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daybreakrising · 2 months ago

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VAUTRIN DRABBLE; FAMILY REUNION

Many people take comfort from the sombre peace of a graveyard; Vautrin does not. To him, graveyards are painful reminders of grief, of failure. He has held this notion since the day he watched his sister committed to the earth, maintained it with every year that passed when he came, alone, to lay romaritime flowers at her headstone. He has stood beside the graves of victims he could not save, made promises to the departed to seek justice in their name. He has said goodbye to colleagues lost in the line of duty. He has confirmed with his own eyes that the vilest of humanity have finally met their end.

He has felt many things in this graveyard; but never comfort.

He follows a path committed to muscle memory, weaves between the stones until he finds the family plot he knows will be more populated than the last time he was here. Most people, of course, expect to one day stand before the graves of their parents. Most people don't expect to do this for the first time after four hundred years. He had always been uncertain, whenever he had considered this eventuality in the past, of how he would feel about the deaths of his parents. Would there be a part of him that still mourned their loss, as if nothing had happened? Or would he feel numb, unable to process grief for people who were no longer familiar to him?

Nothing has changed in four hundred years. He is still uncertain. When he thinks of what he is about to witness, only a confusing muddle of emotion is his answer. So, he supposes, he will only know for sure when it happens. Perhaps there is a sense of apprehension as he approaches the plot, situated beneath an oak tree that had been a guardian of the dead even when he was a boy. It is now much larger than he recalls, the blanket of its shade stretching further.

The tree is not the only thing that is different about the scene that greets him. He used to recognise the family plot only by this tree, but now it boasts an entirely different landmark: a large marble statue of two dancers upon a stage, entwined romantically in the midst of their performance. It is an artistic piece, faces devoid of any true features or likeness, but he knows at once who it is meant to represent. Even now, he recognises something in the pose, the posture, the emotion of the dance. The sculptor must have been one of the finest money could buy.

It sits atop a wide, upright slab of that same marble, which bears two names in gilded lettering: Évariste & Aurélie. There are more words carved beneath, but for now he pays them no heed. In fact, he turns his head away entirely, sparing no second glance for his parents' names, and instead directs his gaze to the smaller headstone that sits to the right. Illaria. Beloved daughter, treasured sister. A shining star dimmed too soon. Oh, how he had loathed those last words, as if she could be diminished only to her promise upon the stage, and not mourned for the person she would never be. If he had been allowed to choose the words, he would not have chosen those.

He lowers himself to one knee, sets down the bag he has carried with him. "I'm sorry it's been so long. I wasn't allowed a chance to say goodbye, and then… well, that's a complicated story. But hopefully this will make up for my long absence." With great care he removes the item from the bag and sets it equally as carefully at the base of her headstone. It is the second of its kind that he's had made: a glass dome filled with water, within which is planted a blooming romaritime flower. "I always promised you I'd find a way for them to bloom forever. Now you won't have to wait for rain to enjoy your flowers."

His hand reaches forward, traces the gilded lettering of her name. Grief wells up in him with a ferocity that hasn't dimmed since the day he lost her, his chest aching with it until he bows his head and grits his teeth against the torrent. "You should have outlived all of us." He lingers for several moments in silent grief, his hand pressed to the cool stone. There are too many things he wants to say to speak them aloud, so he conveys them through this touch, through the memories he summons. Then he leans forward, presses his lips to the top of the stone as he rises to his feet. "Rest well, little sister. Dance amongst the flowers and imagine I am with you."

If he could, he would sit with her all day and night, tell her all that has become of her big brother – but there is something he must do, because if he doesn't do it now, then he never will. And so, he turns back, once more, to the graves of his parents: Évariste & Aurélie. You gave meaning to my music; you gave rhythm to my dance. A devoted husband and a cherished wife, reunited at last upon another stage.

He takes in the dates inscribed beneath their names. His father died first – and it is almost surprising to note the relief he feels at this knowledge. Of the two of them, he was always the more emotional, the most sensitive. Losing her would have destroyed him, Vautrin is certain of that. His mother, it seems, lasted less than a year before following her husband into death. Perhaps losing him destroyed her. And he feels yet more relief at knowing they both lived to a good age. Unlike both of their children.

But relief is all he can identify in the tumultuous storm inside his heart. Perhaps it is as he always feared – that they have become too distant, that too much time has passed, and he is numb to their loss. Perhaps he mourned their loss when they turned their backs on him, and there is nothing left to grieve for. And it strikes him then – the guilt. Guilt for the things he never said, guilt for the shame he would have brought upon their name. Maybe he cannot grieve because he feels he does not deserve to.

He begins to turn away – this was a mistake, he thinks – and his eyes catch upon another headstone that sits to the left of his parents'. It lies within the border of the family plot, sheltered beneath the same shade, constructed from the same marble with the same gilded lettering carved into its face. His eyes trace the words, the name, and the breath catches so sharply in his throat that it burns.

Vautrin. Beloved son, respected captain. An honourable man who stood for those who could not stand for themselves, who gave his life for his duty and served Fontaine until the end. You made us proud.

He knew he would have a grave somewhere, but he had not expected it to be here – and he mentally scolds himself for daring to think so ill of his own parents, who would never have been so cruel as to exclude him from being laid to rest with his sister. It is a mark of how strained their relationship became, how bitter the blood was between them, that he would ever doubt that. But it is the words themselves that choke him so, that it is not some bare minimum inscription, something flat and emotionless, but something with feeling. He knows without a hint of doubt that these words are from his parents' hearts.

You made us proud.

Grief punches him in the gut, brings him to his knees before them. His hands sink into the grass that grows atop their resting place, fingers digging into dirt as his chest burns with the effort to contain the tides within. Tears sting at his eyes, tears he never believed he could shed, and he bows forward until his forehead touches the ground between his hands.

"I'm sorry," he sobs, words he has kept upon the tip of his tongue for far too long. "I'm sorry I waited too long to make amends. I'm sorry I never sent that letter." He'd made it as far as the post room in the Fortress, letter in hand – but he had never gone inside, never handed it over. They don't want to know, he had told himself then. Oh, how wrong he must have been. You made us proud. Words he had longed to hear from them from the day he became a garde. Had they followed his progress, he wonders now? Did they read the articles in the newspaper? Did they celebrate his promotion to Captain? Had they swelled with pride at seeing him standing beside the Iudex of Fontaine?

Had they supported him all this time and he never knew?

"I never needed your approval, but I… I wanted it. That's all I wanted – to hear you say you were proud of me, that I was doing the right thing. That I was still the son you used to boast about to your friends, to any who would listen. That I was still one of your shining stars." He lifts his head, scrubs at the tears that streak his cheeks. The sky has darkened above him, casting a greyness upon the graveyard that soon spills into the patter of raindrops all around him, as if Fontaine itself can sense his unending grief. "I used to tell myself you wanted nothing to do with me because you never once reached out, never spoke to me again. That I had probably ceased to exist in your world. But maybe you believed it was the reverse, that you had ceased to exist for me, that when I walked out that day and never looked back, my tie to you was severed beyond repair. Mama, Papa… forgive me, for all the things I said, for all the things I never said. Forgive me for the pain I caused you, for the shame I brought upon you. Forgive me for being so stubborn that even at my lowest I could not bear to give even an inch to you." He draws in a breath, shaky and shallow; his fingers dig deeper into the earth. "Forgive me for taking another child from you, for forcing you to outlive both your children. Forgive me… forgive me."

As he had with Illaria, he remains there in silent grief for several moments before he can find the strength to rise, to lay a hand upon the headstone. He doesn't have flowers to lay at their graves, but he does have an old, well-loved violin bow which he sets now at the feet of the dancers. Flowers for his sister; a memento of the music they loved for his parents. A chance find as he strolled the streets of Fontaine in preparation for this visit, as if fate itself had deigned to lend him aid.

"I'm home now, Mama, Papa. I'm sorry it took so long." He bows his head again, then turns away – Carole is not buried here, he knows, but there is a memorial dedicated to the gardes who died in service and her name is counted among them. Inside his bag is a crudely fashioned model of a human and a Melusine holding hands in friendship, made from nuts and bolts and screws and other mechanical parts. He is certainly no sculptor, but Carole would have loved it, nonetheless.

He steps out from beneath the tree, tips his face back into the falling rain. Somewhere, he suspects, there is a dragon mourning with him, a reminder that he is not alone, and never will be. "Hydro dragon, hydro dragon, don't cry…" He murmurs to the clouds. "Do not be sad for me, for not all tears are an evil."

#( personals DNI )#( this has been kicking around my brain for a long time )#( both the idea of vautrin visiting the graves of his family *and* him looking upon his *own* grave )#( it is always so painful for me knowing this family never gets a resolution to all that happened )#( but who knows. maybe someone found that letter after vautrin's “death” and sent it on to his parents in his stead )#( maybe they knew all along that he wanted to make amends. that he thought of them and hoped they were proud of him )#( hi i'm emotional about my silly oceanid and his family again )#;here we go again i will not give in (headcanons; vautrin)#;here we go again i will not give in (about; vautrin)

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