#i’m thinking pepper as queen clarisse

[two-sheep-in-one-wolfs-clothing]

if i were to write a parkner princess diaries au, which one would play the role of mia? please help lol

(peter would still be spider-man)

[demigodsanswer]

What are everyones favorite songs/bands?

(all links go to Youtube)

Percy: It’s been said before, but this boy is a music snob. He only listens to “real music” and for sure has London Calling and Sticky Fingers on vinyl. Sally can always tell when he’s had a bad day, because he comes home and listens to The Wall (because he’s a drama queen). Bisexual music snob Percy for sure has this poster of Jim Morrison on his wall, and not just because he’s a fan of The Doors: 

He is also a fan of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. His favorite song by them is “Easily” (some of the lyrics are: “The story of a woman on the morning of a war / Remind me, if you will, exactly what we're fighting for / Throw me to the wolves because there's order in the pack / Throw me to the sky because I know I'm coming back”). He’s also a fan of Rise Against, and his favorite album by them is Appeal to Reason. 

Annabeth: Listen, I’m gonna say something potentially controversial, but it’s something I believe very strongly in. Annabeth is a Britney Spears fan. Hard core. She was born in 1993 and got to camp in 2000. You know that older girls at camp were all learning the dance moves to “Oops I Did It Again” and she learned with them. In 2007, when Britney had her breakdown, Annabeth looked back on her own past three years - the quest for the lightning bolt, the sea of monsters, holding up the sky, and going into the Labyrinth, and she just thought “Oh okay. I’m not gonna do it, but I totally get it.”

And for a while she hid this, writing it off as a guilty pleasure. But then, somewhere after the war with Gaia, she was finally like “fuck it. I’m Annabeth Chase, I’ve saved the world, I redesigned Olympus. I like Britney Spears and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.” Now she’ll unironically say things like: “I didn’t like the Greatest Showman, I thought it was too derivative of the Britney Spears Circus music video.” This does annoy her music snob boyfriend to no end, but she just responds to his complaints with: “I’m sorry, I can’t hear you over how much fun I’m having.” 

Grover: I feel like he and Percy just chill in the woods and listen to the Grateful Dead while Grover plays covers of their songs on his reed pipes. 

Nico: This is also potentially controversial. I don’t think he’d really like pop punk or emo music. I think that he’d actually really enjoy more mellow indie-folk music. I think he’d love Hozier (favorite song is “Be” and “In a Week”. He also loves Hadestown, both the musical and the original concept album. Besides Hozier, he also loves the band the Oh Hellos. His favorite song by them (and possibly his favorite song of all time) is “Dear Wormwood.” 

Thalia: Green Day, but especially newer Green Day. She did not pay attention to the parental advisory warning on American Idiot and now she’s gay and she hates the government. Her favorite song is “Letterbomb,” and, although she’s not a fan of musical theater generally, she has to admit that Rebecca Naomi Jones killed that song on the musical album. 

Piper: I don’t know what her favorite band would be, but she for sure has the energy of someone who says “Oh yeah, I like Panic! at the Disco, but only their early stuff, like A Fever You Can’t Swear Out and Pretty Odd.” But then she secretly jams to Prey for the Wicked. 

Leo: He for sure likes comedy music, like Bo Burnham (favorite song is the Kanye Rant) and Lewberger’s “White People Taco Night.”

Jason: Jason has the energy of a white boy who loves the Beatles. His favorite song is probably “While My Guitar Gently Weeps.” His favorite movie is “Across the Universe.” 

Hazel: I don’t know what her favorite band/singer/song would be, but I do know that Jason tried to get her to listen to Abby Road once, and she laughed in his face. 

Frank: I think that Frank just vibes with everything. Doesn’t matter what it is. Spotify is so confused by what to recommend him, because he’s just got the most eclectic playlists. The algorithm is like “Do you want show tunes? KPop? Rock? R&B? What do you want??”

Clarisse: I don’t think she’d really care about music that much, she just wants music thats upbeat to workout to. If she were to go to a band’s concert live, she’d probably go see the Dropkick Murphy's; they’re probably the only band that she actually listens to when she’s not working out (she prefers audiobooks and podcasts for things like commutes to work/class and downtime). Her favorite song by them is “Rose Tattoo.” One time, she wore a Murphy’s tee shirt to a bar, and the bartender asked if she was from Boston or if she was Irish, and she just said: “No, but I’m white and violent, so I feel spiritually connected to them.”

Will: I think that he’d be the one to be obsessed with early 2000s pop punk and emo music. Fall Out Boy, Taking Back Sunday, Say Anything, all of it. He hears the opening chords to “Cute Without the E” and he loses his damn mind. 

I can’t do everyone, because I’ve pretty much only listened to the same 48 songs for the last decade. Also my youtube algorithm is not fucked from searching for all this music. 

[blueboxesandtrafficcones]

Queen of Hearts - Chapter 5

Thirty-year-old Rose Tyler’s matchmaking business is doing very well indeed, bringing her clients such as celebrities, athletes, and the now-happily-married son of the mayor.  All of which brings her to her newest client - one whose royal rank is a far cry above her own title as Queen of Hearts.

Ian, King of Gallifrey, calls off his wedding four weeks before the happy day as he realizes he can’t spend another minute of his life with his betrothed.  The catch - he must take a wife before his Coronation, only a month away.  In desperation, his sister and aunt conspire to find him is happy ever after - and it’s going to take a master matchmaker to do it.

-

Based on the Hallmark Movie ‘Royal Matchmaker’.  Chapters will be posted every Sunday.

As always, beta’d by the wonderful @stupidsatsuma​!  @doctorroseprompts

Masterlist  |  AO3

—

Wednesday, April 3rd (continued)

Rose shivered, pulling the blanket tighter around her.  Unable to sleep, she’d decided to watch the sun rise over the Alps.  Give the likely imminent collapse of Bad Wolf Matchmaking she would never have another opportunity, once she crawled home to her mum with her tail between her legs and accepted her fate of beans on toast, never to truly escape the Estate.

It had been sweet while it lasted.

Sniffling, she rested her chin on her knees.  In a fit of self-flagellation, she’d decided the best place to watch would be from the back patio, only a few yards away from where she’d been summarily fired.

The sky flared with color, pinks and oranges streaming from behind the mountains, and her heart clenched.  Must enjoy beautiful sunrises, she couldn’t help but add to her list of requisite qualities in the future queen.  It truly was spectacular, and for only a moment, it brought her peace as she watched the sun rise.  Birds were chirping in the forest surrounding the palace and gardens, the light reflected in the still lake.

This is heaven, she thought wistfully.

When the sun had fully cleared the Alps and the dawn well turned to day, she stood up and dusted herself off.  She’d packed almost everything the night before when she couldn’t sleep, but still had a solid two hours before the first train of the morning would leave.  Mel had been given strict instructions to pack everything, though Rose doubted she had – she seemed to think a miracle would occur and they would stay.

Rose had no such hope or expectation.

Turning to go back into the house, she gasped to find the King standing a few feet behind her, watching with his arms crossed.

“Your Majesty,” she murmured, sinking into a deep curtsey, biting her lip to keep it from trembling as she kept her head bowed.  What, does he want to yell at me some more before I leave? she thought petulantly.

“Miss Tyler.”  He cleared his throat, and she chanced a peek up to see him rubbing at the back of his neck.  The King opened and closed his mouth several times before sighing heavily. “We have a full day, so we might as well get on with it.  Will you join me for breakfast?”

Oh, now he wants to meet with me.  “I’m sorry, I must finish packing.  Thank you though,” she mumbled, not quite managing to mean it.  She didn’t know what kind of game he was trying to play, but she’d have none of it.  After being yelled at as she had, she had no energy left for another verbal beating – she’d get that soon enough from her mother, though Jackie’s would be peppered with I told you so’s, by tone if not words.

“Are you leaving?” he asked innocently, and Rose’s anger congealed, head snapping up to find him smirking slightly.

“What?”

The King shrugged, sticking his hands in his pockets.  “You’re free to go if you want, but I thought you signed a contract.  Doesn’t look very good to duck out early.”

Straightening up, Rose studied him carefully in search of a trap.  At first glance, he didn’t look much like a king; more like a magician, or a uni professor.  An unzipped, black hooded sweatshirt gaped to show a Rolling Stones tee, layered over black and white plaid pants and black boots.  If she’d met him on the street, she might go so far as to wonder if he was homeless.

“I don’t understand.”

He groaned, rocking back on his heels slightly.  “Oh, don’t make me say it,” he whined, before twisting his lips into a grimace.  “Fine.  I’m sorry I yelled.  Will you stay?”  It was said with the air of a naughty preschool boy before forced to apologize to the girl he’d teased, and glancing behind him, Rose found Princess Donna and Sarah Jane peering out from the door.

Well, if he wanted her to stay, she was going to take the chance to set some terms.  “I have conditions.”

“Of course you fucking do.”  He waved his hand impatiently for her to get on with it.

“Full access, and you answer my questions open and honestly,” was her biggest one, and though he pulled a face, he nodded.  “You give me a fair chance to work.”  Another nod, and Rose dithered; those were her main concerns, but she felt she needed something else, something to not just surrender.  He might be King, but he wasn’t going to bully her.  “And, finally – you never speak to me that way again.”

“Deal.”  He held out his hand, and Rose stared blankly at it, unsure of what he wanted.  “Aren’t these sorts of things usually sealed with a handshake?”  His amused tone brought her out of her head, and she shook it firmly.

“Why?”

He seemed to understand what she meant, even if she didn’t.  “Because you were right – I love my country. And my sister.  And, maybe- if you repeat this I’ll deny it and sack you for real- maybe, the idea of a marriage and family like Donna’s got wouldn’t be the end of the world.  Perhaps, with the right woman, I might even find myself moved to embrace the idea.”

“Fair enough.”  A cool breeze blew across the patio and she shivered, pulling her blanket/shawl tighter around her shoulders.  “I have one last condition.”

“Oh, what now?”

“Tea.  Lots of tea.”

-

After a silent breakfast they parted ways, Donna to get her children up, Ian and Rose to prepare for a day of engagements.

As he dressed and Sarah reviewed his schedule, he let his thoughts drift to the young woman.  He’d seen the fire in her eyes when she spotted him this morning, recognized the initial flash of defiance before she capitulated to propriety.

Then, when he deigned to let her keep her job, she had the audacity to lecture him about his tone.  For the sour face he liked to put on, it was refreshing to have someone not so intimidated by the crown he (metaphorically) wore.  Sure, it silenced her tongue, but not her thoughts, which were so clearly written over her face.

It was a quality he hoped the wife she found for him would have, albeit with a more diplomatic bent than River had had.

He met her at the top of the stairs, and they awkwardly walked down to the entryway together, remaining in silence until they climbed into the car, Sarah already waiting there for them.

“Where are we going?” Rose asked, clearly torn between watching them and staring out the window, awe in her expression as they flew down the road.

“There’s a fountain opening, or something,” Ian replied, distracted.  She looked so amazed he wondered what she was seeing, when it all was perfectly normal and boring, the same as every other day of his life.

Sarah sighed, shaking her head fondly.  “The fountain in the main square is being dedicated to your grandmother, Queen Clarisse.”

“Right.”  Ian just shrugged; he barely remembered the woman, except for the time she’d yelled at Donna for getting a dress dirty.

“So, how does this work?” Rose asked, tearing herself away from the window as they went through the gates.  “You show up, give a speech?  Do a jig?”

“Oh, I’d love to see that,” his aunt sniggered, and he shot her a warning look.

“The mayor will give an introduction, I’ll say a few words of a prepared speech, a few pictures, snip the ribbon or whatever, then done.”

He glanced out the window, waving half-heartedly to a little girl who spotted him, though he couldn’t help grin slightly when she tugged enthusiastically on her mother’s sleeve before pointing in their direction.

“The King will usually stay for a few minutes to give his subjects a chance to speak with him,” Sarah consulted her diary as if she didn’t have every second of his day planned and memorized, “then it’s back to the palace for a call with Monaco, though I can’t allow you to sit in on that.  I’ve advised Mrs. Cooper – the cook – that you’ll be taking all meals together, except for any that are official state business.”

Ian stiffened, Rose doing so as well, but they arrived before either could respond.  Graham, his driver, opened the car door, and he decided to leave the subject be for the moment, climbing out and automatically offering his hand to Rose and Sarah.

The young matchmaker hesitated a moment before accepting, hand briefly squeezing his releasing.

All the way to his designated spot, he thought about how natural it had felt to hold her hand.

-

It was a small crowd, and Rose made a mental note to ask why the event was so poorly attended; did the Gallifreyan people not want to take an opportunity to see their king?  At home, hundreds would gather at a hospital or school or similar sort of event just for a chance of a glimpse.  Here, though, it sounded like they could shake the king’s hand or even speak to him for a moment, yet so few were present.  And half of them seemed to be reporters.

Standing at the back, she listened as he was introduced and shook hands with the mayor, before standing at the podium.  Rose was used to the royal family being the picture of poise and decorum, not to the monarch being dressed fairly casually and slouching over the podium, leaning his weight on it as though he were a uni professor giving a lecture.

The King pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it, staring at it for a long moment before shrugging and putting it away.

“Some of you may remember my grandmother, Queen Clarisse,” he started fairly conversationally.  “Though it was my grandfather who was the crowned sovereign, there is no question that she was the one who ruled.”  The audience laughed softly and Rose grinned, tension easing.  “Together they brought us through the Second World War, keeping our country united and safe.  Even after the war was over she continued to fight, leading the charge to ensure that the children of the future, as they were then, or our parents to us today, grew up strong and brave, loyal and kind.  Educated. Principled.  Because of her, we are who we are today.  She was a wonderful queen, and I hope my future wife will do as she did and more.  Thank you.”

He stepped away from the podium, heedless of the titters and whispers that sparked at the word ‘wife’.  Rose watched curiously as he stopped to speak to the mayor again, before realizing that several of the spectators were looking in her direction, the more brazen ones pointing.

Fighting back a smile, she carefully eased her way through the crowd towards the King, and he broke off his conversation as she approached.

“What did you think?” he asked, and Rose was surprised at how close to genuine his tone was, as though he actually cared for her opinion.

“She sounds like a hell of a woman,” she grinned, letting her tongue peek between her teeth.

The King blinked, seeming slightly off kilter, and her smiled slipped away as he stammered, “Er, yes, she was.  Ahem.  Hell, and a hell of a woman.  Not much of a mother or grandmother, but an excellent queen.”

“Well, nobody’s perfect,” Rose teased, relieved when he smiled.

“Except for me,” he shot back, “though I’m not sure my sister would agree.”

“Your Majesty?” the mayor cut in, and they glanced over to see him standing there awkwardly, several little old ladies behind him watching hopefully.  “A few of your subjects who remember the late Her Majesty wish to have their photograph taken with you, if it’s not too much trouble.”

The King sighed but nodded, and was instantly swarmed by half a dozen gray-haired grannies; if they were forty years younger, the casual observer would think him a rock star.

“D’you mind, dearie?” one of the women poked Rose, handing over her mobile with the camera open.

“Of course.”

It took ten minutes to get all the pictures as each lady wanted their own of the group before they started doing individual shots, the King clearly growing uncomfortable with the attention.  Rose wondered briefly as she traded one smartphone for another if she should save him, but Sarah Jane was only a few feet away and watching with a smirk so she figured it was all right, even going so far as to brightly suggest a few more groupings for the pictures.

One of the women was more persistent than the rest, begging for one last one with his arm around her, which he granted – though as soon as Rose snapped the picture he honest to God yelped, practically leaping away from the rest.

“Right, terribly sorry, got to go,” he blurted, before all but running for the car.  She had the passing thought that he looked like a penguin with his ass on fire.

Rose managed to get the mobiles back to all the women and catch up to Sarah Jane before they caught each other’s eye, and began to howl with laughter.

Maybe this job won’t be so bad after all, Rose considered, shaking her head with amusement and heading for the Bentley, wishing she’d gotten the moment on camera.  It was something she wouldn’t soon forget, no matter how this turned out.

[je-suis-clarisse]

Paris. December 1791. It appeared to be like any other night in Paris. The Jacobins and Monarchists were each at their respective meetings making plans for the future of the country, which was in the beginnings of a revolution. Inspired by the Americans, the French had taken the spirit on. And on ths particular evening, the small figure of one the Opera Garnier's ballerinas was climbing out of one of the large windows. She wasn't hungry, but she wanted to feel the cold air and just wander about. Clarisse du Volde had spent the last three years in the Irish Countryside. She wanted to be in the heart of the city again, to feel its pulse. Even though she wasn't entirely certain of what she was going to do. Wriggling out, her stockinged legs exposed for the world to see, she jumped down, smoothing out the folds of her dress, glad no one had seen her. Adjusting her hat, she took off down the streets, walking about quietly, offering a few coins to a hungry mother and child when she came upon them. She had been saving it for a new pair of boots, but perhaps next month. The Legislative Assembly had issued a decree ordering the émigrés to return to France, so it was a wonder that she was here. Though Clarisse had left at sixteen because of her marriage, she felt it best to rush home. If she was going to die, she intended to do so where she felt somewhat safe. Those who didn't return by January 1, 1792, would be suspect of conspiracy against France for which the only answer was the death penalty. She did consider not coming back, but the guillotine was harsh and she had no desire to listen to crowds cheer as the ax dropped. They were bloodthirsty, often dipping handkerchiefs in the fresh blood of some hapless victim. She had been reading the newspaper and the libelles, saddened by the vitriol and hatred whipped up for the Royals. Listening to people speak as she made her wonder why they were so cruel. She remembered meeting the queen at Versailles as a child. The woman had been the milk of kindness. She didn't imagine it to be an act. She still has the necklace the Queen has given her since it matched her eyes so perfectly. Sitting at a cafe table, Clarisse contemplated her desire to remain on earth dwindling more and more. She had wanted to die since her dear son's stillbirth. The one thing she had wanted most--to die--had been denied her in the cruelest way. She didn't want to kill to survive, even though she'd proved rather adept at it. Brushing her fingers over the place where Colin's fangs had pierced her porcelain flesh, she sighed. She should be back at the opera house. Safe within, she could be awake during the day and worry little about the sun. There were no windows near the stage. The ballet corps teacher had also seen to Clarisse getting a room with no window. It had once been a costume closet, thus it wasn't too small. It wasn't hard to slip back inside. She knew the entire show by heart. Yet...would she even be there? The idea and yearning for a peaceful end plagued her. A few moments in the sun and that would be it. She would be ash. And if there was a breeze, it would spread her everywhere. She would be no more. And beside her brother, she didn't think anyone would care. Perhaps that strange man she had befriended. But she didn't even know his first name; only caldwell. He'd come to visit unexpectedly a number of times. Once, he had let her out of the gun closet, having heard her cries. But she had begged him not to visit anymore once she found out she was with child. "You look like you have the world on your shoulders," a male voice broke the silence that had lingered in the air and Clarisse looked up slowly at the dark haired male. There was some familiarity to him and yet, she couldn't place him. Perhaps she had seen him in the audience? She was quite certain they'd never met. He was looking at her in such a way that she half felt the need to plaster a smile she didn't feel on her face. The newly turned vampire still wore her misery for all to see. She didn't care what people thought of her yet, she felt that she should care. With the world going mad around them, she was but a face in the crowd. But she let her eyes dart up and she met the gaze of the man before her. "You could say that," she spoke hoarsely. Clearing her throat, she motioned for him to join her if he so chose. She hoped he didn't order anything to drink because she couldn't afford it. "What's your name?" He asked, with an unfamiliar accent peppering his words. 'Clarisse. Clarisse O'Call--du Volde." "O'Call-du Volde? That's an odd one." "That was my married name. I'm not married anymore. It's du Volde. Clarisse du Volde." "You got a story, Risse?" Eyebrows lifted at the shortening of her name, lips curving faintly into something resembling a smile. "Everyone has a story," she began. " Mine...it seems stupid to complain. I'm newly widowed and I miss my son." "Sorry 'bout your husband. Where's your kid?" The question sent the young woman into a state of tears. Her body seemingly paralyzed by grief as she began to weep before this stranger. It was just a month ago that he had left this world and come into it. The memory of his perfect little body in her arms, still and calm. His face had been serene as she had gazed upon him. He truly looked as though he were asleep. His hair was black as coal, just as his father's hair was. He had strongly resembled his father except for the gentle curve of his nose and his fingers were long. She had thought to herself that someday he might play piano or violin like herself. Maybe he'd be a painter. All of these thoughts flooded her mind and struck her heart repeatedly like a dagger. Clarisse tried to keep it together, but a sob escaped her and she began to weep openly, glad of the night and dim lights surrounding them as they sat together. "I'd give anything to join my boy," she whimpered, thinking of all the pain she'd felt. She was tired of feeling worthless, useless. She was tired of the pain and of her loneliness. She wanted friends and yet, when she tried to make them, the other women laughed. She was too short, too curvy, too poor. (For now. Her inheritance would be hers when she turned 21.) But the loss of wee little Padraig, the pain of that was sharper than anything she had ever felt before. "From the day I was born, my mother made it known she didn't want me. She thought if she didn't push, I'd suffocate. She tried to do so with a pillow a number of times, she tried to starve me, she beat me. My one sister beat me up daily. My eldest sister died when I was eight. My brother is in Rome, as a priest. My husband, that bastard, beat me. Raped me. Locked me in his gun closet. Shared me with his friends. I have few memories of a good life. I thought being a mother would change my life because there would be someone I could love. My son...he was perfect. I felt him within me. I felt him move. I felt him kick. I saw his foot press against me and I could see the very outline. Five perfect toes and a small little foot that I hoped would someday leave a big imprint in this world. But he was a big boy. And I'm small as you can see. The cord wrapped about his neck. My labor was long and there was nothing the midwife could do." She gasped for a breath as she looked to the man across from her. "And he's alone now, buried in an unmarked grave in Ireland. I plan, when I get my inheritance, to get him a good headstone. I know exactly where he is. And I know that my former husband...I don't think he's dead. But I tried. I threw a lantern at him." She felt amazing once she let it all out. But Clarisse was in pain still. "Besides my brother, there isn't a soul on this earth who cares if I live or die." Her companion said nothing for a short while, simply sitting with her. Clarisse was, admittedly, surprised. No one ever really listened to her when she "blubbered" as her mother used to call it. Crying was a waste because eyes got puffy and her nose turned red, rather it used to. "I'm sorry. You don't want to hear this," she apologized. Reaching for her handkerchief, she wiped at her eyes and nose, trying to gather herself again. Yet, her companion didn't seem bothered. Rather, he seemed calm and collected, understanding that sometimes one had to cry. At least he didn't scream at her. It was hard for her to realise that wasn't the proper reaction. "I don't bullsh*t people, woman. I'm not going to do that to you. People have treated you like sh*t most of your life. And you've gotten a really f***ing bad end of things. It's not pleasant." He began, his dark eyes alight with a fierceness that she had never seen. Clarisse looked at him, awestruck that he would speak this freely to her. Most men tried to speak gingerly and politely, but not this fellow. She appreciated his candor. "I can't tell you how sorry I am that your son died. I've lost people too. And it hurts. A mother's pain though? I'm never going to say I understand that. But you wanting to die? That's not going to solve anything. Death is a very permanant solution to momentary pain. And you're a vampire. So this time period is really short. You being turned might have been a catalyst." "A cata-what?" She asked, embarrassed for her lack of schooling, not even questioning how he knew that she was a vampire. "It's the beginning," he reiterated for her, giving her hand a pat. "This could be the beginning of a whole new life. You can do what you want. You can BE who you want. That's the ultimate f*** you to everyone who ever hurt you. They expect you to give up but don't. Don't give them the satisfaction. F*** them. All of 'em. Except for your boy. I bet he'd want to know you were living your life and kicking ass while doing it." He sat back in his seat, ordering two hot chocolates. They were all the rage. Dropping the coins in the waiter's hands, and ignoring as she attempted to give him the coin for hers, he continued. "Life is precious. You get one chance. Be it long or short. You're young. You're what? Nineteen? You're a baby. Yeah, you've faced hell, but you're a kid. And you're just getting started. Take it from someone who knows Death really well. take this second chance." Taking up the mug, she inhaled. She hadn't tried human food since her death and so she took a sip, savoring it. Mon Dieu, this was bliss and as she listened, her interest was piqued as she noticed his hands fiddling with a book. Something told her not to press to ask what he was reading. His words were truthful. How better to spite everyone? Yet, was she strong enough? Perhaps she ought to try. "This has been rather...illuminating," she mused as she rose to leave once they had each finished their beverage. She looked towards him again, taking note of the fact that he wasn't wearing a cockade. "Here," she spoke, unpinning it from her hat and putting it on his jacket, leaving him no time to object. "The Jacobins will be less likely to bother me without one. You take this one; they would try to imprison you without it." Leaning in, she pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. "Maybe we shall meet again someday. And I will buy you supper. Be well, mon amie." She looked to a small group wandering down the street drunkenly, rolling her eyes. "And be careful," she added, turning around and blinking. He was gone. "Mon Dieu..." she laughed, for the first time in weeks. If for no other reason, she had to know what and who he was. What was with men not telling her their names lately? It was peculiar, but honestly, her life would never be normal again, would it?

[je-suis-clarisse]

Paris. December 1791. It appeared to be like any other night in Paris. The Jacobins and Monarchists were each at their respective meetings making plans for the future of the country, which was in the beginnings of a revolution. Inspired by the Americans, the French had taken the spirit on. And on this particular evening, the small figure of one the Opera Garnier's ballerinas was climbing out of one of the large windows. She wasn't hungry, but she wanted to feel the cold air and just wander about. Clarisse du Volde had spent the last three years in the Irish Countryside. She wanted to be in the heart of the city again, to feel its pulse. Even though she wasn't entirely certain of what she was going to do. Wriggling out, her stockinged legs exposed for the world to see, she jumped down, smoothing out the folds of her dress, glad no one had seen her. Adjusting her hat, she took off down the streets, walking about quietly, offering a few coins to a hungry mother and child when she came upon them. She had been saving it for a new pair of boots, but perhaps next month. The Legislative Assembly had issued a decree ordering the émigrés to return to France, so it was a wonder that she was here. Though Clarisse had left at sixteen because of her marriage, she felt it best to rush home. If she was going to die, she intended to do so where she felt somewhat safe. Those who didn't return by January 1, 1792, would be suspect of conspiracy against France for which the only answer was the death penalty. She did consider not coming back, but the guillotine was harsh and she had no desire to listen to crowds cheer as the ax dropped. They were bloodthirsty, often dipping handkerchiefs in the fresh blood of some hapless victim. She had been reading the newspaper and the libelles, saddened by the vitriol and hatred whipped up for the Royals. Listening to people speak as she made her wonder why they were so cruel. She remembered meeting the queen at Versailles as a child. The woman had been the milk of kindness. She didn't imagine it to be an act. She still has the necklace the Queen has given her since it matched her eyes so perfectly. Sitting at a cafe table, Clarisse contemplated her desire to remain on earth dwindling more and more. She had wanted to die since her dear son's stillbirth. The one thing she had wanted most--to die--had been denied her in the cruelest way. She didn't want to kill to survive, even though she'd proved rather adept at it. Brushing her fingers over the place where Colin's fangs had pierced her porcelain flesh, she sighed. She should be back at the opera house. Safe within, she could be awake during the day and worry little about the sun. There were no windows near the stage. The ballet corps teacher had also seen to Clarisse getting a room with no window. It had once been a costume closet, thus it wasn't too small. It wasn't hard to slip back inside. She knew the entire show by heart. Yet...would she even be there? The idea and yearning for a peaceful end plagued her. A few moments in the sun and that would be it. She would be ash. And if there was a breeze, it would spread her everywhere. She would be no more. And beside her brother, she didn't think anyone would care. Perhaps that strange man she had befriended. But she didn't even know his first name; only Caldwell. He'd come to visit unexpectedly a number of times. Once, he had let her out of the gun closet, having heard her cries. But she had begged him not to visit anymore once she found out she was with child. "You look like you have the world on your shoulders," a male voice broke the silence that had lingered in the air and Clarisse looked up slowly at the dark haired male. There was some familiarity with him and yet, she couldn't place him. Perhaps she had seen him in the audience? She was quite certain they'd never met. He was looking at her in such a way that she half felt the need to plaster a smile she didn't feel on her face. The newly turned vampire still wore her misery for all to see. She didn't care what people thought of her yet, she felt that she should care. With the world going mad around them, she was but a face in the crowd. But she let her eyes dart up and she met the gaze of the man before her. "You could say that," she spoke hoarsely. Clearing her throat, she motioned for him to join her if he so chose. She hoped he didn't order anything to drink because she couldn't afford it. "What's your name?" He asked, with an unfamiliar accent peppering his words. 'Clarisse. Clarisse O'Call--du Volde." "O'Call-du Volde? That's an odd one." "That was my married name. I'm not married anymore. It's du Volde. Clarisse du Volde." "You got a story, Risse?" Eyebrows lifted at the shortening of her name, lips curving faintly into something resembling a smile. "Everyone has a story," she began. " Mine...it seems stupid to complain. I'm newly widowed and I miss my son." "Sorry 'bout your husband. Where's your kid?" The question sent the young woman into a state of tears. Her body seemingly paralyzed by grief as she began to weep before this stranger. It was just a month ago that he had left this world and come into it. The memory of his perfect little body in her arms, still and calm. His face had been serene as she had gazed upon him. He truly looked as though he were asleep. His hair was black as coal, just as his father's hair was. He had strongly resembled his father except for the gentle curve of his nose and his fingers were long. She had thought to herself that someday he might play piano or violin like herself. Maybe he'd be a painter. All of these thoughts flooded her mind and struck her heart repeatedly like a dagger. Clarisse tried to keep it together, but a sob escaped her and she began to weep openly, glad of the night and dim lights surrounding them as they sat together. "I'd give anything to join my boy," she whimpered, thinking of all the pain she'd felt. She was tired of feeling worthless, useless. She was tired of the pain and of her loneliness. She wanted friends and yet, when she tried to make them, the other women laughed. She was too short, too curvy, too poor. (For now. Her inheritance would be hers when she turned 21.) But the loss of wee little Padraig, the pain of that was sharper than anything she had ever felt before. "From the day I was born, my mother made it known she didn't want me. She thought if she didn't push, I'd suffocate. She tried to do so with a pillow a number of times, she tried to starve me, she beat me. My one sister beat me up daily. My eldest sister died when I was eight. My brother is in Rome, as a priest. My husband, that bastard, beat me. Raped me. Locked me in his gun closet. Shared me with his friends. I have few memories of a good life. I thought being a mother would change my life because there would be someone I could love. My son...he was perfect. I felt him within me. I felt him move. I felt him kick. I saw his foot press against me and I could see the very outline. Five perfect toes and a small little foot that I hoped would someday leave a big imprint in this world. But he was a big boy. And I'm small as you can see. The cord wrapped about his neck. My labor was long and there was nothing the midwife could do." She gasped for a breath as she looked to the man across from her. "And he's alone now, buried in an unmarked grave in Ireland. I plan, when I get my inheritance, to get him a good headstone. I know exactly where he is. And I know that my former husband...I don't think he's dead. But I tried. I threw a lantern at him." She felt amazing once she let it all out. But Clarisse was in pain still. "Besides my brother, there isn't a soul on this earth who cares if I live or die." Her companion said nothing for a short while, simply sitting with her. Clarisse was, admittedly, surprised. No one ever really listened to her when she "blubbered" as her mother used to call it. Crying was a waste because eyes got puffy and her nose turned red, rather it used to. "I'm sorry. You don't want to hear this," she apologized. Reaching for her handkerchief, she wiped at her eyes and nose, trying to gather herself again. Yet, her companion didn't seem bothered. Rather, he seemed calm and collected, understanding that sometimes one had to cry. At least he didn't scream at her. It was hard for her to realise that wasn't the proper reaction. "I don't bullshit people, woman. I'm not going to do that to you. People have treated you like shit most of your life. And you've gotten a really fucking bad end of things. It's not pleasant." He began, his dark eyes alight with a fierceness that she had never seen. Clarisse looked at him, awestruck that he would speak this freely to her. Most men tried to speak gingerly and politely, but not this fellow. She appreciated his candor. "I can't tell you how sorry I am that your son died. I've lost people too. And it hurts. A mother's pain though? I'm never going to say I understand that. But you wanting to die? That's not going to solve anything. Death is a very permanent solution to momentary pain. And you're a vampire. So this time period is really short. You being turned might have been a catalyst." "A cata-what?" She asked, embarrassed for her lack of schooling, not even questioning how he knew that she was a vampire. "It's the beginning," he reiterated for her, giving her hand a pat. "This could be the beginning of a whole new life. You can do what you want. You can be who you want. That's the ultimate fuck you to everyone who ever hurt you. They expect you to give up but don't. Don't give them the satisfaction. Fuck them. All of 'em. Except for your boy. I bet he'd want to know you were living your life and kicking ass while doing it." He sat back in his seat, ordering two hot chocolates. They were all the rage. Dropping the coins in the waiter's hands, and ignoring as she attempted to give him the coin for hers, he continued. "Life is precious. You get one chance. Be it long or short. You're young. You're what? Nineteen? You're a baby. Yeah, you've faced hell, but you're a kid. And you're just getting started. Take it from someone who knows Death really well. Take this second chance." Taking up the mug, she inhaled. She hadn't tried human food since her death and so she took a sip, savoring it. Mon Dieu, this was bliss and as she listened, her interest was piqued as she noticed his hands fiddling with a book. Something told her not to press to ask what he was reading. His words were truthful. How better to spite everyone? Yet, was she strong enough? Perhaps she ought to try. "This has been rather...illuminating," she mused as she rose to leave once they had each finished their beverage. She looked towards him again, taking note of the fact that he wasn't wearing a cockade. "Here," she spoke, unpinning it from her hat and putting it on his jacket, leaving him no time to object. "The Jacobins will be less likely to bother me without one. You take this one; they would try to imprison you without it." Leaning in, she pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. "Maybe we shall meet again someday. And I will buy you supper. Be well, mon amie." She looked to a small group wandering down the street drunkenly, rolling her eyes. "And be careful," she added, turning around and blinking. He was gone. "Mon Dieu..." she laughed, for the first time in weeks. If for no other reason, she had to know what and who he was. What was with men not telling her their names lately? It was peculiar, but honestly, her life would never be normal again, would it?