Post by devilinthedetails on Aug 9, 2022 6:26:42 GMT 10
Series: The Sun in Splendor
Title: Golden Child
Rating: PG-13 for references to death
Event: Last Straw-Summer Set
Words: 2283
Summary: Lian and her father burn incense at her grandfather’s tomb.
Golden Child
“Da.” Lian stood in the open doorway of her father’s study. Sticks of incense clutched between her fingers. Aware that Lady Haname would’ve scolded her for disturbing her father–the new king–while he worked. There was a reason she had escaped from her stern governess’s gaze, and, if her father hadn’t wanted to be interrupted, he shouldn’t have left his door open in what practically amounted to an invitation for her to do so.
“Yes.” Da lifted his eyes from the scroll he was studying. A stressed furrow in his brow that so often seemed to be there since Grandpapa had died. Gestured for her to come closer to his chair. “How may I help you, my dear?”
With its crimson cushion and strong arms, Da’s chair reminded Lian of a throne. Made her think that she should offer some obeisance before her father and king. That was what Lady Haname would’ve expected, at any rate.
She was wearing a dress–still in mourning black–and slid into an Eastern curtsy. A curtsy complicated by the sticks of incense she held. Sticks of incense she had momentarily forgotten. That threatened to drop from her clumsy fingers. She swallowed a curse–Da didn’t approve of swearing in anyone, but especially in a daughter–at her own inelegance. Surely, it was better not to curtsy than to attempt one that made her look like a fool.
“I’m going to burn incense at Grandpapa’s tomb.” She bit her lip. Hating how nervous she suddenly sounded. As if she were afraid of her da when he never hit her. Rarely even raised his voice at her. Or at anyone. Not being a man prone to outbursts of rage or any sort of intemperance. “Will you come with me?”
“Of course.” Da cupped her cheek. “Put on a cloak, and we will go to his tomb together.”
“It’s high summer,” Lian pointed out in case this had slipped his attention while he was esconsed in his study. Consumed by various aspects of government. Not exactly arguing with him–because Lady Haname always insisted it was the worst disrespect for a child to defy a parent in any way though life would’ve been very boring for Lian if she followed all of Lady Haname’s strictures and didn’t seek clever means by which to dodge them–but heavily implying that she did not require any sort of warming garment.
“And cold in the crypts no matter the season,” Da told her firmly. “Put on a cloak, Lian.”
There was no sense in wasting time debating with an overprotective father, Lian decided. She stifled a sigh. Did allow herself an eye roll once she reached the privacy of her bedchamber and began rummaging through her closet for a suitable cloak. She chose the thinnest cloak–a light silk imported from the Yamani Islands–in a dark color that she had.
Wrapped it around her shoulders. Stepped out of her room to find her da waiting for her in the hallway. He was, she was somewhat mollified to see, wearing a black cloak of his own.
They walked down the many palace staircases to the crypts in silence. A chill descended over them as soon as they set foot in the stone catacombs. Lian was abruptly grateful for the cloak flapping at her ankles though she would rather have her proud tongue removed than admit such a mortifying truth to her father.
It was hard for her to breathe in the crypts. As if her dead Conte ancestors were strangling her. As if the weight of the stones over her head were suffocating her. As if she had been buried alive, and no longer had the air in her lungs to scream. She hated the Conte crypts but did not know where else to burn incense to the memory of her grandpapa, and the idea of not burning incense to him seemed heretical. An insult to him and all that was sacred.
She and her da reached her grandfather’s tomb. A carved effigy that tried and failed to capture the energy and charisma that had animated him when he was alive. A cold, marble tribute to a man who had burned hot with passion all his life. The effigy was handsome and enduring–more enduring than life–but nothing more than that. It lacked soul. Whatever made a spirit that.
She knelt before her grandpapa’s effigy because it was the nearest she could be to him now. Lit her sticks of incense with blue bursts of magic. Tried to pray. Could not. Found the words choking her before she could force them from her numb lips.
Her father knelt beside her. Cradled her in his arms. Murmured into her ear, “Do not worry if you grieve too much to pray for him. I have paid for perpetual prayers to be said for his soul at more than one of the Black God’s monasteries.”
Donations in exchange for prayers chanted and invokations sang on behalf of deceased family members were a large part of how monasteries to the Black God sustained themselves in a world that was not as pious as dark-cowled priests doubtlessly devoutly wished it to be. Lian had lived long enough to understand that flow of silver and gold.
Perpetual prayers. The idea echoed in Lian’s head. Not as comforting as her da would have intended it to be. Because it made her think about death and eternity. Prompted her to pronder who could possibly need perpetual prayers. Whose soul could be that dark and heavy. Burdened by guilt.
“Do you think he needs perpetual prayers?” Lian sniffled. Loathing how tentative and weak she sounded. How unmoored and uncertain.
“We all need prayers always.” Da cracked a dry grin. As close to irreverant as he ever came. “At least that is what the priests say.”
“They would say that. Most of their income is donations given in exchange for prayers.” An observation that definitely crossed into impious territory, Lian knew. Since she had risked that boldness, she chanced another. One about how little her father seemed to be truly mourning the loss of her grandfather. “You don’t weep for Grandpapa.”
“What makes you think that, my dear?” Da glanced at her in surprise. Obviously not anticipating that their discussion should take such a turn.
“I haven’t seen you shed a single tear for him.” Lian could feel her expression hardening. Becoming accusing.
“Just because you don’t see me cry doesn’t mean I don’t do it.” Da sighed. Massaged his temples. “I never saw my father cry. Publicly or privately. He wanted to be a figure of strength, courage, and determination to his children and subjects, I think.”
Lian frowned. Considering this. Realizing that she had indeed never seen Grandpapa crying. Had assumed on some subconscious level that once people reached his age they had simply sobbed out all their tears.
Her da conjured azure globes of fire. Blue as her Gift. His Gift. Her grandfather’s Gift. Sent those spheres sailing into a spiraling orbit around the head of his father’s tomb. A circling, sapphire crown.
He went on as the blue balls spun, “I wouldn’t have wanted to see him cry. It would’ve broken something inside me to see him cry.” He shot her a keen look that disconcerted her. Asked, “Would you want to see me cry?”
A question Lian wasn’t prepared to say. Wrong-footed, she stumbled out a reply. “No. I don’t want to see anyone I love cry, and I love you, Da.”
“That’s settled then.” Da leaned down to kiss her knotted forehead. His way of saying he loved her too, she understood. “I won’t cry in front of you.”
Lian bit her lip. Tasting blood. She wondered if that meant that he would always weep alone. Or if he lowered his guard enough to cry in front of Ma and maybe Lord Imrah.
Lord Imrah. An unexpected tide of resentment suddenly surged within her at the thought of him. Strange because he had never been anything but kind to her. Dancing with her–twirling her under the arch of his arm–at parties. Slipping her treats. Showering her with presents. Complimenting her beauty and precociousness. Laughing when she splashed him with water as they walked along the ragged coast of the Emerald Ocean.
He had always been kind to her father as well. Ever since he had been Da’s knightmaster. Becoming one of the few people Da trusted. Confided in. Occasionally even joked with. Closer than a father in many ways. Usurping the role that Grandpapa should’ve filled in Da’s life.
Her temper–inherited from her Conte side because she had never seen her mother’s calm crumble–flared as if the last straw inside her had been set aflame. She demanded in a snarl, “If it was Lord Imrah who had died, would you’ve wept for him?”
Her father’s inhale was sharp as a dagger. He was silent for a moment that contained a century by the counting of Lian’s wildly beating heart. His temper rising as if to match hers. A dark mirror. Like one covered in mourning black after a death occurred in a room.
“Lianokami!” Da snapped her full name. A bad omen. One didn’t need to be a soothsayer or a courtier particularly attuned to nuances of tone to discern as much. “How dare you ask such a spiteful question?”
She should’ve bowed her head. Offered an abject apology. That was what a proper daughter would do if disrespectful enough to commit such a flagrant breach of etiquette. She wasn’t a proper, respectful daughter. She was a beloved, indulged one. Too charming and clever for her own good. Lady Haname had exposulated at length on that theme on more than one occasion when bringing Lian to task for some childish misbehavior or other.
Because she was who she was, she didn’t apologize but retorted, “You don’t answer me because you’re ashamed to admit the truth! That you love Lord Imrah more than you ever loved your own father!”
Her father’s cheeks were red–with rage, embarrassment, or some convoluted combination of those emotions, Lian didn’t know–and he made a visible effort to quiet his voice before he responded to this charge. “My father was the one who arranged for me to squire for Lord Imrah. For him to become a mentor of mine. He never begrudged my relationship with Lord Imrah. It’s not fair that you should resent it when my father did not.”
Fairness. Her da could be so fixated on fairness that he could forget–fail to appreciate–love and passion. At least that was sometimes how it felt to Lian. Who was far more of a creature of passion than he was.
“You’re so cold and composed–” Lian could feel tears pricking sharp as pine needles at her eyes and then trickling down her cheeks like a salty river– “it’s as if you didn’t love Grandpapa at all.”
“Is that what you think?” Da gaped at Lian. Astounded. “That I didn’t love him?”
“I don’t know what to think.” Lian shook her head. Speaking the truth that raced through her rabbiting heart at that moment. Feeling adrift on a sea of sorrow. “I haven’t known what to think since Grandpapa died.”
“I loved your grandpapa as I could according to my nature.” Da squeezed her shoulder. Providing a confusing answer that was as far from satisfactory as the east was from the west. “And he loved me as he could according to his nature. It would’ve been unfair for either of us to expect anything more or different from that.”
“And me?” There was a lump like a mountain in Lian’s throat. “Is that how you love me?”
“You are the light of my life.” Her father’s fingers combed through her long, black hair. “I delight in you. I hope you know that.”
“Your father delighted in you too.” Lian swiped tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. Not caring that Lady Haname would chide her for the inelegance of the gesture if she were here. Remembering how Grandpapa’s eyes had often followed Da with a yearning melancholy. A pride and grief beyond words. A father who could never quite reconcile with a firstborn son because they had never exactly been estranged. “It hurt him that you never saw that.”
“Maybe he burned so brightly it blinded me from seeing that.” There was a strange hitch to Da’s voice. “He was like the sun in splendor. Sir Zahir rightly said that once. When he smiled–when he was happy or approved of something–the whole world was golden, and when he frowned–when he was upset or anything drew his disapproval–it was as if the whole world darkened.”
The majesty and power–charisma and charm–of one man. The man who had raised her father. The man who would have been the sun by which her da’s early years were lit. With a sudden surge of sympathy and understanding for her da, she could paint that mental portrait of him as a small boy. Earnestly resolved to be the golden firstborn child that shining sun deserved. Determined never to be cast into shadow and shame. To displease or otherwise risk disapproval and censure.
He had, she realized, never quite stopped being that little boy afraid of being a disappointment. Perhaps nobody ever quite stopped being what they were when they were small.
“I delight in you too, Da.” She reached up to rest her fingers over her da’s hand on her shoulder. Seeking that closeness and comfort. Trying to heal that eternal rip and rift between generations. That gap her father had never been able to bridge with his own. “And I know how much you love me.”
Title: Golden Child
Rating: PG-13 for references to death
Event: Last Straw-Summer Set
Words: 2283
Summary: Lian and her father burn incense at her grandfather’s tomb.
Golden Child
“Da.” Lian stood in the open doorway of her father’s study. Sticks of incense clutched between her fingers. Aware that Lady Haname would’ve scolded her for disturbing her father–the new king–while he worked. There was a reason she had escaped from her stern governess’s gaze, and, if her father hadn’t wanted to be interrupted, he shouldn’t have left his door open in what practically amounted to an invitation for her to do so.
“Yes.” Da lifted his eyes from the scroll he was studying. A stressed furrow in his brow that so often seemed to be there since Grandpapa had died. Gestured for her to come closer to his chair. “How may I help you, my dear?”
With its crimson cushion and strong arms, Da’s chair reminded Lian of a throne. Made her think that she should offer some obeisance before her father and king. That was what Lady Haname would’ve expected, at any rate.
She was wearing a dress–still in mourning black–and slid into an Eastern curtsy. A curtsy complicated by the sticks of incense she held. Sticks of incense she had momentarily forgotten. That threatened to drop from her clumsy fingers. She swallowed a curse–Da didn’t approve of swearing in anyone, but especially in a daughter–at her own inelegance. Surely, it was better not to curtsy than to attempt one that made her look like a fool.
“I’m going to burn incense at Grandpapa’s tomb.” She bit her lip. Hating how nervous she suddenly sounded. As if she were afraid of her da when he never hit her. Rarely even raised his voice at her. Or at anyone. Not being a man prone to outbursts of rage or any sort of intemperance. “Will you come with me?”
“Of course.” Da cupped her cheek. “Put on a cloak, and we will go to his tomb together.”
“It’s high summer,” Lian pointed out in case this had slipped his attention while he was esconsed in his study. Consumed by various aspects of government. Not exactly arguing with him–because Lady Haname always insisted it was the worst disrespect for a child to defy a parent in any way though life would’ve been very boring for Lian if she followed all of Lady Haname’s strictures and didn’t seek clever means by which to dodge them–but heavily implying that she did not require any sort of warming garment.
“And cold in the crypts no matter the season,” Da told her firmly. “Put on a cloak, Lian.”
There was no sense in wasting time debating with an overprotective father, Lian decided. She stifled a sigh. Did allow herself an eye roll once she reached the privacy of her bedchamber and began rummaging through her closet for a suitable cloak. She chose the thinnest cloak–a light silk imported from the Yamani Islands–in a dark color that she had.
Wrapped it around her shoulders. Stepped out of her room to find her da waiting for her in the hallway. He was, she was somewhat mollified to see, wearing a black cloak of his own.
They walked down the many palace staircases to the crypts in silence. A chill descended over them as soon as they set foot in the stone catacombs. Lian was abruptly grateful for the cloak flapping at her ankles though she would rather have her proud tongue removed than admit such a mortifying truth to her father.
It was hard for her to breathe in the crypts. As if her dead Conte ancestors were strangling her. As if the weight of the stones over her head were suffocating her. As if she had been buried alive, and no longer had the air in her lungs to scream. She hated the Conte crypts but did not know where else to burn incense to the memory of her grandpapa, and the idea of not burning incense to him seemed heretical. An insult to him and all that was sacred.
She and her da reached her grandfather’s tomb. A carved effigy that tried and failed to capture the energy and charisma that had animated him when he was alive. A cold, marble tribute to a man who had burned hot with passion all his life. The effigy was handsome and enduring–more enduring than life–but nothing more than that. It lacked soul. Whatever made a spirit that.
She knelt before her grandpapa’s effigy because it was the nearest she could be to him now. Lit her sticks of incense with blue bursts of magic. Tried to pray. Could not. Found the words choking her before she could force them from her numb lips.
Her father knelt beside her. Cradled her in his arms. Murmured into her ear, “Do not worry if you grieve too much to pray for him. I have paid for perpetual prayers to be said for his soul at more than one of the Black God’s monasteries.”
Donations in exchange for prayers chanted and invokations sang on behalf of deceased family members were a large part of how monasteries to the Black God sustained themselves in a world that was not as pious as dark-cowled priests doubtlessly devoutly wished it to be. Lian had lived long enough to understand that flow of silver and gold.
Perpetual prayers. The idea echoed in Lian’s head. Not as comforting as her da would have intended it to be. Because it made her think about death and eternity. Prompted her to pronder who could possibly need perpetual prayers. Whose soul could be that dark and heavy. Burdened by guilt.
“Do you think he needs perpetual prayers?” Lian sniffled. Loathing how tentative and weak she sounded. How unmoored and uncertain.
“We all need prayers always.” Da cracked a dry grin. As close to irreverant as he ever came. “At least that is what the priests say.”
“They would say that. Most of their income is donations given in exchange for prayers.” An observation that definitely crossed into impious territory, Lian knew. Since she had risked that boldness, she chanced another. One about how little her father seemed to be truly mourning the loss of her grandfather. “You don’t weep for Grandpapa.”
“What makes you think that, my dear?” Da glanced at her in surprise. Obviously not anticipating that their discussion should take such a turn.
“I haven’t seen you shed a single tear for him.” Lian could feel her expression hardening. Becoming accusing.
“Just because you don’t see me cry doesn’t mean I don’t do it.” Da sighed. Massaged his temples. “I never saw my father cry. Publicly or privately. He wanted to be a figure of strength, courage, and determination to his children and subjects, I think.”
Lian frowned. Considering this. Realizing that she had indeed never seen Grandpapa crying. Had assumed on some subconscious level that once people reached his age they had simply sobbed out all their tears.
Her da conjured azure globes of fire. Blue as her Gift. His Gift. Her grandfather’s Gift. Sent those spheres sailing into a spiraling orbit around the head of his father’s tomb. A circling, sapphire crown.
He went on as the blue balls spun, “I wouldn’t have wanted to see him cry. It would’ve broken something inside me to see him cry.” He shot her a keen look that disconcerted her. Asked, “Would you want to see me cry?”
A question Lian wasn’t prepared to say. Wrong-footed, she stumbled out a reply. “No. I don’t want to see anyone I love cry, and I love you, Da.”
“That’s settled then.” Da leaned down to kiss her knotted forehead. His way of saying he loved her too, she understood. “I won’t cry in front of you.”
Lian bit her lip. Tasting blood. She wondered if that meant that he would always weep alone. Or if he lowered his guard enough to cry in front of Ma and maybe Lord Imrah.
Lord Imrah. An unexpected tide of resentment suddenly surged within her at the thought of him. Strange because he had never been anything but kind to her. Dancing with her–twirling her under the arch of his arm–at parties. Slipping her treats. Showering her with presents. Complimenting her beauty and precociousness. Laughing when she splashed him with water as they walked along the ragged coast of the Emerald Ocean.
He had always been kind to her father as well. Ever since he had been Da’s knightmaster. Becoming one of the few people Da trusted. Confided in. Occasionally even joked with. Closer than a father in many ways. Usurping the role that Grandpapa should’ve filled in Da’s life.
Her temper–inherited from her Conte side because she had never seen her mother’s calm crumble–flared as if the last straw inside her had been set aflame. She demanded in a snarl, “If it was Lord Imrah who had died, would you’ve wept for him?”
Her father’s inhale was sharp as a dagger. He was silent for a moment that contained a century by the counting of Lian’s wildly beating heart. His temper rising as if to match hers. A dark mirror. Like one covered in mourning black after a death occurred in a room.
“Lianokami!” Da snapped her full name. A bad omen. One didn’t need to be a soothsayer or a courtier particularly attuned to nuances of tone to discern as much. “How dare you ask such a spiteful question?”
She should’ve bowed her head. Offered an abject apology. That was what a proper daughter would do if disrespectful enough to commit such a flagrant breach of etiquette. She wasn’t a proper, respectful daughter. She was a beloved, indulged one. Too charming and clever for her own good. Lady Haname had exposulated at length on that theme on more than one occasion when bringing Lian to task for some childish misbehavior or other.
Because she was who she was, she didn’t apologize but retorted, “You don’t answer me because you’re ashamed to admit the truth! That you love Lord Imrah more than you ever loved your own father!”
Her father’s cheeks were red–with rage, embarrassment, or some convoluted combination of those emotions, Lian didn’t know–and he made a visible effort to quiet his voice before he responded to this charge. “My father was the one who arranged for me to squire for Lord Imrah. For him to become a mentor of mine. He never begrudged my relationship with Lord Imrah. It’s not fair that you should resent it when my father did not.”
Fairness. Her da could be so fixated on fairness that he could forget–fail to appreciate–love and passion. At least that was sometimes how it felt to Lian. Who was far more of a creature of passion than he was.
“You’re so cold and composed–” Lian could feel tears pricking sharp as pine needles at her eyes and then trickling down her cheeks like a salty river– “it’s as if you didn’t love Grandpapa at all.”
“Is that what you think?” Da gaped at Lian. Astounded. “That I didn’t love him?”
“I don’t know what to think.” Lian shook her head. Speaking the truth that raced through her rabbiting heart at that moment. Feeling adrift on a sea of sorrow. “I haven’t known what to think since Grandpapa died.”
“I loved your grandpapa as I could according to my nature.” Da squeezed her shoulder. Providing a confusing answer that was as far from satisfactory as the east was from the west. “And he loved me as he could according to his nature. It would’ve been unfair for either of us to expect anything more or different from that.”
“And me?” There was a lump like a mountain in Lian’s throat. “Is that how you love me?”
“You are the light of my life.” Her father’s fingers combed through her long, black hair. “I delight in you. I hope you know that.”
“Your father delighted in you too.” Lian swiped tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. Not caring that Lady Haname would chide her for the inelegance of the gesture if she were here. Remembering how Grandpapa’s eyes had often followed Da with a yearning melancholy. A pride and grief beyond words. A father who could never quite reconcile with a firstborn son because they had never exactly been estranged. “It hurt him that you never saw that.”
“Maybe he burned so brightly it blinded me from seeing that.” There was a strange hitch to Da’s voice. “He was like the sun in splendor. Sir Zahir rightly said that once. When he smiled–when he was happy or approved of something–the whole world was golden, and when he frowned–when he was upset or anything drew his disapproval–it was as if the whole world darkened.”
The majesty and power–charisma and charm–of one man. The man who had raised her father. The man who would have been the sun by which her da’s early years were lit. With a sudden surge of sympathy and understanding for her da, she could paint that mental portrait of him as a small boy. Earnestly resolved to be the golden firstborn child that shining sun deserved. Determined never to be cast into shadow and shame. To displease or otherwise risk disapproval and censure.
He had, she realized, never quite stopped being that little boy afraid of being a disappointment. Perhaps nobody ever quite stopped being what they were when they were small.
“I delight in you too, Da.” She reached up to rest her fingers over her da’s hand on her shoulder. Seeking that closeness and comfort. Trying to heal that eternal rip and rift between generations. That gap her father had never been able to bridge with his own. “And I know how much you love me.”