Maybe We're Victims of Fate (Rage x Lace)

[Intricate Lacing]

To Those Reading..

- Any historical inaccuracies presented here are, for the most part, unintentional. Consider this like Pirates of the Caribbean - it's fiction - so try not to get worked up about it ;D. -

Also, for my posts at least, blue will represent when French is being spoken.

~~~~

Paris, France
1943
​

The roses by her mirror had long since wilted; their once vibrant red now stained with a decrepit shade of black. Yet despite having withered, the water that soaked their dead roots was as clear as the elegant crystal vase in which they were placed. A blemish amongst the dozens of beautiful, assorted bouquets that decorated the modest dressing room - but she refused to remove them.

“Marielle, mon cherie,” Monsieur Lopert had protested, his aging eyes straining from behind thick glasses that covered only a small section of his long, angular face, “No matter how many times you change the water, they will never bloom again.” A wrinkled finger bent outward to touch along one of the fragile petals, causing it to recoil and crumble into bits of ash which speckled atop the cherry wood vanity.

“There is no life in them.”

A soft brush of warmth against his coarse skin, alerted the old man’s attention towards the vanity mirror, where a pair of doe-brown eyes were fixated curiously upon him. Gently, the hand lifted away, moving to cradle the damaged petal with the pad of a fingertip.

“There is always life,” The porcelain figure told him, regarding the flowers with a gleam of frailty; one that seemed quite out of place, on the face of a woman whose likeness was sketched with a sultry smile on every ad for the La Cynge Noir.

The dead roses were never spoken of again.

~

“Mon Dieu, I have no room even at the bar!” The owner exclaimed as he entered the small dressing room at the end of the first floor hall - after knocking, of course. Patting a dingy gray handkerchief against the beads of sweat ever present on his forehead, he shut the door behind himself. During the normal business week, La Cynge Noir served as one of the more popular evening restaurants in the heart of the city. Offering delectable French cuisine and live entertainment, it was an atmosphere that catered to the whims of those diners who desired to live like the nouveau-riche -- but not spend too far outside of their working budget - a marketing technique that proved favorable even prior to the War.

Despite the Occupation, La Cynge Noir’s tables were never empty…

An escape was needed in these arduous times.

“Dine In Fantasy!” - The posters beckoned in elegant, off white script. Monsieur Lopert had been quite pleased with the word play, and his patrons concurred with their devoted loyalty. What better diversion from the misery plaguing France than what La Cynge Noir had to offer? Potent wine, exquisite food and - on the weekends - the lulling melodies of the French Nightingale to draw you deeper into whatever illusion you had nestled into while dining.

Though Madame Lopert’s delectable menu was always raved about, the men crowding outside were not patiently braving the lately dismal French weather for a glimpse into the kitchen..

There was a reason the Nightingale was bitterly called harpy by those of her own fair sex.

Some men couldn’t let go of their fantasies…

On the weekends, Marielle exclusively performed -causing the normal “flow” to be considerably disrupted - to the extent that the days were divvied so that the general French public were only served on Saturday.

Sunday was God’s Day, though not in accordance to any religious day of rest.

It was so designated, as it was a day to serve the men who walked the streets of France like they were Gods…

Of course, the soldiers of the Reich were for the most part unaware of this collective “conspiracy” amongst Parisian business owners. To their knowledge, the locals were just adhering to their prospective patronage, since Sunday was the day that a majority of the enlisted men were given leave. In reality, the specific hosting of military men on the seventh day of the week, began as an effort to subtly dissuade the more restless and rambunctious of them from binging and becoming hostile towards French citizens- as they would be required to muster the next morning, and their superiors would be more inclined to punish lingering hangovers rather than “bustling the sheep.”

However, in recent days, some businesses took advantage of the distracted eyes of the S.S. to conduct their own underground resistances against the occupation. The owner of La Baron, just two streets away from La Cynge Noir, had been arrested for producing counterfeit passports for Jewish refugees only days into the start of the autumn season.

Monsieur Lopert had been shocked at the news -- Marielle was dejected.

“I will have Henri and Jean stand watch again, cherie, though it looks mostly Officers tonight, so there should be no issues.”

There were never really any issues per-se. Having his son and nephew stand at the corners of the stage served simply as a precautionary measure. Though some patrons were known to become rather handsy when the hem of her gowns would skirt over the edge of the stage. “Always black on this day,” The old man pondered, though his comment was not a slight of any sort. Marielle always managed to dress with ethereal elegance, despite the current standstill in the French fashion industry. But Monsieur Lopert was correct in his observations, every Sunday her attire was almost entirely monochromatic - today being no exception.

A framing gown with a front cowl neckline and a low draped back, the fabric seemed to pour over the delicate curves of her figure like water; spilling out into a modest train that flowed behind her when she walked. Provocative- but still supremely graceful.

(A duly intended comparison, to be sure.)

The silk-satin piece had been altered drastically from its original form on the rack. Marielle always customized her attire - sewing after all, kept her hands from growing idle. The thinly strapped gown was accented with opera gloves that pulled up to her elbows, several modest diamond bracelets with matching set of chandelier earrings. A small cluster of magnolia blossoms with several swelled rose buds were pinned up in her sun-bleached curls -- Well, allegedly sun bleached. The soft tresses could pass seamlessly as natural colorings from God, and bore no signs of stress or damage upon close inspection..

Albeit, a curious number of unlabeled bottles were discarded each month from Marielle’s residence…

Tricks of the trade, of course- only brought up during frivolous gossip. After all, was a man truly all that concerned with matching drapes when he was invited in for a tour of the home?

Certainly not.

After blotting her shapely lips, the Nightingale rose from her seat to approach Monsieur Lopert, extending slender fingers out to adjust his suspenders with a familiar kindness.

“How do I look?”

Her voice melodic without intending.

“As radiant as the stars,” He beamed sincerely, doubling the wrinkles etched into his face - which in turn brightened the youth’s expression - though her stained red lips curled in a manner far more coy than the gentleman’s affectionate smile.

“Truly? - With this fog, surely there are no more stars in Paris.”

With that, she left the old man to ponder her curious metaphor, and began to make her way towards the stage. From the hall, she could hear the band tuning their instruments; the light strumming of strings, the mournful drawl of brass…The ambient sounds from the restaurant equally noticeable through the thin walls. Clinking glasses, light scrapings of utensils…and German. Perhaps the most deafening of all the clamor - the one that rivaled her own frantic heartbeat for causing her stomach to twist into knots. Marielle paused on the stairs; placing a hand flat against the wall to balance herself - feeling suddenly overwhelmed as the lights began to dim.

Every Sunday for the past year she tasted acid in her throat before a performance…a bitter, metallic twinge of blood heavy upon her tongue, when there was none to be found..

On other days, such visceral anxieties were easily suppressed behind a sensually painted mask of self-assurance; one so finely crafted that none had seen its flaws. But on Sunday, God’s Day, the possibility that He would be one of the sets of eyes so intently watching her, was all the more likely...

Bide your time...leave your scent…The wolves will always follow…

After three years of tediously building this façade, Hana Soyfer was uncertain if Marielle Thiéry was prepared for what must be done.

As Hana inwardly wept, Marielle composed herself. Drawing in a few, short breaths, her hand rose from the wall to peel back the curtain -

Silence.

Raising one foot to the stage, she stepped out into the darkness...

Hashem yiten li ko'akh…

Somewhere, in the depths of her heart, she could hear her mother crying..