You have been taken by the Mists

Author Topic: The Bastard of Roissy  (Read 262 times)


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The Bastard of Roissy
« on: January 09, 2021, 09:25:27 AM »

Severin Marceaux

From Whence The Shadow Came

The Maison des Saules was a dingy structure that stood out as a tombstone in a verdant field haunted by the choking fog which spirited away those who required a refuge in the Champs Silencieux. Such a man had erected the manor with funds disguised beneath other expanses, between forged papers and a convoluted paper trail whose sole purpose was to conceal this dream made reality. A sanctuary for a man whose life had been divided long ago between mind and heart; the former warring in the intrigue of Pont--Museau, while the latter hid in the shadows for fear of discovery. A heart which carried within a woman and a boy whom he loved with such fear that he knew he would have to guard them as a secret to carry to his grave, rather than bury as he had most of his dreams. They were a whisper only thought of in complete solitude, away from ears and away from eyes, away from duty and away from his wife. Souls that would never see the light of day, and thus would be spared the scathing cruelty of a world where romantics broke their own hearts and cynics crowned themselves realists.

There, in the Silent Fields, they would dwell where none could reach them. They would dwell in the mausoleum he fancied a family home, stalking the halls with a dozen servants trailing after them as shadows clinging to a final candlelight. They would dance among statues of stone and dress themselves in the sorrow of willows which they construed to be joy. And they would remain, happily ever after, within a House whose soul only came to life when the Patriarch visited the toys he had tucked away in their box, and allowed them to fly with the stunted wings he had given them, dancing on the only strings he had let them have.

Blissful glasshouse. Snug as a perfect blouse.
Oh, how the stars shone there; how the sun would glare!
Until they shone no more...

Assassinated, another victim in the schemes of vermin.
Leaving behind a shapeless, amorphous stain vaguely reminiscent of the other, better son.

« Last Edit: January 11, 2021, 09:40:22 PM by Haeresis »


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Re: The Bastard of Roissy
« Reply #1 on: February 05, 2021, 10:41:49 AM »
A Lesson In Light Of

"There is power in appearances, my son." The father smiled and put an arm around the boy's shoulders, hugging him close as they sat in darkness, the room otherwise only illuminated by a lone candle on the table. The boy would have preferred to play hide and seek, but his father insisted on a lesson, and so he allowed himself to be convinced with the condition that the lesson serve to improve his game. The father was whispering, unwilling to disturb the flicker of light while they kept their gaze set upon it. "Some things must be on display - like this here candle. When the merchant presents apples at his stall, it is partly so the thieves do not think to search for silver under his floorboards. When I walk the streets, I keep two purses on my person. The thieves may take one, but they will not think to search for the other."

"Like the magicians? Misdirection."

"Just so."

"I fail to see how that applies to, well, life?"

"Well, consider this. Inscrutable men cannot be trusted, as they appear unwilling to share, and so it invites scrutiny and mistrust; what could they be hiding? To show nothing is to invite question. To show a little offers peace of mind."

"I think I follow, but it all sounds rather complicated... I think I'd much rather not be seen at all."

"And therein lies the lesson. Sometimes you have no choice in whether you are seen or not. If you do not choose your appearances, others will choose them for you."

The boy wilted and planted his jaw on both fists. The weight of the statement made him uneasy. "Pa, what does this have to do with the candle?"

"When you look at the light, what do you see?"

"That's a stupid question! I see Light, like you just said!"

"Good, but can you see behind it?"

The boy stilled and pushed out a breath, tensing his forehead as though it might activate a third eye that never manifested. He blinked and squinted to no avail, "No. It's too dark."

"Blinded by light. If something is to be hidden in the dark, then the safest place to hide it is in the shadow of something bright and eye-catching, where none think to look."

The boy quieted, experiencing a gnostic moment of elevation; revelation.

And the father went on, to clarify the fine print. "You must, of course, take great care not to blind yourself..."

Never blind yourself, the hollow, strangled voice whispered as it enveloped him in wet tendrils, an unseen presence licking uncomfortably at his ears to dislocate his recollections. It was a voice from the depths, a quiet cry in the back of the head that grew louder and louder and which deafened as a weeping newborn in the next room. It wouldn't shut up! And its touch - cold and clammy as unwanted hands. Your father had the right of it, didn't he? If he would see you now, he would remind you. You are even on the cusp of sniffing your own farts. Tempting, isn't it? The pungent stench of success. This must be what they are all feeling, chasing prestige and power and wealth - all three of them hungry ghosts that only grow heavier to bear. Three crowns that pierce the skin just right. Remember the putrid Baron who sold his soul for the right to grow fatter on the the tortured bowels of his wife. Remember the blood, the gnashing of teeth in the broker's hanging maw. The promises! Oh, the promises! How many others lurk around the corner, just like him? Caressing unspeakable evils while shaking your hand in the same touch? Look, and you shall see, the rot they pile behind their candles. None of them deserve mercy. Crush them, any chance you get. They all have blood on their hands. And so will you, if you aren't careful.

As a sponge, he let himself soak up the bile that surfaced from the furtive shores of his mind. Some things became much clearer under the effects of fear and wrath. It made him feel less hollow, and warmer, closer to his neglected self.


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Re: The Bastard of Roissy
« Reply #2 on: February 15, 2021, 08:28:46 PM »
Republic of Lassitude

We, of another cloth and a singular ecstasy.
We, of the epic and the lack of reason.
We, of the false years, we, of the city.
We, of the other side of the world and of the seasons.
We, of the margins, we, of roads, we, of high treason.

Oh serene republic, we are your children!
The cobbles turn over and let us in.

I have a democratic impression that gives me rashes.
On the extreme side of the heart and of its ashes.
I can hear through my entrails the fashion of May!


I have some ideas of who will die.
And I never die, unless... unless...
There are assassins on the title page.
Who cut in line to see blood on stage.
Where the script is written on the spot.

Above all, do not cry.
Tears are the wine of sadists!

Me? I cry no more!
And I say it aloud! And gently as well, and at ease.

I know assassins who are ready to gloat.
And they look as good as imbeciles who vote.
Assassinated assassins and their manners.
Who wear discomfort sown under their banners.
The bourgeoisie that allows itself to elate. In excess.


I know brown charmers with clotted blood.
Who scratch themselves as one scratches a wound.
It enlivens, a little red, it's in fashion!
Of an honorary legion that we would forgive.

Oh serene republic, your children self-analyze!
And from our neighbors arrives a perfume.
Of blood, and the locals who contemplate.
In the rivers of blood dripping as cream.
The cream of a past Revolution.

Oh serene republic, Oh serene lassitude!
Oh young and beautiful, stuck in your talks.
You must make love as one peacocks.
Eyes toward the garden where weapons blossom.

Weapons, as an aesthetic of solitude.
Weapons, as a sinister conspiracy.

I feel we are coming!
Boats full of muskets, pistols, and black flowers.
And the florists prepare bloodbaths.
For the morning gazette.
Blood, it beautifies all that is well.

I have flowers of love that pollinate wheat.
And that create bread that we eat on our knees.
A bread of living flesh that we would love.
As we would love a child that hides its talents.
And that explores them meekly, like we caress a gun.
A finger on the trigger and to hell with the rest.

Weapons, as an aesthetic accessible to the common man.
Weapons of white, as a dawn in the city.
This dawn like the care of absence.


Love, always love, ah! This diseased love.
As a drug from which we cannot relent.
Like a drug before which I submit.
I am a trafficker of love.

Weapons like a smile behind the head.
As a way to disarm oneself.
Of the dogs who love you.
Weapons that lick you, that oust you, that lull you.
Weapons to worry the anxious.
And the Constitution of fear to distribute.
To all those who live with fear or in whom fear lives.
Article I: I am afraid!
Article II: I am afraid!
Article III: I am afraid!
Article IV: Where is this written?

Weapons, as an aesthetic of solitude.
When we are alone and armed, we are not alone.
When we are alone and disarmed, we ask to unionize under a Captain.

Love, always love, ah! This serene love.
This love that rises out of your mouth as a bomb.
That we would like to fire in a few passing bellies.
In a few curious stomachs, idle, love sick.

Weapons, as a plan to bring back the Divine.
And as for blades, we could taint them red!
Of a particular tone and within reach of all range.

We, of another cloth and a singular ecstasy.
We, of the epic and the lack of reason.
We, of the other side of the world and of the seasons.
Oh serene republic, Oh republic of reason!

Comrade accursed, comrade misery.
If ever you realize that your revolt stalls.
And becomes a state of habitual revolt.
Then go out.
March. Die.
Finally love the trees, the beasts.
Turn away from conform and non-conform.
Release these notions, if they are notions.
Nothing is worth nothing.