entrancelogs | [S] MAKE HIM PAY

Athos' irony and his goodbyes, his Latin, his French, his wonderful words, they were all sadly wasted on the duke who had already breathed his last before he even hit the floor. And the last thought on his fading mind was that it was not supposed to end like this...

The thought still lingers on his mind when he comes to, cold and stiff and looking at a ceiling that could quite frankly use a more ornate coat of paint.

(But that thought is perhaps secondary right now.)

At first Buckingham believes himself to be dying still, a last glimpse at the living world. He waits for his eyes to close, but the final weakness never comes.

It's then that he realises that the tingling in his fingers has nothing to do with numbness and everything to do with animation and warmth, life returning to and not leaving his body.

The very first movement is tentative, but as soon as even one finger twitches at his command the duke instantly jumps to his feet, looking around.

Blood on the floor. His blood. Dark and dried and damnation, the dark stain has ruined his doublet, even if he could get the stench of metal out.

...And then he sees the hole. Small, negligible, really, if it wasn't for the wound... the wound which it doesn't mark and no matter how hard he looks, not a single trace of the encounter can be found on his skin.

Slowly, very slowly, he turns to pick up his blade, chuckling as he recalls the challenge, the fight, the mistakes and the ending that came all too soon.

But it didn't last, it was... it was just like the attack on the tower, a ridiculous interlude in which he just so happened to lose against Athos, but then, ah but then!

Buckingham paces the length of the table, growing more and more animate.

But then he beat death.

Falling against a bookshelf his chuckle finally spins out of control and turns into laughter, laughter and more maniacal laughter and oh my, what an experience!

A sharp breath brings quiet, convinces the duke to content himself with a smirk.

Oh, but he simply must tell Athos about this.

Right now.

Edited 2012-02-07 02:01 (UTC)

Santana stared at the stupid post-it for a good while. Didn't he already die? If it weren't the for different location, she would assume she was looking at the old note.

But no. Apparently the freak was going to die again. So she makes her way to the seventh floor, sighing heavily the whole time.

All right, where is he...

Buckingham is already on the fifth floor when it occurs to him to pause and think about what he's even doing.

His mood started out maniacal, elated about the triumph over an unseen force, a victory so great he couldn't help but want to flaunt it in front of the musketeer who thought himself the final winner.

But somewhere on those steps it took a darker turn and Buckingham realised that not only did Athos need to know about his revival, he needed to learn how foolish it was to even put the duke in the position of such a supposed death, to terrify him beyond anything he will ever think, let alone speak of again.

Yes. Yes, it was all clear to him now. Athos needed to pay.

So, where is G. Villiers right now?

Why, on the way to his appointment of course, taking the last few stairs in stride and briskly walking towards Athos' room.

Oh look, there's Mr Fancypants right now. Being fond of revenge herself, Santana can recognize it in others. And Lord Buckingham was very clearly out for revenge.

Too bad he was apparently going to die.

Again.

Wow, that's kind of embarrassing. She'll keep that to herself.

She will also keep this encounter short, thank you very much. Just before Buckingham reaches whatever room he's headed to, Santana makes a beeline for him, bumping against his side and--tada, touch achieved!

"I'm so sorry, my Lord!"

Never let it be said that she is not good at humoring guys and their egos.

What Santana might also recognise is a state of dishevelment quite unlike anything His Lordship usually displays. Wild hair hanging loose and a blood still sticking to his fashionable clothes.

An expression of bewilderment that forgot about the people in this universe that are not Athos.

Buckingham blinks and sways a little, his expression flowing into a maniacal grin instead of a pleasant smile, his eyes filled with just a little more crazy than is probably healthy.

"Oh, no trouble at all, Miss Santana," he chimes in a singsong voice that is just a little too far gone to stop and appreciate her effort.

He bows, sways again and rather unceremoniously turns around, takes a few steps and draws his sword at the next door which he promptly brings down with a kick.

"Athos! Round two!"

...Huh. Santana stares for a moment, then shakes her head. She'll piece it all together in her room.

Away from the death.

Carry on, boys.

Athos did not revel in his victory. In fact, he did not do much more than offer Buckingham's fresh corpse a parting glance, turning on his heel and leaving the library, leaving the body.

Someone else could deal with him once he started to smell.

So he had adjourned to his rooms, the thirst for vengeance sated and the thirst for wine appeased once he had poured himself a cup of some of the finest Burgundy the Mansion had to offer.

...at least, he'd been drinking some of the finest Burgundy the Mansion had to offer up until the Duke of ~~Bedlam~~ Buckingham kicked down his door.

Athos simply stares.

"Really?"

Now there's debris on the floor. Poor form.

It is quite rightly said that any near-death experience can be traumatising.

Take, for example, somebody so full of vigour he hardly ever stopped to think that he might be anything but immortal. Somebody so used to plucking fruits from the tree of life anytime he desires, somebody who relishes games and watching others pay the price of loss.

For somebody like that a near-death experience could indeed be a frightening plunge into the cold depths of reality, a revelation to traumatise, why, even unhinge.

And a full-death experience?

"At your own pace, mon chéri!"

Well...

Athos sighs, long-winded and suffering, and finishes his wine before setting his cup aside.

He stands. He stretches.

He considers pouring himself some more of that Burgundy before coming to the decision that keeping Buckingham waiting for another untimely demise - though how he survived that last round comes as a surprise - would be utterly rude.

"And how would Your Grace like to die this time?" he inquires dully, the primary emotion in his voice being complete boredom.

"I must say..."

Buckingham takes a swaying step closer, spinning the blade around his hand.

"I hadn't given it any thought at all."

His eyes widen and he puts the flat of his hand over his mouth. Sheepishness. Feigned. Oops.

"Now, now, don't leave me waiting for too long, you made such an awful mess, my dear Lord, and I must hurry and change."

He worries, at the very back of his mind, that he must have done something to upset the delicate balance of things within Lord Buckingham's incredibly ordered brain. But once again, this is nothing Athos has not seen before. Some men are battle-hardened, some men face death each and every day. Some men sit on their laurels and count their coins.

Somewhere between the library and the musketeer's room, the duke became dangerously unhinged. Perhaps regeneration does that to everybody.

Recovering from shock is no easy matter, so Athos draws his pistol and levels it between His Lordship's eyes.

"You trespass upon my chambers, I insist on reparations. Is one bullet payment enough?"

It is quite the ordered brain, for all the whimsy its owner sometimes displays. Unfortunately death (his own death, mind, he can watch the deaths of others quite comfortably from up on his laurels, thank you very much) has yet to be filed accordingly and until that has happened there may be one or two glitches in the system.

A flashback, for example. A terrible and frightening déjà vu that makes Buckingham swear he feels Athos' hand reaching for him, makes him step (almost stumble) back and etches an expression of terrified surprise onto his face.

Edited 2012-02-07 13:14 (UTC)

Only this one doesn't last and in a flash it's gone, in a flash he flashes his teeth instead, taking two bold steps forward as if the gun didn't even exist, raising his blade to point at the musketeer's head, as if he could fire it just the same.

"You will fight me properly, coward!"

Athos can weather all manner of abuse, and is a number of things in this godforsaken world, but a coward is not one of them. The mere implication that he might be the sort to turn tail and run is an insult.

Resisting the strong and compelling urge to roll his eyes, Athos disarms his pistol, tipping the barrel forward and setting the gun on the table. Arms spread wide in a gesture of surrender, he steps back and reaches for his swordbelt, grateful he had had the foresight to leave it on.

"I fight to the death, as Your Lordship well knows."

He draws his rapier. Pity he'll get blood on his floor.

"Prepare yourself."

Edited 2012-02-07 13:34 (UTC)

Ideally there should be preparations.

A moment to take a breath, form an initial strategy.

A stance that is taken, a stance from which to begin.

Calculation and poise for this intricate discipline.

There should be.

But there isn't.

There is only an

"En garde!"

yelled in the same moment the duke lunges forward.

Buckingham is too hasty, and Athos hasn't had that much to drink. He deflects the maneuver with ease, fueled by the duke's fury. This little tête-à-tête is so out of the ordinary that the novelty of His Lordship's supposed immortality doesn't even phase the musketeer.

Buckingham is an opponent. Nothing more.

Another brusque nudge of his sword sends Buckingham's to the side, and Athos lowers his rapier with a skeptical look.

"Monsieur, really, if you're not even going to try..."

Edited 2012-02-07 17:44 (UTC)

When Buckingham is pushed he doesn't retreat, catch his step or stop to adjust his balance. Instead he sways strangely, a pirouette, a novelty dance instead of combat footwork and before Athos' taunt is even spoken he already charges again, thrusting forward with complete disregard to the mocking interruption.

Buckingham, the tactless, raging bull that he is, swings out and prepares for another full-frontal assault. An average man would prepare to defend himself, bracing for the onslaught or considering which parry would glide the Flamberge askance, offering an opportunity to thrust forward into the man's stomach.

Athos is not an average man.

Breaking pace from the regimental back-and-forth stance of a tempered fencer with a tempered blade, Athos draws his rear leg in and sprints past the duke like an arrow. The pass is quick, accompanied by a low dodge and a clever sidestep to avoid Buckingham's flailing sword-arm, and the musketeer balances himself with a turn, a jump, and a lunge forwards.

The balestra strikes home and Athos is rewarded for his efforts in seeing his rapier cut through the silk of His Lordship's doublet, slicing into the meat of his shoulder. Swift as a whip, he draws his blade out again and assumes the passe arriere, weight braced on his front foot while the back touches the floor at the toes.

Expression hard, his steel harder, the musketeer tilts his head up in a gesture oft mistaken for another challenge - but here, here, dear reader, he offers a free pass to the door and the hallway beyond.

While Buckingham stands slumped and gripping Athos' bedpost tightly the narration almost feels bad for the success and thoroughness of his failure so far. We assure you, deeply and humbly and most sincerely that the duke is not always so painfully without skill, although he is quite sadly and unfortunately without patience, without much enthusiasm for surprises that are not orchestrated by himself and also presently, alas, inconveniently without most of his mind.

Buckingham's groan of pain quiets down to a hiss before it disappears. His arms are lowered, his grasp on the weapon in his right hand tight. Blood drips down from his left arm, fingers twitching as it falls to the floor, drop by drop. He tilts his head in return, for no other purpose than to watch the musketeer's gesture curiously and from a slightly different angle.

When cornered or deeply wounded, be it in flesh or pride or both, Buckingham is quite ready to discard many things, decorum being only one item on that list. He takes a step back and clutches Athos' bed sheet with bloody fingers, raising it as high as he can before letting go casually.

"She quite prefers it standing these days," the duke chuckles, disconcertment ringing from his statement only insofar as that his usual smugness has been eradicated and replaced by a strangely matter-of-fact, maniacal edge, as if he was genuinely observing rather than teasing.

"It goes on for hours, I wonder how you ever found the time."

His eyes widen with a challenging glint and he raises the Flamberge.

Athos watches Buckingham and waits with that noble and distinguished air his friends so admire, and that unalterable evenness of temper which makes him the most easygoing companion. It is only with forced and biting gaiety that he acts otherwise, coolheaded bravery dominating his stern features as he sees the duke stumble, cling to the bedpost, and reach for his sheets.

Having stated that Athos keeps complete control over himself, no matter the situation, the narration regrets to inform those reading that when it comes of matters involving women, he may speak of them with a gibe and a sneer.

Tenderhearted is brokenhearted, as they say.

But the woman, his woman, is a different matter entirely. Anne, as he knew her, did not please - she intoxicated. On one occasion, quite literally. She cast him aside, and in return he cast her out with every intention of forgetting.

Buckingham's taunting does precious little to draw Athos forth in a fit of jealousy and anger. To a man who has scraped the inside of his heart clean of those former affections, the goading means nothing. The words are empty.

It does, in fact, produce the opposite effect: he falters, the next step on hold, the appel he had planned on executing falling short.

Athos stops, because he remembers everything.

And he had tried so hard to let go.

Buckingham's assessment was not primarily intended to draw Athos forth, although as far as reactions go that one would hardly have been an unwelcome one. No, the true message was that the duke refuses the musketeer's offer to retreat in the crassest terms available to him, the message was that Buckingham will stay right here with Athos 'till death do them part.

Unlike a certain somebody else.

(Somebody else who gradually seems to pull some of his acts back together, because the expression he offers silently shows itself quite impressively apologetic and mocking alike.)

"Don't be sad now, crumpet, it won't hurt for much longer."

And then his lips twist and the gleam returns to his eyes, a hungry expression that is out for blood and doesn't particularly care whose.

Buckingham swings his blade wide as if to announce his intention and then charges again.

...Sad.

He isn't sad.

Regretful, perhaps, but never sad.

A creature with so fine and distinguished a nature can still sink insensibly into the material life, as old men sink into physical impairment.

Alone, Athos is extinguished, barely a man.

Staring for long hours at either his bottle or glass, occasionally beckoning Planchet forth to refill his cup. Head hung low, eyes dull, speech heavy and labored.

Alone, he drinks for four men.

But the dreamy influence that clouds his face now, dredged up by a single crude remark from a man who has not earned his title, but clawed his way into a position he was not rightfully born into, does not hold. Athos is still a musketeer, and he reacts instinctively.

The footwork is brief, coordinated - were he in the twenty-first century, one might remark that he maneuvers on autopilot. The passata-sotto, a careful but elegant couple of steps to the side, moving beneath the arc of Buckingham's blade. He does not attempt a hit, but crosses over. A step. Another step. Rapid succession, beat after beat, forte to forte. Whatever anger Athos has left has funneled into a single point: the tip of his rapier.

A master at his own art, he employs the taunting coupé, followed by the shrewd retreat of another step. He disengages. He feints. He dances. He toys.

He does not lunge - let him leave that to the inexperienced, the amateur. Let the man opposite him kill himself.

His impatience will be the death of him.

His Impatience (for grace is no longer found in any of the duke's movements) does nothing but lunge; a swagger and sway that poses little more threat than a madman with a pointed stick.

Passado. Mandritti Tonda. Passado. Reversi Tonda. Passado. Passado.

Nonsense.

Swatting rabidly at a fly.

Better.

For to put his attempts any other way would be an insult to the art, a dire misrepresentation of whatever frenzy Buckingham dragged out of the grave by his side.

Edited 2012-02-08 00:44 (UTC)

[S] MAKE HIM PAY

ROUND 2

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