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mister rosier. (![[info]](http://www.inksome.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} thibaud) wrote in ![[info]](http://www.inksome.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} inlimis,@ 2008-06-20 19:30:00 |
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| Entry tags: | 1952, character: thibaud, type: narrative |
Who: Thibaud and a bunch of NPCs. Namely, cousin Appius, uncle Gregoire, and grandfather Pierrick.
What: Family issuez. (Womanizing is a chronic disease with the Rosiers, see.)
When: c. 1952.
Where: The ancestral Rosier home in France.
Rating: PG? PG13?
| The wind was chilling as it weaved through the canopy. The leaves rustled as they blotted out the brightness, casting oddly-shaped shadows on the grass beneath them. The grass swayed, this way and that, lush and green as it surrounded the estate. The estate stood, proud and tall, amidst it all and spoke of the many years that built the soul within the wood and stone that made it thus: aristocratic and Pure. The skies blued in the mid-summer afternoon and as it hung overhead, providing the backdrop to an unremarkable yet enchanting day, the Rosier home—the acres and acres of French earth alive with history and name—was left with nothing else to be problematic over with the surrounding atmosphere but the crackling tension within its many doors. Sunlight streamed through the high living room windows like an uninvited yet perpetually present guest. It reminded many of the home’s residents of dinner parties with relatives, of Aunt Clara, whose presence was a bubbly, chattering, nagging, annoying presence at the heart of it all, and whilst it made the surrounding walls alight with color, the conversations that transpired in its midst shadowed its efforts without so much as a casual sweep of dismal dialogue. “You are not marrying her. Not again,” a thundering voice said. The walls would have had to peer in a little bit more to hear the voice’s edge but since the speaker, an old man with the visage of an all-knowing king, was standing conveniently near an equally all-knowing-looking portrait, the walls needed only to flinch as the edge they sought, cutting and sharp, seeped into the cracks quite clearly and painfully. Lord Pierrick Thierry Rosier was standing, fists tight at his back, near the lively portrait of his late mother, the memorable Eliane Albertine. He was tall and gray-haired, as if time had manifested itself in the wrinkles of his skin, the sturdiness of his bones, and the unrelenting fire in his eyes. He was the picture of unbending character: held aloft by familial dignity; reined-in by many years of discipline; repressed by a simmering frustration that neither his dignity nor his discipline allowed to release. Only his voice, deep and cutting as it was, made every protest and disinclination route distractedly from his system. He did not sound at all pleased. “And why not? If you worry about name, she has many French Purebloods in her lineage. Would you like me to draw up a genealogy for you? Trace from the 16th century to the present?” an insistent voice replied and this time, the walls did strain to hear the emotion underneath for it was slightly farther away than the first. It was their favourite voice: rational, mellow, and comfortable with itself. It sounded youthful and self-assured and they envied the armchair where the speaker was sat upon; it could hear every subtle intonation that spoke of the man’s spirit. Appius, Lord Rosier’s eldest grandson, was simpering in his seat. He held a similar composed countenance and if he had aged many years would have been exactly like his grandfather: cold, pinched, and barefaced with misdirected morality. But he was young still and the crease on his forehead was not as deep, nor was his voice grave with age and pessimism. His chin was still sharp with daring and the youthful fire remained immune to time’s authority over its flame. A harsh bark of laughter was what followed. It was abrupt, as if chopped mid-creation and the painting behind its source bristled in the familiarity of its unfriendly sound. “You have married her twice and need I remind you that neither marriage was fruitful? You have only succeeded in spending your father’s money in your lavish ceremonies and even more lavish divorces.” A sudden movement tickled the wall’s surface. It was to the right of the room, near the unlit fireplace. The wall expected another voice—another that it loved—but the silence remained and only movement stirred the dust visible through the afternoon sunlight. If the wall had eyes, it could see the strength in this man’s spine. It could have distinguished the blue eyes as an intelligent and perceptive pair. These eyes, too, have aged but not a lot. They seemed tired and resigned and if the man had spoken, his voice, too, would have proven thus. But he had not spoken. Instead, he turned from where he looked out the window, and Appius glanced to him. Their eyes met and for a moment, father and son saw the glare of each other’s reflection on each other’s face. (They looked remarkably alike in every way.) But Gregoire Maximilien was not like his son, neither was he like his father. “What do you want me to do?” He asked, instead, choosing not to impose as the other two have done. Always passive, he asked whenever he could, using inquiry as an infuriatingly effective strategy to implement both guilt and rationale. “Defend you? Condemn you? I trust you have grown in the past few years and after your failed attempts with this girl. If you choose not to learn, then who am I to change you?” It worked and, like clockwork, Appius immediately felt the weight of guilt hang his head a little lower than it should be. He averted his eyes, passing over (rather, ignoring) the stony Lord Pierrick, and landed on his cousin younger cousin Thibaud. Thibaud did nothing. He remained seated on an armchair beside Appius. His legs remained crossed at the knees, his hands remained on his lap, his eyes remained fixed on the portrait of his great-grandfather Lord Pierrick I which hung over the mantelpiece. He said nothing, either, and his silence made the walls miss his presence entirely. Appius sighed at Thibaud’s inaction to speak his mind and shook his head. “I want to marry her. I have made mistakes, we both did, and that is commonplace in any relationship,” but whatever gentleness was in his voice ceased just as his eyes flickered back up to meet his grandfather’s. “It is my choice to make and you are not responsible for any of my actions or the lack thereof, sir.” Pierrick sniffed in the haughty way he learned from his peers. It separated him from his subdued sons and his more reserved grandsons, but the arrogance and confidence compounded in that single expression only seemed to concretize the Rosier lineage even more. “You are a stubborn boy,” Pierrick remarked and his tone was not fond. It was demeaning. It was a critic, and if there was anything else Appius hated in the world, it was the judgment of those who had no inkling of who he was. Pierrick, however, was unfazed by this fact (nor was he privy to it) and the dislike that marred his old handsome face was honest. “You never listen and look where your independence has gotten you. Already on your fourth marriage and you haven’t even reached thirty! Nameless, childless, and ill-represented by your brilliant actions. What have you learned all these years, Appius? Absolutely nothing.” Outraged, Appius tensed in his seat. His face pinched in tight anger and grasping both armrests was all he could do to prevent an irreversible (and unforgivable) reaction. “I have learned more things than you ever had the bravery to face the certainty of. I am not a child, grandfather. I know that the decisions I make decide the future of his family and what I have decided is this: I will marry her for the third time before I make the mistake of marrying someone else whom—“ “And what?” Pierrick interrupted him with an equal amount of fervor. “Divorce a third time and marry a fourth? Your recklessness baffles me, more so than your ignorance. Every so-called mistake in your relationship means something far bigger for this family. Your marriages aren’t just trivial romantic pursuits, Appius. They are statements; they are the foundations of what—“ Appius interrupted him to return the favour, even rose abruptly in his seat to one-up the old man. “—of the certainty that the family I have with her will be for the rest of our lives, sir. I will not regret a few mistakes if they would mean the stability of our marriage, our children, and the future of this family for the rest of eternity. I make risks, grandfather, and they will be worth more than the most glorious wife yet a most disastrous marriage.” As if in disgust—but mostly in his own stubbornness—Pierrick scoffed and shook his head in disbelief. His rationale was plain as day; how can Appius not see that? Realizing that reasoning with his grandfather was a lost cause against an unwavering fort, Appius turned to Gregoire. His resolve began to crack but Thibaud, who was witness to it all, knew that Appius’ showing weakness was not because he was weak, but simply because it was Gregoire whom his cousin faced. “Understand, father, please,” his words begged but his words persevered. He sounded as persuasive as ever but this time, the undeterred respect he had for his father softened his defiant exterior. Gregoire was unflinching as he looked back at his son. He knew he could do something to repair what Appius seemed to be incapable of doing himself. He had more power over his son than Pierrick did. He could easily seize the opportunity, strip Appius of his pride and lay his son bare and powerless before his elders. As the heir of the Rosier name, he could do that—with one sure strike at Appius’ pride, he could—but as the father to a plighted child, he dared not. “I would like to. Believe me, I do,” Gregoire drew in a sharp breath to compose himself, and then exhaled with a silent sigh. A wave of disbelief overwhelmed Appius’ strong face and he stood there, before the observant eyes of his cousin, vulnerable against the criticism of his grandfather, and helpless against his father’s innate power over his future. He wanted to speak but found that his breath shied to push the words from his lips. “But this time, I won’t pick out your path for you,” and just like that, Gregoire seemed to seal his son’s fate and walked away from it all, sealing his own inward troubles with even more holes than it started with. His footsteps were heavy as he walked past the defeated Appius and did not so much as look at him as he left the room completely. Pierrick followed his son, but not before flashing Appius a smug and satisfied look. His feet, in contrast, were terse and sure, as if what had transpired was nothing else but an impersonal, dispassionate business transaction of unworthy cause. He was obviously very glad. |