#FIACRE ( NINTH )

[ofagrippine]

THE NINTH OF FIACRE AT THE BEGINNING OF THE MASQUERADE. OPEN TO ALL.

Like any shadow that follows after the light but does not dare join it, Agrippine stays on the outskirts. They duck their eyes away from the few who notice them, and awkwardly nod at the nobles who offer their congratulations or prattle breathlessly of their victory. A few ask them to dance; Agrippine does not oblige them. I never learned, they shake their head, and would rather not. It seems to surprise them, for what noble knows what to do with the truth as a stone and not the glitter of dor? Agrippine has neither the charm nor the desire to entertain them and hold their attention, and so it flits away without concern. Thank goodness. They are content to watch, to observe, to let their eyes roam across the crowd. Unknowingly, they begin to sway; without realizing, Agrippine begins to hum.

[lafaille]

where: the gardens of the summer palace when: the ninth of fiacre, just after the execution of hippolyte brosseau who: @zhcnya​​

The air is alive with the rich, unsettling smell of blood, and haunted by whispers that can only mean worse to come. Cecile remains composed as the crowd pours out into gardens, but her heart has dropped into the pit of her stomach. She doesn’t fear blood - nearly everyone she’s loved hands’ have been stained with it, and she will hold them tight and wipe the red from their skin as many times as they need her to - but she does fear what comes next, when it splashes on the floor of the Summer Palace. Her stomach is in knots and her head swirls with shock, confusion, frustration, and countless others’ she has not had time to take pause and name. They point her in countless directions, and there will be endless delicate and difficult conversations to be had.

But not tonight. Tonight, cutting through the crowd, she exactly knows who she needs to see. 

“Zhenya.” 

Her fingers circle around his arm as she looks up at him from beneath her mask.  She reaches up to him, gently cupping his face in her hand, thumb gently tracing over the bottom of his mask. She almost wishes she weren’t wearing hers - despite how grateful she was to hide her eyes during Hippolyte’s unconventional trial - so that he could more easily see now, the gentle concern on her face. 

She’s sure he’s seen much worse than this in his time as a diplomat, but she cannot help but worry, not knowing it was him who stopped the assassination - that the lives of two of the people she cares for most in the world were at risk at once. These attempts may be a semi-regular occurrence for Calandre, but not for him. There are so many things she will want to ask. But not yet. Now, only question burns in the forefront of her mind. 

“Are you alright, mon chéri?”

[ofagrippine]

THE NINTH OF FIACRE AT THE LION’S MANE. CLOSED FOR @degares​

Agrippine is used to the hours ticking by at Savatier’s side. By the time they return home, wishing they could keep the steady rhythm of Savatier’s voice with them, the Lion’s Mane is empty. Dim street lights washes Val Faim in a ghost-glow, and without its usual crowd of patrons, the Mane looks haunted. It’s the sort of loneliness Agrippine prefers, but tonight, the sight of it makes their heart stammer again. So much of it is the same: the damning moonlight, a creeping silence, goosebumps raised on their arms as they open the door and tentatively step in. 

At first, Agrippine sees nothing and no one. “Thank Odeline,” they breathe while closing the door behind them. It’s only after they’ve started for their quarters that they notice a familiar figure in their peripheral vision, the shadow of their fairy godmother who wears a perpetual scowl and gave them their bed, their job, their name. “Oh — Degaré. I…” Suddenly, two scenes play at once: in one, they raise a hand and recognize the rich color of blood, and in the other, Degaré stands before the court and announces what little regard he has for Hippolyte. The reaper stretches their arm out from the abyss, holds Agrippine tight around their throat.

As discretely as they can, Agrippine begins to hyperventilate. “I had to… Savatier and I…” They motion with their hands, playing at nonchalance but landing with rather strange and nonsensical gestures. In the end, they aren’t able to force an explanation that doesn’t give Degaré more ammunition than he already has. Rather than try again, Agrippine heads down their usual route to their quarters. “Good night.”