you’ve got the run of the place, now that you’re running around (and may kindness, kindness, kindness abound)
Summary: “Grandpère,” she says, firmly, because they are all but alone amongst the hedges and Papa says it is alright to call him that when they are alone. She is not sure if he is really her grandfather, not truly – but she feels right, calling him so, and he always looks so pleased when she does. She has been doing it all afternoon for just that reason, in fact, and each time – well, Marie thinks, there is a warmth. Her fingers tighten around his, and he does not move to take his hand away, but rather squeezes firmly back. “Tell me the story about the princess in the castle.”
gather round folks for phil has done it again (”it” being neglected her studies to write cathartic fic). this idea has been in my head for weeks, but something happened just last saturday that really planted this seed in my heart firmly and so couldn’t rest until i’d actually written it. i did do some research into the history surrounding it, though don’t quote me on anything, because i’m playing really fast and loose, here, but marie therese was really a daughter of louis xiv and his wife was really spanish. also, going by book canon, sources seem to agree that aramis managed to outlive all his friends and live solidly past his mid-sixties, and since anne historically died of breast cancer at 64, I figured this made sense, if you are able to put aside your Historical Math Goggles and just agree to cry bittersweet tears with me. title is from joanna newsom’s “esme”. enjoy!
“Yes, ma chère?”
“Grandpère, Papa has seemed very concerned of late.”
It is a mild day, the type of day where the sun is just warm enough to make one’s skin feel caught in a gentle embrace. The sky is a soft blue, and the air has but a hint of damp to it that settles well in one’s chest. A soft breeze skitters over the two figures in the garden and sweeps up through the rose bushes and into the open sky.
Along the stone path leading down to the hedges, the old man and little girl still in their walk. A bird calls somewhere across the gardens, but the little girl is not concerned with the bird, nor even with the mildness of the day; she remembers her governess once say that she is too young to appreciate fine weather for its own sake, outside of an opportunity to play outdoors. She, personally, does not agree with this assessment; she is perfectly appreciative of the weather. Right now, though, she has some very important matters weighing upon her mind.
Her grandfather, who knows this, reaches over and pats her shoulder, sighing very slightly.
“Here, over here, let us sit down for a moment.”
“Are you going to answer my question?” asks the little girl, not moving – not because she is not sensitive to an old man’s aching feet, but more in a way that suggests she and the old man are kindred spirits, of a sort, and just now she is quite sure of his evasive tone and intent.
“Maria,” says the old man, tilting his head in a manner which the little girl knows means he is about to tease her. “You did not ask me a question.”