to put it. He’d been missing for a few days. It sent everyone in an uproar, and we all suspended everything we were doing to help out. Everyone went around to look for him. They found him in the woods.” Armaud did not say that he had been the first to see the body, slumped at the base of a large oak tree with his father’s shotgun nestled between his arms and legs, his pale face serene and expressionless. The coroner had pronounced he hadn’t been dead for more than 24 hours and was thus very well preserved, but all Armaud remembered was the fly that crawled on top of Dorian’s unseeing eye. “There was no sign of any sort of struggle, he was just dead. It took everyone by surprise.”

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Soft is The Voice | Armaud&Sybille

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theinnocentflowwer:

Sybille smiled as he took the jacket, her fingers brushing against Armaud’s. “Miss Delacroix,” she supplied at his question, holding her hands in front of her. “I’ve recently moved to Millais,” she said, hiding her disappointment at him not having recognised her from the service last Sunday. Then again, he’d had so much on his mind lately. “I hope to be a common sight around here.”  

She walked with him in silence for a little while, giving him the occasional glance as they walked. It was a shame a man as handsome as he had decided upon a life of celibacy. She hid a smirk and instead pasted on a concerned look, nervously biting her bottom lip. “This must be hard on you,” she said, facing him. “Please, let me know if I can help in any way.” She gave a self-deprecating chuckle, looking down. “I don’t have family in these parts, or many friends to take up my time, and I like to be useful.”

"Ah, it is rare for young people your age to come to our little town rather than leave it for bigger, brighter things," said Armaud with a faraway look, as if he could see past the tree line out into the rest of the world. “Welcome to Millais–it is a shame your arrival has been dwarfed by this profound tragedy, but nevertheless, I’m sure you’ll fit in just fine.” He peered down at her and caught her eye, offering a little smile. They made it onto the road, the ground evening out into a meandering little path to the church from the forest-lined edge of the cemetery, and their boots crunched under the gravel beneath them. Armaud checked his watch with a sweeping turn of his wrist. It had been an hour now since they bore the coffin out to the gravesite, and he made a mental note to check on the grieving family in another hour if they decided to stay out for that much longer. 

Someone had left the church doors partially ajar, and the warmth from within was seeping out of the little crack. It was an easy mistake to make but Armaud frowned when he noticed it nonetheless, displeased with this carelessness. He ushered Sybille inside and made sure the door clicked closed behind him, separating the harsh outside weather from the toasty inside temperature.

“Have you met anybody in town yet?” Armaud asked Sybille as he scanned the room, calculating which of the people here would be easiest conversation for their newest neighbor.

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Soft is The Voice | Armaud&Sybille

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theinnocentflowwer:

Sybille climbed the hill in her black skirt with some difficulty, caught between hot from exercising and bitterly cold from the wind. In her hands was a jacket, no, not any jacket, Armaud’s, taken from where he had left it in the coatrack in the entrance to the church. She smiled as he approached, happy to be saved the rest of the trip to the crest of the hill, and the unhappy family above.

“Father,” she greeted warmly in return, trying to see past the tight muscles around his eyes. “No, I’m here for you.” She offered his coat, cheeks flushed from the exercise. “I saw it at church and thought of how cold it can get outside this time of year. I hope you’ll forgive me for being presumptuous.” For all her abashed words, her eyes never left his, level and sure.

“Can’t have you catching a chill now,” she chided, breaking eyecontact and falling in step with him as they traced her steps back to the church. “Especially after… poor Dorian.”

It took Armaud a moment to recognize his jacket as his eyes trailed from said garment in her hand back to the thoughtful stranger’s face. Looking at her, he could see she was one of those people who possessed an almost uncomfortable beauty, someone whose presence caused just as much intimidation as it did admiration though that effect seemed near irrational given her height and slight build. It seemed wrong to describe her as delicate, but his mind floundered for better words. Every word he grasped to describe her felt wrong somehow–unsuitable, incorrectly nuanced–but he couldn’t explain why this was the case. Something distinctly unsettled stirred in his stomach but he put it from his mind as it was much too early to be making any strong judgments about a person he had just met, especially in such a state of emotional turmoil.

“How good of you to get it for me, I was sorely missing it earlier,” he said after a moment’s discomfort. “I don’t believe we’ve been acquainted quite yet. I am Armaud Rossignol, I suppose you already know I’m the priest of our local church. Are you new in town or a visiting friend of the Millais, Miss–?” he trailed off to allow her own introduction and took his jacket, noting with a passing thought that she too must be freezing in this weather given the coldness of her hand. Though he did not show it on his face, Armaud was a little irked by the new obligation of polite conversation. He was very tired by recent events and though he would speak with this stranger without complaint, it would all be general formalities. The death had hit him harder than he would like to admit and if he could Armaud would have liked to hole himself away for a little while to meditate on life, on Dorian. He would have liked to grieve alone.

They walked down together even if Armaud walked a little slower than usual, hindered by his melancholic mood. The church could be seen in the distance, the lights within gave off a faint, yellow glow from behind the opaque windows despite being nearly midday.

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Soft is The Voice | Armaud&Sybille

There is no tragedy quite like the sudden death of a young person, the savagery of such loss in an uncaring world, and it was in the aftermath of such a circumstance that Father Armaud Rossignol found himself as he stood by the grave that bore the casket of fourteen-year-old Dorian Millais. Dorian had not been a particularly special child in any way or form, but he’d been bright and earnest and tried to be helpful whenever he could in all the interactions Armaud had with him. Armaud had something of a soft spot for him and he was sad to see Dorian go before he could reach his full potential in the world.

The brisk autumn wind lent a sobering chill through his body that late November morning as he watched the surviving male members of the Millais family bury their youngest son. Next to him, Dorian’s mother cried in heaving sobs, her face obscured by a dark veil. Armaud brought up a hand and squeezed her shoulder in a show of comfort.

“He was a good boy,” Armaud said to her in a low voice, “and he is with the Lord now. Take comfort knowing he is there in Heaven surrounded by love and peace, and that he will always be smiling and happy in our thought as he was in life. You and your husband did good by him.” 

She only shook her head and said, “We worried about him, me and George, about his eccentricities–he was such a strange boy and didn’t have many friends–but we figured he’d be okay eventually. But now–” she trailed off, fixing a look of complete sorrow at the grave that was filling with soil, the quiet peppered with the rhythmic scrape and thud of shovels digging into earth and soil pounding against the coffin below. Soon, the hole was nothing more than a dark patch of dirt surrounded by frosty grass.

And with that, Dorian was gone. Armaud stood in solidarity with the family as the few classmates who’d shown up for the funeral slipped away, in time followed by some of the parishioners who went back to the safe haven of the church. Armaud would follow them soon enough back to the church and let the family mourn however much they needed. When they were ready, they too would come in from the cold and have something to eat, and gradually the pain that was their lost son would lessen in time.

But as Armaud turned and went to leave, he noticed another figure coming up the hill toward him, and he stopped in his tracks to give her a smile that even to him felt more like a grimace.

“Hello,” he said as solicitously as he could muster, “are you here for Dorian?”

[eatingpoetry]

Epitaph on a Tyrant

Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after And the poetry he invented was easy to understand; He knew human folly like the back of his hand, And was greatly interested in armies and fleets; When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter, And when he cried the little children died in the streets.

By W. H. Auden

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AU:Devil You Don’t Know | Open

Armaud heard them approach before he saw the newcomer, and he stood there in the middle of the aisle, rigid and on alert. He had to rein in a flinch as he felt that tyrannical pressure coming down on him, constricting how much air his lungs could hold. Those who held the supernatural quality had a certain aura about them that, with experience gained over the years, Armaud could sense at a certain distance. This particular instance was no exception, and whoever had come to call was something unnatural.

It could be just Sybille, the oldest, most well known of his personal demons, but perhaps it was not. Armaud did not know why they decided to torment him in particular, had with subtle wording consulted other priests on the matter of demons, but it seemed to his peers that possessions and the direct influence of the devil on earth have long passed in antiquity. The other priests were not tormented in such flagrant ways as Armaud, which led him to believe he had some unknown, specific purpose in the world that spurred the darker forces to target him.

In his mind Armaud took stock of where he kept his tools for exorcism, which ones were closest and most accessible should he deem them necessary to use. It was a small blessing that this new demon should come to him in the evening when his congregation was elsewhere and when he was alone to tidy up in peace and quiet. But alas, it seemed that his peace would be soon disturbed. He turned to meet his guest. He did not know who they were.

“Hello,” he said, with an inoffensive smile. It paid to be polite, no matter who or what his conversational partner. “Usually, we don’t have devotees coming in so late. Could I help you with something…?” He trailed off, hoping they would introduce themselves.

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AU:Deal with the Devil | Armaud&Sybille

Armaud rubbed at his temples, trying unfortunately to stall a coming headache. The demon hoard, it seemed, had arrived at last, with the sole aim of irritating the living hell out of him. Each new being had so far been unsuccessful in luring Armaud into sin or debauchery, but their ways were inscrutable. He kept vigilant as best as he could, but there was no telling what wickedness might be thrown his way in the future or if there was a plan for him already set in motion, the machinations of an evil machine already turning somewhere out of his sight.

Armaud stood from the chair he’d been sitting in for the past hour, so deep in thought he’d lost track of time. He cast a long look at the crucifix that hung on his wall, the figure of Jesus affixed on it, and crossed himself, muttering a prayer as he did so. The way forward would be dangerous, and he needed all the strength and faith his soul could afford. 

The cell phone sat unassuming on his desk where Armaud had put it to charge by the outlet. Given to him by an unsavory acquaintance, he’d never used it once but simultaneously could not bring himself to throw it away. Perhaps his inability to toss this unwanted gift was his first step down the long staircase into Hell and he thought about it incessantly, but yet here it was, still in his possession, and he was maybe about to take the next, uncertain step further from goodness and grace.

He took it in hand and opened it, the lockscreen without password protection, and he was greeted by a familiar face as the background picture. She’d taken the picture a while ago and forced him to be in the picture with her. Her smile was beatific while his was frustrated, and if he didn’t know better Armaud would have thought her beautiful.

There was only one number in the address book and Armaud knew to whom it belonged. He clicked it, and it rang a few times before the telltale click of someone on the other end picking up the call sounded. Armaud paused, unsure how to greet a demon, before he said, “It’s me.”

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Who would you want to tie to a bed Armaud. I need to know. For... reasons.

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fernandbaptiste:

Devout Pretence || Fernand & Armaud AU

Ishtar had told Dionysus about a priest she had been tormenting for some time now, and Dionysus was loathed to not join in on the fun. He made his way to the cathedral, slipping inside the confessional. “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.” He turned towards the grill separating him from the priest. “That’s what you’re supposed to say, right? I’ve never done this before.”

He sighed, back resting against the smooth wood that had heard thousands of secrets over the centuries. “I suppose we can make that first on the list. I’ve never been to confession.” He sighed, the perfect picture of repentance. “We’re going to be here for a bit. Have you had lunch yet, Father? I’d hate for your sugar to get low.”

He grinned, this was going to be fun.

The familiar prickling sensation, like being shocked by static, ran down Armaud’s back and he immediately snapped to attention, notified by experience that something inhuman was in his presence. He straightened in his back and turned to where this person–this being?–sat unseen on the other side of the confessional booth. Armaud’s humdrum time today became tense within a moment’s notice. He had seen things strange and terrifying before, things one hesitated to call creations of God, for oftentimes they seemed more like abominations against Him, aberrations on the quilt of life that needed to be scrubbed from very existence. Though he had experience with the supernatural before, each incident differed enough from the last that they all required special, close examination. But still, Armaud knew few things evil in nature that could enter consecrated holy ground such as his church, and he had brushed up against them before without success. Still they roamed the earth, but if need be, Armaud would attempt to purge this one on the spot.

“We must all begin somewhere,” he said as he grasped the metal cross that hung from his neck, deadly with its subtle, sharpened points. The thin chain that held it aloft was fragile enough that if necessary, Armaud could tear the cross from his neck and use it as a weapon, and while it might not be enough to subdue whatever creature sitting his opposite, it could buy him time until he could reach a more suitable weapon. He shifted, readying himself to spring as soon as the situation required. “Please, don’t worry about me, my task is to guide and help you along on your spiritual journey. Start whenever you’re ready.”

Armaud smiled wryly. This was going to be a huge pain in the ass.

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Has anyone ever told you that you bear a striking resemblance to Colin Firth?

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Modernmythos AU

Name: Armaud Rossignol Occupation: Priest Age: 56 Sexual Orientation: nosy aren’t u

Basics:

He’s not a Cardinal, that’s for sure. Armaud is in a much more humble position, perhaps not so embroiled in the country’s politics at large as his other counterpart, but he’s probably in a position of power within his local church’s system? I don’t know why I’m asking you since I’m the one with the gun so to speak. I’m envisioning a more provincial parish for Armaud unless we’re still supposed to be in Paris then by all means he’s in Saint-Eustache.

Grew up in a fairly middle class family and has lived most of his life in the area he still lives in. If he was being completely honest with himself, Armaud would admit he’s a little discontent with his humdrum life.

He’s lived largely undisturbed and in total faith of his religion for most of his time in service, though over the years he’s had the misfortune to come into the attention of one Sybille Delacroix. Armaud is entirely sure she is a demon, but despite his best efforts at exorcising her, she remains amused and, even worse, just as interested in him as ever. He does not know exactly her designs on his mortal soul.

Said exorcising efforts have run the entire gamut of Armaud’s knowledge and skill, from holy water and blessings to full-scale purification attempts. Tying Sybille to a bed was a drag and he didn’t even have any fun.

Being aware of Sybille’s existence for so long allows Armaud a certain level of supernatural recognition. Armaud will most likely understand any beings of mystical means as something beyond him, but he will always consider them demons and may or may not be hostile.

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Romans 3:10-18 | Antoine&Armaud

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heirtoashes:

At the surprising gravity in Armaud’s voice, Antoine paused, letting his steady gaze slowly rake over his features. “Things have changed,” he agreed softly, not diverting his attention from him for a moment. “And things have not. “ As almost an afterthought, he tilted his head and allowed his hand to rest lightly upon Armaud’s. He squeezed it, in a gesture that might have, in another man, nearly seemed comforting. There was a subtle strength in his grip, hands more used to destruction and pleasure than gentility or kindness, but the gesture was there all the same. He did not poison the silence by stupid words, empty comforts. Instead, as he withdrew again, he settled comfortably into the grief poured into the space between them.

Armaud looked older, in that brief moment, than he had ever seen him before. Bright gaze dimmed, shoulders weighed as by the palpable pressure of every year that had passed in each other’s absence. “A promise to remove the false King,” he offered, without tedious coyness. He glanced back at him with an expression of calm curiosity. “And to put whoever you consider fit in his place.” He lifted his shoulders in what was almost a shrug, a liquid ripple of motion. “Of course, upon your release, you could instead hunt me down through France, but I think you are not ready to see me on the gallows cart yet.”

With a wry twist of his mouth, Armaud eyed Antoine’s hand on his own and fought off the urge to shake him off like an petulant child. It was downright insulting. He never asked for Antoine’s pity or concern, and he wasn’t about to do so now. The thought of pity disgusted him, made the furnace of Armaud’s heart flare up with new coal thrown onto the fire, furious and reactive. If he could, Armaud would wring the feeling, rip in to shreds, and destroy it. His grief was his own, Philippe was his brother to mourn, not Antoine’s, and no amount of paltry consolation would be enough to alleviate Armaud’s pains. Whatever sadness Armaud felt prior dried in the wake Antoine’s touch, and he remembered where he was, reminded himself Antoine was not his friend but a reprobate who had violated Armaud’s autonomy for his own gain. They weren’t children anymore. Antoine was a criminal with no compunctions about killing, and in his unique way, Armaud was no better. 

He could not allow any sentimentalities to cloud his dealings with Antoine and righted his frame of mind, steeled his heart again, and as soon as Antoine released Armaud’s hand did Armaud move to clasp his hands together, secured them to prevent any other garish displays of concern.

“I suppose then,” said Armaud, “you do this out of some hidden sense of patriotism to the so-called true heir to the throne. You assume I have some plan to dethrone Alexandre and to grab power for myself, but you have no idea where my loyalties to the crown lie. You assume whatever you remember about me in the past is good enough to inform you on the way I behaved in the decades since we last spoke. But say I do have something–some tedious plot or another. What do you gain here, Antoine?”

[chasseuseartisane-blog]

Des fantômes || Marie+Armaud

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chasseuseartisane:

Marie laughed as he joked with her. “You’re right, I should have been more specific. What you should do is invest in some different colours to wear in the privacy of your own home. If no one knows about it, you can’t get into trouble, right? I promise I won’t tell anyone.” She waved off his comment about chattering with a smile at herself. “I’m the same. I like talking to different people, you get to learn all sorts of interesting things, but I often find that I’m the one doing all the talking. So this is a nice change for me, having someone keep up.”

It surprised her that his childhood sounded so similar to hers. It wasn’t easy to imagine it, the Cardinal as a young boy running wild, but he did have a sense of humour, so she was sure he could surprise her. “I still sometimes run off to the woods, whenever I want to be alone.” Every time she was feeling withdrawn from things, or any time she simply wanted some peace and quiet, she’d retreat to her favourite spot by the water, where she could be alone. Right now, however, she was enjoying the conversation. She had no urge to be alone when she was so amused by him and found the conversation so easy.

She followed his gaze to the gardener, shaking her head a little. “I disagree. You make it sound like we’re controlling nature, but it’s constantly fighting back. He’ll have to return time and time again, otherwise the hedge will take its own shape. The work is beautiful, but all nature is beautiful. We’re just arrogant enough to think we can force it to do what we want, never realising that it’s an endless pursuit. Cloth doesn’t fight back. Actually, no, it sometimes does. Leather doesn’t much like becoming leather.”

“You misunderstand me,” said Armaud. “Of course the untamed wild has a beauty to it, I did not mean to imply one thing was lesser to than the other. The wilderness was created by God Himself for us to venture forth and eke out a living, and He is the most skillful architect of them all. But our human efforts still deserve some credit, and though a hedge does sprout even after a thorough shearing, the continuation of its growth allows for reinvention time and time again. If a master artist draws an image in the sand with a stick, is it considered not beautiful merely because the canvas is more temporary? I would say no, not at all! In a way, the drawing might be more meaningful: the art is temporary, existing in a small span of time before the tide comes in and washes all the artist’s efforts to nothing. But all art is temporary, just as the comely shapes of the gardener will have to be recut, a master’s paintings will crack and fade with age. In the long road of eternity, all human efforts crumble to dust, so it is better just to enjoy what we have while we have it.”

He stopped talking, and looked down at Marie sharply, as if recognizing the length and passion with which he had spoken for the first time.

“Just my opinion,” he said, a touch nonchalant. “I feel strongly about good craftsmanship, and am forever impressed with the ways humanity creates and innovates and improves. As a whole we’re simply astounding!”

By then, the two of them had been in the garden for at least a half hour, and Armaud did not want to push Marie into giving too much information lest he seem like a suspicious character. Armaud felt he had left a decent enough impression on Marie, but he needed a way to establish a relationship that allowed for recurring conversation with her.

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Romans 3:10-18 | Antoine&Armaud

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heirtoashes:

Antoine gazed at his former friend with a smile that perhaps, on another man, might even be called wistful. His eyes seemed to have softened minutely for only an instant before they regained their expression of sharp amusement. “I remember her. I also remember that she claimed to like me better. Once she caught her breath,” he teased him, sharing that fond recollection of yesteryear and young, savage masculinity.

He didn’t miss his youth, not truly. How could he? Yes, he was getting older, and he was aware of his relative lack of physical strength and endurance compared to his twenties. However, whatever age threatened to lessen, it also gifted, and he had staved off the worse of the ravages of time. Time had hardened him, like teak. Unlike Armaud’s relatively placid life in the Church, Antoine had continued to live a violent life, and for that, his instincts had to still be at as high a peak as possible to survive. He kept his body and mind entirely toned, and what wisdom and caution he had gained since the roughness of his boyhood only served to make him more dangerous.

“Do you miss your youth, Armaud,” he teased, his voice smooth as lacquer. “Or should I say our youth? I can’t say I miss it very much.  However, I also didn’t swear fealty to the tediously theoretical world of the Church.  No guaranteed meals, no finery, no celibacy.” Antoine cast a dry glance over, somehow managing to be completely nonplussed, regal, even when discussing such topics. “Give me a nubile maiden over cold marble, and I’ll have no regrets over lost days.”

He smiled again, his curious smile, which was more a shift of his features in shadow than an outward change of expression. “A productive one. Without any pretence, I should imagine,” he told him quietly. “Well,” Antoine added carelessly, “surely, it is better to gather assistance than to deny it outright over a concern for the future. Unless you don’t trust me? You did trust me once.”

His voice had dropped, the same soothing, easy hum that made his speaking voice nearly hypnotic. His eyes had met his, entirely at ease with himself. They faced each other, one wild under a pretence of cultivation, and one openly, explicitly and savagely refined. In the world in which Antoine lived, nothing had come easy, and despite his educated, quiet tones, his way was to adapt or be killed. He was a killer, but in such a way as a beast might be, which was to forge his path without concern for the pettiness of Biblical touchstones or the finger-shaking of the moral elite. The world had given him nothing, and so he took for the joy of having.

“Yes, I remember that,” Armaud grumbled. He wanted to seem annoyed but gave himself away with the smile he unsuccessfully attempted to keep off his face. “I was there, too, and I lost a good sum of money for it. I still say she was a biased judge and I’m still not convinced she would have allowed that wager if you hadn’t been the other participant. But such is life; we all had fun. She was a wild woman, that girl.”

Then Armaud paused, considering Antoine’s next question. Growing up, he was well aware of the hardships Antoine had faced and had attempted to help from time to time, but Armaud’s own family was not well off and any money he came by usually went to their own welfare. It was lamentable, the hardships that Antoine went through, but in regards to his past he could not help but wish for a return to those simpler times. Oh, there were downsides: his petty older brother, stupid and thuggish; his tyrannical uncle, whose miserly ways ensured Armaud’s family live entirely as he dictated; the uncomfortable nervousness with which his mother treated him; the humiliation Armaud suffered by his tormentors’ hands; but Armaud would have gladly lived with all of it if it meant his younger brother could be alive.

“Of course I miss it,” he said softly. “Not your youth, of course, but mine, yes, I miss it greatly, and not for all the mischief we made. I think, honestly, I would live entirely as a celibate for the rest of eternity if I could live out my youth even one more time.” Armaud looked away a moment, thinking about Philippe with a heavy heart. Even after all these years, Armaud had not entirely gotten over Philippe’s death. He disliked thinking too much of Philippe, scared that his memories would fade with disrepair like a book’s pages in the sun, and it hurt him still, being reminded of the life his brother never got to live. Suddenly, Armaud was very tired.

“I did trust you once,” he murmured, his eyes shuttering, “and I won’t insult your intelligence by suggesting I still trust you, or that I’ll trust you much in the future. Things have changed.” Armaud let out a long exhale as if he were smoking tobacco, but made eye contact with Antoine again once he regained his heart. “It seems I’m at an impasse. This alliance of yours, what do you have for me?”