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shitpostingfromthebarricade · 2 years ago

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Chance

18 Vendémiaire, Year IV

(10 October 1795)

As far as cities go, by all rights, Paris should not exist.

She is massive and unwieldy and somehow manages to contain every walk of life and belief and thought that has ever occurred within her walls without wholly fracturing. She has survived the twenty-first of January as well as the ninth of Thermidor, and still she persists.

Napoléon hates Paris, but as he sips at his wine, he can’t help but admire her.

“Beg your pardon,” comes a voice from behind him.

Turning toward it, Napoléon sees a slight young man. He looks determined, even if that steel is tempered by the pink of his cheeks. “Yes?”

“Apologies for interrupting, but you wouldn’t happen to be General Buonaparte, would you?”

The title is new, and Napoléon bites back a pleased smile to hear it. “I might be.”

“The General Buonaparte who scared away those Royalist rioters the thirteenth of Vendémiaire with only a whiff of grapeshot?”

It had taken significantly more than a whiff, but as the inaccuracy only lends itself to his reputation, Napoléon doesn’t correct it. “It sounds as though you do not need me to tell you the answer.”

“I —” The man’s mouth opens, then shuts. “It is only that I have been following your work since the Siege of Toulon — that was a masterful bit of strategy, if I may say so.”

“The Siege of Toulon, you say?” He adjusts himself in his seat, narrowing his eyes as he tries to recall the dates. “That’s nearly two years gone now.”

“Frimaire of year II,” volunteers the young man. “After nearly four months’ stalemate.”

“Yes, yes.” He rubs his chin. “I assume that you’d been following the siege since before then.”

“I had.” The man looks ready to continue, then cuts himself off again.

The young man hardly appears to be the sort of company Napoléon should be keeping if he wants to be well-received among others of his rank — it is only thanks to 13 Vendémiaire that Napoléon even has the fine clothes that he wears now — but against his better judgment, Napoléon is intrigued. “Rather slow piece of action to be following,” he observes mildly.

The bait works. “My father was serving there. He says it’s thanks to you that he was able to return home.”

A fellow soldier! “Someone I’d recognize?”

The man shakes his head, a chagrined smile pasted on his face. “No, he said — he said he only admired you from a distance. He’d been there since the beginning of the siege. He used to write me letters.”

A dedicated father committed to a noble cause: it’s better than Napoléon has ever known. “I’d be glad to meet him, if he’s in the city.”

The pained smile remains, the man’s eyes now turned to the wooden floor of the establishment. “I’m afraid he passed some time ago. He sustained several injuries at the siege, you see, and one in particular … well, he unfortunately did not have much time left after. My grandfather — my mother’s father, he’s who I’d been living with at the time — supported Toulon, but when he received word that my father was not long for this earth, he sent me to see him, and the truth soon came out.”

“I see.” He nods slowly before meeting the gentleman’s eyes again. “What of your grandfather these days? Do you still stay with him?”

The young man shakes his head. “I did for some time after the discovery, but only through biting my tongue and keeping my head low. After the Royalist riots, however, my grandfather and I had an argument, and I decided that I could bear it no longer. I have been staying with a friend since.”

Napoléon takes a slow drink, eyeing the young man as he does. “What do you call yourself?”

This, of all things, is what it takes to make him stammer. “M-Marius, Sir.”

“Marius.” Napoléon swishes his thoughtfully wine in its glass. “Tell me, Marius: do you have military aspirations?”

At this, the young man — Marius — appears even more flustered. “Ah, I’m afraid not, Sir. I’m in law.”

“Law,” Napoléon repeats, amused. “You’ve more backbone than any man of law I’ve ever met. Here, sit with me, allow me to buy you something.”

“I — thank you, Sir. I would like that a lot.”

“I thought you might,” smiles Napoléon, raising a hand to wave down a waitress. “How familiar are you with the goings-on of Italy and Austria right now?”

#empereur's mercy week #empereur's mercy #shitposting sometimes writes #the AO3 link is in the title #napontmercy #siege of toulon #13 vendémiaire #three francs

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histoireettralala · 5 years ago

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Joachim Murat: his youth in Quercy.

His steps often joined those of Napoleon. Born 250 years ago in Labastide, Marshal of France, the king of Naples remained, all his life, attached to his native land. His native village now bears his name: Labastide-Murat.

Published on August 29, 17 at 16:05, in ActuLot

Joachim Murat en uniforme de sous-lieutenant au 12e Régiment de Chasseurs en 1792 (Age 25), by Jean-Baptiste Paulin Guérin, 1835

His name will later be inscribed on the Arc de Triomphe de l'Etoile. On April 5, 1791, three young people from Quercy (Murat, Bessieres and Ambert), appointed by the Lot Directory to be part of the King's constitutional guard, whose creation has just been voted by the Legislative Assembly, take the road to Paris. Coming from a family of small social status, Murat will reach the highest military glory thanks to the Republican wars and the prestigious imperial epic.

He was born on a causse with unexplored abysses

Joachim Murat was born on March 25, 1767, at La Bastide-Fortunière, a village in the Causse de Gramat. This physical environment has a certain connection with the future King of Naples' life and character. “La Bastide, a small village on the high plateau, looks like a fortress commanding the country. This majestic appearance amidst the drought, the almost desolation of the limestone soil which unexplored abysses hollow out in some places is the very image of Murat's life, a life full of contrasts where the good and the worst intertwine, where the peak honors and glory are next to disasters, mentions Marcel Dupont in his work on Murat. The sometimes violent wind is still a striking image of the marshal's mind, always filled with clouds and where hopes, vast projects, fury and annihilation collide day and night. Here is summarized in a few strokes, the prodigious and fatal destiny of this horseman who would have no equal to descend like a windstorm on the enemy troops.

His mother Jeanne's favorite child

Yet he seemed destined for a peaceful existence. Murat comes from a family that has lived in the town for more than three centuries. They are hard-working peasants, exploiting poor soil in harsh winters. How could a king arise from this modest environment more conducive to the development of country virtues than to warlike exploits?

This required the ardor of his youth, which will never leave him, but also the revolutionary upheaval. His father exploited the lands of "a few enlightened minds" in the village. Not being the owner, he is the manager, receiving earnings proportional to the crops. These are certainly satisfactory because the couple have a large house in the center of the town. This is the mother’s domain. The ground floor has been converted into an inn and the floor is divided between the family apartment and a few rooms for passing guests. This energetic woman who runs the inn is a caring mother. The good Jeanne Loubières, whom he will adore all his life, in fact, makes of the youngest of her eleven children, her favorite. By her constant presence, her desire to provide Joachim with an education, that goes beyond that of his environment, she will shape this son to the point that he will never forget his childhood.

With his curly hair and cheerful face, he's a rowdy kid, sometimes a brawler, as it should be to be respected in this country where endurance is proof of character. His time at La Bastide-Fortunière school made a good impression on his teachers: he is an average student but whose qualities of camaraderie and friendliness are recognized. His loving mother, who has deep religious feelings, thinks that the day will come when young Joachim will enter the Orders and may be parish priest of La Bastide.

His great pleasure is to lead alone the horses to the village trough. At the age when a horse seems formidable to a child, Joachim, who has an unusual vigor, already knows how to subdue them.

An amazing ability to lead

These predispositions did not arouse any suspicion among his parents who obtained a scholarship to send him, at 10 years old, to the Saint-Michel college in Cahors. He will stay there for 8 years. It is there that he will have as a comrade Jean Bessières from Prayssac, a future Marshal of the Empire. An unwavering friendship is born between these two men who would become close to the emperor.

Far from La Bastide, the young Murat discovers unknown horizons which open up new appetites for him. His intelligence is real. But as soon as he crosses the threshold of the class, he takes a singular ascendancy on his comrades, even develops an astonishing capacity to lead. How to blame him? If he goes too far for his age, he knows how to repent, implore and become very sweet again.

His whole life, he will use these weapons. Many contemporaries believe that he is completely sincere. Going from anger to tenderness, from elation to dejection, he is already and will remain, impulsive, even excessive in everything. Not without kindness and generosity.

At 20, he joins the cavalry

At the age of eighteen, he joins the Lazarists' seminar in Toulouse. But wearing the cassock does not make the seminarian. And this handsome young man of 1.85 meters, with a pleasant smile, already leads, outside the establishment, a private life the "good fathers" ignore. Here comes an important moment in Murat's life: his military engagement. It is allowed to think, with Jean Tulard, that after a quarrel, our too fiery seminarian was excluded from the University and dreading his father, takes advantage of the passage of the Cavalry of the Ardennes regiment to sign up for, he says "a life that does not displease him". In fact, the new Chasseur is "thrilled". He quickly stood out for his ability to train the most reticent horses and quickly became sergeant*.

For the simple rider, the days are repetitive and gruelling. After an early awakening (at six o'clock), you must groom sick animals, currycomb and brush them before preparing fodder, water and oats. It is only after this daily work, at ten o'clock that a soup is distributed. Then the upkeep chores of the stables. Strict rules still from the Ancien Régime! Because already Parisian ideas are swarming in the garrisons.

Giving free rein to his temperament, his need to be a leader, Murat, who places a lot of hope in the new ideas, takes the lead of the discontented men of the Regiment. This behavior is little appreciated by his leaders: he is put on permanent leave and expelled from the army. Humiliated, he decides to go back to the Lot. We are in 1789.

Delivery Clerk in Saint-Céré

Very badly received by his father who cuts him off, he returns to Saint-Céré where he is hired as a delivery clerk. For a few months, he was enraged, champing at the bit with impatience, convinced that his place is not here. The villages are buzzing. He became aware of the real state of France, of the mounting demands of the campaigns. Murat takes advantage of this return to his native land to attend and participate in public meetings of local clubs.

The past winter has been harsh and long. The harvest was poor. Lack of food and unemployment strike everywhere. Castles see their dovecote burned down. " Here will be hanged the first inhabitant who will pay the rent to the lord," says a poster from a Cahors merchant. It’s the revolt. Louis XVI summons the Etats Généraux on May 1, 1789 in Versailles. In 1790, for the Fête de la Fédération on July 14, each department must appoint two to three delegates. You can imagine that Murat is volunteering! The sympathetic, sweet talking but proud young man speaks. And it is in Lotois dialect that he expresses himself in cafes, wishing to reach the greatest number. The Revolution is born: Joachim Murat, who is part of the Third Estate by his origins, tries to change public opinion according to events. Every Sunday, he goes to Cahors: he listens, he harangues the crowd. He is on the Montfaucon list and is chosen to represent the Lot department.

The republican patriot leaves for Paris

Murat, 23, can go and explore the capital. It’s the consecration.

A new man is born. After a secular mass celebrated by former Bishop Talleyrand, speeches on the Champ de Mars ignite the crowds. One hundred thousand Parisians came to celebrate the first anniversary of the Capture of the Bastille. A year later, returning to the army, he is appointed to the King's Constitutional Guard, to protect but also to monitor Louis XVI. Indignant, the protester manifests a flawless patriotic commitment, calling himself a "pronounced republican", facing "this hideout of royalists who gravitate around the king". But the wind turns, Robespierre falls. His revolutionary passion almost interrupted his meteoric career. Bitter and worried, he is put on leave and returns for some time to Quercy, "wanting to become a simple plowman again".

Aide de camp

Skeptical about his future, then dejected, Murat quickly reacts, helped by the deputy for Gourdon, Jean-Baptiste Cavaignac, who encourages him to return to Paris. It is on the night of 12 to 13 Vendémiaire (October 5, 1795) that Murat is put in contact with the First Consul who needs him. He orders him to save the Convention threatened by the royalist riot. Forty cannons are placed by Squadron Leader Murat around the Tuileries Castle. Three hundred royalists will be killed. The government of the Republic is saved again. As Tulard points out: "From now on the star of Murat will merge with that of Bonaparte". No more depression, finally power and glory.

Promoted Bonaparte's aide-de-camp, he leaves for the Italian Campaign, direction Marengo. There, "his clothes will be riddled with bullets", but they will know victory.

He becomes Napoleon I's brother-in-law

In 1800, he marries Caroline, the First Consul's youngest sister, becoming the brother-in-law of the future Napoleon I. This marriage will give Murat an outstanding position among the marshals of the Empire. Quickly, he is invited to move to the Château des Tuileries and becomes part of the close entourage of the new master of France.

The rouser of men from the imperial epic will remain kind to his family at La Bastide. Coming from a small inn in Quercy to fly with his squadrons across Europe and into Egypt, Murat seems like a legendary character. Chateaubriand will devote long passages to him in the "Mémoires d'Outre Tombe". He will be admired by Stendhal, Dumas and Balzac. Three words characterize the King of Naples: ardor, ambition and panache. If he remains the most magnificent rouser of men the imperial epic will produce, he will invest much into the Lot whose deputy he will become in 1803.

And he will show kindness for his whole family. Especially for his mother, for whom he will show a deep attachment: he sends her rosaries blessed by the Pope.

The portrait he has done of Jeanne in 1792 will never leave him. It will be with him, in his homes, in his tent during his campaigns and in Naples, in his palace. He will build a castle for his "La Bastide family" in his native village, modeled on the Palais de l'Elysée, where he had resided as governor of Paris.

The King of Naples dies executed on October 13, 1815.

By André Décup

[Translation is mine.

Note: I translated by ‘sergeant’ the grade of Maréchal des Logis, which is its equivalent in the cavalry (and nowadays in the Gendarmerie).

There is no right translation for “entraîneur d’hommes”, I hope “rouser” doesn’t seem too weird in English.]

#napoleonic #joachim murat #newsletters articles #2017 #anyway i love him

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canniballistics · 8 years ago

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Merits

fandom: doctrine of labyrinths pairs: felix/gideon ao3 version here. my other yuletide 2016 assignment, for harukami! they wanted a good time with felix and gideon, and this was the first thing to come to mind!

"You know, I've just realized," she began, "that for how long we've been co-conspirators, I don't think I know any of your birthdays."

I am still unsure as whose suggestion it was. Mehitabel, I suspect; while he had made a great deal of progress, Mildmay still did not seem of a mind to use such non-vital information, and though it may be true that Felix cared for me, in the time that I'd known him, he has always been remarkably bad at looking outside himself. That left Mehitabel, the only other person in Melusine I could truly call a friend, in whatever capacity that entailed. No doubt, the only other person who might care.

Contrary to the suggestion itself, I knew precisely where the idea came from. It had been a rare, peaceful moment in Felix's rooms; Felix was sat to one of the sides of the room reading, while Mildmay and I sat playing cards. Mehitabel had stopped by for a few moments to see Mildmay and tell us of her company's newest production (and was using the visit as an excuse to complain of how ill-suited one of the players was to her role) when there was a tap at the door. There was a moment of silence as we occupants looked around at each other; after another tap, Mildmay pushed himself to his feet. He limped over to the door to find a courier, a boy of no older than fifteen, whose eyes grew wide and a little bit frightened upon seeing him there.

"Letter f-for Mildmay Foxe, sir," he stammered, holding out a small envelope.

Mildmay seemed visibly taken aback by this, muttering out a quiet "thanks" before digging a few coins out of his pocket to tip the boy and, as soon as he was gone and the door shut, handing the letter off to Mehitabel. I saw Felix's brows raise, surprised and perhaps a little offended that he hadn't been chosen to receive the letter instead.

:Felix,: was all I needed to say; he glanced back at me, no doubt remembering one of the many conversations we'd had about allowing Mildmay his own time. Felix's cheeks colored, and he opened his book, furiously pretending to read.

I hadn't noticed that Mehitabel had already opened the envelope and was glancing through its contents. "Well," she said, and her surprise was evident in that one word. "It seems we've been invited to a birthday party, for one Simon Barrister. The invitation is specifically addressed to Mildmay, but we're welcome to attend as well. As thanks for saving his and Rinaldo's lives, I expect," she finished, and between Felix and Mildmay, I couldn't tell whose eyes were bigger once she'd finished speaking.

"Simon is having a party?" Felix asked at the same time Mildmay blurted out, "Why d'they want me?"

"I imagine," Mehitabel drawled, "they credit you with their escape, Mildmay. Despite it being a group effort to leave the Bastion itself," she teased. "If it weren't for us, they might not be here to celebrate. That makes it all the more worth it to do, don't you think?" Felix seemed properly cowed at this; I tried not to smile. And after a pause, she asked, "Do you want to go, Mildmay?"

It took him far too long for him to answer, made far too obvious the trouble he was having with the idea. "Dunno," he muttered, eyes casting to the ground and quickly sitting back down. I suppose I couldn't blame him; to call that period in his life troubled was doing it no justice, and it was not nearly as far behind us as he most likely wished. I could understand how he might have difficulties.

Perhaps sensing how uncomfortable he was, Mehitabel looked way, busying herself with folding the letter and slipping it back into its envelope, precise and pristine. "Well, we've until the weekend to decide. It's no rush, so take your time in deciding what you want to do."

And then she paused, an odd quirk to her mouth. "You know, I've just realized," she began, "that for how long we've been co-conspirators, I don't think I know any of your birthdays." She drew herself up, casting her eyes about the room at us. Ah,, I thought. This must be what Mildmay calls her 'teacher voice.' Indeed, there was a sort of authority to her voice as Mehitabel made sure to lock eyes with each of us, so that we understood she would not accept anything less than a date. "Mine is 21 Prairial; what about you lot?"

Felix was the first to speak up. "Mine is Eré 30. That's.. 30 Vendémiaire by city reckoning, I believe."

Mehitabel nodded. "Somehow, that doesn't surprise me at all." WIthout missing a beat, and without waiting to answer the puzzled look on Felix's face, she turned to Mildmay. "What about you, Sunshine?"

He frowned, squirming under her gaze. "...think it's 21 Thermidor?" he muttered.

"You think?" Mehitabel and Felix said at the same time, both bewildered. I couldn't help the frown that crossed my face. Mildmay made no secret of his checkered past; that this should be the thing to offend them was odd to me. Given how close they'd all become, it wasn't a reaction I'd expected from them.

Neither did Mildmay, it appeared. He shrank back, the line of his shoulders defensive. "Wasn't no one to celebrate it or care," I was barely able to grasp as he mumbled, the "So why should I?" hanging unsaid in the air.

Seeing that she'd made his discomfort worse, Mehitabel skilfully shifted the room's attention to me. It was sweet, how much she cared. From time to time, I felt myself wondering if Mildmay ever noticed it. I thought about the answer she sought for a moment, before fetching something with which to write her an answer.

"4 Pluviôse?" She read aloud, her brows drawing up nearly to her hairline. "Gideon, that's in a week! Why didn't you say anything?"

I quirked my eyebrows at her; the color in her cheeks darkened a touch as she added, "Oh, you know what I mean." I shrugged, and then paused to think. I'd told Felix and Mildmay of my faith, of the White-Eyed Lady and her courtship with death, but Mehitabel had no idea, and I didn't know what her feelings on the Lady were. I was more than used to watching the day come and go, and the fact no one else knew the date had meant I was safe from prying questions. Questions a bit like this.

I wasn't sure what to say.

"Gideon?" Felix nudged at my silence, frowning curiously in my direction.

All I could do was offer him a small shrug. :Why should I celebrate the date of my birth, when I wait for the day I return to my Lady?:

He gave a quiet "ah," as though he understood, but I could see my words troubled him; seeing the curious looks on Mildmay and Mehitabel's faces, he nodded in my direction. "As I understand it, his..culture lends no weight or import to birthdays. He says he doesn't celebrate."

I nodded. It wasn't exactly the truth, but neither was it a lie. While Felix and Mildmay seemed to accept this, Mehitabel looked troubled. I could see that there was something she wished to say; instead, she sighed. "Well, aren't you boys boring? Suppose I won't expect any surprises from you lot when mine rolls around, will I? In the meantime," and she picked herself up, handing Mildmay his letter before donning her coat, "I'm going to snoop around a bit and see if I can find an appropriate gift."

The door clicked shut behind her, and I suppose I should have noticed that she didn't specify for whom she sought said gift.

Simon's birthday party came and passed without much fuss. Mildmay did, in the end, decide to attend, if only for an hour or so; Mehitabel and Felix stayed longer to cover for his escape, and Mildmay and I enjoyed the silence of the suite for however long we were able. After a while, however, I noticed him watching me. True to his name, his observation of me was near imperceptible, and it took me far too long to realize he was paying attention to more than just the cards I was playing. Once I was sure of it, I set down my hand and tilted my head at him.

He seemed to know immediately what I was trying to ask. "Powers. Sorry, Gideon." He sighed deeply. "Mehitabel keeps askin' about you. For your birthday. Told her I ain't got a clue what you'd want, so she wanted me to find out." And then, because it seemed to amuse him that he'd already revealed as much, he added, "Wasn't supposed to tell you that, neither, but you're smart enough to get it anyway."

I offered him a smile, and while I knew he wouldn't return the expression, the caution in his posture seemed to evaporate for it. We picked up our cards and resumed our game, but from then on I was distracted. I'd thought Felix's excuse that I did not quite celebrate would settle the matter; apparently, Mehitabel hadn't quite accepted it. While I appreciated the gesture, there was only one thing I truly wanted, and it had been ripped from me, cast aside somewhere to rot. I would not get it back, no matter how badly I wished I could.

"Gideon?" Mildmay was frowning at me. I tilted my head to show that I'd heard him, bid him to continue. "Somethin' wrong?"

With a start, I realized that my hand had come to rest on my cheek, pressing lightly into the flesh and against my teeth. I took my hand away quickly, shaking my head. There was nothing anyone could do about it now. I did not need to dwell on it. I could see that he didn't believe me, but he dropped it anyway. We spent the rest of the evening in relative silence, and when we separated to retreat to our respective bedrooms, I touched his hand, nodding my head in a quiet thanks. He shrugged, and that was the last I heard of it.

For a little while, at least.

When I woke on the morning of 4 Pluvôise, it was to a strange tension in my shoulders and an unfortunately short temper. I suppose it was the memory of that conversation with Mildmay that frayed my nerves a bit; I wasn't sure what to expect, and the idea of expecting something only to have nothing happen did not lend itself too kindly to my mood. Felix and Mildmay were gone for court, and so at least I had a blessedly quiet morning; by the time they returned, my temper had simmered down a few degrees. As soon as I saw them, however, my anxious anticipation surged back. Felix finally noticed that I was sitting at the table as they were hanging their coats.

"Ah, good, you're awake," he said, pulling off his scarf. There was something off about his mannerisms, the look on his face. Like he was confused, trying to work through an incredibly complicated mental math problem. It was only compounded by the way he held out a hand to hang his scarf on top of his coat, only to miss the hook entirely; I managed to see Mildmay roll his eyes before grabbing it before it could hit the floor, and perhaps that helped soothe my mood a little.

:Yes, Felix. That tends to happen after one has a full night's rest.: He frowned at me, and I sighed, waved it away. It wouldn't do to take out my baseless frustrations on him. :How was court?:

:Utterly pointless, as usual. I swear, one of these days we will discuss something actually useful, and half the court will miss it because we are so used to banality.:

He offered me a small, worried smile before absently taking one of my leftover pieces of toast, a cold thing, and rock hard. It made it all the way to his mouth before he realized what he was doing and set it back down to instead fidget with his rings. It was almost endearing to see him so nervous, even if I wasn't completely positive as to why.

We spent a few good minutes like that before he sat up suddenly, a determined look on his face. Almost as though he'd made up his mind about something, and though I was fairly certain as to what it was, I waited for him to speak. :Gideon, what are your plans for this evening?:

I raised my eyebrows at him. :Well, I almost always have a fully booked planner, as you know. I may be available tonight, though, I'll need to check.: It was a silly question, but in all honesty, it was a comfort as well. At least I knew I hadn't woken up anxious for no reason. :You know I'm free, Felix,: I said, a bit kinder this time. :What do you need?:

Felix rolled his eyes, shifting to drum his fingers against the tabletop, idly conjuring a small witchlight to dance along his knuckles. :Well, I thought perhaps I might set the Mirador on fire to see what reaction I might instead receive.: And then he winced, as though realizing that, despite its being at his own expense, the joke was in rather poor taste. :I thought,: and he paused, obviously weighing his words. :It has come to my attention that I am..perhaps not the most attentive of persons.:

Tactfully, I said nothing. It was true, after all, and I knew I had Mehitabel to thank for this realization. His cheeks colored, but seeing that I wouldn't interrupt, he decided to press on.

:So, despite birthdays not bearing any importance for those who worship Nera, I thought I might take you out for an evening. Dinner and a play? Mehitabel assures me that her company's rival does an absolutely atrocious Three Faces of Cosette. I thought we might have a nice dinner, and then laugh at what is purportedly a hilariously terrible rendition of a great dramatical tragedy.:

The words spilled out of him almost rapidfire, as though he was nervous about the proposition, and if I had been anyone else, I might have said yes immediately. It was, after all, a lovely idea for a birthday celebration. I was not, however, anyone else; it was a fact that the other wizards in the Mirador liked to snicker about whenever I would go out with Felix. Considering the mood I'd woken up in, I wasn't certain I wanted to put up with such naked passive aggression today, especially if Felix and Mehitabel wanted to make a thing of it.

:As wonderful as that sounds, Felix…: His face dropped as soon as I began to speak. I hadn't expected him to be so enthusiastic about this, given his nervousness in asking and the way he'd accepted that I wasn't really one to celebrate. I sighed, leaned forward to touch his hand, so that I might continue. :As wonderful as that sounds, I think a night spent in with you would be much better.:

I did not miss the sharp intake of breath as he looked up at me, eyes wide and, just for a few seconds, innocently shocked. Perhaps it was mean of me, but I laughed, just a little, taking his hand to kiss his oddly uneven knuckles. :How does that sound to you?:

Felix watched me for a second, probably to see if I would withdraw my suggestion. Then, quietly, :Are you sure? What about dinner?:

:Do people not eat dinner if it isn't at someone else's expense?: I asked idly, and received a laugh for the effort. Good. I smiled warmly at him. :We can always eat here, send for someone to bring up food instead. And if you truly insist on making an event of it, we can invite Mehitabel and Mildmay to join us.:

Felix chuckled, squeezing my fingers. :This whole thing was her idea, you know. It is surprisingly difficult to plan an evening for someone you care a great deal about. I'm absolutely terrible at it.: As if not realizing what he'd said, he stood, twisting our hands so that he could kiss mine this time, instead. :I'll see about making preparations and having dinner sent up to us. Perhaps I can work something out to make it truly special...:

He trailed off, and I watched him wander over to Mildmay's door, knocking quickly to retrieve his brother. I wasn't sure why the both of them were necessary for whatever errands Felix was running; he simply had to ask for some food, didn't he? Still, if it made him feel better, I would let him continue. It was a compromise, something I was learning to get used to in our relationship.

They had been gone a few minutes before I realized with a start — my bad mood had completely disappeared, leaving a light warmth in its place. I smiled, and pulled a new book from Felix's shelves.

The brothers were gone most of the day, and oddly enough, I found myself remarkably bored in their absence. I read through two books, shuffled through the stockpiled bits of parchment that I was saving to write on, whenever the need arose, and rearranged what meager belongings I had stored in Felix's closets. By the time they returned, I was near to stir-crazy and so relieved to see them I nearly jumped out of my seat. I was lucky enough to stop myself, instead looking up from my book and nodding in greeting.

Felix didn't make it past the entryway before he was frowning, looking quickly around the room and apparently finding it not up to his tastes. "We'll need to clean up," he muttered, and began to collect the books he'd been stockpiling by his chair. Mildmay and I watched him for a few minutes, until he realized we were not helping and said, "Well? I am not cleaning all of this mess alone."

I couldn't help a laugh at that, and if I didn't know any better, I'd almost guess that Mildmay had chuckled. I couldn't be sure, and of course there was no sign of it in the next second. Still, we both stood to assist, and after an hour or so we managed to get the sitting room presentable. Afterward, and despite the fact we were staying in, Felix insisted we change into nicer outfits. It seemed silly, and I could tell Mildmay thought so as well; still, in the interest of not spoiling the good mood that was starting to pervade the room, we shuffled back into our rooms to change into finer things.

It was perfect timing, apparently; by the time I exited the room, Mehitabel was standing in the middle of the sitting room, her hair gracefully pinned up and wearing a lovely wine red dress, with a wrapped package in her hands. I frowned, wondering if she was on the way somewhere, before realizing. I froze, my breath caught in my lungs, some mix of surprise and fondness. She turned, and as soon as she saw me, smiled. She crossed the room, walking over to me, and kissed my cheek.

"You can open your gifts after dinner."

It almost seemed as though it was planned; as soon as she finished speaking, before I had time to realize what she meant by gifts, there was a rap at the door. Mildmay, now dressed in smart trousers and a newly-pressed shirt, opened the door, and in swarmed a host of waitstaff. They laid out a veritable feast, certainly too much for four people to eat alone. Still, as I looked over the plates they brought, I noticed a good number of Kekropian dishes, things I hadn't eaten in years and hadn't realized I missed eating until this very moment. Unkindly, I wondered just how much it had cost Felix to bribe someone to cook them, then shook my head to clear away such a hideous thought. Instead, I swept over to him, kissing his cheek. He looked at me with wide eyes, feigning innocence and more than obvious for it.

:Why, Gideon. Whatever was that for?: He teased, adding, :Not that I'm complaining, of course.:

:Of course not,: I laughed, sliding my hand into his. :I don't suppose you left any food for the rest of the Mirador, did you?:

He flapped a hand dismissively. :So Stephen will have one roast chicken for dinner, rather than his customary two. He'll survive.:

We shared a moment of laughter, before Mehitabel cleared her throat and reminded us that we were not the only ones in the room. "You two wanna share with the class, or can we start eating?"

Felix rolled his eyes, though I could tell that his mood hadn't actually soured. "Very well, I suppose," he drawled, and we all sat down. Before we could eat, however, he raised his glass, looking shyly over at me. "To Gideon," he toasted, a small smile on his face. "For being kind enough to tolerate my whims."

Mehitabel laughed, and I swear I could see Mildmay shrug in agreement. Felix colored slightly, my own cheeks burning hot, but they raised their glasses to toast, and the evening only got better from there.

We ate until we could barely move, and despite being an attempt by Melusinian chefs, the Kekropian dishes were passable. Mildmay, in particular, seemed to enjoy them more than Mehitabel and Felix; between the two of us, we managed to polish off at least half of each plate, as Felix and Mehitabel made snide, harmless comments about how we had no tastebuds.

It was surprisingly fun, and I found myself laughing more than I had in the last year, a feat I hadn't imagined possible. Once we were done eating, the three of them gave me gifts: a new book from Mildmay, who assured me his "cadeskiff friend" recommended it with the highest praise. Mehitabel presented me with a beautiful scarf, deep emerald with gold trim. And from Felix, a wax tablet replete with stylus. "So that you don't have to keep scraps of paper in your pockets," he explained. It was, truly, one of the most thoughtful things I had ever received, and I realized with a jolt that it may be the closest I might ever get to being able to speak again. I clutched it to my chest, before writing thank you, and Mehitabel clapped when she saw it.

After dinner, a few of Mehitabel's acting troupe members came in and performed an abbreviated version of The Tragedy of Saints, a play I'd mentioned wanting to see before the events in Aiaia. It was excessively, certainly, but so wholly surprising and enjoyable that I forgave Felix and Mehitabel for planning it out. The actors she'd joined up with were very talented, and despite its pared down state, I was just as enthralled with their performance as I might have been with a full set and cast.

It was a lovely evening. Once we were done, Felix called for the waitstaff to clear the dishes; Mehitabel's troupe stayed to have some wine with us, and we spent the rest of the time chatting and generally enjoying each others' companies. I had not ever expected this, and when things finally drew to a close, I found it a little bittersweet, wondering if most birthdays were quite so wonderful. I knew it couldn't be possible, but still — if it were, I don't think I might have minded it every so often.

I kissed Felix's cheek as we readied for bed, thanking him quietly. He offered me a smile, and we fell asleep curled together, comfortable and peaceful.

Perhaps there was some merit to celebrating one's birthday, after all.

#doctrine of labyrinths #felix harrowgate #gideon thraxios #mehitabel parr #mildmay foxe #yuletide #kieran writes

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