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dolevalanTitle: Deeds
Fandom: Original
Rating: PG
A/N: The very last word for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
15minuteficlets. It's been a fun community. Cheers, guys.
His mother never laughed, after his father died. She had always laughed seldom; that was her way. But he remembered that it had been like clouds parting, briefly, whenever she did. That was gone, buried in his father’s grave.
Nicolas hadn’t asked her how he’d died. He hadn’t really needed to. Nor had he asked what had become of the murderer or murderers. He didn’t need to ask that either, though part of him regretted that she would feel the need to do it alone. But he knew better than to question his mother’s claim to the grief of this. The vengeance was hers and no words were exchanged.
It had been half a year since he’d been back to the ranch, and it looked small and quaint when it first appeared on the horizon. It was his, in name, but he didn’t know what to do with it. The wind was at his back, pulling him to the home where no one was waiting. Not his father, taken unexpectedly, or his mother, gone without word of where. When Fyedka had written, he’d noted that his mistress had taken to disappearing for longer and longer stretches of time. Nicolas wondered if someday she wouldn’t bother coming back at all. It would be like her.
His mare was calm, despite the feel of an approaching storm. She was sweet-tempered, unlike his last; his father had teased him when he gave the gift, saying that if he couldn’t marry a sweet girl to regulate his temper, maybe his mount could have the desired effect. Nicolas found himself surprised that he wasn’t angry. He was hurt, and he was tired. And he wanted Stella.
He knew she wouldn’t be there. Even if Fyedka had known where to send word, she was too far away to get here so quickly. But even so, he irrationally found himself wishing for the swish of her skirts on the upstairs landing as he walked into the entrance hall. He wanted nothing more than to have someone to share his frustration and loss, an equal in the tragedy. The servants were too far from him one way, his mother too far the other. It was with his twin that he felt most balanced, and though she had been gone longer than either mother or father. Hers was the absence that being the new master or the house picked and pried at.
Sitting in front of the fireplace, alone, he asked her, in his mind, how he had failed her. But the only reply was the sharp snapping of wood burning in the grate.
Fandom: Original
Rating: PG
A/N: The very last word for
15minuteficlets. It's been a fun community. Cheers, guys.His mother never laughed, after his father died. She had always laughed seldom; that was her way. But he remembered that it had been like clouds parting, briefly, whenever she did. That was gone, buried in his father’s grave.
Nicolas hadn’t asked her how he’d died. He hadn’t really needed to. Nor had he asked what had become of the murderer or murderers. He didn’t need to ask that either, though part of him regretted that she would feel the need to do it alone. But he knew better than to question his mother’s claim to the grief of this. The vengeance was hers and no words were exchanged.
It had been half a year since he’d been back to the ranch, and it looked small and quaint when it first appeared on the horizon. It was his, in name, but he didn’t know what to do with it. The wind was at his back, pulling him to the home where no one was waiting. Not his father, taken unexpectedly, or his mother, gone without word of where. When Fyedka had written, he’d noted that his mistress had taken to disappearing for longer and longer stretches of time. Nicolas wondered if someday she wouldn’t bother coming back at all. It would be like her.
His mare was calm, despite the feel of an approaching storm. She was sweet-tempered, unlike his last; his father had teased him when he gave the gift, saying that if he couldn’t marry a sweet girl to regulate his temper, maybe his mount could have the desired effect. Nicolas found himself surprised that he wasn’t angry. He was hurt, and he was tired. And he wanted Stella.
He knew she wouldn’t be there. Even if Fyedka had known where to send word, she was too far away to get here so quickly. But even so, he irrationally found himself wishing for the swish of her skirts on the upstairs landing as he walked into the entrance hall. He wanted nothing more than to have someone to share his frustration and loss, an equal in the tragedy. The servants were too far from him one way, his mother too far the other. It was with his twin that he felt most balanced, and though she had been gone longer than either mother or father. Hers was the absence that being the new master or the house picked and pried at.
Sitting in front of the fireplace, alone, he asked her, in his mind, how he had failed her. But the only reply was the sharp snapping of wood burning in the grate.
