discoveredinalj | Noli Timere Messorem by heliophile

heliophile-oxon.livejournal.com posting in

I, um, don't think I've ever met a Pros prompt I didn't like ... and didn't promptly find myself circumventing somehow. I didn't deliberately set out to, honest! But as I hope will become clear below the cut, I kind of have an excuse ...

Noli Timere Messorem

by heliophile

with thanks to byslantedlight and sincere apologies to Sir Pterry

This all came about because of an exchange of comments on lj way back in March 2016 (yes, that’s how fast I write ...) about the two sexiest villains ever to grace our screens, separated by a mere six hundred years of history and a few miles of salt water.

NB byslantedlight very kindly beta’d this for me and is responsible for some seriously major improvements. I feel it is only fair to mention, then, that leaving a few scraps of French stuck in the middle of this is entirely my fault: she quite rightly pointed out that by doing so I have gone off-piste with a potential distraction that may piss off the reader, but after all the travails of trying to get both the modern and the mediaeval French right (??? if anyone can help confirm or correct, please please let me know!) I found in the end that I was bloody-minded enough to stick it in. I can only apologise for the fact that this tiny little fic now has footnotes.

Philip Marc settled himself more comfortably. That posturing, self-important little worm of a man de Rainault was gone, Guy of Gisborne was all too obviously his for the taking, and the saddle-burr that was this Robin Hood fellow was about to be extirpated. Indeed, Sarak was even now lining up his arrow. Perhaps after this little matter had been dealt with he would take Guy and…

There was a heavy blow just under his rib-cage, that rocked him back in the massive black oak chair. Philip Marc made to rise and draw his sword, seeing himself in his mind's eye already on his feet and about to plunge into the mêlée … and realised that he hadn't moved, that he couldn't feel his limbs, that his vision was darkening. All in less than the time it would have taken to draw what he fleetingly realised would have been a final breath.

His eyes caught a final glimpse of blue sky, and an inchoate thought died almost as it took shape – No. He wasn’t finished with life yet, damnation take it - adventure still beckoned, games still to be played and won … there should be someone … No!

And all was darkness.

o0o

The fine beeswax candles burned low, guttering in the pre-dawn stillness of the bedchamber. What he wouldn't give for the sunlight of the Vendée now, Chauvelin thought, its clear skies above him … damn Paris and the foulness of the city air that had laid him low! Even here, home on his estates, that miasma seemed to chill and overheat the room by turns, dulling his senses, robbing him of his very thoughts … the room grew darker, for all that he knew it must be dawning, and for a brief instant Chauvelin considered whether he might not after all renew his acquaintance, all too soon, with a great many whom he had sent before him.

o0o

Even before opening his eyes, Philip Marc, feu¹ High Sheriff of Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire and the Royal Forests, put his hand to where he knew he was going to find a mortal wound – and found nothing. He drew in a deep breath, dumbfounded at the absence of any pain, and almost in a single movement had rolled to his feet, sweeping up the Saracen sword he found lying at his fingertips on the … grey sand? … to find himself facing an impossibly tall, black-robed figure. Some monstrous apparition, some demon for a certainty! Philip Marc drew himself up, settling the sword more firmly in his grip. An' it were the devil himself, he would show himself no coward.

o0o

The first thing Chauvelin noticed was that he was breathing easily. That his fever seemed to be gone, that he felt lighter of limb and sharper of thought than he had since falling ill, and … and that his bedlinen appeared to have been replaced by – by grey sand? What deviltry was this? And where was he?

And what in the name of impossibility was a man doing standing there, clad in the dress of six hundred years gone and more, brandishing a sword at – well, apparently at a seven-foot tall skeleton dressed in a dark robe and carrying the mandatory scythe, with blue stars where its eyes ought to be.

Chauvelin came to the tentative conclusion that he was either dead or mad. Possibly both.

As he looked up from the sand, the skeletal figure tapped a bony finger thoughtfully against gleaming white teeth and the blue stars seemed to … to twinkle? Hmmm, intéressant. Chauvelin filed away the remote possibility that such a being might be open to negotiations. Or at least discussion.

WELL THIS IS A TURN-UP FOR THE BOOKS AND NO MISTAKE, it said in a voice that quite clearly demanded the epithet “sepulchral”.

o0o

Without dropping his guard or taking his eyes off the monstrous creature before him, Philip Marc became aware that there was a figure lying on the sand some yards away. A man and not a corpse, it seemed, as he was beginning to stir. His dress was very strange – some foreigner, no doubt – and he had a sword of some odd design … He was not on his feet yet – wounded, perhaps? And something about him seemed familiar ...

Without thinking, Philip Marc moved to place himself between the nightmarish figure and the fallen man. He was somewhat bemused when Death – for surely this was he – merely tilted his head – no, his skull – to one side and contemplated the pair of them, resting his chin – well, his jawbone – comfortably in one fleshless hand, the other hand cupping his elbow. The scythe rested in the crook of his arm, looking preternaturally and impossibly keen-edged.

IT WOULD APPEAR, the dread figure announced (the epithet “sepulchral” was definitely working overtime now) THAT YOUR HOURGLASSES HAVE SOMEHOW BECOME ENTANGLED. MOST IRREGULAR. HOWEVER, I HAVE A NUMBER OF PRESSING ENGAGEMENTS TO ATTEND TO – I FEAR YOU SHALL HAVE TO WORK IT OUT BETWEEN YOU. PLEASE EXCUSE ME, GENTLEMEN. I MUST FEED THE CATS.

Death made to turn away, but then tapped the heel of one hand against his skull with an audible click and the air of one who has forgotten something; AH YES. SO MANY OF YOU DO SEEM TO ASK ABOUT “JUDGEMENT”… THERE'S A DESK JUST THROUGH THE DOORWAY, IF YOU GO IN FOR THAT SORT OF THING.

And then there the figure … wasn't. In its place was a doorway – if three lines seemingly drawn in the air, forming a rectangle with the sand below, could be called a doorway – with a desk visible beyond it, graced with a vast ledger, a pair of scales and – incongruously – a 1950s hand-cranked calculator that neither man was of an age, historically speaking, to recognise. But it definitely had a very judgemental air about it.

Philip Marc turned to look at the man now lounging apparently at his ease on the sand behind him, and took in an air of assurance not one whit diminished by the fact that he was lying at a stranger's feet. Greying hair, untidily tied back and tumbling over broad shoulders, a loose-fitting white shirt open at the neck, a hint of green in those eyes now fixed intently upon Philip Marc himself. The gaze had a quality that Philip Marc recognised as that of a man not to be trifled with, but the mouth … ah, Philip Marc was keenly aware that the mouth and loose-limbed sprawl were those of a man he would like to trifle with very much indeed – repeatedly, for preference, and at length – should the stranger prove amenable. And Philip Marc wondered once more that he seemed so incongruously familiar ... He extended a hand to help the other rise, and Chauvelin held his gaze for a moment before accepting it, allowing their grasp to linger just a few instants longer than was strictly necessary. The barest hint of a smile passed fleetingly across full lips as he stepped back just far enough to sketch the merest suggestion of a bow.

“I must thank you for the chivalrous impulse. However, since we appear to be in no immediate danger … might I enquire if you too are – if you consider it likely that you are … recently deceased? Pardieu², what a question!” he added, more to himself.

Philip Marc raised a quizzical eyebrow, “A mortal wound not a moment past would have it so, and yet – ” He shrugged at the obvious contradiction. “Vous ne paroissez point jouvenceau ni bigarre, seigneur, mais vostre affublement m'est moult estrange. Serait-ce mesme possible que vous soyiez françois?³”

Chauvelin could not contain a smile of pure pleasure. “Bernard-François, marquis de Chauvelin – fils de la Ville Lumière et citoyen de la révolution, à votre service monsieur⁴. But I thought you an Englishman?”

“Philip Marc de Touraine. Englishman enough to serve my king, peut-estre bien que non souffisamment aux yeulx des vilains anglois⁵. But you are in the right of it, seigneur. I have been High Sheriff to His Majesty King John and my sword in his service since I was old enough to wield it.” Philip Marc cast a glance through the 'doorway'. “Though I think it may avail me little here.”

From soldiering in the Holy Land to doing King John's bidding in England, he had served his sovereign well – very well indeed – and that had meant ruling with a rod of iron. How could it be otherwise? Naturally there had been blood spilt in abundance. Judgement could have only one outcome, then – and his last and only choice must be to meet it with head unbowed. Yet Philip Marc hesitated, such passive acceptance utterly alien to his nature – by god's wounds, could there not at least be trial by combat here? And rapt in thought he sat back in the black oak chair, leaning one elbow on the long table and reaching out automatically for his goblet of wine.

o0o

Chauvelin, himself keenly aware of an extremely variegated, not to say chequered past, was minutely examining every detail of their situation for loopholes. Not for nothing had he dealt with the most dangerous autocrats of his nation and his age, from Robespierre – and Louis XVI before him – to George III of England, and not for nothing, consummate politician that he was, had he outlived all three of them. There had been a definite twinkle in those strange blue-star eyes, and exactly how had Death put it? “If you go in for that sort of thing.”

If.

His nascent train of thought was abruptly cut short when he saw the heavy black oak chair and table standing on the sand, where there had been nothing a breath ago. Philip Marc absently sipped his wine as he gazed into nothingness with a frown, seemingly quite unaware of the implications of what had happened. And why not, Chauvelin thought to himself, why not. Anything might be possible here.

But how to … diantre⁶, he would do as he had always done when there was absolutely nothing to go on: assume with perfect confidence that the universe simply could not do other than what he wished of it. Without so much as a glance behind him, he reached out a hand and drew his own gilt dining chair up to the great oak table. Deliberately not looking, he helped himself to a strawberry from the Limoges porcelain dish at his elbow, and pushed it across the smooth, dark wood to offer them to his companion, taking a moment while the other was safely distracted to appreciate the striking blue eyes, the neat cap of dark hair just silvering at the temples, the straight back and powerful frame. It was odd; Chauvelin was quite sure their paths had never crossed before – and yet there was something familiar about the man … Hmm. The strawberry tasted like heaven, its tart, fresh sweetness exploding on his tongue. Would everything, he wondered, taste and smell and feel so intense and so perfect in this strange place? He poured himself a glass of wine and settled his chair more firmly on the fine parquet floor that now stretched beneath their feet to panelled walls, where a sideboard laden with silver and crystal stood beneath lace curtains moving gently in the current of air from the open window; he glanced out at the formal garden beyond and to the more distant woodland beyond that again, enjoying the spring sunshine that streamed in and turned Philip Marc's goblet to burnished gold – and waited for realisation to dawn.

It was not long in coming; no more than a scant handful of seconds could have passed before he saw Philip Marc come to himself with a start of amazement, his gaze sweeping around the room in an instant before coming to rest on Chauvelin with mistrust. He frowned. Looked again at that bizarre doorway; then narrowed his eyes at Chauvelin – and after a moment, with an almost imperceptible nod, he appeared to come to some decision. Frowning again, he concentrated on the table –

“It seems to work best when you don't think about it. When you just – ha, absurd! – when you just know what's there.”

And then there indeed was what Philip Marc had presumably intended: a bowl of apples, a basket of bread, no fewer than three brimming pitchers of wine, beer and cider, what looked like a whole truckle of cheese and – dear god – two jugged hares, a dish piled with at least three roast fowl of some kind and in the great stone fireplace, a spit laden with a whole roast boar.

There was now a moat outside the window in the opposite wall, and even as Chauvelin registered its presence two ducks flew down to settle on the water and a fish rose to take a fly just under the far bank.

Chauvelin raised an eyebrow.

“I see you do not intend to do anything by halves,” he murmured.

Philip Marc favoured him with a devastating smile. “Perhaps we need not be in any hurry to pass over that threshold. I cannot match your French gardens, it would seem” – he gestured towards Chauvelin’s elegant creation – “from which I deduce that you may not conjure up my English parkland. But I dare say that between us we can remember, and so bring into existence, world enough to satisfy every appetite for a very considerable time. I am quite sure”, he added, lowering his voice, “that the Paris of your recollections must be full of finery and wonders beyond all imagining.” And dammit, what had the man done to his voice? The words were innocuous enough, but the tone was positively indecent. Thumb against his lip as if in thought, Chauvelin half-hid a smile when Philip Marc’s dark lashes swept down and up again as he concluded “ … and perhaps you may care to discover certain – curiosities – on the long journey from Nottingham to London, or from England to Jerusalem? Where there are fish and fowl there may as well be saddle-horses; where there is a laden board there may as well be comfortable beds.”

Chauvelin inclined his head in agreement, allowing a certain warmth to show in his gaze.

The afterlife might not be without its points of interest. On the briefest of acquaintance, Philip Marc de Touraine had already shown himself to be as quick-witted as he was fearless – and a sensualist to boot. And he really was devilishly handsome … Chauvelin was inclined to think that the strange twist of fate that had linked their destinies together would bring a great many challenges of a most intriguing nature – and the glint in the other man's eyes seemed to suggest that his thoughts might well be running along similar lines.

He couldn't wait.

o0o

1 feu - late or former

2 By god

3 You seem to be no popinjay, nor buffoon, sir, but your dress is most strange to me. Can it possibly be that you are French?

4 son of the City of Light and citizen of the Revolution, at your service sir.

5 perhaps not enough in the eyes of the English peasantry.

6 ≈ what the deuce

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

milomaus.livejournal.com

This is BRILLIANT!!!
I love it sooo much! Thank you for giving it this fun twist! I love DEATH, he is always so considerate and busy, giving people more time.

I do wonder how it works out with our Lads today, but maybe these two just thought everything up?
Went into detail and we are part of it?

Anyway, WONDERFUL story, I like the way you think very much!!!

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Noli Timere Messorem by heliophile

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