Cerys Louise
Member
- Messages
- 13
SILENCE
Three Savaugeaus sat in silence around their long dinner table, the only sound in the room being clinking cutlery and the occasional shift of a backside on a seat. Christophe had set their places together at the end of the table, him at the head and his two children either side of him, but their settings still hadn't encouraged conversation as he'd hoped they would every week. He speared a sliver of rabbit delicately but did not raise it to his mouth, opting to consider it with too much concentration for a piece of dead animal.
Getting his children to talk to one another had become a literal chore in the past few years. There'd been many fights, none of which he could find an easily discernible reason for, but it hadn't stopped the Frenchman from trying. Neither Aubrey nor Laorna would (or could) tell him why they bickered, but he knew that his daughter had struck his son on a few of the occasions, leading to stony silences that lasted weeks. Every night he set the dinner table, and every night the silences continued until he broke in awkwardly with political news or hesitant inquiries about health and jobs.
Only Aubrey had work at this stage, and he couldn't decide whom he was more disappointed in; himself, or his eldest child. Laorna was a bright young woman who had left her Beauxbatons education with high marks in her chosen subjects and smile on her face. Seven short years had passed since graduation, and her scholarly interest had waned into frivolous desires to go out with friends and shop. She lived off of his money, and he gave her everything, but apparently having everything did not increase one's desire to extend their mind instead of their wardrobe. He knew he was doing it wrong, whatever 'it' was. Fatherhood, he had to admit. Children were not meant to be spoilt, and Aubrey got nothing of the same treatment because his duty was to provide for a family one day, and he must have the means to do so on his own. Laorna, on the other hand, only had to look at her father with glittering, pleading eyes, and the quiet man would frown and hand her the key to their Gringotts' vault.
Fortunately it would be nearly impossible for his daughter to bankrupt him; Christophe had been born into money which was well invested, and regenerated itself over time. His work as an Obliviator would have kept them comfortable, regardless, but it was because of his name that Laorna lived in designer jackets and scarves. Chris could only thank whatever deities existed that her expensive tastes hadn't extended to men or broomsticks: yet.
Christophe sighed to himself as he noticed his risotto had gone cold during his musings. Aubrey was still picking at the baby spinach leaves on the side of his plate, and Laorna had her hands crossed over her chest, waiting to be released from the burden of their weekly family dinner.
"Aubrey," said Chris, setting his fork down delicately and turning all of his attention to his son. "How goes your work?"
His son set down his fork quite purposefully and granted him the courtesy of his attention, too.
"Well, Père" he responded quietly, turning to face his father yet not meeting his eyes.
"Does the Boreal still give you trouble?" Christophe continued politely, and Aubrey flicked his eyes up in mild shock that his father had remembered their last 'conversation' about the owl he'd been training.
"No, Père," said Aubrey, and Chris almost felt physical pain at the finality in his son's tone. He did not want to speak to him; it was obvious.
"There's no need to be sullen," said the Frenchman gently, and his son's eyebrows pressed themselves together. "Why don't you give Père a real answer, Bre," Laorna piped up, and Christophe looked at his daughter but did not comment on her antagonism. It was always like this.
"Is 'no' not a real answer, Lae?" Aubrey retorted, folding his arms in a mirror image of his sister. Laorna uncrossed hers irritably, making his son smirk. Chris stared at the congealing risotto, waiting for the inevitable battle to unfold but doing nothing to stop it.
"You have to ruin everything, don't you Aubrey?" the twenty-four year old shot back, making Aubrey snarl. The lines on Christophe's face felt deeper even though they didn't appear so. The weight of these two people were crushing him. Why did they quarrel? Had they fallen out over an incident he knew nothing about? Was that something so bad they could never speak of it to him? They must know he'd do anything to help them through their troubles ... But maybe they didn't. He'd always been too quiet, too encouraging of their independence to make it seem as though he'd help them to their feet if they fell. Chris despaired, but still he said nothing.
Aubrey left the table before Laorna did, this time, which told him that he was closer to the end of his tether than his sister. His daughter followed him, though, and Chris got to his feet at the echoing sound of a slap in the hallway before the slamming of a door. When he entered the drawing room, Aubrey was standing stock still, his hands by his side, looking like a statue dedicated to stoicism. Christophe stopped in the archway and silence stilled reigned.
When Aubrey looked up at his father, Chris almost physically recoiled at the hatred in his face. His son whirled around and the sound of the front door slamming resonated again, leaving Christophe standing with his coat tails untucked, looking at the spot where his son had been. He did not sleep that night, and not for many nights afterwards.
Getting his children to talk to one another had become a literal chore in the past few years. There'd been many fights, none of which he could find an easily discernible reason for, but it hadn't stopped the Frenchman from trying. Neither Aubrey nor Laorna would (or could) tell him why they bickered, but he knew that his daughter had struck his son on a few of the occasions, leading to stony silences that lasted weeks. Every night he set the dinner table, and every night the silences continued until he broke in awkwardly with political news or hesitant inquiries about health and jobs.
Only Aubrey had work at this stage, and he couldn't decide whom he was more disappointed in; himself, or his eldest child. Laorna was a bright young woman who had left her Beauxbatons education with high marks in her chosen subjects and smile on her face. Seven short years had passed since graduation, and her scholarly interest had waned into frivolous desires to go out with friends and shop. She lived off of his money, and he gave her everything, but apparently having everything did not increase one's desire to extend their mind instead of their wardrobe. He knew he was doing it wrong, whatever 'it' was. Fatherhood, he had to admit. Children were not meant to be spoilt, and Aubrey got nothing of the same treatment because his duty was to provide for a family one day, and he must have the means to do so on his own. Laorna, on the other hand, only had to look at her father with glittering, pleading eyes, and the quiet man would frown and hand her the key to their Gringotts' vault.
Fortunately it would be nearly impossible for his daughter to bankrupt him; Christophe had been born into money which was well invested, and regenerated itself over time. His work as an Obliviator would have kept them comfortable, regardless, but it was because of his name that Laorna lived in designer jackets and scarves. Chris could only thank whatever deities existed that her expensive tastes hadn't extended to men or broomsticks: yet.
Christophe sighed to himself as he noticed his risotto had gone cold during his musings. Aubrey was still picking at the baby spinach leaves on the side of his plate, and Laorna had her hands crossed over her chest, waiting to be released from the burden of their weekly family dinner.
"Aubrey," said Chris, setting his fork down delicately and turning all of his attention to his son. "How goes your work?"
His son set down his fork quite purposefully and granted him the courtesy of his attention, too.
"Well, Père" he responded quietly, turning to face his father yet not meeting his eyes.
"Does the Boreal still give you trouble?" Christophe continued politely, and Aubrey flicked his eyes up in mild shock that his father had remembered their last 'conversation' about the owl he'd been training.
"No, Père," said Aubrey, and Chris almost felt physical pain at the finality in his son's tone. He did not want to speak to him; it was obvious.
"There's no need to be sullen," said the Frenchman gently, and his son's eyebrows pressed themselves together. "Why don't you give Père a real answer, Bre," Laorna piped up, and Christophe looked at his daughter but did not comment on her antagonism. It was always like this.
"Is 'no' not a real answer, Lae?" Aubrey retorted, folding his arms in a mirror image of his sister. Laorna uncrossed hers irritably, making his son smirk. Chris stared at the congealing risotto, waiting for the inevitable battle to unfold but doing nothing to stop it.
"You have to ruin everything, don't you Aubrey?" the twenty-four year old shot back, making Aubrey snarl. The lines on Christophe's face felt deeper even though they didn't appear so. The weight of these two people were crushing him. Why did they quarrel? Had they fallen out over an incident he knew nothing about? Was that something so bad they could never speak of it to him? They must know he'd do anything to help them through their troubles ... But maybe they didn't. He'd always been too quiet, too encouraging of their independence to make it seem as though he'd help them to their feet if they fell. Chris despaired, but still he said nothing.
Aubrey left the table before Laorna did, this time, which told him that he was closer to the end of his tether than his sister. His daughter followed him, though, and Chris got to his feet at the echoing sound of a slap in the hallway before the slamming of a door. When he entered the drawing room, Aubrey was standing stock still, his hands by his side, looking like a statue dedicated to stoicism. Christophe stopped in the archway and silence stilled reigned.
When Aubrey looked up at his father, Chris almost physically recoiled at the hatred in his face. His son whirled around and the sound of the front door slamming resonated again, leaving Christophe standing with his coat tails untucked, looking at the spot where his son had been. He did not sleep that night, and not for many nights afterwards.