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writers_muses - 40.6 - Father
Jun. 16th, 2008 04:28 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
faery_ringI don't always understand my father.
My father was not alive when I was born and so I had his memory spoon-fed to me on a daily basis by my mother and others in the family's employ throughout the centuries. He was, according to my mother, an ideal husband. He was a stern yet fair Comte who had earned the loyalty of the people whom he had protected. He of course had some not-so-wonderful deeds he had done in his lifetime, but such was the case of the times. When she spoke of him, he seemed so much larger than life. I could understand her sentiments. After all, being Fae, she can only marry but once and she has never made it secret that my father was the love of her life. I guess I always felt a little special knowing that even though I did not ever get to meet my father when I was a child, I knew that my parents loved each other very much, and when I could understand the way of things - of the whys and ways of biology - I came to know just how special a thing that was.
The one man who was as a father to me, was Hsu Danmei, my Godfather. So many people say so many disparaging things about him, but if there was any one thing I can say of Hsu Danmei that stands out above all else, it is that he was a father figure for me in a way I think my own real father would have very much approved of. I loved him as a daughter should love her father, or at least her Godfather. And every time when I observed he and my mother interacting, they were always mutually friendly, respectful and honouring. Hsu was there in all of the ways that my own father could not have been. Of course, he had his own life, and his own interests. But whenever my mother or I had need of him, he was always there when he could be.
Then came the day when my mother finally got her wish. After centuries of trying, of perusing magical books and consulting with every type of holy man or mage the world over, she finally was able to revive my father from the Dead. She never has been forthcoming on how that came to be. Being Queen, I suppose that she does not owe any of us an explanation at all. She merely did it and now she has her Prince Consort, my father, back.
The day that we met was one filled with trepidation. Arrangements had been made for us to meet the following day, but after the concert on the day that my mother had told me, I insisted that Ian have a flight booked for me to go home to France. When I finally had arrived, I paced about the Château de Rochefort. Maman said that Papa was out and about but I would get my chance to meet him that night. I nodded, and in spite of my mother's encouraging words, I was still not comforted. In times such as these, I always went out into the lands, the vineyards and surrounding forests. It would soothe me, help to clear my head and come to grips with meeting the man who was the Sire, the Comte and Lord of the Rochefort lands, my father.
The early evening sun on the undulating hills surrounding the Château de Rochefort made everything glow. There was just a bit of moisture that covered the grapevines and the grapes from a light mid-summer rain. The air was humid and heavy with the smell of wet soil, the scent of grapes and the pines at the edge of the forest. I was ducking in and out of the rows and rows of grapes when I saw him. He was mounted upon a black Arabian stallion, wearing black riding breeches, and boots to the knee. He wore a simple natural coloured linen shirt covered by a simple black vest, his hair flowing free in the slight breeze. If it were not for the eye patch over his left eye, I might have mistaken him for one of the foremen. In watching him, I saw what my mother must have always seen. He was handsome, self-assured. He was every inch a nobleman and yet there was an intimate communion going on between him and the land around him. He would dismount from his horse, take a look at a vine, inspect it lovingly, and remount riding a little more. Sometimes he would lead his mount and take a bunch of grapes after he cut them, putting them into a saddle pouch. I did not move. I was frozen, transfixed watching this man I had heard so much about and now, for the first time, was seeing not in a painting above the fireplace or in some other hall in the Château de Rochefort. Now he was in front of me, real and very much alive. It must have been that bond that alerted him to my presence, for he looked at me, standing on the hill above him and stopped stock still. I half expected him to bound up the hill on his mount or on foot, but he did neither. He simply walked up the hill, his eye never leaving me as mine never left his.
He stopped at a vine closest to me. Dropping his horse's reins, he cut a bunch of grapes with the cutter in his hand and took a couple tasting them. He made a slight face and then offered the bunch to me. "I think that the harvest is near," he said, "What do you think, Mademoiselle?" His voice was somehow not what I expected. I had not expected a voice so deep and commanding. It was something I was certain that either filled nightmares or was something my mother dreamed of often. The sound of it was intoxicating.
Gingerly, I took the grapes from his fingers and tasted them. There was a slight bitterness, the flesh was a bit too tough. "Perhaps a week before they are ready for harvest, I said chewing them slowly, "but no more than that, Papa" I replied. My voice felt a little like cotton batting in my throat. I had called him by his proper name and placed emphasis on it. Acknowledging I knew who he was. Did he know me as well?
"You are correct, Mademoiselle Caroline, " he nodded, the acknowledgement on his part was subtle, almost matter-of-fact. He then appeared thoughtful and reached out a hand to touch my hair but stopped suddenly, as if realizing he had not my permission to do so. Sensing it, I nodded, and he ran his fingers through the ringlets. "You favour your mother," he said, "and I thought her the most beautiful woman in the world." There it was. The unmistakable French penchant toward flirtation, and my father was still, even now, a master at it.
"I was told that I more favoured my Aunt Elizabet, your sister," I said, still not moving and still barely daring to breathe in his presence. It was so much to take in, no doubt he felt the same.
"Oui," my father said simply. He looked down at me, still caressing my hair, "Those ringlets are just like hers. Though Elizabet's never shined with so much red, yours is like molten gold. That would be more like your Grand Maman, I am told." He pulled his hand away, " I would always dry her tears after the endless brushing and untangling of those abundant and disobedient curls." His face turned almost sad, " I am sorry, Caroline, that I was not there to dry yours."
He offered me his mount, his hand pausing a moment on my thigh as he guided my foot into the stirrup. When he was satisfied he looked up at me with a genuine smile. I smiled back at him, most of the butterflies and trepidation for our meeting now gone. In France such things are done formally. Nothing in the meeting of my father and myself was formal at all. Perhaps it was this more than anything else that set the tone between he and I. We talked casually as he led his horse by the reins, with me in the saddle and we walked back to the Château de Rochefort. When we were within the courtyard, my Mother was there to greet us. Her countenance was nothing less than radiant. Papa let go of the reins of his horse, leaving them entirely to me and went to my Mother. He grasped both hands, pulling them and my mother to him and kissed them. My mother wrapped her arms around him as he placed the gentlest of kisses against her forehead. His one eye closed as he did so. Something about the intimacy of that moment felt so very private that all at once I felt so very out of place.
I let myself slide from the saddle onto the ground. A young stable groom came from out of nowhere and gently took the reins of the horse I had let fall when I dismounted and began to lead the animal toward the stables. The sharp ring of hooves against the cobblestone echoed against the stone walls of the Château. I cast my eyes down for a moment, giving my parents time to compose themselves. They would have wanted that, I thought. But when I raised my eyes again, my father and mother were still embracing, but now my father was holding out a hand to me to join them. I remember feeling his arms about me, his lips brushing my hair that he had touched so reverently just a few minutes before. The air was warm, the sound of locusts singing their evening song buzzed and echoed, I could smell the exotic perfume of my mother, a mixture of amber, frankincense, and night blooming jasmine and the scent of leather and rich tobacco that I now knew to be my father. I glanced up at my father's face and in that moment I saw not the stern, aristocratic look that had been captured in nearly every painting that hung in the Château de Rochefort, but rather the look of a man - a simple man - who had his family around him at last. I closed my eyes and buried my face against his chest to hide my eyes that were wet with tears.
We had a lot of catching up to do.
Muse: Caroline de Rochefort
Fandom: Original Character
Word Count: 1781
crossposted towriters_muses
Special thanks go to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
all_forme and his amazing mun for the appearance of the muse and their invaluable input! And also a nod to both muse and mun of Hsu Danmei, civ_barbarian for their kind patience and help with this very long term storyline!
My father was not alive when I was born and so I had his memory spoon-fed to me on a daily basis by my mother and others in the family's employ throughout the centuries. He was, according to my mother, an ideal husband. He was a stern yet fair Comte who had earned the loyalty of the people whom he had protected. He of course had some not-so-wonderful deeds he had done in his lifetime, but such was the case of the times. When she spoke of him, he seemed so much larger than life. I could understand her sentiments. After all, being Fae, she can only marry but once and she has never made it secret that my father was the love of her life. I guess I always felt a little special knowing that even though I did not ever get to meet my father when I was a child, I knew that my parents loved each other very much, and when I could understand the way of things - of the whys and ways of biology - I came to know just how special a thing that was.
The one man who was as a father to me, was Hsu Danmei, my Godfather. So many people say so many disparaging things about him, but if there was any one thing I can say of Hsu Danmei that stands out above all else, it is that he was a father figure for me in a way I think my own real father would have very much approved of. I loved him as a daughter should love her father, or at least her Godfather. And every time when I observed he and my mother interacting, they were always mutually friendly, respectful and honouring. Hsu was there in all of the ways that my own father could not have been. Of course, he had his own life, and his own interests. But whenever my mother or I had need of him, he was always there when he could be.
Then came the day when my mother finally got her wish. After centuries of trying, of perusing magical books and consulting with every type of holy man or mage the world over, she finally was able to revive my father from the Dead. She never has been forthcoming on how that came to be. Being Queen, I suppose that she does not owe any of us an explanation at all. She merely did it and now she has her Prince Consort, my father, back.
The day that we met was one filled with trepidation. Arrangements had been made for us to meet the following day, but after the concert on the day that my mother had told me, I insisted that Ian have a flight booked for me to go home to France. When I finally had arrived, I paced about the Château de Rochefort. Maman said that Papa was out and about but I would get my chance to meet him that night. I nodded, and in spite of my mother's encouraging words, I was still not comforted. In times such as these, I always went out into the lands, the vineyards and surrounding forests. It would soothe me, help to clear my head and come to grips with meeting the man who was the Sire, the Comte and Lord of the Rochefort lands, my father.
The early evening sun on the undulating hills surrounding the Château de Rochefort made everything glow. There was just a bit of moisture that covered the grapevines and the grapes from a light mid-summer rain. The air was humid and heavy with the smell of wet soil, the scent of grapes and the pines at the edge of the forest. I was ducking in and out of the rows and rows of grapes when I saw him. He was mounted upon a black Arabian stallion, wearing black riding breeches, and boots to the knee. He wore a simple natural coloured linen shirt covered by a simple black vest, his hair flowing free in the slight breeze. If it were not for the eye patch over his left eye, I might have mistaken him for one of the foremen. In watching him, I saw what my mother must have always seen. He was handsome, self-assured. He was every inch a nobleman and yet there was an intimate communion going on between him and the land around him. He would dismount from his horse, take a look at a vine, inspect it lovingly, and remount riding a little more. Sometimes he would lead his mount and take a bunch of grapes after he cut them, putting them into a saddle pouch. I did not move. I was frozen, transfixed watching this man I had heard so much about and now, for the first time, was seeing not in a painting above the fireplace or in some other hall in the Château de Rochefort. Now he was in front of me, real and very much alive. It must have been that bond that alerted him to my presence, for he looked at me, standing on the hill above him and stopped stock still. I half expected him to bound up the hill on his mount or on foot, but he did neither. He simply walked up the hill, his eye never leaving me as mine never left his.
He stopped at a vine closest to me. Dropping his horse's reins, he cut a bunch of grapes with the cutter in his hand and took a couple tasting them. He made a slight face and then offered the bunch to me. "I think that the harvest is near," he said, "What do you think, Mademoiselle?" His voice was somehow not what I expected. I had not expected a voice so deep and commanding. It was something I was certain that either filled nightmares or was something my mother dreamed of often. The sound of it was intoxicating.
Gingerly, I took the grapes from his fingers and tasted them. There was a slight bitterness, the flesh was a bit too tough. "Perhaps a week before they are ready for harvest, I said chewing them slowly, "but no more than that, Papa" I replied. My voice felt a little like cotton batting in my throat. I had called him by his proper name and placed emphasis on it. Acknowledging I knew who he was. Did he know me as well?
"You are correct, Mademoiselle Caroline, " he nodded, the acknowledgement on his part was subtle, almost matter-of-fact. He then appeared thoughtful and reached out a hand to touch my hair but stopped suddenly, as if realizing he had not my permission to do so. Sensing it, I nodded, and he ran his fingers through the ringlets. "You favour your mother," he said, "and I thought her the most beautiful woman in the world." There it was. The unmistakable French penchant toward flirtation, and my father was still, even now, a master at it.
"I was told that I more favoured my Aunt Elizabet, your sister," I said, still not moving and still barely daring to breathe in his presence. It was so much to take in, no doubt he felt the same.
"Oui," my father said simply. He looked down at me, still caressing my hair, "Those ringlets are just like hers. Though Elizabet's never shined with so much red, yours is like molten gold. That would be more like your Grand Maman, I am told." He pulled his hand away, " I would always dry her tears after the endless brushing and untangling of those abundant and disobedient curls." His face turned almost sad, " I am sorry, Caroline, that I was not there to dry yours."
He offered me his mount, his hand pausing a moment on my thigh as he guided my foot into the stirrup. When he was satisfied he looked up at me with a genuine smile. I smiled back at him, most of the butterflies and trepidation for our meeting now gone. In France such things are done formally. Nothing in the meeting of my father and myself was formal at all. Perhaps it was this more than anything else that set the tone between he and I. We talked casually as he led his horse by the reins, with me in the saddle and we walked back to the Château de Rochefort. When we were within the courtyard, my Mother was there to greet us. Her countenance was nothing less than radiant. Papa let go of the reins of his horse, leaving them entirely to me and went to my Mother. He grasped both hands, pulling them and my mother to him and kissed them. My mother wrapped her arms around him as he placed the gentlest of kisses against her forehead. His one eye closed as he did so. Something about the intimacy of that moment felt so very private that all at once I felt so very out of place.
I let myself slide from the saddle onto the ground. A young stable groom came from out of nowhere and gently took the reins of the horse I had let fall when I dismounted and began to lead the animal toward the stables. The sharp ring of hooves against the cobblestone echoed against the stone walls of the Château. I cast my eyes down for a moment, giving my parents time to compose themselves. They would have wanted that, I thought. But when I raised my eyes again, my father and mother were still embracing, but now my father was holding out a hand to me to join them. I remember feeling his arms about me, his lips brushing my hair that he had touched so reverently just a few minutes before. The air was warm, the sound of locusts singing their evening song buzzed and echoed, I could smell the exotic perfume of my mother, a mixture of amber, frankincense, and night blooming jasmine and the scent of leather and rich tobacco that I now knew to be my father. I glanced up at my father's face and in that moment I saw not the stern, aristocratic look that had been captured in nearly every painting that hung in the Château de Rochefort, but rather the look of a man - a simple man - who had his family around him at last. I closed my eyes and buried my face against his chest to hide my eyes that were wet with tears.
We had a lot of catching up to do.
Muse: Caroline de Rochefort
Fandom: Original Character
Word Count: 1781
crossposted to
writers_musesSpecial thanks go to
all_forme and his amazing mun for the appearance of the muse and their invaluable input! And also a nod to both muse and mun of Hsu Danmei, civ_barbarian for their kind patience and help with this very long term storyline!
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OOC
Date: 2008-06-16 04:44 pm (UTC)Re: OOC
Date: 2008-06-18 12:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-17 03:21 am (UTC)OOC:
Date: 2008-06-18 12:43 am (UTC)I do hope you will write the scene from Sebastien's point of view sometime. I think for him that would be quite poignant and powerful as well!