kingdom hearts | allemande
Kingdom Hearts | Axel/Roxas | 3600 words | AU | beta'd by raihu.
blizzardseason: Write how Axel von Fersen met lady Roxas-Antoinette! (:3)
(six months pass)
miarr: ...uh, hey, yeah!
Part of the French Revolution AU-a beginning, of sorts. Dedicated to blizzardseason, who once again asked for it. Thanks to raihu for the absolutely keen beta.
Allemande
It was the peak of an Indian summer in Versailles, with the gardens blooming like paradise and the swans singing in the lake, when Count Axel von Fersen stepped out of his carriage and into the notorious machinations of the French court for the first time.
His shoes had barely clicked on the pavement when a servant, opulent in brushed velvet and a deliriously coiffed wig, came to a halt by his elbow and offered to take his coat and hat.
"Si je peux, honoré monsieur?"
His waistcoat perfectly matched the colour of the hibiscuses curling around the path. The effect was strikingly elegant, if a bit too mauve.
"Ah, oui, naturellement."
Now divested, he hadn't yet taken his first step when he was thwarted again, this time by a similarly-painted feminine version bearing a tray of drinks.
"Boisson, honoré monsieur?" She curtsied.
Born and raised in the Swedish courts, Axel was unaccustomed to such minute attention when functioning as a guest. He was momentarily bemused, but recovered with commendable haste. All along the boulevard, carriages were stopping and people were getting off, tossing about hats and plucking beverages with wild abandon. Clearly, it was common practice. He nodded to the servant girl, took the drink, and joined the throngs as they flowed like an enormous, perfumed river through the gardens and into the main hall, where His Royal Highness the Dauphine of France was celebrating his 18th birthday.
There were hundreds of people around him, thousands, all walking with careful, dainty steps towards the enormous doors with one goal in mind: to schmooze and look fabulous. Axel glanced around, and in turn spotted a few curious eyes cast his way. He grinned at the onlookers, and took a largish sip of his drink. Champagne, mingled with something which he assumed was either poison or an aphrodisiac. (The Royal Family's reputation preceded them.) The day was pleasantly windy, and a breeze ruffled his échevelé hair. Things were looking good.
He had heard much about the Queen Roxas, though most of it he dismissed as exaggerations; the useless libel which beleaguered any person of standing throughout Europe. It was fashionable to slander famous people. He had often done it himself, with panache and great relish, which was perhaps one of the many reasons he was now diplomatically paying his respects in Versailles, a safe distance from the homeland, without even a proper wig to his name.
The human river-his part in it, anyway-reached the doors of the main hall, and he stepped from brushed pavement onto marble, breathing in the overwhelming perfumes of the Palace. This was apparently cue for another horde of servants to assault him, bearing gifts and bonne bouche and things skewered on little prongs which he couldn't place in any gastronomical spectrum. He exchanged his empty glass for a full, pocketed a complimentary packet of snuff, and made his way into the French Court Sea, mother of all rivers.
It was enormous. That was the first impression, and so strong he felt as if he were walking into a wall, an iron barricade made of up sheer awe and shock value. Everything was gilded, from tables to window frames to the other, bigger gildings which in turn decorated things made up of gilt. Everywhere he looked there were mirrors, reflecting the bustle and the elegance, standing like graceful arches and flashing with the occasional ray of sunlight. They almost looked like entrances to other chambers. And above it all there hung a cavalcade of chandeliers, glittering with superfluous light, pure crystal cupping fire. The effect was somewhat similar to walking into a closed box of massively expensive fireworks.
The first ten seconds felt like asphyxiation; there were perfumes and oils, sweat and food and sickly-sweet flowers, all stifling and dizzying and making him want to vomit. He was jostled about the room, feebly trying to look suave and not do anything embarrassing, like expire mid-swoon. It was horrible, and he felt like he really was going to vomit-until, in a flash of inspiration, he realized what the snuff had initially been for. He fumbled out the packet, tearing the wrapper, and snorted a fair portion, forsaking elegance for the sake of quick benediction.
This was the Count's first experience with French snuff, which was perhaps somewhat unfortunate. Nevertheless, barring the flint-sharp hammer which Axel fancied instantly demolished the frontal lobe of the brain, the sensation was not altogether unpleasant. Moreover, it blocked out anything else, seeing as his olfactory senses had apparently caved under the onslaught and engineered an unconditional surrender.
After this, everything felt much more bearable, though it was odd not to feel the inside of his nose or temples. This, then, was why France was full of addicts: to block out the stink of perfume, which was probably there to overpower the stench of tobacco. Privately, Axel wondered which had come first. He straightened and began the process of court-mingling at a much more respectable pace, rubbing at his nose once in an odd while.
A mademoiselle stopped him with a coy brush against his arm, demure. She was wearing an extravagant dress that looked like it was made of fish scales, and her smiling mouth was shielded by an enormous fan, open at half-mast and fluttering delicately in her hand. Her bosom, on the other hand, remained unguarded and stared up at Axel with abrasive frankness. She was a redhead, like him, and very pretty.
"Monsieur," she said, coral-red mouth curving around the word, "can it be, that is your natural hair?"
"Madame," he bent and kissed her hand, succeeding on the second try; he was still a trifle giddy from the sharp kick to the nostrils. She didn't seem to mind, though, and emitted a charming half-giggle. "You are extraordinarily perceptive. It is my real hair-it could not be otherwise. In the face of your beauty, artifice is overwhelmed."
"Oh, monsieur," she demurred, making no effort to release her hand; he stroked a thumb down her wrist and watched her lips quirk. "You are new to the court, yes?"
"Am I that obvious?" he smiled, all charm.
"Yes," she said blandly. "What is your name?"
"Count Axel von Fersen, of the Royal House of Vasa in Strasbourg," he replied, feeling mildly insulted. "Upon what does milady base her conclusions?"
"Most veterans do not attempt to flirt with Her Highness Ariel, Princess of Atlantica," his companion said, and her fan tittered in amusement. "No, don't bow-kiss my hand again. You are looking for the Dauphine?"
"Correct," he murmured, trying to swallow a burning humiliation and simultaneously ignore the fact he was face-level with the inimitable bosom. Her Highness had apparently disdained a corset for what looked like a ramshackle pair of seashells. The effect was immensely-well, immense in general.
"He is in the upper chambers, accepting visitors," said Ariel of Atlantica, and the shells clinked an affirmative. "But you shall keep me amused for a while yet, will you not?"
"It will be my pleasure, Highness," Axel said, "but first, allow me to fulfil my duties, not so? Then we shall have all the time in the world."
"La! What a pleasure to find a proper gentleman in this social wasteland," she said, and tapped his head with the fan. He could see her eyes; she wasn't looking at him, but right below his eyes, at his cheeks. "I shall hold you to that promise, monsieur. You look like somebody, ah, worth knowing."
"It's the hair," he confided, and felt pleased when she laughed. "Fear not, milady-I shall return posthaste to renew our acquaintance. You, too, look like somebody worth knowing."
"Scamp!" she called after him affectionately as he made his way to the stairwell, coral-red hair fanned about her bare shoulders. He blew her a kiss.
The Palace of Versailles defied comprehension, being both intrinsic and lavish to a completely ridiculous degree. Even outside the main hall everything glittered. Surfaces were draped with rich tapestries and carpets; vases and statues from every corner of the world; turquoise and quartz and ivory. Axel spotted wall ornamentation ranging from Renaissance to Baroque: all carved in flawless marble, framed by rosewood and laced with silver veins. Everything demanded his attention, made his eyes and fingers itch at the sheer opulence of it, completely different from anything his northern home had to offer. He staggered down countless hallways and up countless stairs, all teeming with haute monde, who gazed at him with kohl-rimmed eyes and laughed like tinkling glass.
It's no wonder, in that case, that he got lost: he never found himself in the first place. After approximately twenty minutes of walking and what felt like an additional forty of gaping uselessly, he happened to glance out the window and fancied himself in another part of the continent entirely.
Where once there were placid gardens and a phalanx of servants practicing strategic maneuvers on the flagstones, there was now a lake. It had boats and mermaids and quite possibly a sea serpent lurking somewhere within its depths. Never a genius at the practical sciences, Axel nevertheless estimated it to be nearly as big as his entire palace back home. He was fairly sure that if Jesus would have tried walking across the thing, he would have tired out halfway and given himself up for lost somewhere near the thirty-sixth statue of languishing Persephone.
"Er, excuse me," he called out, and a group of courtesans passing by turned at the sound of his voice. One, apparently their leader, stopped mid-stride and glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. The others looked on in faintly disdainful interest. "Would the messieurs be so good as to tell me where in the palace we are?"
"Oh?" the courtesan looked faintly amused, his pencilled eyebrows ascending on thermals of disbelief. He reeked of flowers, absolutely reeked, enough to penetrate even Axel's snuff-induced sensory coma. It might have been coming from the wig, which was big enough to hold two and artfully decorated with rose petals. Oddly enough, the others didn't seem to mind. "A country bumpkin? My, how rare. And who might you be, pray tell?"
"Count Axel von Fersen, of the Royal House of Vasa in Strasbourg," said Axel, with dignity. "And who are you?"
"Marluxia," said the courtesan, and seemed content to leave it at that. Axel blinked. "If the name means nothing to you, clearly you've not been around long enough, which is to say, not at all. But then, I assumed as much, seeing as you're in the West Wing when you're probably searching for the Eastern chambers of the Dauphine, not so?"
"Well, yes," said Axel suavely, ignoring the genteel titters of Marluxia's posse. They were about eight in number, all dressed in shades of lavender and wearing identical expressions of snobbishness, both men and women. Axel loathed them immediately. "Although one can hardly be faulted for losing their way, seeing as this place was built more to confuse and baffle than serve any actual purpose, such as, for instance, living in-"
"Ah, I see you're already getting the hang of it," Marluxia smiled. "You'll be fully integrated quite soon. Come back when you've seen the Dauphine," his eyes looked Axel up and down, smooth as old satin, "I dare say we could spare a few minutes to show you around. Teach you a thing or two about court life." The gang tittered again.
And before Axel could even figure out whether to redden or play along, Marluxia smiled, unexpectedly harmless. "The Dauphine's chambers are back the way you came, down two flights of stairs and left at the naked statue of Orpheus. You couldn't possibly miss the doorway, unless you accidentally mistake it for the Sistine Chapel. Is that your natural hair, by the by? What a ravishing colour."
"Yeah," said Axel, intelligently. "Er, thank you. I'll just be, that is to say, I'd better not keep the Dauphine waiting. Pleasure meeting you all."
"Likewise," murmured Marluxia, and inclined his head at Axel as they bowed farewell. "Take care, Count."
Dizzy from the overbearing scent of herb gardens and further baffled by the branching corridors, it was perhaps no great surprise that the naked statue of Orpheus did not readily present itself. Axel was beginning to despair of finding his way back to the main hall, much less to the Eastern Wing. Mostly he was preoccupied with the question whether all Frenchmen behaved like that, and if it was in any way contagious, in which case he would do well to leave as soon as his carriage was ready.
By the fifth arbitrary wall mirror positioned in a hallway, replete with cherubim and bronze embellishments, he was seriously annoyed with the entire Gaelic nation, its aristocracy in particular. He began to vindictively pocket random objects-a small glass circlet, an ivory statuette, a piece of gilt fashioned like a crown. It was a minor retaliation. Once, stopping before a mirror, he began picking apart the decorative beads forming the halo on an engraving of Christ, fingering the stones and stringing them onto his hair. Jet, agate, tiger's eye. It was of critical importance to make a striking first impression on the Dauphine, after all.
Besides, he reasoned, it's not as if anyone would miss them. Now if only he could find some lapis lazuli in there somewhere-
Suddenly, a pair of voices floated around the corner, followed shortly by the sound of footsteps and heralding two pairs of feet. A couple of courtesans rounded the corner and walked past Axel, nodding distractedly to him and talking in hushed, wry voices. One looked completely Nordic, fair even beneath her tasteful wig, and the other had a distinctly British look about him which was enhanced by his accent, balking over the French words like a loaded carriage on an unpaved road.
"I heard he's bored to tears-"
"They said he'd murder the next one who offered up flowers-"
"Good thing you presented that necklace, right?"
"Are you joking? If looks could kill, I'd be interred by now."
"Ruthless, that's what he is, absolutely ruthless-"
"It's rumoured he said that by the time he's twenty, he'd prefer to stare out the window than celebrate his birthday in the court."
"Insatiable! What does it take to pique his interest, does anyone know?"
"Is it even possible?"
"Well, you know, in court as in the bedroom-"
They strolled away, laughing dryly, while Axel tried not to eavesdrop too obviously and make an idiot of himself. He felt about ready to explode from the sheer frustration, the nervous energy of being so close to his goal. He'd departed from Strasbourg on the official mission to meet the Dauphine and pay his respects: past the borders of Sweden he stopped looking back at what he'd left and started looking forward, to the promise of Versailles and the greater European court.
He remembered carriage rides across entire countries, mountains and forests and great twilit lakes jostling by, staring out the window and imagining the meeting with Roxas Antoinette. Would he be graceful? Would he even look twice at Axel? This was a matter of survival in the court-without the Dauphine's favour, Axel would have nowhere to return to, which meant selling his title or worse. And here he was, stumbling around the corridors of the palace like a drunkard, not even managing to find the right bloody room-
He came upon the Dauphine's chambers at that very moment, almost by accident, except there was no such thing, because there really was no way he could mistake the entrance so long as he remembered the Sistine Chapel was in another country. They weren't any regular wooden doors; in fact, Axel suspected they couldn't even qualify as such. Gates, perhaps. Or tunnels. The threshold soared high above him, more than twice his height, and the immovable oak panels were inlaid with fanciful designs: Rococo and African, branching out like suns or circlets of keys. It felt like stepping into a dragon's ballroom.
You could not move these doors, even if you wanted. More likely, these doors could move you.
Fortunately, they were ajar, though crowded with dresses and suits, all peering in. Axel sidled his way through the masses, advantaged by his lack of wig-nothing to get 'accidentally' tipped off by competitors, which meant he could advance without stopping to pick up various accessories or pieces of his dignity. It was smooth going, though he was nearly inconvenienced when a lady discreetly tried to stomp on his foot-the spike-heel grazed his shoe and hit the floor instead, where you could practically hear the wedge snap. If it hadn't been the marble floor, it would've been Axel's podalic bones. He dropped the empty snuff wrapper into her cleavage with a look of withering scorn and continued onwards, towards the inner circle.
The back of the room was a raised platform, spanning wall to wall, whose centrepiece was a throne of truly majestic proportions, more so than anything his former wanderings had shown. The whole composition was littered with wreaths of flowers, visiting cards, trinkets and tokens of grace; they piled up on the thick Persian carpet like corpses in a mass grave. It was terribly morbid and awe-inspiring all at once. Meanwhile, in the middle of it all, sprawled on the throne and lit by the fall of sunshine through the frosted windows, was the most homicidal person Axel ever saw in his life.
He wore an elaborate, powdered wig and a mother-of-pearl dress, stitched with tiny sweeping designs of lilac and topaz. His feet arched perfectly in a pair of high-heeled shoes, inlaid with moonstones, and his throat was collared by an exquisite pearl necklace. His nails, French-manicured, were painted silver and blue, and tapped irately on the arm of the chair, twitching every so often, as if longing to curl around a courtesan's neck and squeeze.
It was undoubtedly Roxas Antoinette, Son Altesse Royale la Dauphine de France. He was wearing an expression of painfully intense boredom, and looked about ready to die.
Well, carpe diem.
Axel stepped forward from the rest of the crowd and took a sweeping bow. "Your Highness," he said, eyes angled downwards, "Count Axel von Fersen, of the Royal House of Vasa in Strasbourg. Allow me to pay my respects."
The Dauphine visibly grimaced, and extended a reluctant hand. This close up, Axel could see that his legs were crossed impatiently under the voluminous skirts. He took the palm carefully, grasping above the wrist, like one would a dagger, and kissed it near the knuckles. The Dauphine snatched it back almost immediately afterwards.
"Thank you for gracing us with your presence, Count," he said with faint annoyance, already looking at the next in line. "I hope you find our Court accommodating."
"Oh, surely more so than my previous home," Axel answered cheerfully. "Being excommunicated does that to you. I hope you don't mind me staying awhile, by the way."
The Dauphine glanced back at him sharply. "What?"
"Excommunicated," Axel repeated. He pointed at the twin tear marks on his face. "These beauties? Punishment for failure on the battlefield and disgrace in court. I don't know about the French tastes, your Highness, but we Swedes are firm believers in corporeal punishment."
His Highness stared, but with more of a curious air this time. He eyed Axel's brands with something approaching fascination. "Did they hurt?"
"Indescribably," said Axel. He grinned, all teeth.
The Dauphine's lips twitched. "Did you like it?"
"Not at the time," Axel confessed, "but I've grown rather attached. It gives a face character, if your Highness takes my meaning, you know."
The Dauphine snorted delicately. "Any more character and your face could be two different people, Count." He eyed the unbound red hair, glittering with a treasury of stolen gemstones. "Is that natural?"
"I'm afraid so, Highness, barring the additional loot," Axel replied. "Wigs don't seem to agree with me."
"Any relation to the Princess of Atlantica?"
"Not that I know of, Highness." Axel waggled his eyebrows. The Dauphine looked trapped between amusement and sickened disgust.
"Do that again and I'll have your scalp torn."
"Well, Highness, in Swedish törn is actually a euphemism for-"
"La! Silence, miscreant." The Dauphine could possibly have been described as amused by then. "I thought foreigners, at least, had some measure of decency."
"On the contrary, Highness; we look to the French and attempt only to imitate."
"Is that so," the Dauphine murmured wryly. "How unfortunate." His incessant nail-tapping, Axel suddenly noticed, had stopped. "Tell me again, Count, what is your name?"
"Axel von Fersen," said Axel, "excommunicated from the Royal House of Vasa in Strasbourg." He smiled, the tear-marks on his cheeks curving outward. "I'd be honoured if his Highness remembered it."
The Dauphine laughed, more beautiful and captivating than anyone else in the court, more than Axel could ever have imagined. His eyes narrowed as he looked Axel up and down, sharp and smiling. "Somehow, von Fersen, I don't think that will be a problem."
He didn't make it back to Princess Ariel, nor to Marluxia and his coterie, in the end. Nonetheless, he figured they'd understand the situation, if they knew-Roxas, after all, was someone worth knowing a lot more, and Axel looked forward to learning a thing or two from him about court life.
All characters © their respective owners; I claim no right nor profit.
blizzardseason: Write how Axel von Fersen met lady Roxas-Antoinette! (:3)
(six months pass)
miarr: ...uh, hey, yeah!
Part of the French Revolution AU-a beginning, of sorts. Dedicated to blizzardseason, who once again asked for it. Thanks to raihu for the absolutely keen beta.
Allemande
It was the peak of an Indian summer in Versailles, with the gardens blooming like paradise and the swans singing in the lake, when Count Axel von Fersen stepped out of his carriage and into the notorious machinations of the French court for the first time.
His shoes had barely clicked on the pavement when a servant, opulent in brushed velvet and a deliriously coiffed wig, came to a halt by his elbow and offered to take his coat and hat.
"Si je peux, honoré monsieur?"
His waistcoat perfectly matched the colour of the hibiscuses curling around the path. The effect was strikingly elegant, if a bit too mauve.
"Ah, oui, naturellement."
Now divested, he hadn't yet taken his first step when he was thwarted again, this time by a similarly-painted feminine version bearing a tray of drinks.
"Boisson, honoré monsieur?" She curtsied.
Born and raised in the Swedish courts, Axel was unaccustomed to such minute attention when functioning as a guest. He was momentarily bemused, but recovered with commendable haste. All along the boulevard, carriages were stopping and people were getting off, tossing about hats and plucking beverages with wild abandon. Clearly, it was common practice. He nodded to the servant girl, took the drink, and joined the throngs as they flowed like an enormous, perfumed river through the gardens and into the main hall, where His Royal Highness the Dauphine of France was celebrating his 18th birthday.
There were hundreds of people around him, thousands, all walking with careful, dainty steps towards the enormous doors with one goal in mind: to schmooze and look fabulous. Axel glanced around, and in turn spotted a few curious eyes cast his way. He grinned at the onlookers, and took a largish sip of his drink. Champagne, mingled with something which he assumed was either poison or an aphrodisiac. (The Royal Family's reputation preceded them.) The day was pleasantly windy, and a breeze ruffled his échevelé hair. Things were looking good.
He had heard much about the Queen Roxas, though most of it he dismissed as exaggerations; the useless libel which beleaguered any person of standing throughout Europe. It was fashionable to slander famous people. He had often done it himself, with panache and great relish, which was perhaps one of the many reasons he was now diplomatically paying his respects in Versailles, a safe distance from the homeland, without even a proper wig to his name.
The human river-his part in it, anyway-reached the doors of the main hall, and he stepped from brushed pavement onto marble, breathing in the overwhelming perfumes of the Palace. This was apparently cue for another horde of servants to assault him, bearing gifts and bonne bouche and things skewered on little prongs which he couldn't place in any gastronomical spectrum. He exchanged his empty glass for a full, pocketed a complimentary packet of snuff, and made his way into the French Court Sea, mother of all rivers.
It was enormous. That was the first impression, and so strong he felt as if he were walking into a wall, an iron barricade made of up sheer awe and shock value. Everything was gilded, from tables to window frames to the other, bigger gildings which in turn decorated things made up of gilt. Everywhere he looked there were mirrors, reflecting the bustle and the elegance, standing like graceful arches and flashing with the occasional ray of sunlight. They almost looked like entrances to other chambers. And above it all there hung a cavalcade of chandeliers, glittering with superfluous light, pure crystal cupping fire. The effect was somewhat similar to walking into a closed box of massively expensive fireworks.
The first ten seconds felt like asphyxiation; there were perfumes and oils, sweat and food and sickly-sweet flowers, all stifling and dizzying and making him want to vomit. He was jostled about the room, feebly trying to look suave and not do anything embarrassing, like expire mid-swoon. It was horrible, and he felt like he really was going to vomit-until, in a flash of inspiration, he realized what the snuff had initially been for. He fumbled out the packet, tearing the wrapper, and snorted a fair portion, forsaking elegance for the sake of quick benediction.
This was the Count's first experience with French snuff, which was perhaps somewhat unfortunate. Nevertheless, barring the flint-sharp hammer which Axel fancied instantly demolished the frontal lobe of the brain, the sensation was not altogether unpleasant. Moreover, it blocked out anything else, seeing as his olfactory senses had apparently caved under the onslaught and engineered an unconditional surrender.
After this, everything felt much more bearable, though it was odd not to feel the inside of his nose or temples. This, then, was why France was full of addicts: to block out the stink of perfume, which was probably there to overpower the stench of tobacco. Privately, Axel wondered which had come first. He straightened and began the process of court-mingling at a much more respectable pace, rubbing at his nose once in an odd while.
A mademoiselle stopped him with a coy brush against his arm, demure. She was wearing an extravagant dress that looked like it was made of fish scales, and her smiling mouth was shielded by an enormous fan, open at half-mast and fluttering delicately in her hand. Her bosom, on the other hand, remained unguarded and stared up at Axel with abrasive frankness. She was a redhead, like him, and very pretty.
"Monsieur," she said, coral-red mouth curving around the word, "can it be, that is your natural hair?"
"Madame," he bent and kissed her hand, succeeding on the second try; he was still a trifle giddy from the sharp kick to the nostrils. She didn't seem to mind, though, and emitted a charming half-giggle. "You are extraordinarily perceptive. It is my real hair-it could not be otherwise. In the face of your beauty, artifice is overwhelmed."
"Oh, monsieur," she demurred, making no effort to release her hand; he stroked a thumb down her wrist and watched her lips quirk. "You are new to the court, yes?"
"Am I that obvious?" he smiled, all charm.
"Yes," she said blandly. "What is your name?"
"Count Axel von Fersen, of the Royal House of Vasa in Strasbourg," he replied, feeling mildly insulted. "Upon what does milady base her conclusions?"
"Most veterans do not attempt to flirt with Her Highness Ariel, Princess of Atlantica," his companion said, and her fan tittered in amusement. "No, don't bow-kiss my hand again. You are looking for the Dauphine?"
"Correct," he murmured, trying to swallow a burning humiliation and simultaneously ignore the fact he was face-level with the inimitable bosom. Her Highness had apparently disdained a corset for what looked like a ramshackle pair of seashells. The effect was immensely-well, immense in general.
"He is in the upper chambers, accepting visitors," said Ariel of Atlantica, and the shells clinked an affirmative. "But you shall keep me amused for a while yet, will you not?"
"It will be my pleasure, Highness," Axel said, "but first, allow me to fulfil my duties, not so? Then we shall have all the time in the world."
"La! What a pleasure to find a proper gentleman in this social wasteland," she said, and tapped his head with the fan. He could see her eyes; she wasn't looking at him, but right below his eyes, at his cheeks. "I shall hold you to that promise, monsieur. You look like somebody, ah, worth knowing."
"It's the hair," he confided, and felt pleased when she laughed. "Fear not, milady-I shall return posthaste to renew our acquaintance. You, too, look like somebody worth knowing."
"Scamp!" she called after him affectionately as he made his way to the stairwell, coral-red hair fanned about her bare shoulders. He blew her a kiss.
The Palace of Versailles defied comprehension, being both intrinsic and lavish to a completely ridiculous degree. Even outside the main hall everything glittered. Surfaces were draped with rich tapestries and carpets; vases and statues from every corner of the world; turquoise and quartz and ivory. Axel spotted wall ornamentation ranging from Renaissance to Baroque: all carved in flawless marble, framed by rosewood and laced with silver veins. Everything demanded his attention, made his eyes and fingers itch at the sheer opulence of it, completely different from anything his northern home had to offer. He staggered down countless hallways and up countless stairs, all teeming with haute monde, who gazed at him with kohl-rimmed eyes and laughed like tinkling glass.
It's no wonder, in that case, that he got lost: he never found himself in the first place. After approximately twenty minutes of walking and what felt like an additional forty of gaping uselessly, he happened to glance out the window and fancied himself in another part of the continent entirely.
Where once there were placid gardens and a phalanx of servants practicing strategic maneuvers on the flagstones, there was now a lake. It had boats and mermaids and quite possibly a sea serpent lurking somewhere within its depths. Never a genius at the practical sciences, Axel nevertheless estimated it to be nearly as big as his entire palace back home. He was fairly sure that if Jesus would have tried walking across the thing, he would have tired out halfway and given himself up for lost somewhere near the thirty-sixth statue of languishing Persephone.
"Er, excuse me," he called out, and a group of courtesans passing by turned at the sound of his voice. One, apparently their leader, stopped mid-stride and glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. The others looked on in faintly disdainful interest. "Would the messieurs be so good as to tell me where in the palace we are?"
"Oh?" the courtesan looked faintly amused, his pencilled eyebrows ascending on thermals of disbelief. He reeked of flowers, absolutely reeked, enough to penetrate even Axel's snuff-induced sensory coma. It might have been coming from the wig, which was big enough to hold two and artfully decorated with rose petals. Oddly enough, the others didn't seem to mind. "A country bumpkin? My, how rare. And who might you be, pray tell?"
"Count Axel von Fersen, of the Royal House of Vasa in Strasbourg," said Axel, with dignity. "And who are you?"
"Marluxia," said the courtesan, and seemed content to leave it at that. Axel blinked. "If the name means nothing to you, clearly you've not been around long enough, which is to say, not at all. But then, I assumed as much, seeing as you're in the West Wing when you're probably searching for the Eastern chambers of the Dauphine, not so?"
"Well, yes," said Axel suavely, ignoring the genteel titters of Marluxia's posse. They were about eight in number, all dressed in shades of lavender and wearing identical expressions of snobbishness, both men and women. Axel loathed them immediately. "Although one can hardly be faulted for losing their way, seeing as this place was built more to confuse and baffle than serve any actual purpose, such as, for instance, living in-"
"Ah, I see you're already getting the hang of it," Marluxia smiled. "You'll be fully integrated quite soon. Come back when you've seen the Dauphine," his eyes looked Axel up and down, smooth as old satin, "I dare say we could spare a few minutes to show you around. Teach you a thing or two about court life." The gang tittered again.
And before Axel could even figure out whether to redden or play along, Marluxia smiled, unexpectedly harmless. "The Dauphine's chambers are back the way you came, down two flights of stairs and left at the naked statue of Orpheus. You couldn't possibly miss the doorway, unless you accidentally mistake it for the Sistine Chapel. Is that your natural hair, by the by? What a ravishing colour."
"Yeah," said Axel, intelligently. "Er, thank you. I'll just be, that is to say, I'd better not keep the Dauphine waiting. Pleasure meeting you all."
"Likewise," murmured Marluxia, and inclined his head at Axel as they bowed farewell. "Take care, Count."
Dizzy from the overbearing scent of herb gardens and further baffled by the branching corridors, it was perhaps no great surprise that the naked statue of Orpheus did not readily present itself. Axel was beginning to despair of finding his way back to the main hall, much less to the Eastern Wing. Mostly he was preoccupied with the question whether all Frenchmen behaved like that, and if it was in any way contagious, in which case he would do well to leave as soon as his carriage was ready.
By the fifth arbitrary wall mirror positioned in a hallway, replete with cherubim and bronze embellishments, he was seriously annoyed with the entire Gaelic nation, its aristocracy in particular. He began to vindictively pocket random objects-a small glass circlet, an ivory statuette, a piece of gilt fashioned like a crown. It was a minor retaliation. Once, stopping before a mirror, he began picking apart the decorative beads forming the halo on an engraving of Christ, fingering the stones and stringing them onto his hair. Jet, agate, tiger's eye. It was of critical importance to make a striking first impression on the Dauphine, after all.
Besides, he reasoned, it's not as if anyone would miss them. Now if only he could find some lapis lazuli in there somewhere-
Suddenly, a pair of voices floated around the corner, followed shortly by the sound of footsteps and heralding two pairs of feet. A couple of courtesans rounded the corner and walked past Axel, nodding distractedly to him and talking in hushed, wry voices. One looked completely Nordic, fair even beneath her tasteful wig, and the other had a distinctly British look about him which was enhanced by his accent, balking over the French words like a loaded carriage on an unpaved road.
"I heard he's bored to tears-"
"They said he'd murder the next one who offered up flowers-"
"Good thing you presented that necklace, right?"
"Are you joking? If looks could kill, I'd be interred by now."
"Ruthless, that's what he is, absolutely ruthless-"
"It's rumoured he said that by the time he's twenty, he'd prefer to stare out the window than celebrate his birthday in the court."
"Insatiable! What does it take to pique his interest, does anyone know?"
"Is it even possible?"
"Well, you know, in court as in the bedroom-"
They strolled away, laughing dryly, while Axel tried not to eavesdrop too obviously and make an idiot of himself. He felt about ready to explode from the sheer frustration, the nervous energy of being so close to his goal. He'd departed from Strasbourg on the official mission to meet the Dauphine and pay his respects: past the borders of Sweden he stopped looking back at what he'd left and started looking forward, to the promise of Versailles and the greater European court.
He remembered carriage rides across entire countries, mountains and forests and great twilit lakes jostling by, staring out the window and imagining the meeting with Roxas Antoinette. Would he be graceful? Would he even look twice at Axel? This was a matter of survival in the court-without the Dauphine's favour, Axel would have nowhere to return to, which meant selling his title or worse. And here he was, stumbling around the corridors of the palace like a drunkard, not even managing to find the right bloody room-
He came upon the Dauphine's chambers at that very moment, almost by accident, except there was no such thing, because there really was no way he could mistake the entrance so long as he remembered the Sistine Chapel was in another country. They weren't any regular wooden doors; in fact, Axel suspected they couldn't even qualify as such. Gates, perhaps. Or tunnels. The threshold soared high above him, more than twice his height, and the immovable oak panels were inlaid with fanciful designs: Rococo and African, branching out like suns or circlets of keys. It felt like stepping into a dragon's ballroom.
You could not move these doors, even if you wanted. More likely, these doors could move you.
Fortunately, they were ajar, though crowded with dresses and suits, all peering in. Axel sidled his way through the masses, advantaged by his lack of wig-nothing to get 'accidentally' tipped off by competitors, which meant he could advance without stopping to pick up various accessories or pieces of his dignity. It was smooth going, though he was nearly inconvenienced when a lady discreetly tried to stomp on his foot-the spike-heel grazed his shoe and hit the floor instead, where you could practically hear the wedge snap. If it hadn't been the marble floor, it would've been Axel's podalic bones. He dropped the empty snuff wrapper into her cleavage with a look of withering scorn and continued onwards, towards the inner circle.
The back of the room was a raised platform, spanning wall to wall, whose centrepiece was a throne of truly majestic proportions, more so than anything his former wanderings had shown. The whole composition was littered with wreaths of flowers, visiting cards, trinkets and tokens of grace; they piled up on the thick Persian carpet like corpses in a mass grave. It was terribly morbid and awe-inspiring all at once. Meanwhile, in the middle of it all, sprawled on the throne and lit by the fall of sunshine through the frosted windows, was the most homicidal person Axel ever saw in his life.
He wore an elaborate, powdered wig and a mother-of-pearl dress, stitched with tiny sweeping designs of lilac and topaz. His feet arched perfectly in a pair of high-heeled shoes, inlaid with moonstones, and his throat was collared by an exquisite pearl necklace. His nails, French-manicured, were painted silver and blue, and tapped irately on the arm of the chair, twitching every so often, as if longing to curl around a courtesan's neck and squeeze.
It was undoubtedly Roxas Antoinette, Son Altesse Royale la Dauphine de France. He was wearing an expression of painfully intense boredom, and looked about ready to die.
Well, carpe diem.
Axel stepped forward from the rest of the crowd and took a sweeping bow. "Your Highness," he said, eyes angled downwards, "Count Axel von Fersen, of the Royal House of Vasa in Strasbourg. Allow me to pay my respects."
The Dauphine visibly grimaced, and extended a reluctant hand. This close up, Axel could see that his legs were crossed impatiently under the voluminous skirts. He took the palm carefully, grasping above the wrist, like one would a dagger, and kissed it near the knuckles. The Dauphine snatched it back almost immediately afterwards.
"Thank you for gracing us with your presence, Count," he said with faint annoyance, already looking at the next in line. "I hope you find our Court accommodating."
"Oh, surely more so than my previous home," Axel answered cheerfully. "Being excommunicated does that to you. I hope you don't mind me staying awhile, by the way."
The Dauphine glanced back at him sharply. "What?"
"Excommunicated," Axel repeated. He pointed at the twin tear marks on his face. "These beauties? Punishment for failure on the battlefield and disgrace in court. I don't know about the French tastes, your Highness, but we Swedes are firm believers in corporeal punishment."
His Highness stared, but with more of a curious air this time. He eyed Axel's brands with something approaching fascination. "Did they hurt?"
"Indescribably," said Axel. He grinned, all teeth.
The Dauphine's lips twitched. "Did you like it?"
"Not at the time," Axel confessed, "but I've grown rather attached. It gives a face character, if your Highness takes my meaning, you know."
The Dauphine snorted delicately. "Any more character and your face could be two different people, Count." He eyed the unbound red hair, glittering with a treasury of stolen gemstones. "Is that natural?"
"I'm afraid so, Highness, barring the additional loot," Axel replied. "Wigs don't seem to agree with me."
"Any relation to the Princess of Atlantica?"
"Not that I know of, Highness." Axel waggled his eyebrows. The Dauphine looked trapped between amusement and sickened disgust.
"Do that again and I'll have your scalp torn."
"Well, Highness, in Swedish törn is actually a euphemism for-"
"La! Silence, miscreant." The Dauphine could possibly have been described as amused by then. "I thought foreigners, at least, had some measure of decency."
"On the contrary, Highness; we look to the French and attempt only to imitate."
"Is that so," the Dauphine murmured wryly. "How unfortunate." His incessant nail-tapping, Axel suddenly noticed, had stopped. "Tell me again, Count, what is your name?"
"Axel von Fersen," said Axel, "excommunicated from the Royal House of Vasa in Strasbourg." He smiled, the tear-marks on his cheeks curving outward. "I'd be honoured if his Highness remembered it."
The Dauphine laughed, more beautiful and captivating than anyone else in the court, more than Axel could ever have imagined. His eyes narrowed as he looked Axel up and down, sharp and smiling. "Somehow, von Fersen, I don't think that will be a problem."
He didn't make it back to Princess Ariel, nor to Marluxia and his coterie, in the end. Nonetheless, he figured they'd understand the situation, if they knew-Roxas, after all, was someone worth knowing a lot more, and Axel looked forward to learning a thing or two from him about court life.
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