1 – The author does not own or makes any claims over Miraculous: Adventures of Ladybug and Chat Noir or it's elements.
2 – No disrespect whatsoever intended to the historical figures portraited here.
3 – Tale for entertainment purposes only
4 – This is a very different Miraculous fanfic. I need your opinion and reviews to know if this is acceptable and if I should cut it short or keep going.
THE FIRST TOAST TO A BUTTERFLY
Maybe his critics were right. Maybe the drinking finally got to him. If not a hallucination, perchance every artist of the past is wrong and Death is not a hooded skeleton, but a small purple imp. After some exchange of words, somehow, he convinced the box he found between his mail that morning brought a ray of hope. A purple ray.
"Nooroo, is that right? Some sort of djinn from the Orient-"
"Actually, I am since the human desire is. So… Africa.
That's insane. He had an empire to save, and there he was, in his office at home, talking to a… to what?
"Now you are presenting yourself as God of Desire. Truly, Italians are into something. Se non è vero, è ben trovato.*"
"I don't like the connotations of 'god'. If you need to classify me, I am a kwami. And, yes, desire, ambition, aspirations…"
"Well, I desire to get rid of that maniac house painter who is ruling Germany. What you can do about it?"
"Me? Nothing. We will do it together, Winston. I can give you the means to accomplish this."
"I don't have time to waste. Explain how, pint-sized Prometheus."
"You will give some of your men powers, gifts beyond any mortal dream."
"Preposterous."
"Put on the brooch and say 'Wings, rise'. After a minute or so, say 'Wings, fall'."
"Certainly a bold fashion statement." He said, adjusting the gem on his cravat.
After a while, a shaking Winston was pouring a shot. After drinking the contends in one big gulp, he spoke.
"It was… godlike. I could sense, share the feelings of dozens of subjects. Could understand their desires and objectives, perhaps even better than themselves. Like spying on their very souls."
"Not preposterous, right? Now, let me teach you to focus on one and how to grant this person powers and abilities to reach their goals."
"And, perchance mine? And the Crown's?"
"Huh… you must be careful with this power."
"Truly, in some souls I pried, those intersect."
"That's truth, and that's the reason you're my Holder now, but… be careful."
He sipped from his glass.
"Ready for the first lesson, Yearning One."
"No more questions?"
"Several. But now I may have a trump card, and wish to use it. Time is neutral, but it can be made the ally of those who will seize it and use it to the full."
*Se non è vero, è bem trovato – if it's not true, it's very well conceived.
Jim Bolton exited the pub because it was closing, looking around the city trying to remember if there's another gin joint still open. Where else he could go? Home, to tell his wife he just spend their last quids on drinks and, the way the small newspaper he works on is going, he hardly will have more coming? To work for an ever-shrinking readership? Sad true is, in that region, there's lots of good writers and reporters working for a rival paper, one that is sympathetic to Europe's dictators, defending the supposed advantages of a British national-socialism. Bolton did not blame the readers, however. People with few or no hope on the horizon cling to any promise. He blamed himself. If his paper had writers good enough to show the other side, if he knew how to put the truth on the paper…
So worried – and intoxicated, sure – he was he did not notice a white butterfly approaching and fusing with the pen on his pocket. Then, he heard a voice on his head
"Pen of the Island. I am… Red Admiral. I have a proposal for you."
Two days later, Churchill was reading the paper with a proud Nooroo on his shoulder
"It's a reproduction of the passionate article from mysterious Pen of the Island. It left the frontiers of the small local newsrag behind and is making waves across the empire."
The kwami reached for a classified document.
"And according to the intelligence, that other fascist newspaper lost half of their readership."
Churchill opened his drawer, and reached for a bottle of champagne.
"I stole this thimble from Clementine. Now is time to use it." Filling it with the bubbling liquid, he passed it to Nooroo, before filling his glass "To our first success, smallest Prometheus."
"It worked better than I would imagine."
"The English language is one of our greatest sources of inspiration and strength."
"But I don't drink, Winston."
"You do now. I don't trust a man – or djinn – who has not a single redeeming vice."
"Well, it will not hurt, I guess" said Nooroo, taking a sip.
"That reminds me of that time on Canada…"
Minutes later, Nooroo was finishing his second thimble and laughing loud.
"Again, again. You were on that snotty dinner, with a Methodist bishop at your side, the waitress, the waitress…"
"She appeared with a tray of sherry glasses. I took one, but the bishop was infuriated. He said: 'Young lady, I'd rather commit adultery than take an intoxicating beverage.' I answered…"
Nooroo laughed even more:
"'Come back, lassie; I didn't know we had a choice'. Winston, Winston, I sense we'll have a great partnership. Tell me another story… and fill up this thimble."
"Not now, my pocket partner. I have a meeting at the parliament."
"Oh. Do you think they will make you Prime-Minister?"
"No, not yet. It's a fine game to play, the game of politics – and it's well worth waiting for a good hand before really plunging."
Like every historical figure, Winston Churchill is full of controversies. I don't dare or dream, here, to paint an accurate historical portrait of him. I just want to entertain a bit – In the end of the tale, I will provide my bibliography, but I humbly invite you to research this man.
And tell me what do you think, and if you would like a similar tale with Tikki and her second favorite French teenager girl holder, Joan of Arc
