#Don't blame any actual sailors for the sea chanty

[littlewritingrabbit]

ur already busy with the previous prompt but can i politely ask for steubenceau,12? owo (guess who)

The day when someone says ‘owo’ and it isn’t you is the day I will be most confused, mademoiselle!

In any case, here is your… stubenceau? stuponceau? pierron? I don’t know, the possibilities are endless :) I’m sorry it took so long! It’s supposed to take place after Adventure, when whoever wrote von Steuben the Ancient Greek poem (that Pierre pickpocketed) breaks up with him…

Singing in the Storm

Pierre du Ponceau reasoned that there were three types of drunkenness. The first kind was the gentlemanly sort, jollier and louder than one’s usual self, probably slightly pinker in the face as well, but generally still respectable. The second was the melancholy sort of drunk, when one mused in a poetic slur about their lot in life and let their limbs sprawl around on the furniture. The third was the sort that raced through cities in the dead of night and relieved itself in public fountains… not that he had ever seen that, of course.

Tonight, he thought, he would place the Baron in the second category.

Pierre had spent all day in the sort of secretarial quiet that came over the house when the Baron von Steuben was out, making ready for their upcoming journey to America. There were reference letters to compile, as well as translate, and once he had finished with this, there was an excursion to the library to be had. He had his sights set on the Abbe Raynal’s History of the European Colonies, which would be indispensable in learning about the New World they were travelling to. Unfortunately, it was on the very top shelf at the end of the row, so some climbing was required before he could sign it out and carry it home under his coat. The evening seemed to teeter on the edge of a storm, the winds darting down alleyways like they were unsure whether they were allowed and the rain falling periodically and then stopping itself just as quickly. When he returned home, his hair well-ruffled by the wind, Pierre drew himself a bath.

Humming pleasantly, he dragged the tub out from under the Baron’s bed, through the parlor, and into the kitchen, where he set about filling every conceivable vessel with water to boil. Not long after, once the top one-third of the room was full of steam, he emptied everything into the tub on the kitchen floor, closed the door, and hopped in.

“Sing hey, you storm, for I am free,Come back another day,Sing hey, you storm, I’ve left the sea,And I am on my way,A girl she waits, a girl she waits,And not a storm will harm,This singer, hey, I’m on my wayToward my lover’s arms.”

You had to hand it to sailors, he reasoned, that they certainly know how to write a tune. Perhaps it was the constant music of water they were obliged to listen to, or the need to say rude things about pretty ladies that had to be disguised in song form, but whatever the case, he had picked up several such tunes as a child on the isle of Re, and they were all very pretty to sing.

Pierre floated comfortably until the water cooled, and then he washed and dried himself off. He was on his way back through the parlor, wrapped in a towel and leaving damp footprints behind him, when a voice called from the divan -

“Well sung, my dear du Ponceau.”

He squinted. Truth be told, he’d left his spectacles in his room and was planning on leaving them there until obliged to read something, so the form on the divan wasn’t particularly distinct, but he knew it well enough.

“Monsieur le Baron,” he smiled, adjusting the towel, “How was your day?”

“It was well enough, in the regard that I am alive and breathing, but in all other ways, sub-par,” said the Baron bluntly. “Wine?”

“I’ll have a little,” said Pierre, staring in the direction of a blurry wine glass that was held out to him. He took a sip, both hands keeping the towel upright. “Thank you!”

The young secretary retreated to his room and clambered into a shirt, trousers, and yes, he included spectacles. On a second thought he stopped to pilfer a banyan of the Baron’s from the hall closet, simply because it was comfortable and far too large.

Once Pierre re-entered the parlor however, he realized that something was still wrong. Von Steuben was seated on the divan, taking up only half (as Azor was curled on the other half) and he was pinker even than usual. He had emptied the glass of wine and was filling another, looking decidedly unhappy. Beside him sat a letter.

Pierre hopped onto the armrest, and looked over the Baron’s shoulder at the letter. It was in German but he could have sworn there was also some Ancient Greek before von Steuben folded it. “Not your business,” he said gruffly.

“I don’t know, it might be,” Pierre mused, wrapping the banyan over himself, “If something is making my dear Baron so unhappy, shouldn’t I try to improve the situation?”

“It’s over with,” von Steuben took another gulp of wine with a sigh, “Nothing can be done now. He’s been re-assigned a new command.”

“Who?” Pierre felt it his right to be nosy if he was going to have to spend the night with the Baron in such a state of melancholy. In any case, he had his suspicions. He wedged his feet in between the cushions. “Was it the one who wrote you that poem?”

Von Steuben took another drink, and sighed another sigh. “Always young and good-looking fellows,” he muttered, close enough to an affirmative reply, “Always leaving me behind to run off on their adventures. Soldiers grow up and leave the army, settle down… I don’t think I could.”

“No one requires that,” said Pierre, reasonably. “We are going to America after all.”

“But what happens after?” the Baron stared into the fireplace instead of looking him in the eye. He’s probably worried that he’ll look less commanding, thought Pierre. “What happens when there are no more wars to fight, and they say: go home Baron. Find yourself a house and do what the civilians do… I don’t know… raise chickens? Eat breakfast? Read the paper and take a stroll? And when they expect me to marry a lady, or at least marry her fortune, what happens when I… when I just cannot do that?”

Pierre didn’t have an answer. The rain beat against the window in the quiet.

“And in the meantime, he’s written that he’s been re-assigned a new command, some other province, he didn’t give an address. He says he’s finished with writing me poetry, he’s marrying a lady… Pierre?” he turned around, his eyes a little unfocussed and his face creased with worry, “Do you think he writes her poetry instead now?”

“Whether or not he does,” Pierre reasoned, “He’s a batard to write you so harshly. I’ll tell you what - we shall go to America, and we shall have an adventure of our own, and he’ll read in the papers of all the glory you’ve earned and think oh how I ought to have stayed with my dear Baron.”

Von Steuben drained the wine and nodded in agreement, and then continued nodding, until his chin nodded onto his chest and he closed his eyes. The letter slipped out of his hand and onto the floor, but even on his way to retrieve some blankets, Pierre didn’t pick it up.

He draped one blanket over the Baron, moved Azor over, and curled up on the opposite end of the divan with the other. “Goodnight, my dear Baron,” he whispered, “I will not go running off on adventures without you.” He gathered the blankets higher and sang softly -

“Sing hey, you storm, for I am free,Come back another day,Sing hey, you storm, I’ve left the sea,And I am on my way,A lad he waits, a lad he waits,And not a storm will harm,This singer, hey, I’m on my wayToward my lover’s arms.”

The Baron von Steuben, despite his melancholy drunkenness, had the decency to continue pretending to be asleep.