by Duquesne » Mon Aug 12, 2019 6:26 am
The man absorbs every inflection, every intonation of her voice and every change in her demeanor. Every second of her proud smile from its first glimmer.
And he cannot help but loose his own smile to match, genuine in its measure and ready to be made from the moment she gave him this news. She has told him all she needs to here in the introduction of her child’s existence in the world, and he is reminded of a conversation they once had. A talk of possibility, even if fantastical, on a visit to this very farmstead and the printing press housed in its lowest quarters. “I am happy for you and for her, for Soodsy. Is this what I shall call her, and is she in Myrken with you? I am eager to meet her.”
Her choice of words does not escape him, raises questions regarding the other half of the child’s parentage and why such discretion is vital for the child’s sake. Gloria would tell him what she wanted him to know and in her own time. Until then, he would not press her to elaborate.
“Adeline is here. Perhaps they will enjoy playing together. I fear my daughter has far too many toys, a great many distractions, and an equally great desire to share with friends.”
What she tells him next lures some quiet solemnity into the outermost edges of his mouth, lends his eyes a subtle kind of welling—not of tears themselves, no, but of the same emotion that might bring them, were he the sort to endure such rivers. The architect is and has been stalwart in his command of expression, allowing only those emotions he intends when in mixed company, or the wrong company altogether. Gloria is another matter, however, and though his features may not reveal much, his feeling lies in the composure of his eyes themselves and in the way that his free hand moves to tighten, firmly, over hers.
There was great weight in the burden he carried, that owing to very specific decisions he has made, ones not in the best interests of those closest to him, he has left each one them without the support they deserved, without the kind of support he could—and wanted—to give. And yet his absence was essential, unavoidable, in its very nature the hand of fate. Etched, literally etched into his own flesh.
“I am honored,” he says, finding some words and voice at last, “to have been held so close in your mind, despite distance.” He cannot tell her how he cherishes the words, ‘good and fine teachers,’ but the man need not speak it to convey it; the eyes betray such volumes. "I held you close in mine. Each day." Perhaps this is why it seems as if, in some way, no time has really lapsed between them.
“Then we will resume the telling when drink and fire are plentiful. Soon, for tales of fighting pits and pirates cannot be resisted for long.” He pauses, offering the texture of his coat sleeves some attention now while he composes thought and sentiment, a process evident by the subtle flex of jaw and the angle at which his eyes are downcast. She will have some relief from his close watch at last.
In the past, moments of silence like these were ordinarily characterized by impressions of sadness, burden, emotions left untouched. But the man demonstrates not one of these, not one thread of the former weight he once endured. His demeanor is one of reflection, composed by the virtues of a far quieter mind, and by the indexes of experience that preceded his arrival here. Still a gentleman, still a lord—these attributes being woven into the tapestry of his heritage, they cannot help but manifest even when coat-hems are trim with dried mud long since flaked away, even when elegant seams and expensive cloth and equally expensive leather betray tremendous abuses. His father will have long tired of rolling in the grave over his son’s ragged look, the cut of his hair especially, being much too heathen.
The architect lifts his head and breathes with the same action, filling lungs with familiar atmosphere as he looks up into the rafters, into the sagging and pitiful thatch above them. There, where the thatch has collapsed fully and left a great hole, he can see the night sky glistening with stars. Constellations bright and dark at once. Diamonds, a nursemaid in his father’s house once told him, a great many diamonds. Souls, a seer in his mother’s house once told him, many millions of souls.
But they were none of them right. Not right in any sense. “Were I to tell the story in any other place but Myrken Wood, folk might think me mad.” He lowers his gaze and looks at her, some animal shine roused at the edges of his irises in response to firelight. It is there and gone in a mere second.