Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/777490.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Thor_(Movies), The_Avengers_(2012), Tom_Hiddleston_-_Fandom, French
      Revolution_RPF
  Relationship:
      Loki/Original_Female_Character(s)
  Character:
      Loki, Marie_Antoinette, Marquis_de_Sade
  Additional Tags:
      French_Revolution, War, Nuns, France_(Country), Orphans, Prison, Prisoner
      of_War, Royalty, Aristocracy
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-04-28 Chapters: 1/? Words: 2272
****** Fille de France ******
by fayegrove
Summary
     During the French Revolution, lower class rebels find themselves a
     surprising leader in the enigmatic aristocrat they know simply as
     "Loquis". Meanwhile an orphaned girl being raised at a convent-
     turned-prison becomes the prime focus in a plot that could spell the
     downfall to mankind's reign of power.
Notes
     "For a few moments the abbess could merely gape at the stranger,
     suddenly taken in with much greater detail as she observed her
     closely. While the woman was indeed dressed simply, the materials
     were still of a higher quality than could be expected of even those
     belonging to the merchant class. Her voice was refined and composed,
     hinting at the sort of ingrained regal nature only present in
     aristocracy. The fact that her French was uttered with an
     unmistakable inflection she now recognized as Austrian immediately
     aroused the Mother Superior’s suspicions as to whom it was she was
     dealing with."
     Disclaimer: AU retelling of the French Revolution featuring Loki and
     containing non-con, dub-con, violence, and general war-time horrors.
     Though I aim to remain as close to history as possible many events
     have been altered for this story, which will eventually divert
     completely from fact.
     Also at Tumblr & FF.net.
June 19th, 1787
Paris, France
The Madelonnettes Convent existence was, for the most part, a dismal one to all
that dwelled within its walls. For over a century the nuns who oversaw the
daily activities did so with an iron fist in order to keep many of its
less…religious residents rooted in the devout lifestyle required by those who
wished to remain in the sisterhood. The vast majority had no choice but to
comply, lest they be thrown out onto the streets where crime ran rampant.
The convent’s abbess—called Mother Babette by those beneath her—was often awake
late into the night reciting her prayers since most of her waking hours were
dedicated to policing the fifty or so young women entrusted to her care. Though
she had about thirty other nuns who helped out in every way they could, the
sisterhood often found themselves in a losing battle of wills against the
giggling, sinful subjects of their reformation. All until Mother Babette had
mandated corporal punishment as the best course of action, at least. Once the
sisters were equipped with wooden sticks with which they could beat any
resident who did not properly reflect the piety of the Blessed Virgin herself,
things changed. Within six months of this enforcement the walls were once more
quiet, although there was still a fairly steady trickle of unruly girls and
women being admitted to the convent.
Harlots, more like, Mother Babette corrected herself darkly, lips pursed with
dislike before she immediately prayed for forgiveness in her quick judgment of
others, however reasonable an assumption the thoughts might be. The vast
majority of new members to their order were nothing more than girls of loose
morals hidden away there by their families, many of whom paid a sizable sum for
not only their lodging but for discretion on the part of the nuns.
Some of the girls found themselves giving birth mere months after their
admission to Madelonnettes. An entire wing of the building had at one time been
converted into a nursery to house the children born there, as some of the young
mothers did in fact appear to dote on and wish to rear their offspring. However
too many seemed content to leave the care of their bastards in the hands of the
nuns and as such, Mother Babette quickly outlawed the possibility of raising
infants in the convent. All of the babes born in the past eighteen years were
instead taken to orphanages, their mothers left behind with no choice but to
take the vows of chastity and poverty, unwillingly becoming a Sister of Saint
Michael.
There were whispers of mutinies at times, none of which frightened the abbess
in the slightest. The imprisoned women knew better than anyone that if they
left the confines of their sequestered home they would find no mercy on the
streets of Paris. The entire kingdom lived in squalor and violence reigned
supreme, while the girls themselves remained banished and forgotten by their
families. Within a day they would be forced into prostitution just to survive
and they all knew it. Madelonnettes was the only place where they could live in
relative safety and comfort, so the stiffness directed at Mother Babette
bothered her not at all.
Other fears nagged at the abbess, however—most notably the lack of income to
feed the many ungrateful mouths under her care. With the depleted economy and
lack of intervention from either the Church or the nobility, the Mother was
forced to acquire tasteless meals of gruel and stale breads from the city
markets. At one time they were able to feed themselves from their own gardens
and needed only meat, but their crops—along with everyone else’s—failed. She
alone knew the depth of the convent’s diminished funds and it plagued her both
night and day. There was barely enough money left to feed everyone for more
than a fortnight. Mother Babette prayed constantly for an intervention but thus
far God had seen fit only to send more tribulations their way, including a fire
that had destroyed a few rooms towards the back of the building and forced many
women to double-up in already cramped rooms.
Outside the abbess could hear a cart approaching in the distance, the clip clop
of horse shoes reverberating off the brick pathway and up against the stone
building through her window. Sighing—knowing that this late at night a rider’s
appearance could mean only one thing—she made the sign of the cross and
scrambled awkwardly to her feet. Mother Babette could not turn away sanctuary
from a single needy soul, but neither could she fathom how she was to nourish
yet another.
Grabbing her own candle from on top of the wooden night stand, she moved
silently through the barren stone corridors with more stealth than was to be
expected from someone so naturally heavyset. The middle-aged abbess gathered
her thin habit tightly around herself; autumn fast approached yet her one heavy
woolen garment was no more, having been eaten ragged by a mice infestation
earlier that summer. As such she rubbed her hands briskly to keep warm as she
made her way to the foyer just in time to hear a loud rapping of the steel
knocker. Opening the enormous wooden door, she could just barely distinguish a
man sitting at the front of a rickety cart, busy counting out coins in a
leather pouch he held in his hands. Directly in front of her was a plainly
dressed woman, her outline draped in a cloak of deep brown which cast most of
her features into shadow.
“Are you the abbess?” the woman inquired in an oddly accented voice. Mother
Babette noticed that the woman carried a thickly wrapped bundle in her arms, in
an embrace that the abbess knew only too well.
“I am Mother Babette,” she agreed uncertainly, eyes darting from the stirring
blankets back to the woman’s face, undistinguishable in the meager candle
light.
“May I enter? I seek brief sanctuary,” the strange woman implored. Forcing back
a sigh of exasperation, the abbess nodded and opened the door wider to allow
her access.
“Does your husband not come with you?” she wondered aloud, glancing at the man
now bouncing the leather pouch happily on his knee so that the clinking of
metal reached up to the doorway.
“I alone seek your aid,” the woman explained, after which Mother Babette closed
and bolted the door behind them. With an impatient wave of her hand she led the
way down the first floor hallway, the single light from her candle casting
flickering, oblong shadows against the walls with each hurried step. The woman
kept pace with her and quickly stepped through the archway when Mother Babette
opened the door for her. Entering just behind, she motioned for the stranger to
take one of the seats on the other side of her desk still stacked in papers
from earlier that day.
“What can I do for you?” she asked in an exhale as she fell heavily into her
own chair, fretting over moving parchments in order to make room for the
candle.
“I need to secure a place in your convent for my daughter.” The woman’s voice
sounded pained but determined, with an inflection of power that caused Mother
Babette to finally turn her eyes back towards the shadowy figure.
“While once I would never ask, I’m afraid to say that the current times have
made it necessary: Do you have any form of compensation you can offer? There
are eighty three women in this convent and all of us require basic necessities
to live, yet I can barely pay the bills as it is.”
Half-way through the Mother’s elucidation the woman began to dig around on the
inside of her cloak, the free hand finally emerging with a leather bag so large
that the abbess could have fit a small pumpkin within. When she dropped the
sack upon the desk Mother Babette heard the unmistakable clattering of coins.
Stomach bottoming out, she reached out trembling fingers to unwrap the leather
tie and peered inside: there, glinting in the minute candle light, was enough
gold to keep Madelonnettes running comfortably for years. The abbess’ mouth
went dry as she lifted her eyes to the woman, who had resumed speaking.
“Consider this a down payment, Mother. My daughter must be kept somewhere as
safe as possible for the time being, in a place where none would suspect her to
be. When I return to take her back into my possession your convent shall
receive double this in compensation—triple if she remains an untouched, Godly
child, who is thoroughly educated. Do we have an accord?”
For a few moments the abbess could merely gape at the stranger, suddenly taken
in with much greater detail as she observed her closely. While the woman was
indeed dressed simply, the materials were still of a higher quality than could
be expected of even those belonging to the merchant class. Her voice was
refined and composed, hinting at the sort of ingrained regal nature only
present in aristocracy. The fact that her French was uttered with an
unmistakable inflection she now recognized as Austrian immediately aroused the
Mother Superior’s suspicions as to whom it was she was dealing with.
“Of course,” she finally replied breathlessly, head reeling from the abrupt
shift in her convent’s previously bleak outlook. “What is the child’s name?”
For a moment the woman froze, as if this was the question she had most dreaded.
A thin, pale hand crept up towards the blankets where her infant daughter lay,
stroking her hidden face with a tenderness that Mother Babette would never have
expected of a noble, let alone the Queen of France.
“Sidonie Marchand.”
A strong gust of wind burst through the window and the candle guttered out,
casting all three into darkness. A chill ran along the abbess’ spine when the
Queen suddenly stood to her feet and extended the precious cargo; the abbess
rose with her and accepted the swaddled babe into her arms, gazing down at the
angelic face still fast asleep. When her benefactor made to show herself out,
the abbess could not stop herself from asking the burning question in her mind.
“But why the younger princess and not the duke? Surely the kingdom’s heir would
be whom you choose to hide?”
The Queen froze in the doorway, one delicate hand unmarred by manual labor
still resting against the wood. When she turned her face back towards the
abbess, the older woman had a sudden fear of retribution for openly
acknowledging the identity of Marie Antoinette. Instead she saw a tight smile
form on the features illuminated now solely by moonlight.
“I may be the Queen but I am also a mother, abbess. My older two children are
aware of their identity and would feel cast out if I hid them from society. The
babe in your arms will forget me within a year’s time at the most and should—“
the Queen hesitated then, as if choosing her words with great care, “—should
anything happen to my family, she might still stand a chance at a happy life.
She must remain oblivious to her true identity and unaware that she is Princess
Sophie, Fille de France. Promise me that none will never know the truth; if you
do not the consequences will be dire.”
After a brief pause the abbess nodded in affirmation. Without another word or
even glance back in her daughter’s direction, the Queen rushed from the office
in a swishing of her cloak. For a long time Mother Babette stood rooted to the
spot in her office, listening as the front doors unbolted and then closed once
more, the cart bearing Marie Antoinette, Queen of France, disappearing into the
night. The abbess was not a foolish woman. She knew full well that unrest had
been growing within the kingdom for years and was fast reaching a fever pitch
that would likely erupt within the coming months. As such she was also aware
that by taking in the monarchs’ youngest child she was endangering all of the
women who lived in Madelonnettes.
Lips once again pressing tightly together, the abbess hurried over to the
opened bag of gold and stashed it safely away within her desk. Come morning she
would send the villager who placed their orders at the market stalls for them
and they would all once more be eating meat, as well as expensive produce to
supplement their own wilted gardens. Silently thanking God for his aid, Mother
Babette carried the sleeping infant upstairs and down the wing that had once
been nursery to all of the illegitimate children born there. All rooms were
long since taken over by residents of Madelonnettes and only one room still
contained a crib, meant to hold the newborns until arrangements could be made
for them at the various orphanages around Paris.
Placing the princess in the dusty crib and adjusting the blanket so that it
covered her back, Mother Babette stared down at her for a long time, lost in
thought. Then—idly wondering if any of the loose women who recently gave birth
might still be nursing—she exited the dilapidated room, yawning on her way back
towards her own chamber.
The exiled princess slept on in the drafty darkness, one small fist balling the
blanket that she would carry around with her for the next thirteen years,
daydreaming with mingled longing and bitterness of the mother who had discarded
her in it.
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