#arnaxe

[arashishinobist0rm]

 Blueberry Muffin Assassin's Creed Unity Yumeship

[arashishinobist0rm]

Arnaxe 😩✨️🍆💦🥴

[arashishinobist0rm]

[danudaine]

Can you write 76 with Arnaxe? :)

Broken Pieces Arno x Axeman (Abélard) ((Sorry this is so late!! D: ))

It had hit him harder than he thought it would, having to kill Bellec. The man had been his mentor, and a father figure in place of his own. If not for him, the crazy bastard that he was, Arno would likely still be imprisoned within the Bastille. Or worse, dead. The events leading up to the fight had been unsettling enough, ending with the murder of Mirabeau. The leader of the Assassins had been planning something quite ambitious, trying to unite the Templars and Assassins…or, at least, call for a truce. He’d found common ground with Monsieur de la Serre, but that was as far as it had gone. Arno thought there might even be a chance, until there wasn’t. Bellec had poisoned Mirabeau, as he seemed hell bent on purging the entire Assassin order.

It was shock that greeted him first, on confronting Mirabeau’s killer. Arno was sure this was some sick joke until Bellec readily admitted what he’d done, and why. There was no question the Order was at much at risk from outside threats as it was from the inside. But the purge that Bellec promised would lead to only more unnecessary slaughter. As much as Arno hated to think it, in that moment, he knew his mentor would have to die. They had both made their choices, and there was no turning back. Still, it did not stop Arno from begging Bellec to reconsider. To change his point of view. There were other options- there had to be.

But Bellec remained steadfast and unconvinced, nor did he hold back when fighting Arno off. The younger assassin had flashbacks of their time in the Bastille, training with the rough wooden weapons that could hardly be called swords. But this fight was for real, and neither of them could stop until the other was dead.

Bellec’s maneuvers were wild, almost. Both desperate and intense. Each clash of Bellec’s blade upon Arno’s own sent sharp jolts of pain up the younger Assassin’s arms. Clearly some sort of madness had taken his mentor. Bellec had never fought so hard before.

Both of them, in their own way, knew this was the end. One of them would rise victorious, while the other one fell.

Arno had no intention of letting himself be the latter, though after what had quickly become an exhausting fight, they had both fallen. First to the ledge below the one they’d be fighting on, and then crashing through the large stained glass window that marked the front of the church. As with most falls, the ground seemed to greet Arno far too quickly, and a wave of black blanketed his senses temporarily. All, it seemed, except for the ones that registered pain. He swore he felt something crack, or pop, as he slammed into the floor. For a good minute he was sure he’d broken at least a few bones, likely starting with the arm he’d instinctually attempted to brace himself with.

He let out a breathy groan and forced himself up, finding his whole body immensely sore, but was utterly surprised to find his arm still working- at least momentarily. Perhaps it had been his ribs that had taken the most, as he quickly found out it was much harder than it should have been to breathe. Each exhausted inhale racked his body with more discomfort.

Bellec had somehow managed to avoid serious injury in the fall, and had already disappeared into the rafters of the church by the time Arno had gotten up.

The younger Assassin was inwardly dreading even the idea of climbing up after him, knowing he’d be outmatched in his current state. Again, he called to Bellec, attempting once more to talk sense into the older man. It was almost a relief when Bellec would hear none of it, and almost landed on top of him as he jumped down.

It did not take long for Arno to realize, however, that Bellec had not come out of this as unscathed as he had first thought. The old man was holding himself differently, his whole position stuck somewhere between tension and growing exhaustion.

It was at that moment a familiar voice called from outside the church’s locked front gate. Abélard had appeared, looking a little haggard after his rush to find Arno. He had a concerned look on his face, instinct and experience quickly telling him that Arno was hurting. “Arno-“ He called, and immediately the younger assassin turned.

“I’m fine!” He lied, his gaze quickly returning to Bellec.

The older man had wasted no time in exploiting an obvious weakness, and had pulled a pistol from its holster, the barrel already aimed at Abélard.

A phantom blade flew from the tiny crossbow on Arno’s bracer, the sliver of metal burying itself deep in Bellec’s forearm.

At that the fighting continued once more, though both their strikes were far weaker than before.

Abélard watched from outside, his first impulse was to jolt forward and help Arno, but the iron gate between them held fast.

Despite his injuries Arno knew it was now or never. He threw every last ounce of strength into his last three moves- two blocks and a slash, and finally his blade connected. The tip tore deep and across Bellec’s side, bringing the older Assassin to his hands and knees.

Bellec rattled off a few more insults before daring Arno to finish this, to kill him now. After that came a threat to kill Abélard and the others, if Arno spared him.

Though hatred at Bellec- and everything the man had done or said- burned within him, there was still an empty and cold feeling when he drove his hidden blade into Bellec’s heart. Within seconds it was over, and as Bellec collapsed and lay dying, Arno saw his memories. Only these made Arno’s chest hurt more. Memories of Bellec saving his father, of the previously pristine pocket-watch that now seemed a stone’s weight in his pocket.

Arno left his former mentor lying there in the center of the church, if only because he had no more strength left in him. The adrenaline that had kept him up and fighting this entire time was quickly starting to wear off, and he was feeling his injuries now more than ever. Besides his labored breaths and groans of pain he stayed quiet, even as he unlatched the metal gate and limped outside, clutching his ribs. Arno practically fell into Abélard’s waiting arms, his only relief being when he was gathered up and carried back to their hideout.

He refused to look anyone in the eye, even as Albain and Arluin had anxiously awaited his return. They had been absent only because they’d been keeping watch over Mirabeau’s body until it had been moved to safety.

Abélard had taken care to place him on the plushest piece of furniture they had in the hideout, before kneeling down beside him and taking his bloodied hands. “I’m sorry.” He spoke genuinely as he tried to meet Arno’s gaze, but could not.

The young assassin had shut himself in to his own feelings, trying to process what had just occurred. Why had Bellec turned on them? Why so suddenly? Why forsake everything they had built up? Even after all Bellec’s ranting there only seemed one reoccurring question- Why?

“Arno, let me see your side…” Arluin spoke, though the voices outside Arno’s mind still sounded distant and fuzzy at best. He made no attempt to hear them clearer.

Arluin sighed as he got very little reaction from the youngest assassin, and asked for Albain’s help in getting Arno’s coat, vest, and shirt off. It was never a simple matter, with all the layers and leather to remove.

Pulling up the white undershirt revealed a whole canvas of dark bruises, splayed out across Arno’s lower back, side, and ribs. Arluin did not hesitate to carefully trace his fingers over each faint ridge that identified Arno’s rib bones. None of them felt badly broken or crooked at all, and for that Arno had been lucky. Still, a slightly harder press to two lower ribs earned a pained gasp and a hiss from the younger Assassin.

“I would guess he’s cracked these two, here.” Arluin spared Arno a second prodding and simply pointed to a specific spot. It was not coincidental the most prevalent bruising was in the same area.

“Just give him something for the pain. I’ll make sure he doesn’t move around.” Abélard commented, a defeated look on his face, as it seemed he was unable to do anything else for Arno at the moment.

It was only a few days later that found Arno sitting on the floor, back against the wall, and a bottle of wine in his hand. It was less than half full, something- Arno mused- seemed all too poignant. He was drunk and he knew it. Drunk by choice, in a rather pathetic attempt to drown his memories of the battle with Bellec. Of what he saw as Bellec lay dying.

He swore he could hear his father’s pocket watch begin ticking again, and he reached into his pocket to take it out. The now dulled silver still had some shine to it, what was left catching what little light there was in the room.

Arno sighed, and let his head drop forward in silent defeat. He may have been the victor, but he certainly did not feel like it. And at this point it had nothing to do with his still sore ribs, nor the other minor injuries he’d received. A few scrapes and bumps were the least of his pain.

Another swig of wine did little to help, but he kept at it until the bottle was empty at his side.

“…You shouldn’t do this to yourself, Arno.” Abélard spoke gently as he approached, devastated to see Arno so broken.

“Easy for you to say.” The younger assassin answered, though he still had not lifted his head.

“There are other ways to…” Abélard stopped himself, and simply sat down beside the younger man. “You could not have swayed Bellec to change and you know it. The man was even more stubborn than you are.” He started again, with the root of the problem.

“And now he’s dead.” Arno replied, resentment and anger dripping from his tone. It was a pent up anger that had stemmed from many things, and most recently the reminder that there were simply things he could not change- no matter how hard he tried.

“He would have killed you otherwise. And everyone else who stood in his way. You heard him say it.” Abélard reminded him of this as well. “You saved the Brotherhood.” The axe wielding assassin continued, not realizing he had said something triggering until it was too late.

The empty wine bottle shattered as it was slammed against the stone floor. The broken pieces went every which way, some of them skidding to a halt a few feet away.

Abélard had nearly flinched at the sudden and violent response, but held still at Arno’s outburst.

The younger assassin was suddenly heaving through labored breaths, as if he was trying to hold back a sob. Abélard leaned forward and picked Arno up, his own boots sparing him glass shards in his feet- as where Arno had been without shoes. He carried Arno back to one of the large plush sofas and simply held him in a careful embrace.

Soon enough a few sobs came through, a release of all the pent up emotions that had not yet found their way out.

Abélard said nothing, he simply let the younger man grieve. There was a misconception about most Assassins, that they were cold and uncaring. But it was clear now more than ever that they were just as human and fallible to emotion as anyone else. Perhaps even more so, for they had to live with those they had killed on their conscious, sometimes forever.

Still, Abélard hoped this would pass, and in time Arno would believe him when he said there could have been no other outcome. He himself had known Bellec as highly over-zealous at best, his notions of right and wrong too ingrained to ever be uprooted. He hoped Arno would learn from this and one day, perhaps, even make something positive of it. If nothing else, know that he saved the rest of the Assassins who would have stood in the way of Bellec’s master plan.

Eventually it did pass and Arno clung to Abélard’s collar, his head resting snugly under the other Assassin’s chin. Abélard continued to hold Arno, though his arms loosened just enough to remove any pressure from the younger man’s still sore ribs.

“…You said something about better ways to-” Arno started, finally speaking up.

“-Yes, there are plenty. We will go over a few tomorrow.” Abélard cut him short, only because he could hear the exhaustion creeping into Arno’s voice once more. “For now, just get some sleep.” He suggested, and was glad to find Arno had no intentions of fighting this time. Within minutes Arno had fallen into a deep sleep against Abélard’s chest, and would not wake until well into the next day.

[danudaine]

43 - Arnaxe IT'S BEEN SO LONG AND I MISS THIS SHIP

Notes: Arno, Axeman (Abélard), Greencoat (Arluin), Icecream (Albain)

I hope this is ok! Sorry it took so long!

Albain had always said no two fights ever go the same. Arluin had told him to expect the worst, and then to make sure that did not happen. Why this particular group of Jacobins had proved more than a match, Arno could not say. Perhaps it was because they had been separated. Or maybe they were just tired- it had been a long week, after all. Perhaps a bit of both. But where Abélard was normally a superb fighter and nearly untouchable in battle, Arno had noticed some of his movements were slowed…sluggish even. It did not worry him too much, however, for Abélard was still a force to be reckoned with, and more than capable of defending himself. Or so Arno thought. As the younger man rolled to the side to dodge a swing of a sword, he glimpsed the axe wielding assassin take a heavy hit to the jaw from a particularly robust Jacobin.The enemy matched Abélard‘s height and weight, and was bold enough to only be using his fists.Abélard moved to bring his axe back up and swing it again, but the man blocked the move from the start. The assassin changed his tactics instantaneously, and threw his head forward.The headbutt connected with the Jacobin’s face and nose, from which blood flowed immediately. This only seemed to anger the Jacobin, who fought with renewed vigor. Arno felled another enemy before attempting to fight his way closer to Abélard, and where a dart from his phantom blade would have been very convenient, he had already spent them. Another glance found Abélard staggering backwards, a bloodied lip and a bruise already forming on his cheek. His grip had tightened on his axe before he swung it again, in a downward arc. The Jacobin stopped it short again, and in a surprisingly fluid motion tucked his shoulder in and charged Abélard. The assassin was knocked backwards and off balance, into a stack of crates. Abélard received a few more punches before Arno substituted a rock for a phantom blade dart, and chucked it at the Jacobin’s head. The man grunted and swayed unsteadily, only giving Abélard a brief reprieve. Arno was torn from helping further, as another enemy rushed him.Abélard had taken the few seconds- while the brute was not looking- to grab a knife hidden under the back of his sash, before feigning a daze. When the Jacobin reached down to grab his collar and deliver more punishment, Abélard drove the knife up and into the Jacobin’s neck. It was not luck that had the blade severing a major artery, and within seconds the brute grew pale, falling forward and onto Abélard. It was a wet gurgle and a desperate clawing at his neck that signaled the Jacobin’s last moments of life, as blood poured from his neck and stained the front of Abélard‘s clothes. With a final push, the axe wielding assassin freed himself from the Jacobin’s weight with a heavy sigh, and stayed laying back against the smashed crates. The rest of the enemies were gone, or limping off, and he was tired-“Abélard!” Arno cried, only seeing the man he loved smashed into crates and covered in blood. He rushed to Abélard‘s side, fearing the worst. He cursed, glancing back and calling to the others for help. “Arno-” Abélard was tired, but by no means in the shape Arno believed him to be. “Don’t speak- Arluin, he’s lost too much blood-” Arno turned to the green coated assassin, before looking back to the axe wielder. “Arno.” Abélard started again, this time sitting up, against Arno’s best efforts to keep him down. “I am fine. The blood is his.” He motioned to the dead brute with the slit neck. Arno’s expression went from a worried shock to a sudden realization, as his mind connected the dots. There was a sudden blush across his cheeks, embarrassed that he’d misinterpreted the situation so badly. “I thought you were dying!” He frowned, most at his own frustration, and shoved Abélard‘s arm. He huffed, and finally stood back up, though he was dodging the very amused look from Albain. Even Arluin had a smirk on his face. “Help me up.” Abélard chuckled, wincing slightly as Arno did so. He was understandably sore from the fight, and rubbed at the darkening bruise on his cheek, but was otherwise alright. “Don’t worry me like that again.” Arno seemed adamant on placing blame, but was not so subtly relieved that the other man was ok. “Can’t promise that.” Abélard replied, but wrapped an arm around Arno’s shoulder’s in an alternate reassurance. That night found them curled up, safe and warm, with Arno’s arms wrapped tightly around Abélard‘s middle. It was an unconscious but instinctive attempt to keep him as close as possible. Abélard lay awake, gently running his fingers through Arno’s long hair- a gesture that worked wonders when the younger assassin seemed troubled. Arno had consequently fallen asleep soon after, and much to Abélard‘s relief, a much more peaceful look on his face.

[damebrecheliant]

The very eyes of Notre-Dame - PROLOGUE

Note : English isn't my mother language, so this text may contains some mistakes. Let me know about them, so I can correct ! PROLOGUE           The commonalty's howls were resonating around him ; the laughter, the shrilling laughter of deceitful men, was surrounding him. To live. Same as veils, swear and dust were covering his face. He was hissed. He was stumbling, rejected in this endless alley by hundreds of clamor, fell while catching himself up to the bystander's bodies, bending his back under the hight and humble steeples of Notre-Dame, until guards, exasperated, forced him to walk. To live. He was listening to his erratic heart, hardly believing that this sound which had always guided him could stop. Blood was buzzing in his ears, his eyes were burning under the sudden sun. Death, his own, he had never actually thought about it. And yet, he was facing it ; on the dry land of the court, at the center of the Revolution's square, the guillotine was standing towards the sky of gold, insurmountable. To live.            Ô Dieu... aie pitié de moi dans ta bonté... Selon ta grande miséricorde, efface mes transgressions...           The Terror. After all this time, after all they had sacrified ! how could there still be crimes on which the plebs and the Convention were giving similars opinions ? To live. He was hearing the unanimous roar of the crowd against him, he was perceiving its filthy joy and its disgust as a shadow above him, and he suddenly asked himself, for the first time in years, to what was rhyming the Revolution. It hadn't brought them freedom nor issuance, and opinions, prejudices, beliefs had only been rooted more deeply in the minds of people. The Convention was sitting on people and they were surviving. Simply surviving. Without loophole. To live. And in the fog and cold of dawn, while he was led swiftly to the cathedral, he suddenly wished to have been a coward enough to flee, rather than face the hatred of those who, yesterday, were at his side. To live.           Car je les reconnais... J'ai péché contre toi ! Et j'ai fait ce qui est mal à tes yeux...           There was a woman in the crowd, ginger as the anger distorting her face ; she was lifting her fist, shouting loud hatred's cries. " Long live the Nation ! Long live Freedom ! " She reminded him of Élise. To live. His whole body was broken, his soul profaned, his mind forgotten ; what was only his name ? He wasn't even sure to still know it, or to own one anymore. The alley people were making for him sometimes disappeared : they wanted him, wanted to hurt him, made him regret what he had done, what he was - because he wasn't a fool, he knew he was also sentenced for this... for having loved and having unveiled it - hearing him proclaiming it. He saw a priest signing himself before him. To live. Under its eyes, under the very eyes of Notre-Dame, he knew he couldn't longer hide his old actions. He rethought Élise, she who, for her own, had the good sense to leave the France. He would have liked to see her again. To live.           Mais détourne ton regard de mes péchés... Renouvelle en moi en esprit bien disposé...           Would they cried as they had cried if he had been innocent ? The crowd was spreading itself, muttering, to let him make the last steps of his freedom. To live. Under the bell towers of Notre-Dame, the bishop was. He called him my son, asked for the prayer and confession of his sins, laid his hand on his forehead with pity. But he knew what this man thought of him, despite his calm : he was not worthy of forgiveness. To live. He confessed, confessed and spoke as he had strength, and yet, watching the kings without face that now adorned, eternals, the facade of the cathedral, watching the Virgin Mary whose fine hands appeared to him fragile and broken, contemplating this monument and the pity, instead of splendor, it was inspiring him, in a corner of his mind, he wondered why. Why confessed it ? Why asking forgiveness for what would have brought a better world ? Why asking forgiveness for what had made him happy ? And Notre-Dame fell into shadows. To live.            Ne te retire pas loin de moi !           The guards pushed him away from the bishop and the salutary doors of the cathedral. He saw the sun, beautiful, between the towers, and during a moment, he thought seing a familiar shadow standing above the monument, motionless, but before he could longer contemplating it, the guards forced him to turn away and to walk. To live. He marched, followed by the crowd screaming " Long live the Revolution ! " and several times he tought his body wouldn't support him until the end ; then, he was seing again his vision at the top of the cathedral, and was it hallucination or truth, it was giving him courage. They soon arrived at the center of the Revolution's square and the guillotine was there, great machine around which flocked the bystander, with its wood's skeleton and its past. To live. The scaffolding was shaking under him ; he was climbing the steps slowly, his feet stumbling, weary and exhausted as he was. Before him, acting as the viewer of a very entertaining fun, Robespierre was looking at him, dismissive, smiling. Living. Under the gaze of the crowd, and when he had been brought near the executioner, the lawyer began his speech. To live.            Rends-moi la joie de ton salut...  Je te donne mon corps, mon âme et mon esprit, je te donne ma vie...             " People ! Comrades ! yelled Robespierre. This man who's in front of you, if the status of man he deserves for his actions ! is nothing more than corruption and disgrace ! This man who's in front of you was planning the murder of one of our most respected citizens, our beloved pastor Saint-André, without other cause than making justice for the murderous King ! " The crowd was yelling at the dais ; some, the boldest, threw stones at the convict. Robespierre, seeing this, smiled even more : " This man, we captured while he was trying to enter the house of our pastor, had shown no signs of remorse for his actions and never a prayer crossed his lips for forgiveness ! This man, when accused, defended himself by no means and his silence continued even in the presence of real evidence of his crime ! This man with a heart of stone, without a soul and that none of the human moral principles reached, I'm asking you, would you want him to enjoy the same freedom as you ? Would you want him to live as healthily and as comfortably ? Would you want a criminal to live ? If the accused didn't repent for his crimes, then he's not worthy anymore of the life the Lord, in his gratitude, offered him ! May God have compassion for him and forgive his mistakes. "            Prends-moi...           Under the cheers of the crowd, Robespierre motioned to the executioner. The guards dragged their prisoner to the guillotine ; grabbing a cutlass, one of the executioner's assistants tore roughly his collar and tilted it, then grabbing his hair, made a sudden movement to the level of his neck ; brown strands fell at his feet, dirty and matted by dust. He looked at it, this evidence of the last shame he had to submit and was surprised to feel nothing in doing so. He was tired. Exhausted. Suddenly, he wanted that to cease, that all ceased. The guards grabbed him. He didn't resist when they laid him down on the board, didn't resist when he felt a wood's necklace around his neck. He was tired.            ... et pardonne-moi.           He was hearing the people's cries, the executioner's raucous breath, the wheezing one of Robespierre. His own became unsustainable. The world was turning and becoming black.           Amen.           With a final willpower, Arno opened his eyes and looked at the horizon, hoping to meet, by some miracle, a familiar face. He found his. The cleaver fell.            Amen.           

[damebrecheliant]

Les yeux sacrés de Notre-Dame - PROLOGUE

PROLOGUE           Les cris du peuple résonnaient autour de lui ; les rires, les rires aigus des fourbes, l'encerclaient. Vivre. Pareilles à des voiles, la sueur et la poussière couvraient son visage. On le sifflait. Il trébuchait, rejeté sur cette allée sans fin par des centaines de clameurs, tombait en s'accrochant aux corps des badauds assemblés, courbant le dos sous les hauts et humbles clochers de Notre-Dame, jusqu'à ce que les gardes, excédés, ne le relèvent et le forcent à marcher. Vivre. Il écoutait son cœur erratique, ne pouvant imaginer que ce son qui le guidait depuis toujours puisse jamais cesser. Le sang bourdonnait dans ses oreilles, ses yeux brûlaient sous le brusque soleil auquel il faisait face. La mort, la sienne, il n'y avait jamais réellement pensé. Et pourtant, on l'y amenait ; sur la terre sèche de la cour, au centre de la place de la Révolution, la guillotine s'élevait vers le ciel d'or, insurmontable. Vivre.            Ô Dieu... aie pitié de moi dans ta bonté... Selon ta grande miséricorde, efface mes transgressions...           La Terreur. Après tout ce temps, après tout ce qu'ils avaient sacrifiés ! comment pouvait-il encore y avoir des crimes sur lesquels la plèbe et la Convention accordaient leurs opinions ? Vivre. Il entendait les hurlements unanimes de la foule à son encontre, il percevait sa joie immonde et son dégoût comme une ombre au-dessus de lui, et il se demanda soudain, pour la première fois depuis des années, à quoi rimait la Révolution. Elle ne leur avait apporté ni la liberté, ni la délivrance, et les opinions, les préjugés, les convictions ne s'étaient enracinés que plus profondément dans l'esprit des gens. La Convention siégeait sur le peuple et le peuple survivait. Simplement. Sans échappatoire. Vivre. Et dans la brume et le froid de l'aube, tandis qu'on le poussait prestement vers la cathédrale, il souhaita soudainement avoir été assez lâche pour fuir, plutôt que d'affronter la haine de ceux qui, encore hier, résistaient à ses côtés. Vivre.            Car je les reconnais... J'ai péché contre toi ! Et j'ai fait ce qui est mal à tes yeux...           Il y avait une femme dans la foule, rousse comme la colère qui déformait les traits de son visage ; elle levait son poing avec les autres, proférant de grands cris de haine. " Vive la Nation ! Vive la liberté ! " Elle lui rappelait Élise. Vivre. Tout son corps était brisé, son âme profanée, son esprit oublié ; quel était seulement son nom ? Il n'était même plus sûr de le savoir, ou d'en posséder encore un. L'allée que le peuple créait pour lui parfois disparaissait : on le voulait, on voulait lui faire mal, lui faire regretter ce qu'il avait fait, ce qu'il était - car il était sûr, sûr qu'il était condamné pour être aussi cela... pour avoir aimé et l'avoir dévoilé - l'entendre le clamer. Il vit un prêtre qui se signait devant lui. Vivre. Sous son regard, au pur regard de Notre-Dame, il savait qu'il ne pouvait plus cacher ses anciennes actions. Il repensa à Élise, elle qui, pour les siennes, avait eu le bon sens de quitter la France. Il aurait aimé la revoir. Vivre.           Mais détourne ton regard de mes péchés... Renouvelle en moi en esprit bien disposé...           Le pleureraient-ils comme ils l'auraient pleuré s'il avait été innocent ? La foule s'était écartée, murmurant, pour laisser son être décharné franchir les derniers pas de sa liberté. Vivre. Sous les hautbois de Notre-Dame, l'évêque se trouvait ; il l'appela mon fils, lui demanda la prière et la confession de ses péchés, posa sa main sur son front avec pitié. Mais il savait ce que cet homme pensait de lui, malgré ses beaux discours et son calme : il n'était pas digne du pardon. Vivre. Il confessait, avouait, parlait tant qu'il en avait les forces et pourtant, en regardant les rois sans visage qui ornaient désormais, éternels, la façade de la cathédrale, en regardant la Vierge Marie dont les mains fines lui parurent fragiles et brisées, en contemplant ce monument dont la splendeur d'antan ne lui inspirait plus que de la pitié, dans un coin de son esprit, il se demandait pourquoi. Pourquoi confesser cela ? Pourquoi demander pardon pour ce qui aurait amené un monde meilleur ? Pourquoi demander pardon pour ce qui l'avait rendu heureux ? Et Notre-Dame se para d'ombres. Vivre.            Ne te retire pas loin de moi !           On le repoussa loin de l'évêque et loin des portes salutaires de la cathédrale. Il voyait entre les tours le soleil, magnifique, qui les épousait, et, durant un instant, il cru apercevoir une ombre familière qui se tenait au-dessus de l'édifice, immobile, mais, avant qu'il n'eu pu la contempler plus longuement, les gardes le forcèrent à se retourner et à marcher. Vivre. Il marchèrent longuement, suivis par la foule qui hurlait " Vive la Révolution ! " et plusieurs fois il pensa que son corps n'arriverait pas à le soutenir jusqu'au bout ; alors, il se remémorait sa vision en haut de la cathédrale, et qu'elle fut hallucination ou vérité, elle lui redonnait du courage. Ils arrivèrent bientôt au centre de la place de la Révolution et la guillotine était là, grande machine autour de laquelle s'attroupaient les badauds, avec sa carcasse de bois et son passé. Vivre. L'échafaudage tremblait sous lui ; il montait les marchés lentement, ses pieds trébuchant par à coups, lasse et épuisé qu'il était. Devant lui, agissant comme le spectateur d'un amusement fort divertissant, Robespierre le regardait, dédaigneux, souriant. Vivant. Sous les yeux de la foule réunie, et lorsqu'il fut près du bourreau, l'avocat commença son discours. Vivre.           Rends-moi la joie de ton salut...  Je te donne mon corps, mon âme et mon esprit, je te donne ma vie...           " Gens du peuple ! Compagnons ! clama Robespierre. Cet homme qui est devant vous, si le statut d'homme il mérite pour ses actes ! n'est rien de plus que corruption et déshonneur ! Cet homme qui est devant vous planifiait le meurtre d'un de nos citoyens les plus respectés, notre pasteur Saint-André, sans autre motif valable qu'une justice rendue en faveur du roi meurtrier ! " La foule se déchaînait au pied de l'estrade ; certains, les plus hardis, jetaient des pierres au condamné. Robespierre, voyant cela, souriait d'autant plus : " Cet homme, que nous avons capturé, reprit-il, alors qu'il tentait de pénétrer la chambre de notre pasteur, n'a montré aucun signe de remords envers son geste et jamais une prière ayant franchit ses lèvres n'a été destinée à son pardon ! Cet homme, lorsque nous l'avons accusé, ne s'est défendu nullement et son silence s'est perpétué même en la présence de preuves véritables de son crime ! Cet homme au cœur de pierre, sans âme et qu'aucun des principes moraux humains n'atteint, je vous le demande, voudriez-vous qu'il jouisse de la même liberté que vous ? Voudriez-vous qu'il vive sainement et confortablement comme vous ? Voudriez-vous, peuple libre français, qu'un criminel vive ? Car si l'accusé ne se repent de ses crimes, s'il ne se confesse, alors il n'est plus digne de la vie que le Seigneur, dans sa gratitude, lui a offert ! Qu'Il ai pitié de lui et pardonne ses erreurs. "                       Prends-moi...           Sous les acclamations malsaines de la foule, Robespierre fit signe au bourreau. Les gardes traînèrent leur prisonnier jusqu'à la guillotine ; saisissant un coutelas, l'un des assistants du bourreau déchira grossièrement le col de l'accusé et le rabattît, puis, saisissant ses cheveux, fit un mouvement brusque au niveau de sa nuque ; les mèches brunes tombèrent à ses pieds, sales et emmêlées de poussières. Il les regarda, ces preuves de l'ultime honte à laquelle on venait de le soumettre, et fut surpris de ne rien ressentir en le faisant. Il était lasse. Épuisé. Soudainement, il voulait que cela cesse, que tout cesse. Il fut saisit brusquement par les gardes. Il ne résista pas lorsqu'on le coucha sur la planche, ne se débâtit pas en sentant le collier de bois être refermé autour de son cou. Il était lasse.            ... et pardonne-moi.           Il entendait les cris du peuple, le souffle rauque du bourreau, la respiration sifflante de Robespierre. La sienne lui était devenue insoutenable. Le monde tournait et devenait noir.            Amen.           Muni d'une dernière volonté, Arno ouvrit les yeux et regarda l'horizon, espérant y rencontrer, par quelque miracle, un visage familier. Il y trouva le sien. Le couperet tomba.            Amen.

[joker-quinn]

arnaxe punny (i don't kno i just want arnaxe and puns) thanks

Ahaha, okay, I like it. If you don’t mind, Axie’s name is going to be Claude. Greencoat’s Antoine, and Ice Cream is Sébastien :D

I’m gonna make it modern, university, okay? So the younger Sébastien, and some greenice sprinkled about, but don’t worry it’ll be minor just in case you didn’t want it :)

Claude will sometimes take time to stop and savor the little things, but mostly he’s got the others to point stuff out, like a nice sunset or something. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate it—he does—it’s just that, as Arno puts it, he focuses on the wrong little things, like projects and papers and finals and fighting and…all of that.

But when Arno Victor fucking Dorian makes a pun about fucking classic literature, he can’t help but notice.

It’s a Nathaniel Hawthorne they have to read for English 202, The Minister’s Black Veil. They’re discussing it in class, the teacher droning on questions about symbolism and a hidden love affair and other stuff that Claude more or less tunes out. Sébastien always explains this class better than the professor could, anyway.

Then a voice whispers from his right, “This romantic affair seems thinly veiled, if you ask me.”

Claude closes his eyes, because this is not happening right now. When he opens them, he whispers back, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

"This class can really be a Hawthorne in my side, wouldn’t you agree?”

"Arno, I fucking swear—"

And just because he’s such a fucking book nerd, Arno moves to other Hawthorne works, starting with the obvious: “I wouldn’t want to Hester you about it. After all, you’re such a Pearl with this class. A real A plus student.”

"These puns aren’t even good, you stupid shit!" Claude hisses.

"Now, now, no need to get your woods in a tangle."

"THAT DOESN’T EVEN MAKE SENSE!"

The entire class is silent. Antoine and Sébastien, who sit on Claude’s other side, look about ready to piss themselves from laughing. They’re falling all over each other, the little shits.

"Monsieur Gregoire," the professor says, not at all pleased with the interruption. "Are you confused about something in the text?"

Claude mutters and apology, and slowly the class regains its bored equilibrium.

Then a set of familiar fingers start dancing on his thigh. “I’ve never seen you unveil yourself like that. You could say it was a real black moment for me.”

"You’ve gotta be kidding me."

When the professor’s not looking, Arno kisses his cheek. “This class is so pun, don’t you think?”

"I can’t fucking believe this."

The woods in a tangle was kind of a play on words, referencing Tanglewood. Hope the puns were shitty enough! :D