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rainbowfic2020-04-28 09:31 pm
thisbluespirit) wrote in rainbowfic2020-04-28 09:31 pm
Entry tags:
Acanthus #15 [Divide and Rule)
Name: Runs in the Family
Story: Divide & Rule/Heroes of the Revolution
Colors: Acanthus #15 (matches/lighter/flint)
Supplies and Styles: Canvas
Word Count: 885
Rating: PG
Warnings: Mentions of parental death and family rows.
Notes: 1893, 1912, 1930. Harold Graves/Hanne Beck, Christy Graves. (I still haven't posted much here about this generation. I should probably note that when Harold thinks of the Becks as 'unreliable' this is because one time Hanne's father sort of stole antiquarian books for reasons.)
Summary: Harold’s looking out for the vital sparks in life.
***
1893
The light goes out of the house the moment Mother dies. It’s not only the blinds all drawn and the heavy cloth and dark colours of mourning that Father and the aunts adhere to so closely. Without Mother there’s no life left in the place.
Harold lights a safety match in the dark, playing with fire, but it doesn’t help. He works hard and tries to be everything Father wants him to be, but he’s not sure that makes anything better either.
Harold takes drawings he made for Mother and burns them in the grate. There’s no room for insubstantial dreams in this solid, respectable world. The light is out; stifled and smothered and dead.
He keeps some things, though: a locket of hers that Ann didn’t want and he sketches on occasion, even if only still life. Some sparks remain in him, even if the same doesn’t seem to be true of Father or Ann or Lionel.
1912
“Hanne. Miss Beck, I should say.” Harold gives a curt bow before approaching her where she’s standing aside from the dance floor. “May I speak to you?”
Hanne turns her head, fair curls shifting against her cheek and she draws in her breath.
“I wouldn’t trouble you again,” says Harold, giving an awkward, uneven smile, “but Iveson tells me I should.”
A quiver of distress passes over Hanne’s face and she puts out her hands to him instinctively.
He promised to stand friend to her whatever else he did, he remembers, and feels that he’s failed in that. “Hanne. Regardless of what has passed between us, I will always try to help you if I can.”
“Your family,” she says, and hangs her head. “They don’t like us being together.”
“It’s none of their damned business,” says Harold, grasping her hands. “You’re not saying that’s why you sent me packing? Iveson told me there was some trouble with Howe, too. Says he’s dealing with that. If it’s only Howe, if it’s only my interfering relatives –”
Hanne breathes out. “It’s one thing to say it doesn’t matter, but it does. I don’t want to be forever in the middle of a family row.”
“My dear,” he says in her ear. “You’ve only met Father, Ann, Lionel, the Aunts. You never met Mother, nor any of her family. She would have been very happy with you. Family rows between us didn’t start with you and we’ll deal with them when they happen, same as always. If that’s your main objection, then I have to ask – Hanne, would you like to resume our engagement?”
Hanne closes her eyes and tightens her hold on his hands. “Yes, please,” she says. “You’re the only one I ever liked.”
1930
“You should be ashamed.”
Harold drops the school report on the desk and faces Christy across it, watching his son lower his head, avoiding his gaze.
“I’m not asking you to follow me into the business, not if you have no aptitude for it. But if that’s to be the case, then I suggest you work harder at your studies. We will need to find out what you are suited to in time, don’t you think?”
Christy only shrugs, all surface defiance, but he’s still not looking at Harold.
Harold glares. Damn the boy. They enact variations on this scene far too often and he could shake him. He’s done his best not to be like his own father; not to stifle him, to force him into the same mould – he can’t be surprised that Hanne’s son is not a Graves at heart – and yet here they are, again and again. He worries that all he’s done is somehow raised a reckless scapegrace; he worries in between that he’s been too harsh despite his best intentions.
“Do better next time,” says Harold, and then, before he loses his temper again, waves Christy out of his study. “Oh, go – go!”
Harold paces around his study after the boy has gone and frowns. What makes it worse is that so often it’s not Hanne or the unreliable Becks he sees in Christy. Instead his lively son stirs up half-buried early memories of Mother, of her relatives; uncles and aunts he’s rarely seen since. Unclear faces mingle with no doubt misleading memories of treats and laughter and sunlit days.
Christy and Julia both, come to think of it, Harold admits, his temper easing a little at the thought of his daughter. At least she has some sense! If she’d been the son, he’s sure he wouldn’t be having this trouble, but it’s no use even thinking of leaving the business to a girl. Maybe one day, in years to come, but even if she proves capable, too many others’ll never believe it. That’s no road to make her walk. Hanne would never understand if he tried. Hanne’s seen far too much insecurity in her life to court anything other than stability for her daughter.
There’s Rudy, too, of course, and it’s too soon to say how he’ll turn out. Harold sighs and glances at the door. Christy, he feels sure, will always be the problem, one never in his power to fix; he’ll never work out what switches on the lights in that boy’s head, or what puts them out again.
***
Story: Divide & Rule/Heroes of the Revolution
Colors: Acanthus #15 (matches/lighter/flint)
Supplies and Styles: Canvas
Word Count: 885
Rating: PG
Warnings: Mentions of parental death and family rows.
Notes: 1893, 1912, 1930. Harold Graves/Hanne Beck, Christy Graves. (I still haven't posted much here about this generation. I should probably note that when Harold thinks of the Becks as 'unreliable' this is because one time Hanne's father sort of stole antiquarian books for reasons.)
Summary: Harold’s looking out for the vital sparks in life.
***
1893
The light goes out of the house the moment Mother dies. It’s not only the blinds all drawn and the heavy cloth and dark colours of mourning that Father and the aunts adhere to so closely. Without Mother there’s no life left in the place.
Harold lights a safety match in the dark, playing with fire, but it doesn’t help. He works hard and tries to be everything Father wants him to be, but he’s not sure that makes anything better either.
Harold takes drawings he made for Mother and burns them in the grate. There’s no room for insubstantial dreams in this solid, respectable world. The light is out; stifled and smothered and dead.
He keeps some things, though: a locket of hers that Ann didn’t want and he sketches on occasion, even if only still life. Some sparks remain in him, even if the same doesn’t seem to be true of Father or Ann or Lionel.
1912
“Hanne. Miss Beck, I should say.” Harold gives a curt bow before approaching her where she’s standing aside from the dance floor. “May I speak to you?”
Hanne turns her head, fair curls shifting against her cheek and she draws in her breath.
“I wouldn’t trouble you again,” says Harold, giving an awkward, uneven smile, “but Iveson tells me I should.”
A quiver of distress passes over Hanne’s face and she puts out her hands to him instinctively.
He promised to stand friend to her whatever else he did, he remembers, and feels that he’s failed in that. “Hanne. Regardless of what has passed between us, I will always try to help you if I can.”
“Your family,” she says, and hangs her head. “They don’t like us being together.”
“It’s none of their damned business,” says Harold, grasping her hands. “You’re not saying that’s why you sent me packing? Iveson told me there was some trouble with Howe, too. Says he’s dealing with that. If it’s only Howe, if it’s only my interfering relatives –”
Hanne breathes out. “It’s one thing to say it doesn’t matter, but it does. I don’t want to be forever in the middle of a family row.”
“My dear,” he says in her ear. “You’ve only met Father, Ann, Lionel, the Aunts. You never met Mother, nor any of her family. She would have been very happy with you. Family rows between us didn’t start with you and we’ll deal with them when they happen, same as always. If that’s your main objection, then I have to ask – Hanne, would you like to resume our engagement?”
Hanne closes her eyes and tightens her hold on his hands. “Yes, please,” she says. “You’re the only one I ever liked.”
1930
“You should be ashamed.”
Harold drops the school report on the desk and faces Christy across it, watching his son lower his head, avoiding his gaze.
“I’m not asking you to follow me into the business, not if you have no aptitude for it. But if that’s to be the case, then I suggest you work harder at your studies. We will need to find out what you are suited to in time, don’t you think?”
Christy only shrugs, all surface defiance, but he’s still not looking at Harold.
Harold glares. Damn the boy. They enact variations on this scene far too often and he could shake him. He’s done his best not to be like his own father; not to stifle him, to force him into the same mould – he can’t be surprised that Hanne’s son is not a Graves at heart – and yet here they are, again and again. He worries that all he’s done is somehow raised a reckless scapegrace; he worries in between that he’s been too harsh despite his best intentions.
“Do better next time,” says Harold, and then, before he loses his temper again, waves Christy out of his study. “Oh, go – go!”
Harold paces around his study after the boy has gone and frowns. What makes it worse is that so often it’s not Hanne or the unreliable Becks he sees in Christy. Instead his lively son stirs up half-buried early memories of Mother, of her relatives; uncles and aunts he’s rarely seen since. Unclear faces mingle with no doubt misleading memories of treats and laughter and sunlit days.
Christy and Julia both, come to think of it, Harold admits, his temper easing a little at the thought of his daughter. At least she has some sense! If she’d been the son, he’s sure he wouldn’t be having this trouble, but it’s no use even thinking of leaving the business to a girl. Maybe one day, in years to come, but even if she proves capable, too many others’ll never believe it. That’s no road to make her walk. Hanne would never understand if he tried. Hanne’s seen far too much insecurity in her life to court anything other than stability for her daughter.
There’s Rudy, too, of course, and it’s too soon to say how he’ll turn out. Harold sighs and glances at the door. Christy, he feels sure, will always be the problem, one never in his power to fix; he’ll never work out what switches on the lights in that boy’s head, or what puts them out again.
***