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Olivier’s night is filled with strange dreams that he cannot understand.
He sees himself as a soldier, though one in a uniform he does not recognize, fighting on battlefields he has never seen, and in Parisian alleys down which he has never trod. He wields a sword, and uses it with grace and efficiency, blood pounding in his temples and nerves singing in a way that makes him giddy. He is never alone, either; he can always feel the comforting presence of some unknown and beloved comrades beside him, and without seeing their faces or knowing who they might be, he knows that they make each victory all the sweeter.
He dreams of other things, too: making love to a woman with dark hair and gypsy eyes, and stranger still, an unknown city with buildings that rise into the heavens and carriages that zoom past, bottomless sorrow without source.
He wakes with a start in an unfamiliar room.
As Olivier blinks away the fog of sleep and unsettling dreams, both more vivid and more confusing than any he has experienced in his sixteen years, the room comes into focus, lighted by morning sun filtering through heavy curtains. It is small and under-furnished, though a desk sits in one corner and a wardrobe in the other. Carefully, he places his feet upon a cool wooden floor and pads over to the former; there are notes and lists in a hand that looks strangely like his father’s, books with unfamiliar titles, a few empty bottles of wine. With heart beating and eyes wide, he looks around for something, anything, that could hint at where he might be, for he is no longer in his bedroom, or at La Fere, or anywhere near it. Olivier knows that in his gut.
His eyes fall on the sword resting in the corner.
It’s beautiful. Even in his youth and inexperience, Olivier can see that. Still careful, still silent (perhaps there are captors, perhaps they might wake), he creeps towards it and lifts it from the sheath. The weapon is heavier than any his fencing master has ever allowed him to wield, thoroughly meant for the single purpose of killing as disabling other men. Just holding it, even in his nightshirt, he is struck by equal parts terror and power, and with a shaky certainty: he is the son of the Comte de la Fere, and a boy no longer. No matter how strange and frightening these circumstances seem, he must find a way out of him. He must confront whatever brigands have brought him to this mysterious place.
He finds the wardrobe full of clothes - another strange discovery. With some difficulty, he is able to discover what he needs: trousers, and doublet, and a a leather jacket well-worn and well-cared for. Everything hangs a little loose on him, but it fits, after a fashion. Once dressed, Olivier hefts the sword in his hand and ventures out of the room.
The outer room is empty of people as well, but he catches voices from below, and creeps to a stairway leading downward. There he stills, for a moment terrified of what he might find. Thieves? Spies? Some old family enemy? Pirates? No, he must not let his imagination run away with him. He must confront those who have taken him away from his home and demand they return him. No one insults La Fere in this manner.
Olivier keeps silent until he reaches the floor below, and there, he lifts his chin as well as his sword. “Who are you and where have you taken me?” he asks in a voice he wishes desperately were steadier. “I demand to know."
He sees himself as a soldier, though one in a uniform he does not recognize, fighting on battlefields he has never seen, and in Parisian alleys down which he has never trod. He wields a sword, and uses it with grace and efficiency, blood pounding in his temples and nerves singing in a way that makes him giddy. He is never alone, either; he can always feel the comforting presence of some unknown and beloved comrades beside him, and without seeing their faces or knowing who they might be, he knows that they make each victory all the sweeter.
He dreams of other things, too: making love to a woman with dark hair and gypsy eyes, and stranger still, an unknown city with buildings that rise into the heavens and carriages that zoom past, bottomless sorrow without source.
He wakes with a start in an unfamiliar room.
As Olivier blinks away the fog of sleep and unsettling dreams, both more vivid and more confusing than any he has experienced in his sixteen years, the room comes into focus, lighted by morning sun filtering through heavy curtains. It is small and under-furnished, though a desk sits in one corner and a wardrobe in the other. Carefully, he places his feet upon a cool wooden floor and pads over to the former; there are notes and lists in a hand that looks strangely like his father’s, books with unfamiliar titles, a few empty bottles of wine. With heart beating and eyes wide, he looks around for something, anything, that could hint at where he might be, for he is no longer in his bedroom, or at La Fere, or anywhere near it. Olivier knows that in his gut.
His eyes fall on the sword resting in the corner.
It’s beautiful. Even in his youth and inexperience, Olivier can see that. Still careful, still silent (perhaps there are captors, perhaps they might wake), he creeps towards it and lifts it from the sheath. The weapon is heavier than any his fencing master has ever allowed him to wield, thoroughly meant for the single purpose of killing as disabling other men. Just holding it, even in his nightshirt, he is struck by equal parts terror and power, and with a shaky certainty: he is the son of the Comte de la Fere, and a boy no longer. No matter how strange and frightening these circumstances seem, he must find a way out of him. He must confront whatever brigands have brought him to this mysterious place.
He finds the wardrobe full of clothes - another strange discovery. With some difficulty, he is able to discover what he needs: trousers, and doublet, and a a leather jacket well-worn and well-cared for. Everything hangs a little loose on him, but it fits, after a fashion. Once dressed, Olivier hefts the sword in his hand and ventures out of the room.
The outer room is empty of people as well, but he catches voices from below, and creeps to a stairway leading downward. There he stills, for a moment terrified of what he might find. Thieves? Spies? Some old family enemy? Pirates? No, he must not let his imagination run away with him. He must confront those who have taken him away from his home and demand they return him. No one insults La Fere in this manner.
Olivier keeps silent until he reaches the floor below, and there, he lifts his chin as well as his sword. “Who are you and where have you taken me?” he asks in a voice he wishes desperately were steadier. “I demand to know."
