#and with the way the Emperors slept around there should be plenty of bastards that escaped the Empress' filicides

[sharper-than-a-serpents-tooth]

that blonde haired blue eyed attendant who appeared during the council of the great dukes is an illegitimate de Alger Obelia bastard to me

someone was trying to pull a Roger Alpheus but Anastacius beat them to it

[maggiec70]

The Fictional Take on Jean-Claude

As I've said before, fiction often presents the opportunity to write really nest things and in an engaging way that non-fiction, especially the historical type, rarely allows. So here is yet another scene from the Longest-Running WIP, this one about Jean-Claude, and what Jean-Boy thinks of this entire mess for which he was responsible:

Mariana sat opposite Jean in a small paneled study tucked away at the rear of the house. The two south-facing windows stood open, midmorning sunlight falling across the country pine table, a faint breeze stirring the edges of papers spread out in front of him. While she went to Mass, Jean spent his Sunday mornings with account books and other documents. She knew how little his extravagant properties in Paris and Saint-Germain-en-Laye meant to him, and he cared nothing about their management. He’d bought them both at Louise’s insistence and the emperor’s decree, as he’d often reminded her. Yet his acres, vineyards, farms, and other properties here mattered very much. She had felt his deep-rooted attachment from the first day she’d come to Lectoure and walked into this house. For a long, peaceful moment broken only by the scratching of his pen and a dove cooing on the window ledge, she pictured Louise living luxuriously in Paris. In contrast, she and Jean lived here in simple bucolic harmony. A perfect dream—she and the seigneur of this lovely hill town, the lord of a small realm who didn’t care if he got dirt on his hands and his breeches and who could—and did—pick grapes with the best of his tenant farmers.

“I waited for you before having coffee,” Jean said, and her sweet fantasy popped like champagne bubbles. “How was Mass?”

“Spiritually refreshing, as always. You should go,” Mariana replied and rose to fetch the coffee. She returned a few moments later and set a tray on one end of the table, away from the inkpot and the account books. “I saw a young boy, perhaps a year or two older than Augie, after Mass,” she said, pouring the coffee from an earthenware pot and sliding a cup over to Jean. “He must live in that house across from the cathedral, the one with the three iron balls over the gate. He was playing with an enormous fluffy white dog in the courtyard.”

Jean set his cup aside, untouched, and gazed out the window. His face was suddenly as featureless as a frozen plain scoured by a cruel winter wind. “Nothing unusual about that. There are plenty of children from one end of town to the other. Plenty of dogs, too.” He spoke to the windows, not to her, and his tone was flat.

Mariana swallowed half her coffee and leaned forward, the cup cradled in her hands. “This boy looked so much like you that I stopped where I was and stared at him. He saw me and grinned back, as you sometimes do, with a little wave more like a salute. Who is he? Do you know him?”

Jean stood in a single fluid motion and strode to the windows, his back to her. The silence spun out, no longer peaceful but heavy with something she couldn’t identify. Dread, perhaps, or anger, even fear. She could almost see a dark aura settle around him despite the bright summer sun, and leaned back in her chair, coffee forgotten, everything forgotten. He turned from the windows and crossed to the door, shutting it so hard with his fist that the wood rattled in its solid frame. Dragging a chair around, he sat opposite her, very close, almost touching. She didn’t move, waiting for whatever he chose to tell her, the chill of unease growing in her breast.

“We won’t speak of this again, ever. Do you understand?”

She gazed back at him. The blank expression and flat, unemotional tone had gone. Now his eyes were dark, as stormy as the Irish Sea when she had crossed it eight years ago. The lines on his face cut deep and stark, his voice harsh. Suddenly she wanted her coffee, but the cup was out of reach, and she dared not move.

“I understand.” Her voice was no more than a dry whisper, the best she could manage.

“I told you once that Polette, my first wife, was a flirt and liked anyone in a uniform. Do you remember?”

“I remember.”

“She married me because of my rank, the amount of gold braid on my uniform, and because I told her a good story. She told good stories too, and so did her mother, as it turned out. Afterward, all Polette wanted was money, status, and a big house, the biggest in town. Our marriage was already in ruins when I met you. I told you that, but not in any detail. It didn’t improve later that summer, when she insisted on coming to Lombardy—” Her gasp interrupted him, but only for a second or so. “She got nothing from me then, Mariana, other than some jewelry and a gown or two to wear to Bonaparte’s festivities at Mombello. Nothing—do you understand that?”

When she nodded, past the ability to speak, he continued. “It ended in Egypt, or rather because of the Egyptian campaign. We didn’t get much news in the desert, but we got enough. Some member of Bonaparte’s family cheerfully wrote him of his wife’s presumed infidelity, and my brother Bernard wrote me that Polette had given birth. Bernard was cagy about the date, but he swore it wasn’t my child, that she’d been carrying on with someone even before I’d left. Several nights later, Bonaparte drank too much wine—he rarely did, then or now—and told me women were worthless, faithless sluts, and we both would do well to cut ourselves loose the moment we returned to France.”

Jean glanced away from her to the earthenware pot beside their abandoned cups, and reached for it. He poured quickly, his hand steady, and slid her cup toward her. He did not touch his. “This isn’t Bonaparte’s story, though. It’s mine. By the time I reached Toulon in October, I was outraged, and I hated Polette, truly despised her. I’d gotten another letter from Bernard, this one telling me my mother had died. He wrote that she’d been distraught over the erroneous report that I’d been killed at Saint-Jean d’Acre, and very upset with Polette’s behavior. So I went straight to Paris with Bonaparte and left the matter of the divorce to Bernard and Dominique Montbrun, an attorney here I’d known all my life. Montbrun was a snake, utterly ruthless and doubtless unethical, but he succeeded, and that’s all I cared about. He beat Polette down at every turn, playing on her naiveté, producing witnesses who swore they’d seen her at one time or another with every male in town over the age of sixteen. No one would believe a thing she said, even when she fought back and told the truth.”

He stopped and picked up his cup, draining it in two quick gulps. Mariana was surprised he didn’t choke. When he set the empty cup down, his hand shook badly. She didn’t move and didn’t speak. It was not the time to say anything. That much was evident in his eyes, still stormy, but something else hovered there too, something she didn’t recognize. Hands clasped in her lap, tighter now, she waited for him to tell her the rest of what was already a sordid story.

“I divorced her for adultery. That was easy, and I never regretted it for a moment. I still don’t, although I often wonder if the divorce was even legal. But I never took the final, separate action that would have declared her child a bastard, deprived him of my name, and any rights to whatever I owned or would own. Montbrun hounded me about that, so did Bernard and everyone else I knew. I didn’t listen to them, and I didn’t do it. I couldn’t do it.”

She understood in a flash of painful clarity why he had not taken that final legal step. And now she recognized what had been swirling and growing stronger in his eyes—guilt, and shame. She clenched her hands tighter still and said nothing.

“Polette had traveled to Toulon before I left for Egypt, not because I wanted to see her but because she was her usual willful self. So there she was, saying she wanted to see me, be with me, before I left for what she described as the ends of the earth. I suppose the empty-headed daughter of a minor bank official from Perpignan did think Egypt was the end of the world.” He looked down, but there was nothing to see but their knees nearly touching and the tips of their shoes touching. Her nails, clipped short, dug into her palms, and every finger ached. She had no idea how she managed to breathe quietly, steadily, while at the same time, her heart lurched from side to side, and her mind raced in frantic circles.

“I slept with her, Mariana, somewhere north of Toulon, in a nondescript posthouse I don’t recall to this day. And not just once. I admit that to you now just as I admitted it to myself then. Yes, I could count. For selfish purposes, for wounded Gascon pride, for whatever pointless reasons you can imagine, I refused to acknowledge that child publicly because I hated his mother so much that I wanted to get rid of her at any cost. Because I knew the real possibility—the real probability—that the child was mine, I couldn’t sever that last legal tie. Now it’s too late.”

She forced herself to tamp down the emotions roiling up and clamoring to spill out in a loud and messy pile in her lap or his. She breathed steadily, certain that her nostrils were flaring like Odysseus’s did after a hard gallop, and struggled to keep her face calm, expressionless. Surely he could see what must be flashing in her eyes. If he did, he should run from it.

“Polette remarried a year or so later to a respectable and prosperous man who treats them both well. Jean-Claude has a step-father, two step-sisters, a step-brother, and a mother who dotes on him. He’s happy and cared for. He always has been, I believe.”

Mariana stood so quickly that her wooden chair rocked on its back legs and crashed to the floor. Stepping around it, she moved to the windows, where the warm breeze cooled the heat rising from her breast and up her neck to her cheeks. She unclenched her hands and flexed her fingers, not caring that her breath came in short, audible puffs.

“I was afraid you’d be upset—”

“Upset? Oh, yes, upset, and furious,” she replied, whirling around to face him. “Not for the reasons you think, you and your stupid male pride. I’m not angry because you had sex with your wife after you’d made all sorts of promises to me. I’m infuriated because you allowed Bonaparte to influence you—again—and poison your mind. You never stopped to think for yourself. You didn’t weigh what your brother said or what your lawyer did and come to your own conclusions. You let other people make intensely personal decisions for you. Worse, you never thought about how your dreadfully cavalier actions might affect other people, especially that little boy. That’s what makes me so furious with you. Sweet Mother of God, has Louise ever seen him?”

“She doesn’t know about Jean-Claude, and she’s never seen him.”

“That’s something to be grateful for, I suppose.” Mariana remained by the window, thumbs hooked in her sash. Even from this distance, she saw that shame was writ large on his face and was glad. She had many things she wanted to say, all of them sharp and hurtful, and none of them serving any useful purpose.

“How do you think Louise would handle a challenge to your estate from this young boy if anything happened to you?”

“I’d hate to think of what she’d do to protect Augie and the boys, even little Joséphine, from anyone challenging what she believes belongs to them and to her. She’d be lethal, like a lioness with new cubs.”

“So, Jean, because of your pride and pigheadedness, six children and two women may well find themselves in an impossible legal situation at some point. Of course, you won’t be around to see what a disaster you’ve created. Did this never occur to you? It’s not as if they would be squabbling over a ten-acre vineyard, either. People unused to wealth, status, and possessions often lose their reason when those things become part of a vast inheritance.” She picked up the chair and collapsed onto it, hands on her knees, and concentrated on catching her breath from the last outburst before beginning the next. Judging from Jean’s expression, she would have ample time to recover. Beneath the guilt and shame, a slight glint of hope swam to the surface of his eyes. She had seen this before, not often, but enough to know he wanted her to make it right and patch up—or clean up—whatever mess he’d made of something. Not this time, though, and not the way he wanted.

“I can’t help you with this. It’s a matter for lawyers, a roomful of them. It’s also up to you, and only you, to decide if you will acknowledge him as your son, perhaps not in the legal sense, but in the most elemental, personal way. But it might be too late now for even that.” She rubbed her forehead, over her right eye, where a headache had taken hold. “What would you do, Jean, if I had your child, unlikely as that may be?”

“Take care of you and of the child. You know I would, so why ask?”

She stood, her anger spiking along with the persistent throbbing in her temple. “Polette might have thought you’d do the same for her and Jean-Claude. She was wrong, as it turned out. I asked because we’ve spent the past half-hour discussing a child you didn’t take care of. You’ll do it, now, though, by all the saints, you will! Somewhere in these books and papers you care so much about is a tidy inheritance for Jean-Claude. You probably can’t touch what the emperor’s given you, and it wouldn’t be fair to Louise and Augie. But these lands and properties are yours to give. So do it, and do it now. I want to see what you’ve drawn up, ready for a lawyer’s finishing touches, when I get back. I will choose the lawyer for this task, however. No more unethical snakes.”

“Where are you going?”

“To light a candle for your son and an even bigger one for you.”

[jasontoddiefor]

Tiny Emperor Luke AU back at it again with Vader and Luke getting away from Tatooine or as I call it “Vader discovered possessive determiners and angsts a lot about stolen opportunities”

The child slept for hours, unmoving and if not for the steady hum of the Force and the movement of his chest, Vader would have thought the boy dead. The fear clawed at his insides badly enough that he abandoned the ship entirely to the autopilot so he could sit at the child’s side.

His child, his son.

He was named Luke. Vader had seen Padmé’s funeral, had watched its recordings countless times and visited her grave more often than he ought to. The memory of crushing her throat beneath his fingers made him want to choke. It hadn’t been supposed to be this way. It should be her orders he was following, her will he should be executing, their child they should be raising. Had she even had the chance to name him or had that right be stolen from them as well?

Someone must have brought Luke to Tatooine, told him of his heritage, but who would? Certainly not Kenobi, no. He had buried Anakin Skywalker, betrayed him and left him for dead like every Jedi. Obi-Wan hadn’t known love, wouldn’t know its shape if he were forced to describe it.

His son stirred.

Vader had wanted to take him out of the dirty clothes, but he had nothing else on board but one change of Trooper armor. He supposed the undersuit could be adjusted. His child shouldn’t be dressed in filth. Had Vader raised him, Luke wouldn’t know the feeling of rough garbs on his skin, the durable, harsh clothes Anakin had loathed so much on Tatooine and had been more than happy to burn when he’d gotten to the Jedi Temple.

“Sleep,” Vader ordered and then, hesitantly, reached out to the boy in body and spirit.

He carefully put his hand on Luke’s chest, felt it rise and fall beneath his palm. His son was still breathing, he was well. OF course, the med droid on board and its readings had confirmed as much as well, but machines, no matter how well crafted, could never make up for flesh or the precision of the Force.

Luke was injured, but not so much that bacta wouldn’t be able to heal him. He had plenty of that on Mustafar, as well as discretion. Nobody could know of Luke, the Emperor would ruin his son with his lies as he had brought Vader’s ruin.  Sidious would never even step into the same room as his son, Vader would ensure it by all means possible.

Reaching out to Luke with his mind was easier and more difficult at the same time. He was not lacking a limb now, but at the same time it felt like it. Vader’s presence had always burned others. It was the reason brute mindtricks had never worked well on him, he usually felt it when others cut themselves on the harsh fragments of glass Vader surrounded his mind with. When he attempted the same nowadays, it was usually to tear through memories and cause as much damage and pain as he could.

Vader couldn’t recall the last time he had been gentle to anyone.

But Luke’s mind was already in tatters. Wide-open like a traumatized youngling whose defenses had been torn to shreds. Should Vader delve in like this, he would only hurt his child more. He needed true peace and calm, but he hadn’t sought either in almost a decade. It simply hadn’t been possible with the way his body and mind ached, the rage and anger he contained and couldn’t and didn’t want to let go of. It made him stronger, he needed it if he were to destroy Sidious for his lies and yes, now, watching his child struggle to breathe, they could not aid him.

He needed to know how well his son was fairing though. The droids and scans couldn’t tell him what damage those worthless bastards had done to Luke’s mind. His cry in the Force had been so terrible Vader had mistaken it for his own. The last time he’d witnessed such horror-

It was better not to dwell.

Vader opened his mind to the Force and its many perceptions. The Jedi had never truly understood how it worked. They’d always spoken about listening for its whispers and signs, never what to do when an entire orchestra was playing in your mind, each strand of fate occupied with another destiny, another tone, and all of them were determined to make him listen.

Luke’s melody was a silent one, stuttering and not yet settled, but already with so much promise. His son was powerful, as Vader had known he would be. There was no thinking what would have happened had Vader not found him. It was unacceptable to consider that Jabba would have diminished this light.

Carefully, so much more gently than Vader ever had, he attempted to follow Luke’s song. And then, like he had walked miles in the desert and was starved for water, Luke pulled back. His grip was clumsy, unpracticed, untrained. He likely never had felt another Force-sensitive reach out and now latched onto the contact. Vader let himself be pulled along, dragged deep down into a memory, until he crashed onto an imaginary ground.

Dust settled in his lungs and he was forced to cough. Sand stuck to his hands and scalp unpleasantly and even though it was imaginary, instinctively Vader reached out to brush it out of his hair.

He disliked the sensation. Even in his own meditations, he hardly could banish Skywalker’s image. It seemed to taunt him whenever he relived his own memories. Brushing sand off his dark robes, Vader stood up. They didn’t look like Jedi robes, nor anything he was used to wearing, but this wasn’t his mind. His image merely shaped by how Luke perceived him.

Looking around, Vader found that he was standing in a room that was tainted by bitter memories for him. This was the farm his mother had lived at, where she had been buried. It would be so easy to fall into that anger again, but instead his attention was caught by the machinery scattered around the floor. Droid parts, clumsily attached like whoever had worked on them hadn’t been too skilled at it, yet. A mere beginner slowly learning how to work. Amongst the metal also laid ship models, carved out of japor wood and painted colorfully. These were children’s toys, Vader realized.

It made sense that they would be here, in Luke’s mind. His son must have grown up with his grandmother’s chosen family, and yet, looking at them, Vader was amazed. He picked one of the ship models up and was astonished by how infused it was with joy, happiness, light and home. The emotions were so vibrant, they felt like old wounds tearing open again. He quickly dropped the ship again and it clattered to the ground.

“That’s mine.”

Vader turned around to the other end of the room. The boy standing there was tanned, from Tatooine’s suns no questions about that, and his hair was as light as spun gold. His eyes, big and weary, were as blue as Naboo’s lakes, the same color Vader’s eyes used to be. Through Vader’s red-tinted lenses, he hadn’t been able to perceive his son in such a way, but now he never wanted to look away from him.

His son was all his and Padmé’s endless hours of dreaming of their child given from. So many precious late nights and early mornings, before and after the nightmares, they’d laughed and whispered about it. They’d dared to imagine how their precious child would look and he was perfect, more than Vader had ever imagined, perhaps already just because he was alive.

Living, as reality had taught him, was the hardest trial to endure.

“Did you make it?” Vader heard himself ask as the toy ship floated into Luke’s arms.

It was strange to notice that his voice sounded as it used to, that speaking didn’t cause him pain.

“No.” Luke shook his head. “It was a gift.”

“From whom?”

“I don’t know.”

Vader imagined catching a flicker of regret, love and melancholy, but it wasn’t enough to get a clear image. Their surroundings began to flicker as Luke grew unsure. The feeling of darkness and fear slowly trickled into the room.

“Are you staying?” Luke asked, clutching the toy as if it were made from soft fabric instead of hard wood. Then, more desperate, he added, “I don’t want to be alone again.”

“I’m never leaving you again,” Vader vowed.

He’d burn down the galaxy before he let anything or anyone separate him from his son again.

Vader slowly sunk to his knees, bowed not in front of his despised Master, but his dear beloved child. Luke apparently understood the gesture for what it was and promptly flung himself into Vader’s arms. He buried his head in the crook of Vader’s neck, hiding away his face.

“I knew you’d come,” Luke stuttered out in-between sobs. “I always knew you’d come back for me.”

“Of course,” Vader agreed. “It was the will of the Force.”

The Force had reunited them and it would lead them from now onwards. Vader could feel his son’s natural shields slowly repairing and yet they weren’t throwing him out. His son was well, the slavers’ torment hadn’t fractured his mind as he had assumed. Reassured of Luke’s health, Vader decided he must turn to consciousness.

“Come on now, young one. It is time to wake up.”

It was time they met face-to-face outside of dreams.

[frozenartscapes]

Count Varley loomed over her like he always did. Bernadetta shrank into herself, trying to make herself as small as possible. Maybe he’ll lose interest if he can’t see her.

“More failure, I see,” he growled, reaching down and grabbing her roughly by the wrist, “We will have to do something about that, won’t we?”

She couldn’t even remember why she had to return home to speak with her father. She was far too frightened to think clearly. “F...Father, please!” she begged, “I...I can be good, I swear! Just give me one more chance!”

“I’m through giving you chances,” he said, producing an old rope from behind his back and moving to tie her hands together, “When I’m done with you, no one will ever remember you existed, you miserable little cretin.”

“Hey! Look who’s talking.”

Bernadetta felt the blood leave her face. No. She can’t be here right now. Doesn’t she know what he can do to people like her? Her mind raced back to the little servant boy she befriended, and his poor, broken body at her feet after her father found out.

Dorothea, however, didn’t even flinch under Count Varley’s gaze as his menacing eyes locked onto her. “What did you say, peasant?” he hissed.

“I believe she likened you to a cretin,” Petra said, stepping out from behind Dorothea with a knife drawn, “And while I might not be familiar with that word, there are plenty I can think of to describe you.”

Count Varley scoffed. “Ah. The ‘Princess’ of Brigid,” he sneered mockingly, “I’m surprised that place is cultured enough to even have a monarchy.”

“You’re damn right it is! Certainly more cultured than you, you old bastard!” Caspar’s booming voice made him spin around. Bernadetta felt his grip on her tighten, but fear was starting to creep into his face.

“I would suggest releasing our friend,” Lindhardt said with a tired sigh, “I’d rather not have to, but I will resort to drastic measures if I must. And I know everyone else will, too.”

“I really must insist you do as we say, Count Varley. It would be a great dishonour to House Varley should we have to deal with you.”

Count Varley glared at the newcomer. “Von Aegir,” he spat, “You little nuisance! Our noble Houses have been allies for centuries. You dare defy that now all for my miserable little spawn?”

“Say any more despicable things like that, and they’ll be the last you’ll ever say.” Hubert’s cold, unforgiving voice was enough to finally scare him into releasing Bernadetta.

Bernadetta wasted no time, scooting back on the floor as far from her father as she could get. She was stopped suddenly when she collided with something firm, rigid, unmovable. At first she thought it was a wall. But then the obstacle shifted behind her, and a gentle, gloved hand came to rest on her shoulder.

Her eyes met warm, soft lilac eyes and a comforting smile to match. Bernadetta stared up at her, at the future Emperor, mouth opening and closing as she struggled to find her words. Edelgard merely nodded, giving confirmation to her teammate’s unspoken question.

Her face changed then, as she looked away. As Edelgard’s focus fell on Count Varley, Bernadetta watched her change from the future Emperor to the Emperor. Proud and fierce and bold and powerful. She stepped forward, producing an iron axe from behind her back, and displayed it across Bernadetta’s front, separating her from her father. Edelgard might be short, but she was unmovable now: a wall between Bernadetta and her abusive father.

It was the first time Bernadetta had ever seen her father look small.

“Count Varley,” Edelgard stated, her voice as strong and authoritative as her Empire, “It has come to my attention that all is not well in your Household.” She brandished her axe - a heavy, sharp, deadly thing she hoisted around as if it were as light as a feather. “I think it’s high time we have a little chat about it.”

---

Bernadetta awoke from her dream with a smile on her face. That was...odd. Normally her dreams were terrifying. Twisted, distorted memories of her horrid father and all the things he had done to her.

But this dream...hadn’t been that.

She couldn’t remember the last time she felt so well-rested. She practically leapt out of bed, breathing in a deep sigh of relief. So this is was a good night’s rest felt like! No wonder people recommended it!

She had so much pep and energy in her that morning that she hadn’t even realized she had happily made it about halfway to her morning class and hadn’t once worried about being outside her room. She even said hi to someone! Someone she didn’t know!

Goddess, what was happening to her?

She entered her classroom to find all of the other Black Eagles already there. Hubert and Ferdinand appeared to be bickering about something. Lindhardt was sound asleep at his desk and Caspar was attempting to balance an apple on his head without waking him. Petra was going over her notes, but paused to give her a happy wave of greeting, which Bernadetta shyly returned.

“Bern! There you are!” Dorothea’s eager voice surprised her, causing her to jump a little, but the songstress didn’t seem to notice. “You weren’t at breakfast this morning and they had made those muffins I know you love so much so I swipe a couple extra. Here!” She produced a small brown paper bag, the scent of those heavenly strawberry muffins strong enough to permeate the paper.

“Oh, Dorothea! Thank you!” Bernadetta said happily, “I...I don’t know what to say, really! I mean... I did miss breakfast! You didn’t have to just because I-”

“Bernadetta, it’s ok,” Dorothea assured her, pushing the bag into her hands before she could protest anymore, “I just wanted to look out for you. That’s what friends do, right?”

“R...right...” Friends. She should have panicked at that. She...she shouldn’t be friends with someone like Dorothea, for Dorothea’s own safety. And yet...

“Bernadetta. Good morning,” Edelgard’s voice was calm and cool as always, but her eyes were warm, “I trust you slept well?”

Bernadetta glanced around the room again. At her classmates. Her fellow Eagles. Her friends. People who would drop everything to protect her, and who she would find the courage to protect as best she could.

The people who had appeared in her nightmare last night, and stopped it from being a nightmare.

“Yeah,” she replied, a large smile on her face, “I had the best dream!”

---

AN: From my list of things I wish we could have seen but would have taken way too much work to produce in FE3H: The Black Eagles (or whatever House Bernadetta gets recruited to) going to have a little “chat” with Count Varley after they learn what the bastard did to Bernie.

I have a feeling Edelgard, in particular, wouldn’t exactly be very pleased to hear it.