His home was exactly the way he remembered it. For Lucien, this was more reassuring than anything, though admittedly, there was a note of melancholy to the realization as well. Though theyād docked at Val Royeaux initially, they had not stayed long. Really only a day or so, and Lucien had been anxious to return to the countryside the whole time, which he hoped had not made him a terrible tour guide. Perhaps it hadāheād have to make it up to Sophia on the return trip.
From the capital, theyād taken horses and a small carriage to his familyās holdings in the southeast of the country, which were visible for about half a day before they actually reached the castle. And it was assuredly a castle. More on the Keep side of castles, because it would have been impossible for most of his ancestors to live in anything less secure, he suspected, but there was no mistaking a certain kind of elegance in it all the same. He found most of the architecture in Val Royeaux to be too ostentatious for his tastes, and so the step down that his home was felt just about right, a nice balance of form and function that the artist in him could appreciate. The walls were primarily a light grey stone, one that matched the heavy mist that coated the ground in winter. At the moment, though, it stood out cleanly against the green and gold of the surrounding fields and vineyards. Lucien was willing to bet it was going to be a good year for both, from the look of things.
They passed beneath the gates with neither any trouble nor excessive fanfareāthis was not the kind of estate that threw parties for the return of its heir, though heād clearly been expected, as had his guest. Their horses were taken from them to be cared for elsewhere, and their belongings carried up to the castle proper, while they were led towards the front entrance by Pierre, his fatherās steward. Both Lucien and Sophia were encouraged to rest from the journey, and shown to where they would be housed. Lucien had his old rooms, of course, and Sophia was provided with a set of them in the guest wing.
The interior was much like the exterior, in that it showcased a certain self-aware luxury and traditionalism without beating one over the head with the obvious expense of every single piece. The emphasis was on cohesion, comfort, and quality, but there was no denying that such things would be possible to achieve without the exceptionally rare imported woods or subtle inlays on many of the pieces of furniture.
It was some hours after their arrival that, unable to sleep as he probably should, Lucien made his way out onto the grounds, bypassing the stables and eyrie and kennels in favor of the gardens, winding, intricate things maintained by a staff of about ten, usually, a mixture of humans and elves. He was pleased to see that the Madonna lilies were in bloom, and for a moment, his thoughts flitted to a horticulturally-gifted mage he knew. He was sure Aurora would have been able to tell him the name and history of most of the plants here, but for the most part, Lucien could appreciate them only aesthetically. He knew what these were, however, for they had been his motherās favorites.
With the knife Rilien had given him, he sliced into the stems of a cluster of them, judging which would least disturb the overall arrangement, and gathering a triplicate of them in one hand before replacing the blade in his boot. From there, Lucien followed the winding trail further inward, until he came upon a modest mausoleum. It was situated in a grove of short trees, still technically in the gardens, and the stone memorials were well-preserved by the same ten people as looked after the rest. Cremation was the custom in Orlais as it was in most countries that had ever seen a Blight, but the markers were given a certain kind of reverence by those families that could afford to maintain them.
Stopping in front of the one he wanted, he initially did not make any acknowledgement of the fact that he was not alone, kneeling to place the flowers next to the red roses that had already been laid upon the stone that bore her name. He didnāt pray often, but on these occasions, he did, and he folded his hands together, still upon his knees, and bowed his head over them, remaining silent for several minutes before he opened his eyesāheād neglected to wear the patch over the one for several weeks nowāand rose, finally cutting a glance to his side.
Heād been told that he favored his mother in appearance more than anything, but there was no denying certain similarities he bore to the man at his side either. Guillame Drakon, more often referred to as Guy, was almost as tall as his son, and perhaps even a bit broader, which was definitely saying something. His age was worn well, but it was worn. The lines at the sides of his eyes and mouth were evidence enough of it, his skin marred in several places by old campaign scars, his complexion weathered to a rough tan by years spent leading soldiers in the sun. Heād never been one for the elegant masks that the other nobility wore, and usually attended court barefaced in what was a rather gauche flauting of custom. It wasnāt like anyone could tell him what to do, after all. Even CĆ©lene tended to wield her power more gently where he was concerned, because there was no denying that Lord General was not one who would tolerate too much in the way of being commanded. Pride was perhaps part and parcel with nobility, but his was of a markedly different kind than most.
But it was tempered by the same honor his son took himself to have inherited, and so Lucien at least found it difficult to fault. Then again, heād always found his father difficult to fault, for one reason or another. They didnāt always see things the same way, and Guy was often ruthless where Lucien would rather be merciful, demanding where Lucien would request, but for all that, he felt sometimes that nobody understood him better. And that was part of the reason heād agreed to return.
Neither of them bothered to waste time on unneeded pleasantry. āHow do you do it?ā Lucien asked, his eyes falling to the stone marker before them. It wasnāt necessary to specify any further.
Guy shifted slightly, folding his hands behind his back in the standard parade rest. His eyes were the same silvery-grey as Lucienās, and at present, fixed on the same place. He had married Veronique for love of her spirit, and even he would admit that bearing her loss had been the hardest thing heād ever done. It was not difficult to understand marriages of convenience, by such lights. But then, heād never done anything because it was easy. āBecause I must.ā The answer, as the question, came slow and thick in their native tongue, the product of careful consideration and only after being forced past a certain barrier of silence that men, that soldiers, of this country were expected to keep their truths behind. Their feelings; things that were still in so many minds the provenance of the common, the vulgar, or in some cases, the female. Neither of them thought so, intellectually, but it was difficult to overcome that engrained reticence anyway.
āI canāt stop thinking about what Iād do, if I ended up like you.ā It wasnāt that he thought his father handled his grief poorly by any means. Rather the oppositeāLucien didnāt think he had the steel in his spine to deal with it the way Guy had.
Though he kept his eyes fixed forward, he could feel his fatherās boring into the side of his head, heavy with a familiar weight. Judgement, probably. His father was about to tell him he was an idiot, and to be fair, he was rather sure he deserved it. He was also rather sure he needed to hear it.
āAnd so you hesitate.ā It was not a question.
āI do.ā It was an uncomfortable admission, but true all the same, and Lucien didnāt lie. Especially not to his own blood. āMy thoughts always turn that way. I could say it, I could tell her, and Iāmā¦ as confident as a person can be about these things that Iād probably be received well. But Iā¦ any thought about how happy that would make me is turned to how terrible it would become, if I lost her after that.ā He didnāt just mean in the way his father had lost his mother, either. Their courtship had been a simple thing, comparatively, because they were both of the right social standing. It was far from a marriage of convenience, but it was convenient. What existed, or rather, could exist between himself and Sophia was much more complicated, especially now.
Guy sighed, the noise mostly exasperated, and Lucien could almost feel him rolling his eyes. āAnd soā¦ what? You are afraid because it might end badly? Lucien, any number of the things you do could end badly. Your life could end badly. I hardly think that is a reason to refuse to live it. I do not regret the risks I have taken, even the ones that did not turn out as I hoped they would, and I didnāt take you for that particular kind of fool, either.ā
Lucien grimaced. āItās less that Iām afraid of how badly it could end for me, and more that Iām afraid of how badly it could end for her.ā
Guy snorted. āOh, so youāre making decisions for her now, are you? Either youāve been lying to me in your letters or sheāll love that.ā The sarcasm was dripping from his fatherās tone, and Lucien knew heād deserved that one. It was extremely unfair for him to withhold on this for such a reason, butā¦ still, the temptation was present, and persuasive. āAndrasteās flaming arse, Lucien, have some bloody courage, why donāt you? Iāve never understood why love makes cowards into lionhearts but brave men into sniveling whelps.ā He waved a hand in disdainful emphasis.
But the point was made, and he didnāt feel the need to drive it home any further. His son was certainly intelligent enough to make the necessary connections. So he shifted the topic a bit. āThose mercs of yoursā¦ up and running soon?ā Guy turned toward the outer gardens again, and Lucien made to follow suit. He was still thinking about it, but as usual, his father had managed to make starkly-clear and rather colorfully-phrased his thoughts. Heād known all of this, but it meant something to hear it coming from someone else. Particularly his father.
He owed her an apology. And also a lot more than that.
From the capital, theyād taken horses and a small carriage to his familyās holdings in the southeast of the country, which were visible for about half a day before they actually reached the castle. And it was assuredly a castle. More on the Keep side of castles, because it would have been impossible for most of his ancestors to live in anything less secure, he suspected, but there was no mistaking a certain kind of elegance in it all the same. He found most of the architecture in Val Royeaux to be too ostentatious for his tastes, and so the step down that his home was felt just about right, a nice balance of form and function that the artist in him could appreciate. The walls were primarily a light grey stone, one that matched the heavy mist that coated the ground in winter. At the moment, though, it stood out cleanly against the green and gold of the surrounding fields and vineyards. Lucien was willing to bet it was going to be a good year for both, from the look of things.
They passed beneath the gates with neither any trouble nor excessive fanfareāthis was not the kind of estate that threw parties for the return of its heir, though heād clearly been expected, as had his guest. Their horses were taken from them to be cared for elsewhere, and their belongings carried up to the castle proper, while they were led towards the front entrance by Pierre, his fatherās steward. Both Lucien and Sophia were encouraged to rest from the journey, and shown to where they would be housed. Lucien had his old rooms, of course, and Sophia was provided with a set of them in the guest wing.
The interior was much like the exterior, in that it showcased a certain self-aware luxury and traditionalism without beating one over the head with the obvious expense of every single piece. The emphasis was on cohesion, comfort, and quality, but there was no denying that such things would be possible to achieve without the exceptionally rare imported woods or subtle inlays on many of the pieces of furniture.
It was some hours after their arrival that, unable to sleep as he probably should, Lucien made his way out onto the grounds, bypassing the stables and eyrie and kennels in favor of the gardens, winding, intricate things maintained by a staff of about ten, usually, a mixture of humans and elves. He was pleased to see that the Madonna lilies were in bloom, and for a moment, his thoughts flitted to a horticulturally-gifted mage he knew. He was sure Aurora would have been able to tell him the name and history of most of the plants here, but for the most part, Lucien could appreciate them only aesthetically. He knew what these were, however, for they had been his motherās favorites.
With the knife Rilien had given him, he sliced into the stems of a cluster of them, judging which would least disturb the overall arrangement, and gathering a triplicate of them in one hand before replacing the blade in his boot. From there, Lucien followed the winding trail further inward, until he came upon a modest mausoleum. It was situated in a grove of short trees, still technically in the gardens, and the stone memorials were well-preserved by the same ten people as looked after the rest. Cremation was the custom in Orlais as it was in most countries that had ever seen a Blight, but the markers were given a certain kind of reverence by those families that could afford to maintain them.
Stopping in front of the one he wanted, he initially did not make any acknowledgement of the fact that he was not alone, kneeling to place the flowers next to the red roses that had already been laid upon the stone that bore her name. He didnāt pray often, but on these occasions, he did, and he folded his hands together, still upon his knees, and bowed his head over them, remaining silent for several minutes before he opened his eyesāheād neglected to wear the patch over the one for several weeks nowāand rose, finally cutting a glance to his side.
Heād been told that he favored his mother in appearance more than anything, but there was no denying certain similarities he bore to the man at his side either. Guillame Drakon, more often referred to as Guy, was almost as tall as his son, and perhaps even a bit broader, which was definitely saying something. His age was worn well, but it was worn. The lines at the sides of his eyes and mouth were evidence enough of it, his skin marred in several places by old campaign scars, his complexion weathered to a rough tan by years spent leading soldiers in the sun. Heād never been one for the elegant masks that the other nobility wore, and usually attended court barefaced in what was a rather gauche flauting of custom. It wasnāt like anyone could tell him what to do, after all. Even CĆ©lene tended to wield her power more gently where he was concerned, because there was no denying that Lord General was not one who would tolerate too much in the way of being commanded. Pride was perhaps part and parcel with nobility, but his was of a markedly different kind than most.
But it was tempered by the same honor his son took himself to have inherited, and so Lucien at least found it difficult to fault. Then again, heād always found his father difficult to fault, for one reason or another. They didnāt always see things the same way, and Guy was often ruthless where Lucien would rather be merciful, demanding where Lucien would request, but for all that, he felt sometimes that nobody understood him better. And that was part of the reason heād agreed to return.
Neither of them bothered to waste time on unneeded pleasantry. āHow do you do it?ā Lucien asked, his eyes falling to the stone marker before them. It wasnāt necessary to specify any further.
Guy shifted slightly, folding his hands behind his back in the standard parade rest. His eyes were the same silvery-grey as Lucienās, and at present, fixed on the same place. He had married Veronique for love of her spirit, and even he would admit that bearing her loss had been the hardest thing heād ever done. It was not difficult to understand marriages of convenience, by such lights. But then, heād never done anything because it was easy. āBecause I must.ā The answer, as the question, came slow and thick in their native tongue, the product of careful consideration and only after being forced past a certain barrier of silence that men, that soldiers, of this country were expected to keep their truths behind. Their feelings; things that were still in so many minds the provenance of the common, the vulgar, or in some cases, the female. Neither of them thought so, intellectually, but it was difficult to overcome that engrained reticence anyway.
āI canāt stop thinking about what Iād do, if I ended up like you.ā It wasnāt that he thought his father handled his grief poorly by any means. Rather the oppositeāLucien didnāt think he had the steel in his spine to deal with it the way Guy had.
Though he kept his eyes fixed forward, he could feel his fatherās boring into the side of his head, heavy with a familiar weight. Judgement, probably. His father was about to tell him he was an idiot, and to be fair, he was rather sure he deserved it. He was also rather sure he needed to hear it.
āAnd so you hesitate.ā It was not a question.
āI do.ā It was an uncomfortable admission, but true all the same, and Lucien didnāt lie. Especially not to his own blood. āMy thoughts always turn that way. I could say it, I could tell her, and Iāmā¦ as confident as a person can be about these things that Iād probably be received well. But Iā¦ any thought about how happy that would make me is turned to how terrible it would become, if I lost her after that.ā He didnāt just mean in the way his father had lost his mother, either. Their courtship had been a simple thing, comparatively, because they were both of the right social standing. It was far from a marriage of convenience, but it was convenient. What existed, or rather, could exist between himself and Sophia was much more complicated, especially now.
Guy sighed, the noise mostly exasperated, and Lucien could almost feel him rolling his eyes. āAnd soā¦ what? You are afraid because it might end badly? Lucien, any number of the things you do could end badly. Your life could end badly. I hardly think that is a reason to refuse to live it. I do not regret the risks I have taken, even the ones that did not turn out as I hoped they would, and I didnāt take you for that particular kind of fool, either.ā
Lucien grimaced. āItās less that Iām afraid of how badly it could end for me, and more that Iām afraid of how badly it could end for her.ā
Guy snorted. āOh, so youāre making decisions for her now, are you? Either youāve been lying to me in your letters or sheāll love that.ā The sarcasm was dripping from his fatherās tone, and Lucien knew heād deserved that one. It was extremely unfair for him to withhold on this for such a reason, butā¦ still, the temptation was present, and persuasive. āAndrasteās flaming arse, Lucien, have some bloody courage, why donāt you? Iāve never understood why love makes cowards into lionhearts but brave men into sniveling whelps.ā He waved a hand in disdainful emphasis.
But the point was made, and he didnāt feel the need to drive it home any further. His son was certainly intelligent enough to make the necessary connections. So he shifted the topic a bit. āThose mercs of yoursā¦ up and running soon?ā Guy turned toward the outer gardens again, and Lucien made to follow suit. He was still thinking about it, but as usual, his father had managed to make starkly-clear and rather colorfully-phrased his thoughts. Heād known all of this, but it meant something to hear it coming from someone else. Particularly his father.
He owed her an apology. And also a lot more than that.