Ok. Here's the deal with this one. I had this great ending for this in which we basically have this major conflict between Chauvelin and Armand, Marguerite eventually shows up, confrontation between her and Chauvie, and Armand ends up being killed. Didn't happen that way. However, I did write it, so if anyone would like to read that one,drop me a line and I'll post it or something. With this one, I had this random idea halfway through for a pretty cool ending. And when I wrote it, it didn't turn out that way. Instead, it turned into something that is most definately not the one-shot that I intended it to be. I can and will continue this if you guys like it enough, but as it stands, it's a one-shot. Oh, and reviews are always welcome! As always, this is musical based, because, though I love the book very much, Chauvelin just isn't as smexy as he should be. Also, I'm not sure I like the title. If anyone thinks of something that's better, let me know. If I like it, I'll change it and give you credit. Cuz this one kinda sucks...
Disclaimer: I don't own anything in this. Not even Andre. He belongs to NightShadow131. And the rest still isn't mine. Onward.
You Turn And Someone Betrays You
Chapter 1: Just See How Virtue Repays You
Another fist drove into his gut, and were it not for the brute of a soldier holding him up, Armand St. Just would have collapsed. He whimpered in pain as his lungs seized up and a few feeble coughs caused the ground at his feet to be splattered with blood.
And still he would not speak.
Crying out in agitation and fury, Chauvelin gripped the man's shoulders and drove his knee into the young Frenchman's badly beaten body. The agent dropped his head to Armand's shoulder and breathed deeply, trying to regain any composure that he had when he began to beat him; all things aside, he was exhausted. He had not eaten, had not slept, had not rested for a moment since he had returned from England; he had merely grabbed his young assistant by the arm, and came straight to the prison, had not stopped beating the young St. Just since he arrived.
And still he would not relinquish the name of his leader.
Armand stirred slightly, Chauvelin drove his fist into the boy's gut again, and with a whimper of pain, Armand fell still a second time.
"Who is he, Armand?" Silence, but he expected no more. The boy had done nothing but answer in this manner as soon as he lost the ability to verbally deny him the answer he sought. Such a waste of valor; he could have done well in the Republic. With renewed fury, Chauvelin returned to striking the bloody and broken boy.
Out in the hallway, Andre Madeline winced as he heard his leader begin thrashing the member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel yet again. Chauvelin usually was not so hard on prisoners; he had been at this particular boy for well over three quarters of an hour now, and Andre was quite certain that the Frenchman would not last much longer. But perhaps this is what Chauvelin wanted, he did not know. He did not have the courage to question the man, especially not when he was like this. But still, the boy could die…
Gathering up the little courage he had, Andre tentatively rapped his knuckles against the open door, careful to avoid looking inside the cell. Though Chauvelin may have been indifferent to violence, Andre quite disliked it, and it often made him physically ill to look upon it. "Citizen, you have not eaten yet, and you must be tired…"
"Andre, would you like to be next?"
"No! No sir, I just…"
Chauvelin fired a falcon-like glare at his pale young assistant and the boy shrank back as his eyes met that stare. "Then I recommend that you be silent." Waiving his hand at the guard who held Armand, he slowly walked to stand over the weakly breathing boy as the guard dropped him. As the guard left the cell, Chauvelin dug the toe of his shoe into Armand's side, causing him to stir slightly, but the boy could hardly move anymore.
"Close the door, Andre," Chauvelin whispered in a cold, cruel voice that seemed to chill the already biting air, and without any question, Andre closed the door as quietly as possible.
As soon as he heard the door close, Chauvelin knelt beside the softly gasping boy and ran his hand through the unkempt brown hair. "No matter what I do to you, you won't tell me the name of the Pimpernel, will you?" Chauvelin's hand tightened around Armand's hair and the boy cried in agony as his head was yanked off the ground. "Both you and your sister are so damned stubborn! Neither of you can see what's best for you!"
Casting St. Just's head back to the ground, Chauvelin stood and swiftly kicked the beaten boy in the ribs before leaning against a wall and staring in disgust at the broken, bleeding man on the floor.
Breathing as shallow as he could manage – it hurt to inhale – Armand tried to pull himself together, refusing to lose dignity, to look weak in the face of his vile, hated enemy. Grimacing in pain and biting his tongue to keep from crying out, Armand managed to push himself up and sit, but the excursion and the pain caused a wave of nausea to pass over him. Suddenly dizzy, in intense pain, and quite ill, Armand fell back and gazed helplessly at the ceiling, avoiding the pale yellow and cruelly amused stare of the agent.
"You have failed me even as a bargaining chip, Armand," Chauvelin droned quietly, his eyes suddenly softening with a hint of regret. A moment of silence passed between the two before the agent whispered, "Your sister is a beautiful woman."
That caught his attention, and Armand's sharpbrown eyes met the agent's. Picking up on the sudden fire in the broken man's eyes, and with a twinge of a cruel smile playing across his face, Chauvelin smoothly drawled, "You know, she and I were lovers once."
The nausea returned. Those furious brown eyes met the distant gold ones, and through clenched teeth managed to choke, "Liar!"
Chauvelin's entire demeanor dropped all pretense of amusement and became cold and hard again. "Don't be an idiot, St. Just. Did you really believe her to be a virgin until her wedding day?"
"You defiled her…"
"Don't you dare accuse me of that! She loved me, Armand. She wanted it as much as I."
"Did you?"
"What?"
Armand gasped, coughed, tasted blood, and fell silent. His eyes met Chauvelin's again, patiently waiting for him to recover. Carefully breathing as deeply as his body would allow, he softly asked, "Did you love her?" Silence…
Chauvelin gazed down at the ground, his foot tracing one of the stones in the floor. "No. I didn't then. She was an entertaining young thing, beautiful, intelligent, quite the good lover, but little more than that. A plaything. And obsession, really." Chauvelin's eyes filled with regret met the pain filled eyes of Armand, and softly, almost apologetically, said, "But I love her now, if that is any consolation." Suddenly, the golden eyes glinted with pain, hatred, violence, and they narrowed dangerously. "But she doesn't want me anymore. I tried with all my heart to bring her back to me, but she refused. I even told her about you, and she still denies me! And you, my dear Armand, are going to pay for it."
Armand tried to push himself up, but his arm gave way in a rush of pain and he fell back to the ground as his chest burned under the crushing force of Chauvelin's heel. His breathing suddenly became heavy and shallow, his vision began to tunnel, and his entire body was becoming numb as he slipped into unconsciousness, but he was quickly pulled back to the room as his body was crushed against the wall, the fierce agent pinning him by his shoulders.
The yellow eyes glinted off the blood that ran down the body of the young man he held and, consumed in lust – for vengeance, for blood, for Marguerite – he slowly licked the blood that ran from his collarbone and up to his jaw.
Armand woke up, gagged, his entire body jolted in revulsion and fear; the passion for his sister was making the agent lose control, and he was in dire need of an outlet. Armand whimpered in pain and the dreaded anticipation of what Chauvelin may do to him and he felt tears slide down his face; Armand could not say whether it was power or flesh that Chauvelin lusted after, but all he could do was close his eyes and hope the pain would be over quickly.
Chauvelin leaned his forehead against the quivering boy's; aim his revenge against Marguerite at the man he knew she treasured most. "Your sister took everything from me, Armand. I am sure you didn't know that, but she did. It seems only appropriate that I take you, her darling brother, away from her."
The life returned to Armand's eyes as the agent's filled with passion, and he struggled with all his remaining strength against the iron grip that held him. His feeble resistance was futile, and, in a last hope of rendering himself free, he spit a mixture of blood and saliva into the agent's face.
Chauvelin's grip loosened for a second in shock; but it was only a second, not nearly long enough for Armand to get away. Digging his fingers into the boy's shoulder again – much harder this time, and drawing blood from where his nails split the skin – he leaned close to the boy, pressing his body against the broken and bloodied prisoner, and with painstaking slowness, licked from Armand's chin and up to the corner of his eye.
Armand St Just, loyal and proud member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, finally broke, wept, cried for mercy that he knew he would not receive. The inflexible harshness of Chauvelin's body brought him to the clarification that Chauvelin lusted for the power dynamic he held over him; the undeniable authority and supremacy over his captive was what the agent wanted, nothing more. He wanted him broken in every aspect that the young St. Just could possibly be destroyed in. And somehow this was much worse than anything Armand previously imagined; he was going to die.
Grinning maliciously with a victorious satisfaction at the reaction he received from the boy, Chauvelin pulled the boy away from the wall, and in a fluid moment, made the man's back rest against his chest. Snaking one hand around his waist and another across his chest to keep him place, one hand clamped on to Armand's hip, earning him a cry of pain from the man he held; it was more than likely that he had already broken something in that general area.
All previous malice dropped from the agent's face, and for a moment, he nuzzled the weeping boy's neck before whispering in his ear, "I am going to kill you, St. Just. And being that you have no possible chance of escape, I am going to take my time. Your sister has made me suffer like you have never known. What better way to exact revenge against her then by removing her brother from this world?" Digging his hand into a wound Armand had on his shoulder, Chauvelin threw the boy against the wall and watched stoically as he hit the floor and lay still.
Slowly walking to the motionless Frenchman, the agent slipped his foot under him and flipped him on to his back, his keen eyes picking up the slight rise and fall of the traitor's chest. Still alive. Good.
Chauvelin quickly opened up the door and looked about the area. No one in sight. Sighing in irritation, the agent took a few deep breaths, ran his hand through his tussled ebony hair, and harshly snapped, "Andre!"
The entire prison was silent except for the quiet whimpering of Armand as he regained consciousness, and then the swift, frantic footfalls of Chauvelin's assistant Andre could be heard, and within moments, the pale, frightened boy stood panting before Chauvelin. "Sir?"
"Andre, fetch me my sword."
Noticing the soft moaning, Andre looked around his superior and stared in shock at the broken, weeping man on the floor in the cell, a small pool of blood now starting to form underneath the prisoner. Andre gaped, and could not look away. The poor man! Even if he was a prisoner and one of the most sought after enemy of the Republic…
"Andre! My sword!"
"Sir! Yes sir! It's just that he…he…"
Chauvelin sighed in annoyance. For the life of him, he could not understand why he, Agent Chauvelin, ended getting stuck with such a timid boy as his assistant.. Bitter irony seemed to have a certain attraction to the agent, as every aspect of his life seemed to be tragically ironic. "Yes, Andre, do try to articulate."
"Sir, he's bleeding…"
"Yes. And?"
"I am quite certain, sir, that his arm should not be able to bend that way…"
"Oh? And what do you suggest we do, Andre?"
"I, um, would imagine that getting a doctor is in order…"
"Ah. You see, Andre, this is why I do the thinking."
"Yes sir, I understand, but…"
"My sword, ANDRE!"
"Yes sir! Right away, sir!" Chauvelin ran his hand over his face in agitation as the small, terrified boy went running off to retrieve his weapon. A pity that he could not simply do away with young Andre; unfortunately for him, he had developed a liking for the timid child. Unlike him to attach himself to another, but his entire life seemed a list of impossibilities.
Armand began crying loudly, begging for mercy, praying, hoping for life but wishing for death…it was infuriating. Though he loved to see this boy broken, crying for his life at his feet, there was something extraordinarily irritating about the spectacle. This boy had use, had value, to not only his Marguerite, but to his Pimpernel as well. The idea of destroying this asset, no matter how much he would enjoy it, truly annoyed him. His eyes narrowing at the bleeding, screaming boy as Andre quickly returned with his sword, he formulated a plan of exactly what to do with Armand St. Just.
"Sir, your sword…"
"Yes, thank you, Andre." Armand began screaming louder, and Chauvelin growled in irritation; no doubt the boy knew he was to die, knew that torture would accompany him in his last moments. A futile, last burst of strength as he lay there awaiting his execution; pitiful last display of life and fighting spirit.
"Chauvelin, I beg of you! Kill me quickly, please, don't let me suffer anymore!"
"What, and ruin my fun? What is the point of killing you if I do not enjoy every last moment of your extended agony? No, Armand, you will suffer." Chauvelin drew his sword as he walked into the room, slamming the door in his shivering assistant's face.
The agent slowly paced before the writhing St. Just, an almost sympathetic gleam in his eyes. He carefully put the tip of his sword on Armand's chest right above his tattered shirt and slid it down, removing the remainder of Armand's shirt and leaving a shallow, bleeding cut down his chest.
Armand wept harder, the anticipation making his nerves much more keen, the very air making his body react violently to the pain that had been inflicted on him. "God, protect Marguerite! I'm sorry I have failed to defend her."
Chauvelin rolled his eyes at the young man's pleas, and pressed the tip of his sword into Armand's chest, the blade stopping shallow just as it entered and hit bone. Kneeling beside the gasping traitor, keeping the blade in place on his chest, Chauvelin leaned in close to the quivering man. "I can still save you, Armand. You are in bad condition, and you will die if I leave you, but if you act fast, I can save your life. Think about it, Armand; you can see your sister again."
Armand's heart seized up, and for a moment, he couldn't breathe. Gasping slightly, trying to formulate a response, the young St. Just sputtered, coughed up blood, and realized it was useless to try to speak. Shifting slightly, he cried out in pain as the point of the blade dug through the bone of his chest as he moved. He could live…
Eyes softening, Chauvelin removed his sword and cast it aside; he had seen the hope, the submission in Armand's eyes, and the boy needed no more pain, only the promise of living to see tomorrow. Sitting beside the boy, Chauvelin took the trembling, softly weeping boy in his arms and held his head to his chest, gently running his hand through the brown hair. "Come now, Armand. I can save your life. Think of how much harm would come to lovely Marguerite if you are not there to defend her. She needs you, Armand."
Armand gasped, tried to keep his composure, but felt tears run down his face again. Chauvelin could save him, could protect Marguerite…no, he needed to live. He had always been there for his sister, and even though she now had Percy, she was so heartbroken to see him leave for France, made him promise he would come home to her safely…
He needed to keep this promise. And oh, how smoothly Chauvelin spoke! The agent was suddenly so gentle, so safe, with the promise of safety for Marguerite and the promise of life for himself. The agent softly caressed the man's beaten and bloody back and shoulders and Armand shivered; he felt himself relax in the agent's arms and his breathing became even as some of the pain lifted. God it was so soothing…
"Marguerite will not be harmed?"
"Of course not. You yourself will be safe."
"What must I do?"
"Work for me, Armand."
Armand tensed; that was no good. It was when he realized that the sudden relaxation was the onset of death that he tensed, quivered in the thought of betraying his promise to his beloved sister. And without him, what did she have? Percy would not touch her, would pay her no heed; she needed him. "If I don't?"
"A pity for both you and your sister. You will be dead, and I can assure you, Marguerite will find herself tied to a similar fate as her brother." Chauvelin's arms tightened around the boy, gently ran his hand through his hair and across the nasty cuts on his face and neck. "I do not need you, Armand. I am merely trying to help you."
"Why?"
Chauvelin smiled sympathetically, if never honest in his life, then he was honest now. "I have lost too much from broken promises, Armand. I do not wish to see that happen to you. I see too much of myself in you to allow you to die a traitor. Let me help you, Armand."
Armand was silent, buried his head against the agent's chest and wept. "And all I need do is work for you?"
"That is all, Armand."
"And no harm shall come to Marguerite?"
"None. I shall see to that. All you need do is agree to help me."
Armand looked up at Chauvelin with grateful, tear-filled eyes. "Help me, Chauvelin."
Chauvelin smiled slightly at the weak man he held and ran his thumb across the trembling man's cheek, and softly called for his assistant. The door creaked open, and Andre timidly peeked into the room. "Sir?"
"Andre, fetch this man a doctor."
"But sir! You said earlier…
"Now, Andre. Hurry."
"Yes sir!"
As Andre ran off, Armand slowly slipped into unconsciousness. Chauvelin smiled softly at the young Frenchman, the cruel malice creeping back into his face. Gently stroking Armand's hair out of his face, he ran his fingers over the delicate features of his face, the unconscious boy softly groaning in slight pain and the soothing feeling of Chauvelin's touch.
"Soon, you are going to deliver the Pimpernel right into my hands, Agent St, Just." Grinning in victory, Chauvelin clutched the boy closer to him and waited for the doctor to restore his most valuable asset to the capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel.
