You have been taken by the Mists

Author Topic: Ne jugez pas un livre à sa couverture -- diary & notes of Agnès Gauthier  (Read 8866 times)

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Re: Ne jugez pas un livre à sa couverture -- diary & notes of Agnès Gauthier
« Reply #50 on: February 07, 2019, 06:16:31 PM »
6th February 774

Trelliard is gone. Joachim is gone.... unless we can achieve a miracle. The slow erosion continues. The city is already not the same as it was. Its character shifts like oil on water. And still we await. Will the election save us or damn us?

I return to Barovia again soon. Always my path leads back as if some thread of the Grand Scheme is twisted into a knot there.

Duty is a balm. Ask the question, "what can I do?", and it is easy to lose oneself in the possibilities. Ask, "what should I do?" and the fog lifts.

One step at the time. One foot in front of the other.
“Moral wounds have this peculiarity - they may be hidden, but they never close; always painful, always ready to bleed when touched, they remain fresh and open in the heart.”
― Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo

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Re: Ne jugez pas un livre à sa couverture -- diary & notes of Agnès Gauthier
« Reply #51 on: February 11, 2019, 03:24:03 PM »
11th February

I have joined the Gendarmerie; once again, I bear the title "Chaplain". I pray this fares better than my time under the Company of the Fox.

Ironically, I think neither Lieutenant Messier nor myself wanted this. But Joachim's death leaves me with little choice. For all his ultimately fatal flaws, he wanted to protect the Republic, ensure it became something better. Someone has to pick up that mantle. I cannot sit on the sidelines. That's why I chose my original path, isn't it?
“Moral wounds have this peculiarity - they may be hidden, but they never close; always painful, always ready to bleed when touched, they remain fresh and open in the heart.”
― Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo

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Re: Ne jugez pas un livre à sa couverture -- diary & notes of Agnès Gauthier
« Reply #52 on: February 24, 2019, 11:25:31 AM »
24th February; Vallaki, Barovia

Once more I am back in Vallaki; the Mists of Death have a perverse sense of humour. It feels strange to be wearing the uniform of the Gendarmerie here, two worlds colliding. Yet we will await a response, unless duty recalls us sooner, and while I am here, I can talk to old friends and meet new associates.

It is easier to face some of the monsters here than the prospect of what must be done when I return home.
“Moral wounds have this peculiarity - they may be hidden, but they never close; always painful, always ready to bleed when touched, they remain fresh and open in the heart.”
― Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo

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Mardi 7 Mai 774

Promoted; let's hope it sticks longer than last time...
“Moral wounds have this peculiarity - they may be hidden, but they never close; always painful, always ready to bleed when touched, they remain fresh and open in the heart.”
― Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo

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Mercredi 22 Mai 774

The ground is slipping away. The foundation crumbles. The castle was always built out of sand.

If I do nothing, tyranny. If I act, the very corruption we fought to stop may return; either in a new form or, more insultingly, ever the old.

And next I must face Verinne...
“Moral wounds have this peculiarity - they may be hidden, but they never close; always painful, always ready to bleed when touched, they remain fresh and open in the heart.”
― Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo

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Jeudi 23 Mai 774

Verinne, what will I do without you?
“Moral wounds have this peculiarity - they may be hidden, but they never close; always painful, always ready to bleed when touched, they remain fresh and open in the heart.”
― Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo

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Mercredi 29 Mai 774

Alone. I await my fate, in this cell, alone. The solitude is a bittersweet solace. It would be easier to face judgement if I knew it was mine, and mine alone. Instead, must the event and players of these past few months be judged with me? Must this be about the République, rather than about one careless, reckless anchorite?

I didn't want that. I never meant for that to happen. Oh Ezra, I was such a fool.

Duty. Love. Sometimes in tandem, sometimes irreconcilable. I know what I should do; I know what Marius would do. But can I inflict that upon Edme a second time? I made a promise... I made two promises.

But so did Verinne, to Katraka. Do I think my promises are worth more than hers were? Am I ready to condemn myself with such hypocrisy?

Verinne, when we meet again under Ezra's embrace, I hope you can forgive me...
“Moral wounds have this peculiarity - they may be hidden, but they never close; always painful, always ready to bleed when touched, they remain fresh and open in the heart.”
― Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo

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Lundi 3 Juin 774

Defeat. And now, the terms of surrender.

Today I made a deal with the devil. Defeat; but perhaps the hope that at last our country can be spared further bloodshed. Even if I must betray the ones I love the most, again.

He won't kill me. Like a cat, he likes to play with the crippled mouse. Death would be a mercy.
« Last Edit: June 03, 2019, 04:50:57 PM by aprogressivist »
“Moral wounds have this peculiarity - they may be hidden, but they never close; always painful, always ready to bleed when touched, they remain fresh and open in the heart.”
― Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo

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Samedi 8 Juin 774

It's all so clear in those early hours of the morning, when sleep is elusive.

How can Marius crusade against corruption if he means to marry me; who has become a symbol of that corruption?

The genius of my foe's trap, or just more consequences of my hubris? Each and every one of my choices has made things worse in some way.

Would that I could return to a simple purity of purpose. Would that I could sacrifice myself somehow to undo what I have wrought. But isn't the idea of self-sacrifice itself imbued with a self-pitying self-importance? Egoism cannot mend a broken egg.

Please, Ezra; spare the East, spare Edme, spare Marius. Otherwise it is all for naught.
“Moral wounds have this peculiarity - they may be hidden, but they never close; always painful, always ready to bleed when touched, they remain fresh and open in the heart.”
― Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo

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Her rank granted Agnès the best cell in Pierre du Mort: a small, windy room with a view to the south (towards the d'Honaire Estate; more of his gloating, that she could never look out of the window without thinking on him), with a simple, narrow pallet bed, a small writing desk with an uncomfortable chair, and a bookshelf lined with old, mouldering paperbacks.  Agnès went to inspect their spines, and sighed; cheap romance novels.  Yet more gloating, no doubt.

The room would be freezing in the winter and too hot in the summer.  To someone who had been born into privilege this might be torture; but Agnès had endured worse, much worse.

Her jailor regarded her carefully.  A short man with a messy beard, he had been chosen for his position on the relative virtues of his cruelty and pettiness.  A natural bully, he was used to nobles putting on a brave face to adversity, and then breaking under his abject care.  Yet he was cautious now, sensing that this duchess, despite her title, was something different from his usual prey.  He waved to one of his men, who set down the chest of meagre possessions she was permitted to bring.  The man then opened the chest and began to rifle through them crudely.  "Contraband search," explained the jailor, giving Agnès an ugly smile.  She ignored it, and went to the window.

The wind brought the moans and wailing of the island's less fortunate inmates.

As they finished searching through her belongings -- confiscating a few, to which she paid no heed -- she turned to look at her jailor, saying, "I would like to visit the other prisoners and pray with them."

The jailor countered with a frown, "Prisoners are not permitted to meet."

"I have the privilege of the grounds," she pointed out.  "I don't have to enter their cells;  I can pray through the doors."

"That is not permitted," snapped the jailor, gesturing for his man to leave before retreating out of the cell with a slam of the door and a clunk of heavy locks.  Not that the heavy door could keep her contained if she chose to leave her cell, mused Agnès.

She sighed, then went to stand by her window.  Closing her eyes, she recited from memory Ezra's prayer of succour as loudly as she could, hoping the wind might carry her words.  She couldn't know if anyone had heard it; but strain as she might, when she was done, she heard no more moans and wails.  At least, for now.  Tomorrow, she would use Ezra's blessings, and visit the prisoners in person, whether the jailor permitted it or not.  He was one tyrant she need not obey.

She then went to her desk, reaching under her coat to find a magic pouch, from which she pulled out a roll of paper and a pencil.  Sitting straight, she began to write slowly, carefully; knowing the contents of her pouch might have to last her three years.  Her pencil wrote the title:


Marius de Mortigny: the Phoenix of Ameranthe

-- THE END --
« Last Edit: July 29, 2020, 09:40:25 AM by aprogressivist »
“Moral wounds have this peculiarity - they may be hidden, but they never close; always painful, always ready to bleed when touched, they remain fresh and open in the heart.”
― Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo