This letter is quoted and translated from N. Gotteri, "Le Maréchal Soult", page 53. Michel Ney, at the time a subordinate officer at the Armée de Sambre-et-Meuse, like Soult, had been taken captive by the Austrian army at Gießen, on 21 April 1797. His fellow officers wanted to give him financial support, and Soult apparently was the one who forwarded the money to the captive. Which earned him the following letter from Ney:
My dear comrade, I have received the fourteen louis that General Debelle was kind enough to give me. I await the time of my exchange with the utmost impatience so that I can tell you in person [actually: "de bouche", "with my own mouth"] how much I appreciate your gesture and that of my comrades. The way you are involved in my situation gives me a sure guarantee of the friendship you have bestowed on me. Carry on, my friends, and rest assured of the deepest gratitude and recognition of your sincere comrade.
Who at this point would have foreseen how much those two would be at odds with each other?
In 1902, an author named comte de la Bédoyère (I do not know if and how related to the la Bédoyère executed in 1815) wrote a book about Marshal Michel Ney, mostly about his trial and execution. But the appendix also contains several other documents, among them excerpts from the memoirs of a certain general Béchet, Ney's aide-de-camp. The part I translated is about the first months of 1809, Ney's time in Galicia, after Napoleon in January 1809 had quit Spain for France and had left the task of conquering Portugal to his subordinates.
Marshal Soult was put in charge of this operation, in which he was to be assisted by Marshal Ney.
The Marshal had sent me to Marshal Soult to discuss with him the positions which the troops of our corps would occupy as his troops moved towards Portugal. I found him near the place of Ferrol, which had not yet been surrendered (it was surrendered the next day).
He didn't receive me too well, not because he resented me or even knew me, but because he wasn't on very good terms with my patron. I thought I would starve to death in that unfortunate town of Ferrol, where I had great difficulty in getting a bite to eat, as Marshal Soult had not invited me to dine with his officers.
Bad Soult! Don't kill the messenger (or in this case, don't let him starve) just because it's a messenger from Ney...
I'm unsure what the two marshals had agreed upon with regards to the placement of Ney's troops, who, as Béchet says himself, had the task to support and thus to stay in contact with Soult's corps in Portugal. However, given the two marshals were "not on very good terms" with each other, Ney probably followed a primal instinct and tried to get as much distance between himself and Soult as possible, in going north to La Coruna, while Soult went south into Portugal. Communications soon were interrupted not only with Soult's expedition corps but also with Madrid. But it seems Ney & C. did not mind too much:
Our stay in this town was not without its pleasures. Sometimes we played whist at the marshal's house at one napoleon a card. One evening I lost twenty cards, I didn't have such a large sum with me and I asked the Marshal to give me credit; he sometimes demanded them back from me in jest, I replied in the same tone, and I ended up not paying him.
The Marshal, who had only rare relations with King Joseph because the roads were interrupted by the guerillas, was regarded by the Spaniards as the viceroy of the province and had all the powers.
To which I have two remarks: 1) Some people were accused of wanting to make themselves king whenever they found themselves in a similar position. Just saying. And 2) Ney and his aides were not alone in regarding the interruption of communication by guerillas as a given, and to pay little attention to it. Joseph and Jourdan in Madrid, too, waited for an explicit order from an exasperated Napoleon before sending Kellermann to reopen communications with Ney in Galicia (with Soult in Portugal there was no contact at all).
And now comes a rather ... interesting story about what "viceroy" Ney was up to in this new domain of his:
He had the idea of visiting all the women's convents, and there were many, and of telling the nuns and novices that all those who had entered them against their will could leave if they wished. It was playing the role of the tempter, but such was the spirit of the time, and we thought we were doing a meritorious work by acting in this way.
I'm sure you did, you little prick...
In a convent where the nuns had the reputation of being very fanatical, a young novice, with a charming face, threw herself crying at the feet of the Marshal and addressed him in Spanish in a speech that we still only barely understood. Our hearts went out to her, and already more than one gallant knight was offering her his services, ...
Uh-huh...
... but our interpreter told us that, on the contrary, she announced to the Marshal that the Virgin had appeared to her that night, and warned her that that very day she would obtain the dispensation of age necessary to make her vows, and that she had no doubt that the Marshal was the envoy from heaven who had come to grant her the grace she was seeking. The Marshal replied that it did not depend on him, but that he would write to the court. So much for our tender feelings.
In fact, I seem to recall that only one of these ladies took advantage of the freedom offered to her; she left the convent to marry an officer who took her back to France with him.
Must have been quite a blow to the self-esteem of all those "gallant knights" trying to free poor enslaved women, for utterly unselfish reasons, of course.
I hope this isn’t too far from what you expected. If you have come to me, I guess you kinda know you’re likely to get another bast of French History.
If it isn’t what you dreamed of as you sent this prompt, accept my apologies. i swear the next one will be trevilieu.
Fandom: History of FrancePairing : Louis/RichelieuDate : November1636Words : 4KRating : T+
Thewind comes crashing against the ancient windows of the City House, soloud I have to look up and check, every time, if nothing is broken.The skies are darkening already, dear God, one month ago daylightstill lingered after dinner. I turn to the delicate tableclock above the mantlepiece. Almost seven.
Isigh and arrange, for the third time, the documents I have preparedfor the King.
TheSpanish troops have surrendered yesterday morning after six weeks ofsiege, and since I always draft my treaties in advance, the forcedretreat of the Cardinal Infant has been sealed on the same evening.
Asthe enemy, decimated by plague and famine, left Corbie in scatteredrows, the soldiers of France rejoiced, chanting the name of theirKing in cheerful unison, cracking bottles open and lighting upbonfires, but I couldn’t afford time for any of these celebrations.
Forthe end of a war, in fact, always marks the beginning of dreadfulamounts of paperwork.
Inthis case, fourteen noblemen of Corbie, most of them having blatantlyoffered thecity to the incoming Spanish to preserve their wealth from pillage,await for their fate to be decided in the Minimes prison. I havealigned their files, containing the traces of their sins and merits,displayed in alphabetical order on the wide table of the library.
Sanctionswill also have to be taken against the City itself, as becoming enemyland, even for a while, cannot go unpunished in a well-regulatedState. My propositions for financial and repressive actionsconcerning Corbie’s privileges are laid out on a detailed chart,along with a quick estimation of the yearly profit to be expected asconsequence for the Royal treasury.
Theprestigious, opulent abbey of Corbie has to be reallocated to astricter religious order, as the integrity of the monks there remainsdubious to say the least. I have made contact with a few of FatherJoseph’s entrusted agents in order to make sure the Capuchinsevangelists strengthen the discipline of this one loosely tiedcongregation.
Finally,something will have to be done about the whole Picardie, pillaged andburned by the four regiments sent by Ferdinand II to the CardinalInfant’s rescue. Our own forces managed to stop the German armyfrom even approaching Corbie, but the hot-blooded general Werthdidn’t miss his opportunity for revenge. For the sake of making oursiege forces less easy to supply, he spent an alarming amount ofenergy ravaging every village and town around, and now thousands ofacres of crops are reduced to dust, dead men and animals coveringevery scrap of land. My suggestion is to suspend contributions anddues in Picardie for at least two years, giving the population themeans to rebuild their lives. We might consider cutting off land andsalt tax in a fifty miles circle to encourage settlement of newfamilies in what is by now a deserted, mutilated province.
Ihave been working upon those papers for forty hours straight, andsince I know my King doesn’t like reading very much, I havememorized them all by heart. I always make sure those post-victorydiscussions take as little time as possible, because locking up Louisde Bourbon in a small library for more than two hours ofadministration issomething I wouldn’t advise anyone.
Tryand cage a wild wolf between the lines of an account table.
Heknows his duty for sure, and respects my line of work, but despite mybest efforts, his appetite for vast spaces and open air is oftenstronger than anything else.
Todaywon’t be an exception. He’s two hours late for our meeting.
Isnatch my hand away from my mouth when I realize I’m worrying mythumb again, watching dusk leaving the skyline of Corbie at the mercyof another winter night. The howling winds are still banging on thewindows, the fragile tainted glass creaking and moaning like a brokenwheel.
Agentle knock on the door. Nothing like the thunder Louis would make.
-“Comein.” I still concede.
Indeed,it’s only Charpentier, my clerk, timidly peeking inside.
-“TheKing has not yet arrived?” He states more than he asks.
-“No.”I sigh again, my eyes lost in the dark outside. “But I know wherehe is.”
Ipick up my cloak, fold it tight around my shoulders and stride downthe stairs of the City House. The six guards stationed in the hall immediately move to follow me outside, but I quickly relieve them ofthat chore. The Spanish have left, all traitors are in prison, andGaston is sleeping in Amiens tonight. There isn’t a soul left inCorbie to want me dead.
Besides,I won’t have to walk far.
Istep outside the City House, groaning as the furious winds spit icydrizzle on my face. Ignoring the outraged shudders of my skin, Iclench my teeth and walk towards the City Gates.
Thetempest rages on until I reach the old town. Down there in the narrowalleys of uneven cobblestones, the wind releases its grip around mychest for a while, so I can breathe a little and observe the stunned,cautious joy of Corbie’s streets.
Theplague has been merciless with the population during those six weeks,and there isn’t a house here that could be spared by grief. Butaround the three churches of the city, though all cemeteries aremarred and overturned by botched graves and mass burials, faintechoes of celebrations can be heard, small windows still brightlylit, deifying darkness in muffled laughter.
Thepeople of France, in their everlasting robustness, will never ceaseto amaze me.
Ifeel my formal robes getting heavier with mud and rainwater withevery step I take. I hiss a low curse, grabbing them low and liftingthem away from the ground. I wish I could have kept my war attire onemore day, but Cardinality primes over temporary military duties, andprotocol dictates I take back the cloth as soon as the peace treatyis signed. I am thankful, however, for my foresight as I kept myboots underneath.
Ipass the Eastern gates with a sour face, refusing two more offers foran escort, please,the place is swarming with thirty five thousand French soldiers, mostof them having followed me since La Rochelle.
-”Iam a cautious man, Favreau” I tell the Lieutenant of the rampartspatrol as he insists. “According to some, even exceedinglyso. If I was in any danger, I assureyou, I’d know.”
Thethick, grumpy man frowns, but still salutes politely, stepping asideto let me pass.
Ismile in gratitude, and gaze at the hundred yards that separate thecity gates from the siege line. Beyond the protective circle oframparts, the winds await me there, I hear them laughing already.
Tighteningmy cape around the fierce unwillingness of my body, I lower my headand stride onwards.
Overthe gates, everything changes.
Nomore laughter, no more music. No more joyful lights and tavern signs.Here between the ramparts and the wooden barracks of our troops,those last weeks of war and famine are still alive, sadly obviousdespite the dark. What used to be quiet fields and scattered woodsare now gruesome lands of mud and debris, covered by dead horses andbroken carts. The stench of decay, even after yesterday’s heavy rain,hasn’t gone from the air, attacking my throat in reproachful spite.
Thewind slides under my coat, making it clack around my legs like adisoriented flag. My eyes fixed upon the dim lanterns of the siegeline, I bite my lips and keep walking.
Istep upon the thick wooden planks laid over the ditch I ordered to bedug around the city in the first weeks of siege. A splendid job doneremarkably fast, as half of the citizens of Corbie actually escapedtheir own city to volunteer for help. I truly warmed up Louis’ heartto watch them gather around our troops, offering spades, pickaxes,and loyal souls.
Iremember him making a full tour of the siege force every day,dismounting to greet those volunteers in person, asking their names,praising their strength.
‘We’rehonoured to serve the King who will liberate us from the enemy!’Some of them said. ‘We are French, andwill lay down our lives to remain so!’
Howprecious those moments have been for my King. His stern, hardenednature is still very sensitive to demonstrations of love, since thevoid created by his mother’s neglect never seems to be truly filled.
Well,it won’t stop me from trying.
Ilook around, trying to spot the place I’m looking for. Only when Ipick up the sound of a hammer hitting steel fifty yards to my left,almost covered by bawling winds, I know for sure where I need to go.
Iblindly brush my hair away from my eyes as I arrive at the giganticbarn’s door.
Insearch for a place to set up an infirmary in the first days of war, Ihave commandeered this huge building, ideally situated, and allocateda good half of it for the army blacksmith, so their day-an-night workwould provide much welcomed warmth for the sick and wounded.
Allinjured soldiers have been moved to Amiens by now, and until thewhole siege line is unmade, only the blacksmiths remain in the barn.
Iclear my throat and resolutely push the door open. A warm gush of airchases the gloom of the barren field I just crossed, and I step intoorange light with a sigh of relief.
Iquietly close the door behind me, taking in the rare, yetunsurprising sight in front of me.
Theforge fire is rising high, blown to the ceiling by two sturdy younglads pushing a majestic pair of bellows. The rhythmic inferno paintsthe whole place in vibrant bursts of yellow, cinder and dust slowlydescending upon every surface around.
Intothe roaring coal, five tweezers are resting, each one holding one ofthose unique long nails used to build defensive walls. Next to theflames, a monstrous anvil resonates with loud banging, and La Roche,the Master Blacksmith, is standing there in cheerful awe, watchingLouis de France hammering one of those nails into four sections thatwill be forged anew, I suppose, in four smaller nails used in regularhouse building.
Thedemolition of siege lines and reconversion of the wood and iron forthe repairs of the City is a tedious work always performed by thearmy, although never yet in history of France, if my memory iscorrect, by the rightful King himself.
Fora whole minute, no one even notices me in howling flames and clangingsteel.
Icross my arms over my chest and glare, but truly, I am more touchedthan vexed.
Helooks absolutely delighted, his sleeves pointlessly rolled up sincehis white silken shirt is already ruined by coal stains and burnmarks. He has tied his untamed hair behind his neck as allblacksmiths are bound to do, a few strands still glued to his face byblackened sweat. His eyes are narrowed in focus, willing each one ofhis blows to be efficient, and despite his effort, as his task provessuccessful, a wide excited smile lightens up his face.
Aglance at his forearms, glistening in exertion, keeping a tight gripupon the tweezers as he hits the steel with dreadful force, ignites ashameful glow inside my guts. His throat pulsating in ardour, hisshoulders rolling with mighty ease, his dirty hands unafraid ofbruises –
-Dear God.
Ilower my eyes, feeling my cheeks burn up, and when La Roche’sassistant springs out of the coal reserve behind the forge with abrand new bag in his arms, I’m almost considering stepping backinto the night.
Butthe short brown man is facing me now, and cannot miss my presence.Hepales horribly, and drops his heavy load on the floor at his Master’sfeet.
-”Berthoud,for God’s sake!” La Roche yells, shaking heaps of coal off hisboots, but he soon follows his apprentice’s wide eyes and meets myown.
Actually,at this moment, quite everyone does.
Thebellows stop in their dance, the fames descend into embers. Thehammer falls upon the anvil one last time, and the nails in the fireslowly start to darken.
Butthough everyone else keeps staring at me in guilt and expectation,Louis lets out a short sigh instead, looking up through the holes inthe barn’s roof for the first time in hours it seems, to realise thenight has fallen.
Hehas a mildly embarrassed look for me then, and wipes his brow withhis arm, which doesn’t help at all, I fear.
-”Goodevening, Cardinal.” He pants, uneasy. “I suppose you have comehere to remind me of more formal duties.”
-”I’mafraid I must, Your Majesty.” I state as I bow.
Henods, pursing his lips, while La Roche orders under his breath for afresh cloth and a basin to be brought. His assistant and the youngerboys darts off, and my King, visibly reluctant to leave his refuge,picks up a fine hinge set to cool down on a table next to the bellowsand nonchalantly brings it to me.
-”Yesterday,this was a heavy bar of steel that could only serve as crosstie inwar barracks.” He explains, turning the delicate piece around. “Ihave melted it into seventeen of those, that will be used for thedoors of the Saint Michel church.”
Ioffer a fond smile. I know.I have asked for damage lists to be set myself, and counted everypound of steel that could be extracted from the siege lines to getthe repairs done. I still take the lukewarm hinge in my hand whenclean water and soap is presented to him, feeling the comfortingweight of steel in my fingers as I watch him clean himself incareless haste.
Whenhe’s a little more presentable, I hand the hinge back to La Roche andpick up Louis’ military cloak, doublet and weapons, abandoned thereupon a bale of hay.
Ihelp him put it all back on his shoulders while he shoots anapologetic look at the Master blacksmith.
-”Excellentwork, La Roche.” He mutters. “Keep me informed concerning thosebarrel designs.”
Theold, solid man of the Limousin gives out an awkward bow, gesturing atthe dark outside.
-”ShouldI call for the Royal Guards?” He asks, but Louis only lets out alow snicker.
Hetightens his baldric, and has a short nod towards his sword.
-”Iam the Royal Guard.” He says, and brushes past me towards the door.
Ifollow, making quite an effort to match his energetic pace with mysoaked robes weighing me down. We stride uphill towards the City, thegrim battlefield and spiteful winds forcing us into silence. Hedoesn’t look or smile at me once, frustrated by my interrupting theblissful distraction he had found himself, but he still stops andwaits for me a few times, his face soft and patient despite hisaverted eyes.
Aswe come near the Eastern gates, I realise the crowd of men around thecampfire has at least doubled since my earlier passage. The patrolhas been joined, it seems, by Captain Treville and five of hisMusketeers, along with Antoine de Ville, the most promising youngengineer of France.
Theirwariness pacified by a victory still fresh, they don’t seem to noticeus, gathered in the soothing warmth of the fire, sharing a fewbottles of wine. I hear them speak about the last assault upon Corbiein those humble, restrained words simple soldiers always use. Theyexchange names of fallen comrades and worries about the wounded ones.They recall, several times if they must, the highest moments of theirfight, as if to revive for a while the ultimate thrill of riskingtheir own skins, of risking everything.
Strategyis discussed with the solemnity of highest stakes, since a General’sslightest error could mean their certain death. Weapons are comparedas much more than handiwork, but as trusted friends, the only onesthey can rely upon when they face the enemy’s fire.
Theirvoices remain heavy with the glories and martyrdom of war for awhile, but eventually gravity is brushed away by joy. Bread is brokenand handed over, meat is roasted and cut in thin slices, laughter andsongs redeeming all misery in their hearts, because after all, that’show French soldiers are.
Thesounds of them nameless heroes, loud and clear in this dark windynight, fly as high as flames can dance, sending sparks of cheer up tothe lonely stars above, and I inhale a shuddering breath, despairedby the twisted fate that has separated me from their glorious, yetsimple life. I will be forevermore feared if not blatantly despisedinstead, wrapped in the tyrannical shroud of the State, my purpose onthis Earth forbidding me to express my adoration for France in anypure, or virtuous way.
Myeyes blur in a thin cloud of tears, and as I blink my vision clear Irealise I must have fallen behind again, because Louis, my belovedKing, is striding back down towards me.
Hestill looks a bit thwarted, but he’slooking at me this time. He’s smiling atme for sure.
Hewalks close enough to touch, inspecting my face in the fleeting lightof the distant fire, a lopsided smirk not leaving his lips. He has aknowing look for the group of soldiers, then, before he turns back tome.
-”AKing who wishes to be a blacksmith” he whispers, a bit dreamy, “anda Cardinal who would rather be a soldier. Really, afine pair we make.”
Ibite my lips, dropping my stare on the ground between our feet,ashamed to wish for another life while my own has been blessed inmore ways than I could say.
Butmy King doesn’t seem to be vexed by my thoughts at all, since hishand gently brushes my sleeve after a while, and gives it a short,discrete tug. I look up to see him nod at the conquered City aboveour heads, three towers rising high in the night sky, glowing lightsand dimmed echoes swaying between the thick ramparts.
-”Buthaven’t we accomplished a lot, Armand,” he adds, his tonemaddeningly lower, “considering how misplacedwe both are?”
Setaflame by the radiant pride in his voice, I fight the urge to beg fora kiss, and I think he shares my need deeply enough to be alarmed,because he quickly lets go of me. Spinning around, he climbs towardsthe gate again, his trouble covered by affected insouciance.
-”We could be fifteen Spaniards coming back for seconds and you stillwouldn’t spot a thing!” He throws at the soldiers, and they allstart and stare as one, including Treville, who clicks his heels instunned unease.
-”YourMajesty!” The Captain mutters, gesturing towards the soldiers,struggling to justify their carelessness. “Our apologies, we-”
ButLouis just raises a peaceful hand.
-”Atease, gentlemen.” He soothes, a bit of disappointment, perhaps, inhis gruff voice.
Hisattempts at joking are often mistaken for threats by the Officers,it’s true, but my King has to forgive them. He has only started tojest a few years ago after all, as he grew accustomed, I hope, tobeing a little happier sometimes.
Hejoins the circle of men, warming his hands to the lively fire withunpretentious moves, but for him also, there is a distance isolatinghim from his soldiers, so wide it cannot be ignored. Their nonchalantcomradeship has disappeared, and they all stare in abashed respect,the infantrymen still bowing low while the five Musketeersinstinctively form a protective circle around him.
Louisdoesn’t forbid those marks of deference, but as Trevillemurmurs something about how unsafe it is for the King to wanderoutside alone his concern too is shrugged away with an imperioushiss.
Healways looked a bit burdened, I know, by the constant attention hisrank forces upon him. I might understand his yearningfor a simpler life, but God, I am sure, couldn’t have picked abetter soul to bear the crown of this nation.
Heis quickly relieved, though, of those gazes fixed upon him as I stepout of the dark behind his back.
Indeed,all faces turn towards me and silence falls around the fire,stretching over a few heartbeats.
Afterthat, the soldiers bow again, more stiffly no doubt, and though Icannot sense the hatred or contempt I inspire to some, there is muchless warmth in their voices as they greet me.
-”Generalissime.”De Ville breathes.
-”YourEminence.” Treville grunts.
Ihave a gentle nod for each of them.
Iwish I could discuss siege fort design with the young engineer. Ihave gathered a few books on the subject he would find interesting.I wish I could ask the lieutenant to tell the tale of his battleagain. The way he crashed against the Spanish cavalry on foot with asword in each hand. I wish I could share their laughter. I wish Icould share their bread.
ButI am what I am, feared if not despised, and they would only be wary,I fear, of my attempt to sympathise. So all I utter isa stern, formal praise for their bravery and skill, received withsurprised, yet just as stern gratitude.
Louis,who has grown amazingly sensitive to my feelings during those lastyears, seems to sense my regret, and claps his hands in decentlyfaked realisation.
-”Cardinal,as you were ever so kind to remind me,” he declares, “we are latefor our Council. Shall we? ”
Withthat, he salutes the men around the fire, has a short grin forTreville, and stomps towards the City House. I bid my own farewelland hurry at his side, leaving behind a perfect array of dazed faces.
Again,we stroll through the streets of Corbiewithout a look or a glance at each other, both of us lost in our ownthoughts I suppose. The distant sounds of celebrations are alreadyfading as the night marches on, tiny spots of light dying one by oneupon the face of the city. I follow him laboriously as he rushesinside the City House and jumps up the narrow stairs to the Northtower, dismissing countless servants along the way.
Onlywhen we’re in the small study once morehe stops his running, his breath a bit short, and unclasps his coatto let it hang in front of the fireplace. He turns to me, then,watching me closely as I lock the door and shrug my own cape off myshoulders, folding it next to his.
Iwould think it more agreeable for him to get over thoseadministrative tasks as quickly as possible, so I go straight for thedocuments on the table, but before I evenopen my mouth to talk, he snaps his fingers at me, lifting a firmhand in the air.
-“Wait.”He orders.
Inotice, then, that his gaze upon the papers is filled withbitterness, his mouth tight with sorrow and refusal. Perhaps myKing would require a little more push, after all, to let go of hisforlorn dreams of a quieter existence to gird his head with the crownof thorns that is the heritage of his bloodline.
Itis my turn, I guess, to draw his attention to the brighter side ofhis burden.
Iinhale sharply, tapping my fingertips against the first of thenobles’ files for a while before I offer, my gaze sweeping over mycarefully prepared chores:
-”Historyand fate, it is true, might have overcome the aspirations of our souls.”
Helets out a sad chuckle, rubbing his eyes with his both hands,spreading upon his brow a bit of coal he missed out earlier. I smiletenderly at those dark blurry lines around his tired stare, makinghim look a bit like those performers of antique tragedies.
Heis beautiful, my Sun, my destiny, he has always been, both steady andwild as his forest of Versailles can be. I, on the other hand, withmy fifty years of struggle harshly carved upon my skin, cannot evenhope for such grace anymore, but I can still use the elegance helikes in me. I can still display, as I shift closer to him, theenticing warmth that always troubles his mind. I can still show, as Itilt my head aside and drop my eyes upon his hands, flashes of thepale neck he always hungered for.
Ican still play, as I whisper against his cheek, the tones of my voicethat send shivers down his spine.
-”Butwould we have met,Louis, my love, in those nameless lives we crave?”
Hisbreath hitches brutally, and he leans into my touch with fierce want,his eyes blurred and darkened at the sound of his name. His handscome to grab my robes around my waist, and he pulls me to him withoutcompromise.
-”Mostlikely not.” He breathes, the trembling in his voice too deep to gounnoticed.
-”Theremust be, I suppose then,” I almost purr into his ear, “a bit ofhope for the misplaced.”
Hemoans, loud, grabs my hair and kisses me raw, violent andpossessive as he has been all his life, using his dreadful force topull my whole body a bit lower. When I yield, he moans louder, and Ihave to defend my orderly documents with all I have or he’d lay medown on this very table to take me whole.
Upona last promising kiss I gently divert his eagerness towards ourduties, keeping my gaze low as a solemn oath of later gratitude.He squeezes his eyes shut, letting out a vibrant line of curses, butwhen he opens them again, he looks happy with being King once more,and this is all God has put me on Earth for.
