Personally, I like collections to be at least somewhat connected. Partially, this goes back to my Graduate school days, where my Master's Thesis was on the importance of maintain the original order of poetic sequences, and partially it's because they will be sort of forever grouped together after the vote if they go up as one.
Oh, that's cool!
Your thesis probably makes for much better reading than mine.
This reminds me of the introduction to Dick Francis's Field of Thirteen, where he talks about how, in order to decide what order to put the 13 stories in, they just wrote the names of each story on cards, and drew them out of a bowl. As he says in the introduction, he went into the process assuming that it would just be a starting point, and that he would fiddle with the order afterwards, to make it better, but that he actually liked the random draw so much that he wound up keeping it exactly as it was.
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"And remember, I'm pullin' for ya, 'cause we're all in this together." - Red Green
I have a short one tonight, about which I'm afraid there isn't much for me to say, beyond the story itself.
Sisters
Brigitte LaRoux took her sister’s marble hand in hers, and, for the first time all day, she allowed herself to cry.
She had held back her tears throughout the procession, the funeral, and the formal mourning after, for fear of the Comtesse’s withering stare, should she be seen to grieve in public.
But now that the ceremonies were over, and Brigitte was at last alone with Margot, the youngest of the three LaRoux sisters knelt, and cried.
Beneath the pale moonlight, Margot’s marble effigy seemed to glow. The finely-carved lid was a work of art. The sculptor had depicted Margot in repose, with her hands at her sides, in a flowing spring gown. The detail was so fine that every stitch and seam looked real, and the fabric seemed soft enough to fold, as though Margot were clad in silk, not stone. So many flowers ringed the coffin that Brigitte felt sure the gardens of Thorneau must have lain bare.
It was custom to veil the faces of the dead, but the sculptor had left Margot uncovered, so that she looked up to the heavens with a soft smile, and clear eyes.
Brigitte dried each of her tears before they could fall to the stone, so that, in her final rest, Margot might never know sadness.
She was as beautiful in death as she had been in life.
From somewhere behind Brigitte, she heard the sound of a throat being cleared, and a familiar voice spoke.
“She is with Goddess, now,” the voice said. “There is some comfort in that.”
Brigitte rose to her feet, and, through tear-streaked eyes, she saw her sister Elise standing at the foot of Margot’s casket. Elise was dressed in a gray robe, for she had no mourning clothes. But a band of black soot had been rubbed along her arm.
Without saying a word, Brigitte rushed to her sister, where she collapsed into Elise’s arms, and, for the longest time, the two of them simply stood together, and held each other, and wept.
They said nothing, because there was nothing to say.
It was only when she had no tears left to cry that Brigitte parted her trembling lips, and whispered into the folds of Elise’s robe, “I miss her so much. I miss her so, so much.”
Elise just made a soft noise, and held her sister tight.
“I know,” she said. “I know.”
Elise combed her fingers gently through Brigitte’s long hair, and, for a moment, Brigitte felt as though they were children again.
“I miss her, too,” Elise said. “I miss her, too.”
Then, after taking a moment to dry her sister’s cheeks, Elise said to Brigitte, “I would like to see her. One last time.”
Slowly, Brigitte nodded her head. Then she let her sister go, so that Elise could look upon the coffin.
Elise LaRoux knelt down next to the effigy, and ran a finger paler than marble across the gently-sculpted lines of Margot’s face.
“The likeness is remarkable,” she said, softly.
“Yes,” Brigitte said, between tears. “Carved by the sculptor to the Queen herself.” She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “Maman spared no expense.”
Elise bent forward, so that her forehead rested against Margot’s.
“How did it happen?” she asked.
“One evening, after supper, Margot took her horse out on the gallops,” Brigitte said. “Evening turned to night, and… nothing was seen of her.”
Brigitte’s voice caught in her throat, and she had to turn away.
“The horse came back,” she eventually said. “Margot never did.”
“But what happened?” Elise said, her voice choked with tears. “Margot knew those gallops like the back of her hand. She could have ridden them blindfold!”
“I know,” Brigitte said, and sniffled. “I know. It just… happened. That is all I can tell you. It just… happened.”
Elise sighed. Then, softly, she placed a gentle kiss on each of Margot’s marble cheeks.
“She is with Goddess, now,” Elise said again, quietly this time. “There is some comfort in that.”
“Maman wanted to have the horse destroyed,” Brigitte said. “I persuaded her not to. I told her it was not what Margot would have wanted.”
“You were right,” Elise said, and rose to her feet. “Margot would have thanked you for that.”
“I pray so,” Brigitte said. Then she moved to stand next to her sister, and took her by the hand.
Elise’s fingers were soft, and warm, Brigitte thought. So unlike Margot’s marble ones.
“I have never seen so many blooms in my life,” Elise eventually said, gesturing down at the sea of mourning bouquets.
“The funeral was the largest in years, I have been told,” Brigitte said. “The procession overflowed the chapel – everyone who was anyone was present.”
Again, she wiped her eyes.
“The liturgy alone lasted the better part of six hours. No fewer than ten archbishops were invited to speak.”
Once more, Brigitte sniffled, but then the ghost of a smile flickered across her tear-streaked face.
“Margot would have hated it,” she said.
“I was just thinking the same,” Elise said, and gave her sister’s hand a small squeeze.
“Elise, I wish you could have been there,” Brigitte said. “You must believe me, I begged Maman – I begged! I begged her to send riders for you, to bring you home, if just for today. I told her it was what Margot would have wanted.” Brigitte sighed, and her shoulders drooped. “But she could not be moved.”
Brigitte glanced up at Elise.
“I am so sorry,” she said. “I am so, so sorry.”
Elise shook her head, and squeezed Brigitte’s hand.
“Do not weep for me,” she said. “Had I been there, I would only have been a distraction.” She shook her head again. “No. It was better this way.”
“It was cruel,” Brigitte said. “It was not fair.”
“Perhaps,” Elise said, and sighed. “But then, life seldom is.”
“Margot never gave up,” Brigitte said. “She never stopped asking. Even when the rest chose to pretend that you did not exist, Margot never stopped. Every sabbath day, after chapel, she would go to Maman, and she would ask if you might come home. She would say, ‘please, Maman, let my sister come home. Send for her. Bring her back. Forgive her, and let us be a family again.’ Every week, she asked. Every week, she said what no one else would dare.”
For a long moment, Elise stared silently down at the marble coffin.
“I did not know,” she finally said.
“Every week, Maman said ‘no,’” Brigitte said. “And, every week, Margot asked again.”
Elise blinked her pink eyes, and wiped away a tear.
“Every market day, when Margot rode into town, she would pass beneath my window, and she would tap one finger to her cheek.”
Elise opened her eyes, and imitated the gesture. Her pale lips drew up into a faint smile.
“That was her way of saying ‘hello’ to me,” she said. “‘Hello,’ and ‘I love you,’ and ‘you are not forgotten.’ Every week, rain or shine, she was there. She never forgot.”
Elise LaRoux sighed, and smiled.
“She was a good sister,” she said.
“The best,” Brigitte said. “She was the best of us, and now she is dead.”
Fresh tears welled in Brigitte’s eyes, and, for a moment, her whole body shook.
“She is dead,” Brigitte said again, “and now I am all alone. Papa is dead. Margot is dead. You are banished. I am all alone. There is no one left.”
Brigitte turned to Elise, a look of desperation on her face.
“And now the title will fall to me,” she said, “and I do not know what to do. I have never wanted it, and I do not know how to rule.” Her voice shook. “Elise, I… I…”
Brigitte’s voice trailed away, and she fell silent, until Elise again took her in her arms.
“Elise,” Brigitte finally said, “I do not know what to do.”
Elise placed her hands on Brigitte’s shoulders.
“It will be alright,” she said. “Maman will outlive the mountains themselves. You will have time.”
But Brigitte shook her head.
“You did not see her today,” she said. “She seems to age a decade each week. Her face has become so drawn, and her eyes? Elise, they are… empty.”
Brigitte shook her head again.
“When Margot died, Maman died with her,” she said. “I fear she has been holding on for today, but, now that it is done?” Brigitte closed her eyes, and her body shook. “Maman commissioned the sculptor for two effigies, not one. And I have seen whose face she carves next.”
Elise was quiet. So was Brigitte.
After a long moment passed in silence, it was Brigitte who spoke.
“After… after it happens,” she said, “and after the year of mourning has passed, I will bring you home.”
Elise started to shake her head, but Brigitte’s words only sped up.
“It will be my choice to make, then, Elise, and my choice is made,” Brigitte said. “It is what Margot would have done, so now it is what I will do.”
Brigitte placed her hands atop Elise’s, and her grip tightened.
“The next time you see me,” she said, “I will be coming to bring you home.”
“Brigitte,” Elise said, “think of the risk. Think of the scandal.”
“I have,” Brigitte said. “And I do not care. I love you, Elise. You are my sister. Nothing matters more than that.”
For a moment, Elise looked silently into Brigitte’s eyes. Then she kissed her sister once on each cheek.
“I have always been blessed,” Elise said, “to have wonderful sisters.”
“As have I,” Brigitte said. “As have I.”
Then Brigitte knelt to the left of Margot’s coffin, Elise knelt to the right, and each held one of Margot’s hands.
“How long can you stay?” Brigitte said.
Elise looked up to the stars.
“The angel is still high in the heavens,” she said. “I have some time.”
“In that case,” Brigitte said, “I want to be with my sisters, for just a little longer. Both of them.”
“So do I,” Elise said. “So do I.”
And the LaRoux sisters passed their last night together beneath the angel’s flickering light.
_________________
"And remember, I'm pullin' for ya, 'cause we're all in this together." - Red Green
Something tells me that Raiker Venn is gearing up for a best seller: The Most Noble Tragedy of the Sisters LaRoux.
Thanks for posting, Orcish! I always love the LaRoux stuff. I very much look forward to the day when we have a LaRoux Family anthology (that will hopefully have a much happier theme than Raiker's version!)
Thanks for posting, Orcish! I always love the LaRoux stuff. I very much look forward to the day when we have a LaRoux Family anthology (that will hopefully have a much happier theme than Raiker's version!)
Well, thanks for reading!
This one has been sort of ricocheting around my brain for months and months, now, but I never actually felt like I was in the right spot to write it, for whatever reason. It sort of shifted around a little bit over time, but the one sort of constant throughout -- and the moment that made me really want to write this scene in the first place -- is the moment where Brigitte says that the Comtesse wanted to destroy the horse, but that she persuaded her it wasn't what Margot would have wanted. There's something about that tiny little glimpse which I feel like tells me something important about all three characters, and it's rare to have those sorts of windows into so many people at once. That was what eventually convinced me that I needed to just put my head down and figure this story out, as much as I sometimes have an inclination to let the sad ones just slide by the wayside, if they aren't actively tormenting me.
So, yeah, I think I'm pretty okay with how it came out? It's maybe a little overwrought in places (I mean, it's basically just nice people crying a lot ), and I suppose that neither Brigitte nor Margot really need more context at this point, given that both of them have already gone to be with Goddess, as Elise would have put it. But I really do like seeing the LaRoux sisters again, even through the veil of tragedy. And I hope that the Eternities end up being kinder to Elise than they were to Brigitte or Margot.
_________________
"And remember, I'm pullin' for ya, 'cause we're all in this together." - Red Green
Aloise was half awake and half dreaming, staring up at the boundless sky, when she felt Beryl stir.
Turning to look, she found Beryl lying on her side, with her head in one hand, and the other tracing circles in the grass, as she looked at Aloise in a way that Aloise liked to be looked at.
“You’re not watching the stars,” Aloise said, and she drew herself close, until she felt safe, and warm, within Beryl’s inextinguishable glow.
“No,” Beryl said, softly. “I was watching you.”
“And what did you see?” Aloise said.
“Starlight,” Beryl said.
“Starlight?” Aloise said.
“Starlight,” Beryl said, and she reached out to brush a strand of stray hair back behind Aloise’s ear. “Starlight, and moonbeams, and the color that the sky turns when it’s very nearly dawn, but not just.”
Aloise sighed, enjoying the warmth of Beryl’s touch.
“You saw all that, just from looking at me?” she said.
“I saw you,” Beryl said, and smiled. “I saw… you.”
Aloise smiled back, and she liked the way it felt.
“Starlight,” she said, as her eyelids drifted closed, and she pulled Beryl tight. “I like that.”
“I do, too,” Beryl said. “I do, too.”
_________________
"And remember, I'm pullin' for ya, 'cause we're all in this together." - Red Green
Last edited by OrcishLibrarian on Thu Mar 23, 2017 2:07 pm, edited 2 times in total.
Aloise was half awake and half dreaming, staring up at the boundless sky, when she felt Beryl stir.
Turing to look, she found Beryl lying on her side, with her head in one hand, the other tracing circles in the cool grass, as she looked at Aloise in a way that Aloise liked to be looked at.
“You’re not watching the stars,” Aloise said, and she drew herself close, until she felt safe, and warm, within Beryl’s inextinguishable glow.
“No,” Beryl said, softly. “I was watching you.”
“And what did you see?” Aloise said.
“Starlight,” Beryl said.
“Starlight?” Aloise said.
“Starlight,” Beryl said, and she reached out to brush a strand of stray hair back behind Aloise’s ear. “Starlight, and moonbeams, and the color that the sky turns when it’s very nearly dawn, but not just.”
Aloise sighed, enjoying the warmth of Beryl’s touch.
“You saw all that, just from looking at me?” she said.
“I saw you,” Beryl said, and smiled. “I saw… you.”
Aloise smiled back, and she liked the way it felt.
“Starlight,” she said, as her eyelids drifted closed, and she pulled Beryl tight. “I like that.”
“I do, too,” Beryl said. “I do, too.”
Very cute.
I wrote something, too! Remember, everyone, it's called "inspiration," not "plagiarism."
Moonlight
Daneera was just on the verge of falling asleep as she lay with her hands behind her head in the cool grass, looking up at the wide sky above. Just before her eyes fluttered closed, though, she felt a large shape beside her move.
The Huntress turned only her head to look over as Kerik’s large, lupine face stared over at her. His mouth was slightly open, his tongue visible, and his grey eyes glinting in the soft moonlight. The way he was looking at her made her feel almost like she were a piece of meat, or the prey for a ravenous beast. Daneera smiled at the thought.
“You’re not watching the moon,” Daneera said, and inched closer to the werewolf, feeling the heat from his breath and his body on hers.
Kerik shook his head as best he could from his position, lying on the ground mostly face-up. The supine lupine made a slight growling noise as if in answer to Daneera’s observation. Then he nuzzled her neck gently.
“Oh, you were watching me, were you?” Daneera grinned as Kerik nodded, more enthusiastically. “And what did you see?”
Kerik shifted his weight and indicated, with his snout, toward the moon. Then, softly, he howled.
“Moonlight?”
The werewolf howled again, a bit louder this time. Daneera shifted one arm so that it was, more or less, around the Kerik’s massive neck.
“You know,” Daneera said thoughtfully, “I’ve heard that on some planes, werewolves only transform whenever there’s a full moon, like tonight.” Kerik made a soft whimper, as if asking her if that were really so. “It’s true,” Daneera assured him. “But I’m glad it’s different, here. For one thing, we never would have met.”
Kerik gave another whimper, this time a confused one. Daneera laughed slightly. “The night we met was a full moon. You would never have gone into Zǎri on a night you were sure to transform.”
The werewolf gave a soft growl that Daneera took as agreement.
“Besides,” Daneera said, “I love you in human form, but I would hate to think we could only have a night like this once a moon.”
Kerik leaned in close and licked Daneera’s cheek, then howled. Daneera laughed. “You think that makes me your moonlight?” Kerik nodded, and nuzzled in close. Daneera smiled. “Moonlight,” she repeated. “I like that.”
My imagination was fighting me the other day. I was trying to write something which was decidedly not cute, only to have the muse rebel, and produce this instead.
But she's the boss, so this was what I got.
I like it, though. Even within my extensive catalog of aimless Aloise and Beryl smooch-fics, I like something about this one. And it doesn't even have any smooching!
Daneera was just on the verge of falling asleep as she lay with her hands behind her head in the cool grass, looking up at the wide sky above. Just before her eyes fluttered closed, though, she felt a large shape beside her move.
The Huntress turned only her head to look over as Kerik’s large, lupine face stared over at her. His mouth was slightly open, his tongue visible, and his grey eyes glinting in the soft moonlight. The way he was looking at her made her feel almost like she were a piece of meat, or the prey for a ravenous beast. Daneera smiled at the thought.
“You’re not watching the moon,” Daneera said, and inched closer to the werewolf, feeling the heat from his breath and his body on hers.
Kerik shook his head as best he could from his position, lying on the ground mostly face-up. The supine lupine made a slight growling noise as if in answer to Daneera’s observation. Then he nuzzled her neck gently.
“Oh, you were watching me, were you?” Daneera grinned as Kerik nodded, more enthusiastically. “And what did you see?”
Kerik shifted his weight and indicated, with his snout, toward the moon. Then, softly, he howled.
“Moonlight?”
The werewolf howled again, a bit louder this time. Daneera shifted one arm so that it was, more or less, around the Kerik’s massive neck.
“You know,” Daneera said thoughtfully, “I’ve heard that on some planes, werewolves only transform whenever there’s a full moon, like tonight.” Kerik made a soft whimper, as if asking her if that were really so. “It’s true,” Daneera assured him. “But I’m glad it’s different, here. For one thing, we never would have met.”
Kerik gave another whimper, this time a confused one. Daneera laughed slightly. “The night we met was a full moon. You would never have gone into Zǎri on a night you were sure to transform.”
The werewolf gave a soft growl that Daneera took as agreement.
“Besides,” Daneera said, “I love you in human form, but I would hate to think we could only have a night like this once a moon.”
Kerik leaned in close and licked Daneera’s cheek, then howled. Daneera laughed. “You think that makes me your moonlight?” Kerik nodded, and nuzzled in close. Daneera smiled. “Moonlight,” she repeated. “I like that.”
Aww, I love it!
(Admit it -- this was all just an excuse to write "supine lupine," right?)
Anyway, this, clearly would have been a much smarter double date for the couples in question -- just a night out in the field, with no snail forks or scallop forks to complicate matters.
Oh well. Live and learn, right?
Anyway, again, I love this one. It's so great that I don't even mind that it's, like, ten times cleverer than what I wrote.
_________________
"And remember, I'm pullin' for ya, 'cause we're all in this together." - Red Green
(Admit it -- this was all just an excuse to write "supine lupine," right?)
I can see where you would think that, but no! That came about as I was writing it. As an English instructor, I always hate to admit those moments when my vocabulary fails me, but for some reason, I was of the mistaken belief that "prone" was the opposite of "prostrate." And, since I knew that "prostrate" meant "face-down," I assumed that meant that "prone" meant "face-up." But, as I often do, I fact-checked myself, and learned that they were one and the same. So, knowing that there was a word which meant "lying face-up" but lamentably not remembering what that word was, I looked it up, and found "supine." Once I saw that and remembered that I should have known that word, I knew I had to do the "supine lupine" thing.
I hope one day to own a portrait of Kerik called "The Supine Lupine." That would be amazing.
Anyway, this, clearly would have been a much smarter double date for the couples in question -- just a night out in the field, with no snail forks or scallop forks to complicate matters.
Oh well. Live and learn, right?
As I was writing this, I did sort of imagine that this was set immediately after the double date, when both couples had gone "home" and were winding down from the exciting events of the evening.
I think the thing that tickles me so much about this piece is the fact that Daneera remembers that it was a full moon the day she met Kerik. I don't think of Daneera as much of a romantic, so that isn't something I would necessarily think she would remember or care about, but she does.
Margot LaRoux stood still, as still as marble, as she tried to keep her mind clear. She looked around the cavernous room, but she tried not to see. She heard every word being spoken, but she tried not to listen. When the mourners came up to her to express their condolences, she smiled, exactly as wide as decorum demanded and no wider, and thanked them for their well wishes. But her speech was not sincere. It was rote. She allowed her years of careful training to take over as she repeated the platitudes that she knew the mourners wanted to hear.
The performance that she knew her mother wanted to hear.
She turned her head only when the situation demanded it, only when the nobles who had come to be seen by the Comtesse of Mont-sur-Mer and her well-respected daughter needed to look into her eyes and see them dry. And when she did need to turn her head, it was never toward the front of the room. It was never toward him. She could not risk looking his direction. She could not risk seeing. Her mother had been very clear on protocol. This was a formal mourning, and formal mourners, least of all Comtesses and future Comtesses, did not weep.
And if Margot LaRoux was not to weep, she could not look at her father’s body.
So, whenever Margot’s practiced attention was not focused on the most recent of the mourners to present herself, Margot instead stared directly and intently at a marble pillar across the room. They were in a massive ballroom at the Chateau LaRoux, the floor polished to an almost mirrored sheen by the servants in preparation to receive their guests. The room was massive, and the ceiling was two stories tall, held up by the marble pillars lining the walls.
Margot had never paid much attention to the pillars. The time she had spent in this room had been in training and in practice, learning to dance, and to fence, and to receive formal visitors. Only a few stolen moments had been spent here with her sisters, and her father. But there had always been something else that she needed to focus on, something else that demanded her attention. Now, though, she needed something, anything, to draw her attention away from what was happening in this room.
The pillars were expertly carved from slabs of white marble, fluted down the entire length in sloping curves that Brigitte had once compared to waves on the sea. Of course, today Brigitte had not even glanced at the pillars. She had been crying all day, and once the service began, her crying turned to wailing. Margot had moved to go to her, to comfort her, but their mother had stopped her with a look, and instead sent Brigitte away. The little girl had spared one desperate look at Margot, as if in a plea, but Margot had obeyed her mother, and had kept her face impassive, even as Brigitte ran like a wounded animal to her room.
It had taken Margot all of her considerable will not to run after her.
But things were expected of the eldest LaRoux daughter. She was to be strong and cold, a pillar of strength for her family, for Mont-sur-Mer, and for Foraine. And that was why, however many hours later, she stood in a crowded room, staring at a marble pillar. She had counted the rings around the pillar’s base – there were five – several times. She had followed the flutes up to the capital, its volute spirals staring back at her like unblinking eyes. The spiral, she had counted, made three complete turns.
It was on Margot’s seventh visual trip up the pillar that she first noticed the crack. It was a tiny thing, of course. Anything more would have been noticed sooner. Near the top of the pillar, just below the capital, a bit off-center to Margot’s right, a thin crack extended downward and curved around out of her view. Clearly, the weight of the ceiling had taken its toll over twenty-six generations of LaRoux Comtesses in Mont-sur-Mer. And yet, Margot noted with a level of interest that surprised her, the pillar and the ceiling it supported still stood as solidly as they ever had. Nothing had fallen, despite the crack in the pillar.
Margot risked a glance over at her mother, the Comtesse. Her mother was looking around the room, a satisfied smile on her lips. She looked, for all purposes, precisely as she did during a successful ball, when the guests had been properly seen to and sufficiently impressed. Her eyes were neither downcast nor moist, even as she surveyed the front of the room where Robert LaRoux lay. The man she had purported to love, and who had loved her unquestionably. Margot, in that instant, hated her mother, but she regretted it immediately. She could not hate someone her father had loved. And besides, how was she any different? Did she not wear the same, practiced expression? Did she not, too, refuse to weep for her father?
When Brigitte had looked at her, before fleeing the room, had she not seen the same expression on Margot’s face as she did on their mother’s?
Suddenly, Margot was moving. She uttered a quick excuse to her mother, as properly as a lady should, and made for the door. She was stopped twice by mourners, and she gave them the same, proper recitation she had for the others. She was five steps from the door when she finally stole a glance at the front of the room, and saw the stone carving under which her father would rest. As she reached the doorway, just after she passed the point where no one could see her face, her bottom lip quivered. As she reached the end of the hallway beyond, her breath caught sharply in her throat, just once. And as she reached the far side of the Chateau, so far from the service that not even the servants would hear her, a tear formed in the corner of her eye.
But Margot did not stop. The funeral was being held in the ballroom, the westernmost room in the west wing. The great windows, though drawn shut today, provided a great view of the ocean beyond, and was therefore the Comtesse’s preferred ballroom. But the Chateau had a second ballroom, left unused for at least a generation, on the other side. The room had become something of a storage room, owing to its large size and the Comtesse’s predilection. There were long tables and chairs stacked there, decorations and seasonal glassware, and the property of various former LaRoux women who had since passed.
Margot, still fighting back her tears, softly closed the door to this room behind her and walked over to a large standing mirror covered in a white sheet. The mirror had once belonged to her mother’s sister, also named Margot, who was to be the twenty-sixth Comtesse of Mont-sur-Mer, had she not taken ill and passed. Her mother had meant to get rid of the thing, but had never done so, and so it sat here, unused. Margot had discovered the mirror as a girl, and came here sometimes to look at it and get away from the constant watchfulness of her mother.
Now, though, she could only stare at her reflection. Her cheeks were growing flushed, and her eyes were quavering as the tears threatened to break through. She looked very much like a woman about to lose control, and not at all like a Comtesse-to-be and a pillar of strength and fortitude. Despite herself, Margot smiled. She didn’t want to be a pillar. She would have plenty of time to be marble when her own time came, and she would rejoin her father with Goddess. Right now, all she wanted to be was Robert LaRoux’s daughter, mourning him as a loving daughter should.
Brigitte had it right. Brigitte had been strong enough to love their father correctly: openly and wholly. She had always been the strongest of the LaRoux Sisters, Margot reflected.
Finally, Margot could not look herself in the eyes any longer. She was Robert LaRoux’s daughter, and if the only time she was allowed to show it was now, when not even the servants could hear, then she would. Quietly, Margot reached up and undid her hair, which had been meticulously tied up and back early that morning. She shook her hair loose. She rubbed her eyes. She loosened her corset and flexed her shoulders.
Then, as loudly as she could, Margot LaRoux screamed.
She screamed in the mirror, and she cried, openly and wholly. At first, she watched herself as she did, barely daring to recognize herself as she unleashed a torrent of grief that she had been damming up since her father had died, and perhaps a great deal longer. But soon, she could not see herself through the tears, and soon after, she no longer cared. She simply screamed, and wept, and mourned her father in the way her heart wanted to, the way her heart needed to. Then she spun around, reached for the glassware on the nearby table, and began smashing the pieces, one by one, against the hard floor. The sound of shattering glass, while not a comfort, was somehow encouraging.
Margot picked up the last piece, a large glass plate, and with all of her strength, threw it into the mirror. Both shattered in a cacophony of grief, and Margot dropped to her knees as she struggled for breath. Her tears slowed and then ceased, and Margot reached for the white sheet that had been covering the mirror. Careful to brush away any glass shards, she wiped her eyes dry and started to control her breathing. She had no idea how long she had been crying, but the mess she had made suggested it had been a while.
I will tell the servants to avoid this room for tonight, Margot thought to herself, and I will clean this up myself tomorrow.
Slowly, Margot climbed back to her feet. She brushed off her dress, re-tightened her corset, and pulled her hair back up. Checking herself in the one shard of glass that still clung to the mirror’s frame, she decided that, while not perfect, she would pass even her mother’s inspection. She took a deep breath, turned around, and moved to and then out the door and back toward the celebration of her father’s life. A pillar can have a crack in it and still stand, she decided. And there were others who would need her.
As she rejoined the guests in the ballroom, somewhere above her, Brigitte and Elise were crying in one another’s arms, jealous of Margot’s strength.
And thankful for it.
Last edited by RavenoftheBlack on Wed Jul 19, 2017 10:17 am, edited 1 time in total.
<Roy from I.T. Crowd> MY HEART HURTS! </Roy from I.T. Crowd>
Okay, wow, I *love* this. Thanks so much for sharing, Raven!
The LaRoux sisters have come to occupy a special place in my heart, and so it always makes me happy to see them again, even under the worst of circumstances. And I think one of the things that I've come to love about them is the fact that, while all three had their flaws and weaknesses, they did share this genuine and uncomplicated love for each other (and for their father, the Comte), and that love not only held them together, but it allowed them to transcend their own weaknesses, and to become better versions of themselves than I think they could ever have otherwise been. In Brigitte, and even in Elise, the weaknesses are a little easier to see, a little closer to the surface, and, almost by virtue of that, somehow easier to empathize with, and to forgive. Whereas Margot has always been the most distant of the three. Mostly, this is through no fault of her own, because, of course, by the time we arrive on the scene, Margot is dead and buried -- the proverbial marble woman (a theme to which we will return later), no longer flesh-and-blood, but a specter whose absence somehow casts a longer shadow over the present than many of the living characters do. And partly it's because we've never seen the world from Margot's point of view. The glimpses we have of her have always been through Elise's eyes, or Brigitte's -- or, albeit indirectly, the Comte and Comtesse's -- and, while I think those recollections are true, and not rose-tinted, they also can't show the whole story.
We've seen what it's like to love Margot -- and, as Brigitte once remarked, Margot was easy to love, and it's not hard to see why. But we've never really seen what it's like to be Margot.
And here, finally, we start to get to see that.
Because I don't think being Margot was easy. For sure, I don't think it was as hard as being one of the peasants on the estate, say -- Margot has drawn a very good hand in life -- but I don't think it was easy either. Because Margot's life is so defined by these expectations -- by these roles that she is supposed to play -- by these standards that she can clearly live up to, but which she can probably never exceed, because perfection is required, and from which she can never fully escape, except in those moments when she's alone with Robert and her sisters, or when she's just alone. Margot is a person, but Margot is also a part, a role. And, while she seems to be uniquely talented at subsuming the former into the latter, when the occasion calls for it, she's still human. She's not made of marble. And even marble -- when placed under enough strain -- will show cracks.
I think we've had maybe one little glimpse of that earlier, in the scene where Margot is explaining to Brigitte that Elise will be exiled, and there's just this brief moment where Margot can't quite bear to look at Brigitte, where she kind of has to face out the window, and force herself to speak slowly, as she pours and drinks a drink. And then there's the moment afterward, where she slams the crystal glass back down onto the serving tray maybe a little harder that she has to, and it makes that kind of sharp, angry sound that crystal makes when you hit it against something just a bit harder than you should, and, when I imagine that sound, I can just feel what's boiling away inside Margot, even as she mostly manages to keep everything on the surface calm, for the sake of her sister.
Then she turns around, and the steady Margot is back.
Here, we get to see the crack run a little deeper, and it really, really gets to me.
I've used the term "marble woman" to describe both Margot and -- in a different context -- Moira Trevanei, and, while I don't know who actually gets credit for coining this phrase, I come by it via Shelby Foote, who used the term "marble men" to describe the sort of sanitized, airbrushed, devoid-of-context versions of historical figures, as we come to venerate them in marble and bronze. People are people -- flesh-and-blood, neither sinners nor saints, but human beings, with all the virtues and weaknesses and infinite complexities that come part-and-parcel with our humanity. But call someone a "hero," carve their likeness in marble, and put it up on a pedestal -- whether literal, or whether just in the mind -- and, over time, those complexities start to fade away, the shades of gray vanish, and, eventually, we're left with almost a caricature of a memory, an angel or a devil, who could do no good, or could do no wrong. The person fades away, and only the statue remains.
And so, I think it's very easy for Margot to sort of become that marble woman, a kind of idealized version of herself, as seen through the lens of Brigitte or Elise's memory. But I didn't want her to be like that. I wanted her to feel more real than that, more alive. And I think Raven's story does a wonderful job of doing just that. So here we see Margot, at one of her darkest moments, and she isn't quite perfect. She can't quite handle it.
But she's still trying. She's still Margot. And she's still very easy to love.
Anyway, I definitely had this concept of "the marble woman" in mind when I wrote the little short about Brigitte and Elise meeting at Margot's grave, and -- while 99.44 percent of what I do happens by accident -- the fact that Margot's effigy is carved in marble is in the other 0.56 percent. I did it that way because I liked the moment when Elise touches Margot's stone face, and realizes that her own skin is still somehow paler than the white marble. I also did it because it seemed like a funeral tradition that fit well with what we know about the Thorneau aristocracy, and because I liked the idea that, while the effigies are usually depicted as veiled, Margot's would show her face, because I felt both like it was what her sisters would have needed, and what Margot would have wanted. But I also wanted to sort of raise that question about Margot becoming "the marble woman" in death, and, actually, when I wrote that particular story, that was the original title.
And so it's almost eerie to me that Raven came back to that exact same theme, here, and I love, love, love the way that he's done it. From the titular pillar itself, to Margot's own thought that "she would have plenty of time to be marble when her own time came," this story comes back to that same chord which has always been very, very resonant for me, and it does it in a really interesting way which I don't think I would have ever thought of myself. Like I said, it's eerie, almost, and I'm kind of gobstopped by it.
And it's similarly eerie that it happens in the context of the Comte's funeral, which, again, is another small episode from a much larger story which has nevertheless always had an outsize presence in my own mind. Up until now, the only reference has been in "Enough Rope to Hang By," when, in the context of Brigitte's larger musings about her relationship with her mother, and her father, and her sisters, she just sort of lets slip the fact that, on the day of her father's funeral, she tried to kill herself, and it was only Elise's intervention which saved her life. And, while I won't use the word "favorite," because it seems a little inappropriate in this context, I feel like that's one of the moments in that whole story which always impacts me the hardest, just because it does sort of appear from nowhere, before vanishing again just a second later, yet, in the moment that it's happening, I think it feels very real, and it somehow manages to be both unexpected and to make complete sense. The idea that there would be this notion of "formal mourning" on Thorneau, where the grieving must be seen, but cannot be seen to grieve. It makes sense to me, as part of the aristocratic ritual, but it's also so deeply cruel, so deeply unnatural. And, for a child like Brigitte, who loved her father, who connected with him so deeply, and who is now told that she cannot cry, that she cannot mourn for him, it's so easy for me to imagine how, in that moment, she could decide that she'd rather be with the dead than the living, and it's so easy for me to picture her opening that third-story window, and climbing out onto the sill, before Elise pulls her back. And it's also easy for me to imagine why, once the rawness of that moment has passed, it is essentially never spoken of again.
But the person who is conspicuously missing in Brigitte's half-glimpsed retelling of those events is Margot, because, of course, Margot is elsewhere when Brigitte is climbing onto the sill. And I love that now we're getting to see the other side of the story, and, so, again, the word eerie comes to mind, about the fact that Raven decides to go to this moment in Margot's story, of all possible moments. And I love that, although there's a difference in years, in temperament, and in expectation, which means that Margot has to express her own grief over her father's death in a different way from either Brigitte or Elise, we get to see that her own grief is just as real, and just as profound.
We see Margot playing Margot, but we also see Margot being Margot. And, while the latter can be subsumed in service of the former, it never goes away, and it shows the humanity beneath the marble.
Anyway, as will probably be obvious by now, I really like this story. It's basically perfectly designed to pierce right through the gaps in my feels armor, and it's pretty amazing.
So, thanks again, Raven, and very much so!
_________________
"And remember, I'm pullin' for ya, 'cause we're all in this together." - Red Green
The LaRoux sisters have come to occupy a special place in my heart, and so it always makes me happy to see them again, even under the worst of circumstances. ... we've never seen the world from Margot's point of view. The glimpses we have of her have always been through Elise's eyes, or Brigitte's -- or, albeit indirectly, the Comte and Comtesse's -- and, while I think those recollections are true, and not rose-tinted, they also can't show the whole story.
We've seen what it's like to love Margot -- and, as Brigitte once remarked, Margot was easy to love, and it's not hard to see why. But we've never really seen what it's like to be Margot.
And here, finally, we start to get to see that.
I am very fond of the Sisters LaRoux as well, which likely comes as no surprise to anyone. I'm not entirely sure where this particular story came from, apart from a mental flash of Margot screaming and smashing glass in that deserted room. And that sort of made me think about what might bring her to that point, and more generally, it brings me to the question that you bring up here, which is basically "What is it like to be Margot LaRoux?"
Because I don't think being Margot was easy. For sure, I don't think it was as hard as being one of the peasants on the estate, say -- Margot has drawn a very good hand in life -- but I don't think it was easy either. Because Margot's life is so defined by these expectations -- by these roles that she is supposed to play -- by these standards that she can clearly live up to, but which she can probably never exceed, because perfection is required, and from which she can never fully escape, except in those moments when she's alone with Robert and her sisters, or when she's just alone. Margot is a person, but Margot is also a part, a role. And, while she seems to be uniquely talented at subsuming the former into the latter, when the occasion calls for it, she's still human. She's not made of marble. And even marble -- when placed under enough strain -- will show cracks.
This is basically what I arrived at, too. In Brigitte's musings in "Enough Rope," actually just before the scene you mention, Brigitte basically says that their mother only ever loved Margot. And while she is not necessarily bitter about this point, and certainly not bitter towards Margot, there is a sense that, in Brigitte's mind, Margot was "the lucky one." In many ways she ways, but that luck, I think, carries a very heavy cost. As you note, Margot has to be perfect, because nothing less is acceptable. And that kind of pressure, every moment of every day, just has to be too much for anyone.
I think we've had maybe one little glimpse of that earlier, in the scene where Margot is explaining to Brigitte that Elise will be exiled, and there's just this brief moment where Margot can't quite bear to look at Brigitte, where she kind of has to face out the window, and force herself to speak slowly, as she pours and drinks a drink. And then there's the moment afterward, where she slams the crystal glass back down onto the serving tray maybe a little harder that she has to, and it makes that kind of sharp, angry sound that crystal makes when you hit it against something just a bit harder than you should, and, when I imagine that sound, I can just feel what's boiling away inside Margot, even as she mostly manages to keep everything on the surface calm, for the sake of her sister.
Then she turns around, and the steady Margot is back.
Here, we get to see the crack run a little deeper, and it really, really gets to me.
In writing this little piece, I reread "The Sentence," "Sisters," and the first few paragraphs of Part Two of "Enough Rope" several times, and this moment is the one that really stands out to me, along with the moment when Margot sits down against the door with Brigitte, with Elise on the other side. I can just picture her so vividly there, with her head leaning back against the door, looking up at the clouds and trying, for the good of her sisters, not to cry at the injustice of it all.
Elise says that her sisters are her strength, and Brigitte, as well, draws strength from her image of Margot. And as great as I feel that is, there comes a point where those who provide the most strength to others must, I think, run out of it themselves. There's something really heartbreaking to me that, while Margot is always there for others, in this one moment, there is nobody there for Margot. That's the price she pays for "always being strong." It probably never occurred to anyone that she might not be.
At one point, I was tempted to have Elise come to comfort her, too, imagining that she had just finished holding and crying with Brigitte, but it ultimately didn't feel right. This is a moment for Margot to be alone, to look in the mirror and really see herself.
I've used the term "marble woman" to describe both Margot and -- in a different context -- Moira Trevanei,
...
And so, I think it's very easy for Margot to sort of become that marble woman, a kind of idealized version of herself, as seen through the lens of Brigitte or Elise's memory. But I didn't want her to be like that. I wanted her to feel more real than that, more alive. And I think Raven's story does a wonderful job of doing just that. So here we see Margot, at one of her darkest moments, and she isn't quite perfect. She can't quite handle it.
But she's still trying. She's still Margot. And she's still very easy to love.
I absolutely love in this story how carefully (and in how controlled a manner) Margot prepares herself to break down. She goes to a part of the house where she knows no one will hear her. She carefully takes down her hair, and slowly loosens her dress. And only then does she let go, and she let's go hard. All of her carefully pent-up emotions are released in a volcanic explosion of grief and rage. It's primal. It's destructive. And it's heart- (and glass-) breaking. But, to me at least, it felt like exactly what Margot needed at that moment.
And so it's almost eerie to me that Raven came back to that exact same theme, here, and I love, love, love the way that he's done it. From the titular pillar itself, to Margot's own thought that "she would have plenty of time to be marble when her own time came," this story comes back to that same chord which has always been very, very resonant for me, and it does it in a really interesting way which I don't think I would have ever thought of myself. Like I said, it's eerie, almost, and I'm kind of gobstopped by it.
Do you ever wonder if you and I are actually the same person, maybe in some kind of a crazy, split-personality, Edward Norton movie kind of thing? I'm just saying I haven't ruled it out...
Anyway, it's really not all that eerie, just because, as I said, I reread the other pieces before writing this, so the themes were pretty fresh in my mind. As for the pillar, that came about because, as I was trying to figure out what brought Margot to that point, the phrase that kept coming to mind was "cracked," like a cracked foundation. Rereading "Sisters" is probably what provoked the marble pillar image, although I may have thought of the pillar first. I honestly don't remember (I'm getting old that I don't remember three days ago...)
And it's similarly eerie that it happens in the context of the Comte's funeral, which, again, is another small episode from a much larger story which has nevertheless always had an outsize presence in my own mind. Up until now, the only reference has been in "Enough Rope to Hang By," when, in the context of Brigitte's larger musings about her relationship with her mother, and her father, and her sisters, she just sort of lets slip the fact that, on the day of her father's funeral, she tried to kill herself, and it was only Elise's intervention which saved her life. And, while I won't use the word "favorite," because it seems a little inappropriate in this context, I feel like that's one of the moments in that whole story which always impacts me the hardest, just because it does sort of appear from nowhere, before vanishing again just a second later, yet, in the moment that it's happening, I think it feels very real, and it somehow manages to be both unexpected and to make complete sense. The idea that there would be this notion of "formal mourning" on Thorneau, where the grieving must be seen, but cannot be seen to grieve. It makes sense to me, as part of the aristocratic ritual, but it's also so deeply cruel, so deeply unnatural. And, for a child like Brigitte, who loved her father, who connected with him so deeply, and who is now told that she cannot cry, that she cannot mourn for him, it's so easy for me to imagine how, in that moment, she could decide that she'd rather be with the dead than the living, and it's so easy for me to picture her opening that third-story window, and climbing out onto the sill, before Elise pulls her back. And it's also easy for me to imagine why, once the rawness of that moment has passed, it is essentially never spoken of again.
Yeah, this is a part of "Enough Rope" that really sticks with me, too, and probably a big part of the reason that I've latched on to the Comte as a character so much. It's very clear from just those few lines how much Robert LaRoux meant to Brigitte, and as we've seen since, to his other daughters, as well.
And I think what you say here, that this form of performative grieving is deeply cruel, is incredibly spot-on. I just can't help but feel for Margot here as she looks around the room - everywhere except at her father - and has to pretend to be the perfect hostess. And what I discovered as I wrote this was that moment when she looks at her mother, the Comtesse, and suddenly hates her, only to realize that to someone else, like Brigitte for instance, would see the exact same expression on Margot's face. I feel we have, in general, been unfair to the Comtesse, and there is a very deep truth in the statement that everybody grieves differently, but regardless, this is the moment, I think, when Margot realizes that she doesn't want to be the kind of person that the Comtesse appears to be.
One thing that really stuck with me after rereading "The Sentence" was when Margot tells Brigitte that she was the strongest of them (the LaRoux Sisters), and I found myself wondering what she meant by that. And when I was thinking about that funeral scene you wrote in "Enough Rope," I tried to picture it from Margot's point of view (well, obviously I did...). And that's when I sort of realized that at least one interpretation of it could be found in the way that Brigitte showed her grief for their father, the way that Margot was, perhaps, not strong enough to show.
But the person who is conspicuously missing in Brigitte's half-glimpsed retelling of those events is Margot, because, of course, Margot is elsewhere when Brigitte is climbing onto the sill. And I love that now we're getting to see the other side of the story, and, so, again, the word eerie comes to mind, about the fact that Raven decides to go to this moment in Margot's story, of all possible moments. And I love that, although there's a difference in years, in temperament, and in expectation, which means that Margot has to express her own grief over her father's death in a different way from either Brigitte or Elise, we get to see that her own grief is just as real, and just as profound.
We see Margot playing Margot, but we also see Margot being Margot. And, while the latter can be subsumed in service of the former, it never goes away, and it shows the humanity beneath the marble.
Yeah, knowing what we know about Margot, I got to thinking about where Margot was that she couldn't comfort her sisters, which we know she would have done if she could. Which told me that she couldn't go to Brigitte or Elise. And that, of course, lead to this story.
Anyway, as will probably be obvious by now, I really like this story. It's basically perfectly designed to pierce right through the gaps in my feels armor, and it's pretty amazing.
To be fair, your feels armor is, perhaps, not of the finest craftswomanship. No offense, of course, but Maral's work, it is not.
As you note, Margot has to be perfect, because nothing less is acceptable. And that kind of pressure, every moment of every day, just has to be too much for anyone.
And I think that also sort of gets at how deep the bond was between the sisters, because it really seems like they were able to just be themselves with each other, and all these external distinctions sort of fell away as soon as it was just them in a room. Which is pretty special, I think.
Elise says that her sisters are her strength, and Brigitte, as well, draws strength from her image of Margot. And as great as I feel that is, there comes a point where those who provide the most strength to others must, I think, run out of it themselves. There's something really heartbreaking to me that, while Margot is always there for others, in this one moment, there is nobody there for Margot. That's the price she pays for "always being strong." It probably never occurred to anyone that she might not be.
At one point, I was tempted to have Elise come to comfort her, too, imagining that she had just finished holding and crying with Brigitte, but it ultimately didn't feel right. This is a moment for Margot to be alone, to look in the mirror and really see herself.
I absolutely love in this story how carefully (and in how controlled a manner) Margot prepares herself to break down. She goes to a part of the house where she knows no one will hear her. She carefully takes down her hair, and slowly loosens her dress. And only then does she let go, and she let's go hard. All of her carefully pent-up emotions are released in a volcanic explosion of grief and rage. It's primal. It's destructive. And it's heart- (and glass-) breaking. But, to me at least, it felt like exactly what Margot needed at that moment.
Yeah, I really like those little details. And, honestly, that's something which I feel like I can relate to, almost. I've definitely had moments in my own life when I can remember thinking, with a startling amount of specificity and clarity, something along the lines of: "I have about twenty seconds to get out of here and into some place where no one else can see me, because that's how long I can hold it in before I'm going to lose it." So that's something about what Margot does that really strikes a chord for me.
Do you ever wonder if you and I are actually the same person, maybe in some kind of a crazy, split-personality, Edward Norton movie kind of thing? I'm just saying I haven't ruled it out...
Oh, God -- what if I've been trapped in the Black Lodge this whole time?
Yeah, this is a part of "Enough Rope" that really sticks with me, too, and probably a big part of the reason that I've latched on to the Comte as a character so much. It's very clear from just those few lines how much Robert LaRoux meant to Brigitte, and as we've seen since, to his other daughters, as well.
I have always loved Brigitte's description of the Comte: "The Comte had been a gentle man, a quiet man, fond of music, and books." Which is literally all that Brigitte tells us about the Comte, and, at a surface level, it doesn't say very much. But, somehow, I read that, and I just feel like I know the Comte, and why Brigitte loved him so much.
And then, of course, your stories have done so much to expand that out since!
And I think what you say here, that this form of performative grieving is deeply cruel, is incredibly spot-on. I just can't help but feel for Margot here as she looks around the room - everywhere except at her father - and has to pretend to be the perfect hostess. And what I discovered as I wrote this was that moment when she looks at her mother, the Comtesse, and suddenly hates her, only to realize that to someone else, like Brigitte for instance, would see the exact same expression on Margot's face. I feel we have, in general, been unfair to the Comtesse, and there is a very deep truth in the statement that everybody grieves differently, but regardless, this is the moment, I think, when Margot realizes that she doesn't want to be the kind of person that the Comtesse appears to be.
Yeah. The Comtesse has definitely taken a beating in all these stories, and I'm sure that she probably earned most of those licks. But I also suspect that, if we ever did get a chance to see things through her POV, we might get a better understanding of where she was coming from. Who knows how sympathetic that understanding would or wouldn't turn out to be, but she certainly has been at a disadvantage so far.
One thing that really stuck with me after rereading "The Sentence" was when Margot tells Brigitte that she was the strongest of them (the LaRoux Sisters), and I found myself wondering what she meant by that. And when I was thinking about that funeral scene you wrote in "Enough Rope," I tried to picture it from Margot's point of view (well, obviously I did...). And that's when I sort of realized that at least one interpretation of it could be found in the way that Brigitte showed her grief for their father, the way that Margot was, perhaps, not strong enough to show.
It's funny. When I was rereading "The Sentence" after reading this story, I sort of paused at that same line as well, and had to think about it for a minute. Because, I think, when I originally wrote that piece, I sort of assumed that it was just a case of Margot being kind to Brigitte, and telling her something that it would be good for her to hear, and that would help her to be strong in that moment. Because, when I think about Brigitte, "strong" isn't the adjective which immediately leaps to mind. But, like you said, when I went back to the story, I sort of got to wondering whether Margot isn't talking about a different sort of strength, much along the lines of what you mention, and I do think that Margot sees something in Brigitte which maybe Brigitte doesn't even see in herself until much later. And then I got to wondering whether, when Brigitte realizes that she has to sacrifice herself to save Elise and Henri and the others, whether it's this moment which she's thinking back to, even. Whether, when she's wondering what Margot would do, and wishing that Margot was there, she remembers Margot telling her that she's the strongest one, and that helps to give her the courage to do something so brave. And so, in that way, Margot's words almost become a self-fulfilling prophecy.
And all that leads me back to thinking, like you said, that the "strength" Margot sees, and is talking about, comes from depth of feeling, and love for family.
Aria looked over Shadow's Bar. It was, fairly clearly, dressed up for festivities. Garlands hung from the rafters, the Utopia Tree was decorated with sparkling ornaments of painted tin and little mage lights, and the fire in the fireplace somehow managed to crackle merry tunes. Warm drinks were in season, and given the weather Aria couldn't say she objected, but it occurred to her that she had never exactly gotten a straight answer for what holiday was actually being celebrated.
Aria looked up to the waitress.
“Say,” she asked, “I'm rather enjoying the festivities, but... do you think you could tell me why they actually exist?”
The waitress gave a wry smile. “Why we celebrate?” she repeated, somewhat loudly into a room that had reached a quiet lull, “That's not an easy question to answer.”
“You kidding?” a drunken lout two tables over asked, “It's obviously a remembrance of Dominaria's victory over the Phyrexians. A toast to the Weatherlight-”
“Objection!” another man, a grizzled sort who wore a dozen or more belts for his outfit, growled.
The waitress winked at Aria. “See what I mean?”
The man with all the belts continued, “That's patently false. People had the great feast long before the Invasion, and that victory is what Remembrance Day is all about anyway. No, this celebration is in honor of the birth of Urza – the bloke who's head is on the west end of the bar, you know. Now Urza-”
“Tahngarth!” a minotaur bellowed, “You got it wrong! We drink for the birth of the hero Tahngarth!”
“I'm afraid none of that is true,” said a bespectacled young sitting at the bar beside Urza's head, “First, it's a matter of historical record that Urza was born on the first day of the new year, why would we hold a great feast seven days before. And Tahngarth is far too recent. No, the feast we're currently enjoying comes out of an old Storgard Mystery Festival of renewal, where notables from Clan Ruby and Clan Emerald would mingle and with magic and merriment attempt to dispel the cold. They say it was one of those Mystery celebrations where Jason Carthalion and Freyalise first met. In any case, it became demystified and democratized in Kjeldor, and was adapted again in New Argive to function as a remembrance of the bitter struggles of the Ice Age. That's why it's a few days after the Winter Solstice, when the sun is again on the rise.”
“Well, you got one thing right,” replied an elf woman sitting near him, “In that it does very much have to do with Freyalise. This was one of the many traditions she set in Fyndhorn, that live with all elves that have followed her since, and we do this in memory of her. The reason why she did is-”
“That's all well and good for you,” croaked a viashino, “But they are celebrating in Shiv right now, and Freyalise has nothing to do with it.”
“It's not my fault if your homeland has picked up elements of a superior, elven culture without realizing their meaning.”
“Say superior again and I'll...”
The waitress, who had taken orders at a couple more tables in the meantime, circled back to Aria. “Do you want to know my opinion?” she asked.
“I guess,” Aria said sheepishly. She hadn't intended to spark quite this manner of debate.
“Halfway through.” the Waitress replied.
“Hm?”
“Half of the dark days of the year are behind us.” she said, “If that's not enough of a blessing to wish for a little peace in this world-”
There was the distant sound of china hitting the floor at high velocity.
“Alright boys and girls and miscellaneous entities! That's quite enough! Anybody else wants to get shouty or smash a plate and I'm calling in their tab!”
As one, the entire room muttered apologies, and turned back towards their own cups and plates. Soon enough, they were laughing and singing off key as though the argument had never happened.
Well, Aria thought, as long as everyone was having a little fun, the reason didn't really matter.
_________________
"Enjoy your screams, Sarpadia - they will soon be muffled beneath snow and ice."
I'm a (self) published author now! You can find my books on Amazon in Paperback or ebook! The Accursed, a standalone young adult fantasy adventure. Witch Hunters, book one of a young adult Scifi-fantasy trilogy.
I like it! I was particularly fond of the scholarly approach, and the "Clan Ruby" and "Clan Emerald" thing. It sort of reminds me why Borborygmos makes the best Santa.
Oh, hey, I almost forgot about this, but I wrote a questionably-canon Chandra fic back around the holidays!
The Test
Every night, she was asked the same question.
The test – for what else could it be, other than a test? – always began with the moon at its apex. That was when the two silent monks – their cassocks blue-black in the halflight, their hoods always up – would rouse her from her bed. Their coming was inevitable as death, and – since the rooms in the abbey had no doors – there was nothing she could do to keep them out. The first night, when she had woken to the unexpected sound of their breathing in the room, and seen their shadow-lined faces staring down at her, she had started so violently that she had struck one across the mouth, and she might have turned her fire on them, too, had the heavy auras they bore not smothered her flame. Neither one of them spoke a word – not on that first night, nor on any other night since – they merely motioned for her to follow, and, through the cobwebs of sleep, she obeyed.
They took her to the same place, always – up the seven flights of stairs to the abbess’s chamber, at the top of the western tower. But there, at the door, they waited, and motioned for her to go in alone. She always went in alone.
And there – every night – the scene was the same. There was the abbess, sitting alone in the center of the room, cross-legged on the stone floor, and straight-backed, with her eyes closed, her head slightly bowed. The room had high, open windows, with taffeta curtains like ghosts in the nighttime air, and black basalt flagstones which glowed almost white in the moonlight, except where the abbess’s robes pooled like blood.
Every night, the silence in the high-ceilinged room was so close, so complete, that – even though Chandra walked on bare feet – her footsteps seemed loud as thunder. And, every night, as she bowed before the abbess, and sat, she could feel herself being watched, even though the abbess’s eyes never opened.
Then – every night – the abbess would ask the question, and – every night – the question was the same.
“What do you see,” she would ask, “on the table before you?”
There could be no question as to which table the abbess meant, for there was but one table in the room. There was no other furniture at all, save for the single, low table at the abbess’s side. A low, wooden table, made from polished black oak, and completely bare save for the one thing placed on its surface: a single, red candle, upon which danced a single, flickering flame.
The first time she’d been asked the question, Chandra had felt sure that the answer was so obvious, that the whole thing must be a trick. Still, she found herself at a loss for what else to say, so, despite her conviction that she was being ill-used, she had told the abbess: “A candle.”
The abbess had not opened her eyes, had not spoken a word – had not even seemed to move a muscle. But, somehow, she had made it known that Chandra’s answer was wrong, because the door had opened behind them, and the hooded monks had come in, and, taking Chandra by her elbows, they had led her back to her cell, where she had been left to ponder the meaning of the abbess’s question, until the next night, when the monks had come again.
And since then – night after night – the ritual had repeated itself: the midnight visitation; the audience with the abbess; the little wood table with its single, lit candle; and the abbess’s singular question.
Every night, it was the same question, and – every night – Chandra answered wrong.
It didn’t seem to matter what she said, and she had said everything it had occurred to her to say: “A candle,” “a lit candle,” or “a flame.” She had tried every one of these – and many other variations, besides – and every single one of them was wrong. She had tried at first to keep track of the number of different answers she had tried, and found wanting, but she had long since lost count.
That was one of the tricky things about her new life: time seemed to pass differently in the abbey, when it even seemed to pass at all. Monastery life had a regular, ceaseless rhythm to it – she worked, and she ate, and she slept – such that each day was much like any other, until they began to flow together into a single, undifferentiated haze. There were none of the variations of her old life, by which she used to mark the progress of time – no feast days or fast days, no fairs or festivals. There seemed to be no celebrations of any kind, such that, even if her name day had come and gone – and she no way of knowing if it had – no one would have said a word. And that was another thing which seemed to her to enhance her sense of the abbey as a place untethered from time, a place unmoored from the world outside: the heavy and pervasive silence. The monks never spoke, for they had sworn a vow of silence, and initiates like her were not to speak unless spoken to by an abbot, and the abbots seldom deigned to speak. Shorn even of the routine pleasantries of “good morning,” “good afternoon,” and “good night” – pleasantries which she had once found vacuous, and empty, never realizing the subtle part they played in tracking the passage of the day – she found herself feeling more adrift than ever before. And the work which filled her days was monotonous, and hard, only serving to heighten her sense of living in a dream. It was not that she was afraid of hard work – she had worked hard all her life – but it was the ceaseless, mindless drudgery of abbey labor that left her mind a tired blank at the end of each day. The monastery had been built high on the slopes of Mount Keralia – higher than anyone but goats had been meant to live – and the simple task of continued survival required concentrated and arduous labor from sunup to sundown. Plants struggled to grow at that height, water had to be carried up – even catching a breath was a challenge, from the thin air. The sun was bright in the day, and hot, but the nights turned bitter cold, and no fires were permitted for warmth, so that every night Chandra lay on the cold, stone slab which masqueraded as her bed, her fingers raw and bleeding, her bare feet freezing, her whole body aching, head to toe. Her body had grown lean and hard from labor, and she was stronger than ever before, which was some consolation. On the first night she had been asked the question, she’d had to pause twice on the seven flights of steps, just to catch her breath in the thin air. Now, when the monks brought her up to the abbess, and then back down again, she kept pace with them, stride for stride.
But she was tired – perpetually tired – which made it hard to keep track of the days. And having each of her nights interrupted was not helping matters at all.
Which was why Chandra felt at the end of her tether when she was brought before the abbess yet again, and when yet again she was asked: “What do you see on the table before you?”
Chandra stared at the candle, where it flickered in the moonlight, until she was staring into the very center of its tiny, dancing flame. The heart of the flame was black, she was surprised to notice – a tiny sliver of shadow, at the center of a halo of light – and she found herself wondering how it could be that she had never noticed this before, after staring at that selfsame candle night after night after night.
Still, as pleased as she was by this discovery – and she was pleased, for reasons which she could not fully articulate – her newfound sense of pleasure would not seem to help her with the task at hand, which was to answer the abbess’s question. And no matter how hard she tried to think of a new answer – a right answer – she could not think of a one, for she had already given every answer there was to give.
Her mind, at last, was a blank. A perfect, formless blank. As empty as the little black shadow at the heart of the flame.
She must have been silent for some time, then, because the abbess repeated her question: “What do you see on the table before you?”
Feeling devoid not just of answers, but of everything, Chandra said to the abbess: “What am I supposed to see?”
With the silence then having been broken, and the emptiness of her thoughts laid bare, Chandra felt herself relax, and exhale a breath she had not realized she had been holding, and she waited for the door behind her to open, and for the monks to take her away.
But the door did not open, and the monks did not come. Instead, something happened which had never happened before: the abbess opened her eyes, and smiled.
“And now, at last, you begin to understand,” she said.
The unexpected sound of the abbess’s voice echoed round the high-ceilinged room, and Chandra realized with a start that she had never before seen the abbess’s eyes. They were deep, and brown, like dark pools, except that, from somewhere in their very center, a red spark seemed to flicker, like the ghost of a distant flame.
“Understand what?” Chandra said, without really meaning to say it. She had no conscious awareness of having chosen those words, or having summoned them to her tongue. Instead, she heard them echo around her, as thought they had been spoken by someone else. But it must have been she who said them, for the abbess’s lips did not move.
The abbess’s smile widened, then, and, with the merest nod of her head, she summoned the flame from the candle, and held it cupped between her two hands, where it pulsed and it glowed, growing brighter and brighter, until Chandra had to stare into the little black void at its center, just to keep from being blinded.
“Now you understand that wisdom comes not from answering questions,” the abbess said, “but from asking them.” The abbess nodded, and the flame in her hands flared white. “Now you are ready,” she said.
Chandra stared straight into the heart of the roaring flame, and – for the first time in a long time – she felt completely and totally at peace.
“Where do we begin?” she said.
The abbess just smiled.
EDIT: Aaaaaaaaand a questionably-canon Lili fic, too!
The Heretic
“So it has been some time, then, since you last saw your aunt?” the head nurse said, sounding a bit confused.
“My great aunt, and yes,” Liliana said, smiling as she lied. “It has been some time. I’ve been away for many years, you see, and I only just heard of her decline.” Liliana’s smile broadened. “Naturally, when I did, I came straight away.”
“Ah, I see, I see,” the nurse said, sounding somewhat mollified. “You will have to forgive my surprise, my dear. It’s just that we were unaware that the revered mother had any family left.”
“She does not,” Liliana said, “save for me.”
A white-robed orderly was pushing a cart laden with strong-smelling medicaments down the hallway, so the head nurse and Liliana stepped to one side to make way.
“My ties to the revered mother may be distant,” Liliana said, “but they remain very important to me.”
“It gladdens me to hear that,” the head nurse said.
They paused then beside a heavy curtain, drawn across an open doorway, and the nurse held up a hand in warning.
“Before you enter,” she said, “I wish to steel you for what you may find. If it has been many years since you last saw your aunt—”
“—Great aunt,” Liliana said.
“Great aunt, yes,” the nurse said, before bowing in apology. “But, as I was saying, if it has been many years since you last saw your great aunt, then you may be in for a bit of a shock.” The head nurse paused, and appeared to choose her next words carefully. “Her mind is still clear, and her tongue remains sharp – or at least it does when she’s able to speak. But her health is in rapid decline. This latest stroke, in particular, has frozen much of her body.” The nurse shook her head, and sighed. “She tires easily, I fear, and she has little time left.”
“That being the case, I will keep my remembrances brief,” Liliana said.
“It would be for the best,” the nurse said, and nodded. “Still, I am sure it will do her a power of good to see you.”
“Yes,” Liliana said, “I am sure that it will.”
“Just ring the bell when you are done,” the nurse said, “and I will come and collect you.” Then she drew the curtain aside, and bid Liliana to enter.
The room behind the curtain was small, and sparse. There was a window facing the courtyard, with the shutters drawn wide, to admit the fresh air from outside. There was a long, wooden chest – for bedlinens, most likely – and a half-moon table, fixed with screws to the wall. The on top of the table lay a pair of glass vases, filled with stems of red roses – one bunch a bit wilted, the other still fresh – which gave the room a splash of color and fragrance. The only other furniture was a three-legged stool, and the low, wooden bed.
With her foot, Liliana drew the stool up next to the bed, but she did not sit. Instead, she stood, staring down at withered, wretched form of the revered mother, who lay helpless before her. The woman’s once-powerful face – which Liliana still saw in her dreams – had been split down the middle, so that, while the left side retained some ghost of its former authority, the right side lay sunken, and drooped, with a thin trail of spittle dangling from the corner of its downturned lip. The woman’s hair – which had once been black as nightshade – was wispy, and more yellow than white, like the color of old parchment, where it curls up at the edges.
Liliana could sense the old woman staring up at her, from behind cloudy-white cataracts, and the revered mother tried to raise her head to get a better look at her visitor, but could not summon the strength.
“You’ve aged terribly,” Liliana said, taking little pain to hide her delight.
For a while, then, she fell silent, as she waited for the revered mother to speak. But the woman said nothing, and Liliana frowned.
“You don’t recognize me, do you?” the planeswalker said, feeling a bit put out, before shaking her head. “But then, of course, you wouldn’t, would you? Not when you’re lying there like that, all shriveled up like a prune, and here I am, standing before you, as fresh as the day we met.” She again shook her head. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t.”
Liliana walked over to the half-moon table, where she drew one of the fresh cut roses from its vase.
“Maybe this will refresh your memory,” she said, and, with a sharp flick of her wrist, she lashed long, woody stem across her open palm, so that it cracked like a whip. “Recant, young Vess,” she said, in a parody of the revered mother’s once-fearsome voice. “Recant!” And she lashed herself again.
From somewhere behind the old woman’s cataracts, a glint of recognition flickered, where Liliana saw it, and smiled.
“Ah,” the planeswalker said, “and now you remember.” She paused to suck at the sting on her palm, where a thorn from the rose had drawn blood. Then she slid the dying bloom back into the vase, where it stood out from the rest of the flowers – a patch of black among red.
The revered mother opened her mouth to speak, but Liliana silenced her forever with a spell, and all that came out from her mouth was a low, lopsided rattle.
“You had your chance to speak, long ago,” Liliana said. “Now it’s my turn.” And she sat down on the stool, leaning in close, so that the old woman had no choice but to look at her.
Liliana’s palm was still bleeding, and she glanced down at the wound with a laugh.
“Here I am, after all these years,” she said. “Sister Liliana, the little heretic – only not so little anymore.” She sucked at the cut, and smiled. “If heresy could be beaten out of a girl with stern words and a salted lash, then, my dearest mother, you would have done it. But I think we both know it’s not quite so simple as that, now don’t we?”
Another unintelligible rattle came from the withered woman’s mouth, and Liliana patted the woman’s patchy hair in a facsimile of care.
“You know what I remember,” she said, “when I think back to those days? I remember how terrified you were, by the darkness you saw inside me. And I remember how excited I was, about what I knew I could become, if only I could escape your strictures.” Liliana’s smile widened. “Well, it turns out we were both of us right. And there’s something poetical about that, I think.”
Liliana sensed movement out of the corner of her eye, and she glanced down to see the revered mother’s functioning arm scrabbling for the bell pull. But Liliana brushed the old woman’s arm aside, and, gathering the bell rope in her own hand, she tucked it safely out of reach.
“If only you knew the number of times I’ve thought about coming back to this world, just to kill you,” Liliana said, her tone of voice still friendly – for the sake of anyone who might be passing outside – even as her words grew cold, and sharp, like a razor glinting through silk. “You ought to be flattered, really, by the amount of thought I’ve given you in my dreams.”
Liliana leaned in close, so that she whispered in the old woman’s ear.
“But then I thought to myself: ‘No, Liliana, that would be to quick, and too easy. She doesn’t deserve as much kindness as that. How much better to let old age take her, instead? To let her wither away, to see her dignities stripped from her, one-by-one, until her last days are passed in pain and decrepitude, so that she will know the same terror and helplessness that you once felt?’” Then Liliana drew back, so that she faced the old woman, and smiled. “And, you know something, revered mother? I was right. This is so much better.”
Liliana stood from the stool, and she smoothed-out her dress.
“I’ll leave you to reflect upon that, revered mother,” she said. “And you will have rather a long time to reflect. I shall have a word with the nurse, on my way out, and I have several potions which I shall prescribe, with which she may keep you alive for some time.”
Then Liliana shrugged, and pursed her lips in faux concern.
“Of course, you can’t live forever,” she said. “That privilege, revered mother, is reserved for we few, and you are not among our number. But do not think that you will be free of me, when your time inevitably comes. For, you see, as the last of your living kin, I have made arrangements with the head nurse to collect your body from these halls, after you pass.” Liliana smiled. “And death, my dear revered mother, is only the beginning of your repayment to me.”
Then she knelt down one more time, to whisper once more into the withered woman’s ear.
“Which of us is God now, dear mother?” she said. “And which of us the heretic?”
Then Liliana kissed the old woman’s forehead, and pulled the bell to call the nurse.
“Think upon that,” she said, “as you dream.”
_________________
"And remember, I'm pullin' for ya, 'cause we're all in this together." - Red Green
Brigitte LaRoux cringed when she heard the chapel door open behind her. Sheepishly, she turned her head to look, and then felt the breath leave her body in a relieved sigh. She saw Margot, her back to her, closing the chapel door again as quietly as she could. Brigitte did not turn back toward the altar where she was kneeling, but instead watched as her sister turned around and moved quietly, solemnly, toward her.
To anyone but Brigitte, Margot would have looked like she always did. There was life in her step, brightness in her eyes, and confidence in her poise. But there was no one – no one alive – who knew Margot better than Brigitte did. There was life in Margot’s step, but it was slower than usual, like a violin playing half a beat off. There was brightness in her eyes, but their corners drooped just slightly. There was confidence in her poise, and yet a sluggishness in her shoulders that perhaps even Margot herself did not notice. This was Margot as few people ever saw her.
This was Margot exhausted.
Margot crossed the floor of the small chapel quickly. The chapel had been built on the LaRoux estate generations earlier as a precaution. Every Sabbath day, as was tradition, the LaRoux family would go into Mont-sur-Mer to attend the service at the town chapel, a far larger and more ornate structure than the one on the estate. But in the throes of a heavy winter, or when someone in the family had taken ill, alternatives were necessary. The LaRoux chapel was small – only three rows of pews in two columns – and while the servants maintained the building vigilantly, the chapel itself was rarely used.
Margot approached Brigitte silently and knelt down next to her, bowing her head in reverence to the small shrine and to Goddess. After she mouthed a silent prayer, she turned to look at Brigitte and then, still on her knees, moved to embrace her. Brigitte hugged her sister back tightly, a small tear emerging from the corner of each eye.
“I did not think you would make it back today,” Brigitte whispered. “I am glad that you did.”
“I had to ride straight through the night and most of today,” Margot said back, then she laughed a quick laugh. “Maman will be furious when she finds out I left the honor guard at the borders of Trone.”
“How was the Queen’s ball?”
“It was glorious. You know how I feel about those sorts of things, but it…” Margot stopped suddenly and pulled away from her sister. “But let’s not talk about that now. Not here. Not…today.”
Margot shifted to again face the altar and looked at its surface. Her eyes fell first to the small bascule directly in front of Brigitte. The bascule, a small candleholder with a pivot allowing the candles to be tilted either towards or away, bore two lit candles. The candles were a light shade of blue, and they were turned toward the sisters. The blue was an almost perfect match to their father’s eyes.
Next to the bascule with their father’s Remembrance Candles, there was a second one, also turned toward the LaRoux women. The candles burning on this bascule were not a solid color like the others, but were speckled pink, red, and white. Margot hung her head. “She is not dead, you know.”
Brigitte sniffled once. “I know. But today is Remembrance Mass. It is the day that we think about, and pray for, all those that we have lost. I know that Elise still breathes. But she is lost, Margot!” Finally, Brigitte turned back toward the altar herself, and stared into the candles’ flames, imagining that her father and her sister were staring back. Imagining that the four of them were together once again. “Goddess, I miss them so much!”
Brigitte closed her eyes through the tears. A moment later, she felt Margot’s arm wrap around her shoulder as her eldest sister pulled her in close. She leaned her head against Margot’s shoulder and Margot leaned her own head against Brigitte’s. “I know. Believe me, I know.”
The two knelt there like that for some time. Neither really knew how long. Finally, Margot straightened. “Are you ready, Brigitte? Are you ready to turn their eyes back to Goddess?”
Brigitte followed her sister’s example and knelt straight, drying her eyes with the bottoms of her hands. She took a deep breath, and then nodded. She reached forward and laid her fingers on the edge of their father’s bascule, preparing to tilt it away from her. Margot did the same for Elise’s. It was a symbolic gesture, they knew. Once a year, they were told that the lost could beg of Goddess a boon, that their eyes could again see those they loved. But as with all things, they must return to Goddess. And so once a year, the candles become their eyes, and they can pray with their loved ones again.
Before they tilted the candles back toward Goddess, Brigitte glanced over at Elise’s bascule, the candles there the color of her sister’s pink eyes. “How…how long has it been?”
Margot didn’t need to ask what she meant. “Nearly a year, now. Nearly a year since…”
The elder LaRoux trailed off. Brigitte nodded. “And Maman will still not reconsider?”
“She will not,” Margot said, before setting her jaw. “But I will never stop trying, Elise. We can never…” She stopped, hesitated, and then started again. “Only Goddess can reunite us with Papa. But I swear, to Goddess and to Papa, to Elise and to you, I will never stop trying. One day, Brigitte, we will be together again.”
Brigitte could not speak, so she merely nodded and, a moment later, tilted her father’s bascule away. Margot smiled a sad sort of smile and started to tilt Elise’s away, as well, but Brigitte stopped her by laying her hand on Margot’s wrist.
“Wait,” Brigitte managed. “You…you were right. Elise is not dead.” Margot pulled her hands away, and Brigitte carefully moved Elise’s bascule behind the Comte’s, so that his candles and hers were tilted toward one another. “Let her eyes be towards his, for just a while longer.”
Margot nodded, hugged Brigitte one more time, and then rose. Brigitte followed, and with one last prayer to Goddess for those they loved dearest, the two sisters left the chapel.
Aww... It's always nice to see at least some of the LaRoux sisters together. Thanks for sharing!
Thanks, Huey! As is likely fairly evident, I am also quite fond of the Sisters. Orcish really created some gold with those three.
This was originally going to be a Thorneau trifecta, so to speak, where I was going to write three little stories centering around the Sister LaRoux, but this one was the clearest in my head, and I wasn't able to get around to writing the other two, so I posted it.
Maybe some day I'll tell those other two stories. Only time will tell!
Brigitte LaRoux cringed when she heard the chapel door open behind her. Sheepishly, she turned her head to look, and then felt the breath leave her body in a relieved sigh. She saw Margot, her back to her, closing the chapel door again as quietly as she could. Brigitte did not turn back toward the altar where she was kneeling, but instead watched as her sister turned around and moved quietly, solemnly, toward her.
To anyone but Brigitte, Margot would have looked like she always did. There was life in her step, brightness in her eyes, and confidence in her poise. But there was no one – no one alive – who knew Margot better than Brigitte did. There was life in Margot’s step, but it was slower than usual, like a violin playing half a beat off. There was brightness in her eyes, but their corners drooped just slightly. There was confidence in her poise, and yet a sluggishness in her shoulders that perhaps even Margot herself did not notice. This was Margot as few people ever saw her.
This was Margot exhausted.
Margot crossed the floor of the small chapel quickly. The chapel had been built on the LaRoux estate generations earlier as a precaution. Every Sabbath day, as was tradition, the LaRoux family would go into Mont-sur-Mer to attend the service at the town chapel, a far larger and more ornate structure than the one on the estate. But in the throes of a heavy winter, or when someone in the family had taken ill, alternatives were necessary. The LaRoux chapel was small – only three rows of pews in two columns – and while the servants maintained the building vigilantly, the chapel itself was rarely used.
Margot approached Brigitte silently and knelt down next to her, bowing her head in reverence to the small shrine and to Goddess. After she mouthed a silent prayer, she turned to look at Brigitte and then, still on her knees, moved to embrace her. Brigitte hugged her sister back tightly, a small tear emerging from the corner of each eye.
“I did not think you would make it back today,” Brigitte whispered. “I am glad that you did.”
“I had to ride straight through the night and most of today,” Margot said back, then she laughed a quick laugh. “Maman will be furious when she finds out I left the honor guard at the borders of Trone.”
“How was the Queen’s ball?”
“It was glorious. You know how I feel about those sorts of things, but it…” Margot stopped suddenly and pulled away from her sister. “But let’s not talk about that now. Not here. Not…today.”
Margot shifted to again face the altar and looked at its surface. Her eyes fell first to the small bascule directly in front of Brigitte. The bascule, a small candleholder with a pivot allowing the candles to be tilted either towards or away, bore two lit candles. The candles were a light shade of blue, and they were turned toward the sisters. The blue was an almost perfect match to their father’s eyes.
Next to the bascule with their father’s Remembrance Candles, there was a second one, also turned toward the LaRoux women. The candles burning on this bascule were not a solid color like the others, but were speckled pink, red, and white. Margot hung her head. “She is not dead, you know.”
Brigitte sniffled once. “I know. But today is Remembrance Mass. It is the day that we think about, and pray for, all those that we have lost. I know that Elise still breathes. But she is lost, Margot!” Finally, Brigitte turned back toward the altar herself, and stared into the candles’ flames, imagining that her father and her sister were staring back. Imagining that the four of them were together once again. “Goddess, I miss them so much!”
Brigitte closed her eyes through the tears. A moment later, she felt Margot’s arm wrap around her shoulder as her eldest sister pulled her in close. She leaned her head against Margot’s shoulder and Margot leaned her own head against Brigitte’s. “I know. Believe me, I know.”
The two knelt there like that for some time. Neither really knew how long. Finally, Margot straightened. “Are you ready, Brigitte? Are you ready to turn their eyes back to Goddess?”
Brigitte followed her sister’s example and knelt straight, drying her eyes with the bottoms of her hands. She took a deep breath, and then nodded. She reached forward and laid her fingers on the edge of their father’s bascule, preparing to tilt it away from her. Margot did the same for Elise’s. It was a symbolic gesture, they knew. Once a year, they were told that the lost could beg of Goddess a boon, that their eyes could again see those they loved. But as with all things, they must return to Goddess. And so once a year, the candles become their eyes, and they can pray with their loved ones again.
Before they tilted the candles back toward Goddess, Brigitte glanced over at Elise’s bascule, the candles there the color of her sister’s pink eyes. “How…how long has it been?”
Margot didn’t need to ask what she meant. “Nearly a year, now. Nearly a year since…”
The elder LaRoux trailed off. Brigitte nodded. “And Maman will still not reconsider?”
“She will not,” Margot said, before setting her jaw. “But I will never stop trying, Elise. We can never…” She stopped, hesitated, and then started again. “Only Goddess can reunite us with Papa. But I swear, to Goddess and to Papa, to Elise and to you, I will never stop trying. One day, Brigitte, we will be together again.”
Brigitte could not speak, so she merely nodded and, a moment later, tilted her father’s bascule away. Margot smiled a sad sort of smile and started to tilt Elise’s away, as well, but Brigitte stopped her by laying her hand on Margot’s wrist.
“Wait,” Brigitte managed. “You…you were right. Elise is not dead.” Margot pulled her hands away, and Brigitte carefully moved Elise’s bascule behind the Comte’s, so that his candles and hers were tilted toward one another. “Let her eyes be towards his, for just a while longer.”
Margot nodded, hugged Brigitte one more time, and then rose. Brigitte followed, and with one last prayer to Goddess for those they loved dearest, the two sisters left the chapel.
Together.
I'm not crying! You're crying!
*hides face, runs away*
I love it, Raven. I, too, am inordinately fond of the Sisters LaRoux, and it's nice to see them again, even under these circumstances. And there's something eerily powerful about imagining Margot and Brigitte's spirits now, still in that little chapel, still thinking of Elise, but no longer wishing to be together -- not just now, not just yet. Someday, to be sure. But not yet.
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"And remember, I'm pullin' for ya, 'cause we're all in this together." - Red Green
I love it, Raven. I, too, am inordinately fond of the Sisters LaRoux, and it's nice to see them again, even under these circumstances.
I hope that we one day have a little anthology of stories and microfics all about the LaRoux family. We're well on our way, I think, but we could probably use a few more happy memories from their past.
And there's something eerily powerful about imagining Margot and Brigitte's spirits now, still in that little chapel, still thinking of Elise, but no longer wishing to be together -- not just now, not just yet. Someday, to be sure. But not yet.
And I'm just saying that if anyone wanted to paint this scene, with Margot and Brigitte looking all blue and transparent like a Jedi ghost, I would not be opposed to the idea.
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), and I suppose that neither Brigitte nor Margot really need more context at this point, given that both of them have already gone to be with Goddess, as Elise would have put it. But I really do like seeing the LaRoux sisters again, even through the veil of tragedy. And I hope that the Eternities end up being kinder to Elise than they were to Brigitte or Margot.
