thefatherofconcordianinnovation

[thefatherofconcordianinnovation]

Leopold and Rockley, are you aware that your brother/uncle has a horrifying jumpscare of a smile? It's quite unnerving, not the least bit welcoming, and something to immediately run away from. I'm sure Lady Highmore would agree with me on that! (Or hit Horatio with a pan instead.)

Don’t remind me! Even in death, I see it—that smile, if one can call it such. It wasn’t joy, it was a warning sign. A harbinger. And the stench—not just of his cigars, which could kill a rosebush at ten paces, but of something worse… smugness, perhaps. Or sulphur.

Now, now, Rockley, really—however disagreeable his manner, I—

Father, I swear to you, the man looked like a jackal learning to mimic a priest. I have nightmares of that expression. I once saw a dog snarl at him mid-“hello.” And I don’t blame the creature. If I hadn’t been raised to show restraint, I’d have done the same.

In fact, I’d rather be chased by a goose than witness it again. And geese are vicious.

Quite right, my boy! I only encountered him a handful of times, but that was more than sufficient to haunt a woman. I do believe when I first met him at the opera, I instinctively clutched my pearls and prepared to stab him with my hairpin. Years of etiquette undone in a single smirk. Remarkable, really.

Well… I could concede he was not the most aesthetically blessed of men—

Aesthetically blessed? Lionel, he looked like a taxidermied politician trying to remember human emotions.

I still don’t understand how any woman willingly walked toward him. Unless they mistook him for something else entirely—a pillar, perhaps. Or a very large, sneering chair.

Frankly, Uncle Horatio could have caused mass resignations, as Castletown's staff would’ve collapsed from sheer fear if he ever came to the decision to even step foot in the courthouse.

God help me. Malcolm was enough...

That’s why you’re with us now, Leo, and far from dealing with that walking death mask.

Imagine him smiling in a wedding photo. The photographer would’ve dropped the camera and run for the sea.

Reluctantly, Leopold lets out a small laugh.

Well… I suppose I can’t disagree entirely. He did have the sort of smile that made one think, “Oh dear, I’ve just signed a very bad deal, haven’t I?”

There, darling. You can be honest.

[thefatherofconcordianinnovation]

Hi Leopold!

May I just say, before I ask my question, that you're my favourite Rochester? You seem so kind and loving that I always smiled when you appeared in the game!🥰

As for my question, if you and Lady Highmore had been able to get married, what would the wedding have been like? For example, would it have been a grand event or something more private for your families and close friends?

Lady Highmore is more than welcome to answer this question as well if she would like!

Oh, bless your kind heart—what a thing to say! You’ve no idea how that makes an old Rochester like me feel. Your favourite? Good heavens. I’ll be glowing all day now! Minerva will never hear the end of it.

Now, as for the wedding… if only.

Truthfully, we would have kept it simple. Concordia had seen enough pomp for ten lifetimes.

Indeed. We were both a little tired, by then—admittedly, one does not expect to maintain a city that has seen much over the years in their old age. 

We might’ve held it in the old gardens, hers obviously—nothing too grand. Bernadine would’ve walked her down the path, and I… well, I’d probably have been weeping like a fool before Minerva even reached me.

We would’ve danced, and that one would have been special. Even if my knees cracked and yours protested, we’d have danced. 

Minerva chuckled, placing a hand on his arm.

He always was terribly sentimental. I would’ve kept my veil long just to hide my laughter.

Rockley would’ve rolled his eyes and said, “Do you two need a moment?” before promptly disappearing to get champagne, I imagine!

Ah, caught red-handed! But you would’ve been beautiful—you still are, my dear. And I imagine we’d have invited only those dearest to us.

What a day it would have been! It would’ve been the day I married my oldest, dearest friend. The woman I loved from the time we were both too foolish to say it aloud.

I’d have said yes a hundred times over. And even now, even here, I still do.

Minerva…

Permit me to speak, dearest—only a moment more. You gave me peace, and made the days feel like mine again. That proposal, amidst everything—fumbling for the ring in your coat like a boy, I recall—it gave me a new lease on life.

A pause.

And then—then you were gone. I wore mourning black for a man who should have been beside me in white. I never stopped grieving. And yet I endured, because I knew you would have willed it so.

Leopold's expression turned solemn, and took her hand in his.

I would have, yes. But I also hoped I’d see you again.

And so you do. We are returned to one another. You look at me as though I hung the moon in the heavens, and I, ever practical, remind you that your monocle is due for polishing, you incorrigible man.

But I love you, Leopold. In a manner I had not thought possible again.

Had our wedding come to pass… it would have been a thing of quiet wonder. I would have taken your hands and vowed to love you until the stars themselves faded from the firmament.

And if there is any grace in this second life we now share—I intend to keep that vow, for as long as the heavens will allow.

You have kept it, my love. And so have I.

[thefatherofconcordianinnovation]

Leopold….a very sad question. How much of Malcolm’s mistreatment of Archie were you aware of? Did you ever confront Malcolm about that?

Even now, there are things about Malcolm I do not know—things I suspect I never wished to know. But if he was not a good husband to his wife—and I have come to believe he was not—then I was naïve to imagine he would be a kinder father to his only son.

Yet that knowledge came to me only in the last few years of my life. I scarcely knew the boy, but I always maintained that any family of mine was to be welcomed into my home.

Archie was… reclusive, or so I believed. Withdrawn, perhaps by nature, or perhaps by necessity. Malcolm, ever the tireless statesman, led a life apart from his wife, and Archie was ever at his side, quiet and compliant, accompanying his father from place to place, ever out of reach from the rest of us. And so it was—I saw him rarely, and when I did, he spoke little, eyes cast downward like one who had already learned not to hope for understanding.

To Malcolm, Archie was never quite a son—now that I come to terms with such a painful truth. More a projection, a symbol, a vessel to carry on a legacy. He demanded obedience, not affection. Strength, not spirit. And when that strength came in a form he did not understand, he scorned it. I fear Malcolm saw his own child not as someone to be loved, but as a reflection to be polished, or discarded if it proved inconvenient.

Yes—I had seen signs. I should not pretend otherwise. One learns, too late sometimes, how patterns repeat. Horatio was cruel to Patricia, and I—God forgive me—I failed her too. In the end, her mind was a storm, and my brother had no hand in calming it.

When I did speak to Malcolm, it was met not with reflection. He spoke of 'discipline,' of 'fortifying character.' 

He framed it as necessary, even noble.

For all his certainty, for all the force with which he held his convictions—was disturbingly indifferent when he spoke of the 'discipline' he enforced upon Archie. Yet Archie was barely beyond boyhood! Discipline, he called it—but what I saw was cruelty dressed in reason.

It was not character he sought to shape—it was submission. And that is no foundation upon which to raise a child.

I fear—I fear that throughout his brief life, the boy’s very skin bore the proof of it. And though I am beyond that time now, that knowledge haunts me still. 

[thefatherofconcordianinnovation]

Leopold, can you tell me about your aide Marie? She sounds wonderful!

Ah, Marie...always so steadfast!

She served our family with such dedication that it feels wrong to speak of her merely as a servant, although that applies to every individual who took care of us daily.

Though in life I was her employer, I came to see her almost as part of our family—trusted, valued, and deeply cared for.

She was one of the very few whom Bernadine ever truly confided in—something not easily won, I assure you. And as for myself... there were burdens I carried that I could not voice even to my own kin, but Marie? Marie, I trusted.

I must admit, her recklessness gives me no small amount of worry. She often throws herself into situations without a second thought for her own well-being, believing she has little to lose.

One of her bravest acts—though I never asked it of her—was when she took it upon herself to seek proof of Malcolm’s misdeeds. I hesitated, I confess—what proof could I gather? How could I act without risking everything?

But Marie—bless her—did not hesitate. She went off without a word, right into one of the most dangerous parts of Concordia. Came back with that photograph tucked under her coat, smudged and crumpled, but clear as day. I remember she pressed it into my hand with a nearly foolish grin and said, "There. Now you can scold him properly, sir."

Mercy, I didn’t know whether to scold her for risking herself—or sweep her into a hug right there.

I didn't dare tell Malcolm where I got it—I'd have feared more for Marie than myself if he knew.

If there is any justice in this world beyond life, I can only hope she found peace... and perhaps, one day, we shall meet again, and I might tell her all she meant to us.

[thefatherofconcordianinnovation]

When you first discovered Malcolm was unfaithful to his wife, how did he react and respond when you confronted him? What did you say? Did Veronica ever know or seem to care about her husband’s infidelity?

Ah… that matter.

It was Larry, believe it or not, who first planted the seed. A throwaway comment, one of his usual snide remarks made over sangria, something about “Malcolm keeping warm company outside of work.”

I didn’t think much of it at first—he spoke in venom and thrived on stirring rot—but it festered.

It gnawed at me, and I wish I had dismissed it entirely.

Yet conscience is a cruel companion when it suspects the truth.

It wasn’t until Marie—my sharpest aide, loyal beyond words—came to me with a photograph that everything came to light. That image… I can still see it clearly.

Malcolm, with women who were not his wife, no ambiguity left to hide behind. I sat there for a long while, staring, scandalized beyond words.

It wasn’t just the infidelity—it was what it meant.

That my nephew, a Senator of Concordia, a representative of the people, was no better than the philandering brutes our family had produced before.

I thought of Horatio, of his affairs and the ruin they brought. The pattern returned like a sickness in the blood.

When I finally chose to confront him about it—I remember standing my ground as best I could. I did not shout—I did not need to.

There are ways to wield authority without raising one’s voice. But Malcolm screamed at me, still. He was a man cornered by truth, and like all such men, he lashed out.

Leopold raised his hand to his temple, closing his eyes as the memory flashed through.

He didn’t even bother with denial.

He tore the photo apart with trembling hands, shredding it into ribbons across the pavement.

He demanded to know where I got it, who had been spying on him, hurling accusations like a madman. But I did not tell him. I would never endanger Marie—clever Marie, so loyal, who had quietly done what I hadn’t the strength to ask. She risked everything for the sake of truth, and I couldn’t let her suffer for it.

He said things I won’t repeat. Called me a hypocrite, an old man rotting in his ideals. Claimed that “everyone does it” and that “Veronica couldn’t care less.” That politics isn’t about virtue—it’s about control, image, power.

I stood there, silent, letting him rage. Not out of fear, but out of sorrow. Because that was the moment I realized Malcolm wasn’t merely flawed—he was already gone. Any scrap of decency that might’ve remained in him had long since rotted away.

I asked him—how he could look at his wife in the eye? She had been dealt a cold hand, yes, and perhaps their union was more arrangement than affection, but still—there’s dignity in honesty. In fidelity, if not to a spouse, then to the public who trusted him. He scoffed, and spat that dignity was for poets and idealists.

Did Veronica care? I’m not sure. If she did, she hid it well. They existed beside each other, not with one another. It was a partnership built on function, and perhaps the heartbreak had come and gone long before I ever suspected a thing.

And still… I feel responsible. For unearthing the truth. For believing we could be better. I did what was right, yes—but that doesn’t make it feel any less miserable.

[thefatherofconcordianinnovation]

A question specifically for Rockley. How did you feel when you were imprisoned by Lawson and feared execution? Did you have regrets? Anything you wish you had or hadn't done? If you were indeed beheaded, what would you want your last words and thoughts to be?

Rockley stiffens a little, the corner of his mouth twitching—not in amusement, but in an old, worn habit to cover discomfort.

Well, anybody in my place would’ve been praying for a sliver of mercy—anything at all—if it meant living another day.

Then again, that cell they tossed me in? That wasn’t living. That was a slow death. Damp walls, rusted iron, no air to breathe but guilt and mold.

Forgive my bluntness, but those months before they locked me away? They were hell. A slow, humiliating spiral—and I hadn’t even done anything!

I was terrified. I don’t care how much I smiled, how much I cajoled to keep myself from going mad and being the cause of why I could have died much sooner. You can’t jest your way out of the sound of boots in the hallway, wondering if they’re coming for you next.

And to think—dying by Lawson’s hand. That was the cruelest part. Not just death—but execution at the behest of a man who thought he was justice incarnate.

I felt like a man shackled for wearing the wrong surname. Like a man trapped in a coffin built by his relatives’ sins. Lawson didn’t see me—he saw the family crest, the headlines, the rotting trail behind Larry and Horatio and the rest.

And he made an example of me.

Regrets? Of course. I regret ever letting my guard down.

Regret thinking my accomplishments would speak louder than the disgrace that permanently settled around our name.

I should’ve burned the old ties when I had the chance. Should’ve made it clear that I wasn’t like them.

But blood doesn’t wash off so easily in Concordia, does it?

If I were to be beheaded? Hah—well, I suppose I’d have liked something poetic. Maybe, “Tell Concordia I want my hat back.” Or— “Let it be known: I was not the worst one of us.”

He sighs deeply.

Though in hindsight, maybe I’d have said nothing at all. Let silence speak for me. It tends to be kinder.

I clung to thoughts of Bernadine. The only family I had left who hadn’t either turned on me or been buried already. At least someone would remember me as more than just the ‘lesser evil.’

The fear of losing her too was what heightened my fright.

And if they had executed me—if they had taken my head in some public spectacle—I wouldn’t have just died.

Everything I built would have died with me.

But I didn't.

By some miracle or twist of fate, I was pulled from that place and taken to Minerva’s estate. I lived longer.

I got to see the sun again, and I reside with my father once more with the ease that I passed without fear, shame and the knowledge that I would have died for being a Rochester.

[thefatherofconcordianinnovation]

Leopold...have you seen Patricia, Clarissa, or Archie in the same plane of existence as you? In fact, how well did you know Patricia before she was imprisoned in the asylum?

Whenever I ponder it, the bitterness of it all weighs heavier.

I was given the chance—granted this strange, quiet afterlife, surrounded by the presence of my son and the woman I loved in life. Some would call it peace. Some would say I’m lucky. And yet… the shame lingers. I cannot say I am content, for I do not know where the rest of my family ended up. If this is the fate I was allowed, then what of them?

What of Patricia? Clarissa? Archie? All three—every one of them—suffered. And they suffered at the hands of those who were meant to protect them. They died violently. That was the price of our family’s pride… our foolish ambition.

And oh, if I had done something—anything—perhaps all that followed could have been prevented. I remember Patricia. A child of bright disposition, truly, when she married into the family. So outspoken. So unsure.

I should have seen it then—even on her wedding day, I felt it, some terrible unease. Horatio was not—never—a kind man. Not to her. I know now the way he struck her, wore her down bit by bit, until she sought refuge in the only place left to her: her garden. And even then, I never once blamed her for drifting away from us.

And then—she was gone. That’s all Horatio told me. That she had chosen to be estranged and find comfort by the sea. 

But what trust should I have had in a man who bruised his wife’s soul as easily as her skin?

He may be my brother, but Patricia... Patricia was family, all the same. And the weight of not questioning it, not pushing, not fighting harder for her—it sits with me even now.

She died alone in some wretched asylum, and was buried in a pauper’s grave. As if she were something shameful. Forgotten. Thrown away.

Not even permitted the dignity of remembrance.

And what did I do? I stood by. I feared Horatio—I feared the consequences of digging deeper.

But I should have.

God, I should have.

I knew her well enough to see she was suffering. But clearly not well enough to recognize how far it had all gone, how deep the rot had spread until death came and made it final.

[thefatherofconcordianinnovation]

Good day to you m'lord, apologize if I disturbed your peace but one question though if you don't mind:

I know it might be a different, but have you meet Lady Highmore's niece before like any chance?

(I know it sounds weird 😅) anyways have a good day m'lord 🥰

Oh, good day to you too, dear! There was no disturbance at all, truly—and please, there’s no need for formalities. You needn’t call me that; Leopold will do just fine. All men are equal in death, after all—titles and such don’t carry much weight here.

Yes, yes, I’ve met Philomena—though it was many years ago now, when she was just a little thing, no older than ten if I recall rightly. She had a brightness about her, always darting about and getting into things, much to her aunt’s exasperation. Lively child. I do wish I’d had the chance to see the young woman she became, before that tragic end.

It was most unfortunate when I heard the news. And wherever she is now—wherever this strange afterlife may lead us—I can only hope we might find her one day. An old man can hope, after all, that she’s found her peace.

[thefatherofconcordianinnovation]

[ooc: @asharkapologist , apologies if it had to be answered this way, Tumblr was goofing up due to the length! It's pretty long, so more under the cut!]

An intake of breath. He could mention his other son in passing, but if asked upon a deeper level, another faintly healed scar seems to reopen. Perhaps it wasn’t even a scar at all.

I keep asking myself where I went wrong—turning the question over and over in my mind like some cursed stone I can’t bear to let go of. There are nights when I remember him as a boy, chasing after his brother with that loud, unbridled laugh, and then the cruel weight of where he ended up slams into me all over again. And I wonder—is he still there? Did he ever leave that place? Would he even know how to live if he did?

I was fortunate to live to seventy. That should have been a comfort. But the older I grew, the more my fears changed. It stopped being about death. No longer was I afraid of burying those I love—but of what those I loved might become. Of who they might destroy.

I never imagined my own son—my Larry—would stoop to something so vile. That he would take the life of a woman, and in a way that stripped all humanity from him. I don’t think I can describe the ache it leaves behind. The disbelief never really fades, it just shifts form—into guilt, into grief, into something I used to wake up with every morning.

And I don’t know what disturbs me more—whether it’s that my son may never walk free again because of what he’s done… or that there’s a part of him, a darkness I never noticed or refused to see, perhaps the latter, that was always there. Waiting. And I—I loved him. Still do. Even now. That’s the hardest part.

From a distance, Minerva and Rockley remained silent, letting the question linger. It stirred everything at once—resentment, anger, bitterness all the same. There had been moments when Leopold wandered through the quiet, searching in vain for some trace of his younger son, clinging to a futile hope of a reconciliation that wouldn’t have been possible even if he had lived a little longer. But they all knew—Larry had never shown shame, never even a flicker of remorse.

Rockley scoffed, shaking his head.

If there’s one thing Larry excelled at, it was proving everyone wrong in the worst way possible. He always had to take the path no one asked him to—usually one covered in liquor, scandal, and very bad decisions.

There was a beat, then a sigh. But it wasn’t soft. It was sharp, tired.

I was out there building something real. Expanding a name, a business, a factory that stretched beyond the borders of Concordia. And meanwhile, Larry was... dabbling. And dabbling turned to headlines. One of us had to be the grown man, and unfortunately for me, it was never him!

When Father passed, I visited Larry in prison. Because that’s what Father would have wanted, isn’t it? Some grand show of unity, some gesture of grace. And Larry—Larry had the gall to ask me if I brought him cigars.

He looked at me with no remorse. No shame. Just that same vacant, entitled grin.

Rockley’s tone had turned dry, humorless. Narrowing his eyes, he only managed an incredulous expression, something nearly akin to a grim satisfaction.

Don’t talk to me about peace. Don’t ask me if I regret it. If I ever mourned him. Because I didn’t. I don’t. I won’t. He made his bed and finally had to lie in it. And all I can say is—good riddance!

He murdered someone, ruined us all, and still thought he was due a gift basket. Why did I even expect more from someone lesser in—

Oh, hush, boy.

Minerva waved a hand at Rockley, irritation evident in her tone, but not entirely unkind. Her hand had come to rest upon Leopold’s shoulder, while the other ran through his graying hair, attempting to appease his tense demeanor.

You think your father didn’t notice the way he would indulge in every single piece of vice that the city had to offer? The lying? The way Larry could charm his way into a room and walk out with everyone’s pockets turned inside out? Leopold was many things, but blind was not one of them. He just… hoped too much. That was his mistake.

Her voice dropped a note, not quite bitter—but weary, like someone who’d spent too long being right about people she wished she hadn’t been right about.

He supported that ridiculous Concordian Telephone bond scheme because Larry told him he’d changed. Appeared with promises and a suit that actually fit his form for once. And Leopold clapped him on the back like a prize-winning son!

And what did he get for it? A cell. For a limited time, yes—but the humiliation of it all was bitter just the same. Your father stood by that fool thinking he had finally done something worthwhile, and what does that foppish brother of yours do? 

Attend a costume ball with all the pomp in the world, only to dig himself an even deeper grave before the night was over.

That single act cleared your father’s name—but at what cost? His own son behind bars, rotting there for the rest of his days until he’s older than the man he disgraced. It’s a pathetic irony, if nothing else.

I cannot say I can find any form of sympathy for Larry, not after what he did. And yet…

He deserved better sons than that.

[thefatherofconcordianinnovation]

Leopold, I apologize for the very sad, potentially intrusive question, but...

Although you have likely known for some time about the misdeeds and cruelty of your brother and nephew, I can imagine learning of Archie's misdeeds was much more out of left field and shocking. How did you feel, react, when you learned what he had done as Mr Alastor?

He had anticipated the question’s arrival—it was only a matter of time. What he hadn’t anticipated was how tangible it would feel when finally asked. Again and again, the thought had haunted him, but never had it been dragged into the open with such clarity.  He paused, still and silent for a beat, before composing himself.

It is one of the many wounds I carry still. 

It is a fair question. I shall not shy away from it.

When I first received word that young Archie—barely nineteen—was responsible for the deaths at Elysium Fields, I could not believe it. I would not.

I had long suspected Malcolm, and I had few doubts remaining about my own brother. But Archie? A child I had watched grow? Responsible for the orchestrated murder of six people?

It was shattering. There is no other word for it. It made me question how far we had strayed from basic decency—how thoroughly we had failed. And all of it… for what? The affections of Giulietta Capecchi? That the lives of six people were considered a meager price for someone not easily attained?

When the news reached the public, when the catastrophe finally broke open and our family name was once again dragged through the dust… I believe that was one of the many instances where I felt that the hope that we might someday be free of disgrace—that was by our own doing—slip away, bit by bit.

It was not just Archie. No—my brother, my nephew, my own son. I cared for them, all of them. I believed in them. I tried—tried—to give something back to Concordia, to those who had borne our legacy just as much as we had. But Archie’s actions only proved what I feared.

And so when Archie was sent away, I found no peace in it. No assurance. He was barely more than a boy—and still beneath Malcolm’s wing at the time.

And God help me, I should have asked myself if it might’ve been better had he stayed under his father’s roof, terrible as that truth is to face. For all of Malcolm’s failings, there was still time—there must have been time—to do something. To intervene. To set things right before they twisted so far beyond recognition.

But no. It was as though our family was determined—hellbent—on crumbling beneath the weight of its own grandeur. As though they would rather rot in the gilded remains of power than lay it down and begin again with something honest. Something worthy. And I... I let them. I watched it all unfold.

And I take responsibility for that. As someone who should have seen, should have stopped it—and only to realize that my family’s ambition had touched upon even the youngest.

[thefatherofconcordianinnovation]

Leopold. A strange question incoming.

If half of your family suddenly was cursed and turned into frogs, and your sons kept fighting even in their new forms, how would you react? What would you do?

Ah—well, that’s certainly a question I never thought I’d be asked in this lifetime or the next. Ahem. Frogs, was it?

I have had my fair share of unusual experiences, mind you—experiments involving amphibians, even a rather unfortunate encounter with a giant ape—but never did I imagine a scenario in which my family, of all people, would be turned into frogs.

Now, I mean no offense when I say this, but a number of them were already quite the handful as humans. Especially my sons.

Dealing with Rockley and Larry bickering is headache enough when they’re upright and speaking in full sentences. The thought of them squabbling as frogs—leaping about, croaking indignantly, possibly terrifying houseguests—is frankly enough to make my hair stand on end.

And while I have no strong aversion to frogs personally, I doubt Minerva would take kindly to discovering a battalion of them occupying her sitting room. I daresay she’d have something to say about that.

At that point, I suppose I’d have no choice but to separate them—perhaps their own jars? Aquariums? Though even then, I suspect they’d find a way to argue and attempt to fight each other through the glass.

In short… I would be flummoxed. Entirely flummoxed.

Excuse me, Father! As if I would willingly share a lily pad with Larry, cursed or not! Honestly, being cursed into a frog is bad enough—but to suffer the indignity of Larry’s company in such a vulnerable state? That’s not a curse, that’s a divine punishment. It’s almost impressive, really. Takes a special kind of menace to remain insufferable as an amphibian. But then again, he was reprehensible enough as a human, so I suppose I shouldn't be surprised.

Rockley, must you always speak of your brother as if he were a villain in a penny dreadful?

He might as well be!

[thefatherofconcordianinnovation]

....hi, sorry. Another question for Lady Highmore.

"It was simply more death. And I have buried enough of the people I loved to know it never evens the scales."

This part of your response to my question about Archie, it intrigued me. With the exception of Leopold, what other loved ones have you buried, Lady Highmore?

It is no trouble at all, my dear. In fact, your question granted me a sense of catharsis I hadn’t realized I needed—not even in this curious afterlife.

As glad as I am to be reunited with Leopold and his son, his death had given me an all too familiar reminder that I realize, somtimes, all too late.

He may have been the last I lost in life, but certainly not the first. I had already mourned Philomena, and—as natural as it may sound—my parents as well, earlier in life.

I also did not expect to outlive my first husband. Illness took him far too soon. My only sister, at the height of her career as a composer, too, succumbed to the fatality of it all.

And then there were friends. Too many, as one finds with age. Marta among them... Her death still unsettles me, not least because we parted on strained terms. That has remained with me.

One finds it odd, that they stand on the same ground for so many years, still expecting the same company—only to find a space between themselves and the wind.

[thefatherofconcordianinnovation]

Hah! As nervous as I might’ve been to take Minerva as a stepmother, I’d never have denied her the chance to whallop that miserable old bat. Shame she never got the chance, really.

Rockley, please—have some decency. However loathsome he was, the man is perhaps in the same state as I am—dead.

Oh, come now, Father! If anyone’s earned the right to relish the thought of Minerva clocking him in the jaw, it’s you! A flicker of satisfaction, at least? No?

Nothing?

Rare scene of Lady Highmore, chase the shit out of Horatio:

He's dead by the way🙃🙃🤭

[thefatherofconcordianinnovation]

I've got a question for your love, Lady Highmore. Thanks to Archie Rochester's Mr Alastor machinations, you lost your niece, Philomena. Why would you be willing to marry into a family and become in-laws specifically with such a scheming young man?

And how did you feel upon learning of his murder? One, including myself, would not blame you for feeling a bit of vindictive satisfaction.

A fair question, though one that assumes I hadn’t asked it of myself a hundred times before.

I am no fool—I’ve known the Rochesters longer than I care to count.

Even when my Lionel and I were parted for many years and I found myself in Concordia again, I lost my niece. For all that Philomena was, her death was senseless—devised through shallow intent and carried out by a conman in a manner nothing short of monstrous.

So yes, I was incensed. Who wouldn’t be? And to later learn it was all over some schoolboy competition for Capecchi’s daughter? Insult was piled upon injury. My resentment was not born out of politics—it was personal.

I’ve never denied my opinions of the Rochesters as a family. Their legacy is one of ruin as much as grandeur, and Leopold himself never turned away from that truth. He tried, in his own way, to undo what damage he could. That is what matters to me when I chose his hand in marriage. I wanted to marry him for love, however complicated that may seem to those outside of my circumstances then.

As for Archie… I will not pretend I mourned him. I will not lie and say I didn’t feel something stir in me when I heard of his death—some bitter part of me that whispered he got what he deserved.

But satisfaction? No. Not truly. It wasn't justice in any meaningful form, nor was it right to murder a young man for the fault of his father.

It was simply more death. And I have buried enough of the people I loved to know it never evens the scales.

I believe in liability, not vengeance. And I believe that to marry someone is not to excuse the sins of their kin, but to choose, deliberately, the person who stood apart from them.

That is what I chose in Leopold.

[thefatherofconcordianinnovation]

Dang! Hello, Leopold! I wasn't expecting to find you online!

....who introduced you to Tumblr?

But you were a wonderful, kindly old man. While I myself was not capable enough to tinker with and build machinery, I value those like yourself, especially the older generation, who encouraged innovation and creativity among the younger generations. I am glad you are finding peace in the afterlife.

Greetings to you, dear guest! I must admit, I hadn’t quite expected to find myself here either, and yet—here I am. It is a quiet place, though not for lack of company. Rather, it is the sort of quiet that stirs with its own kind of restlessness, being familiarly distant. Still, I am most grateful for your presence. You honor me by joining myself, Lady Highmore, and my son, Rockley.

Speaking of Rockley—clever and occupied as ever—it was he who devised a way for the three of us to receive visitors, or at the very least, to reach out and be reached in turn. I daresay it was his way of keeping my ease in mind, as I imagine he thought I’d find the quiet dull otherwise. He’s perhaps right.

He was never one to seek praise, yet to receive it—even beyond the veil—offered a strange sort of reassurance. He could not say with certainty that he had done enough in life, but the knowledge that the next generation had built upon what came before… well, it softened the weight of old doubts. Perhaps, in the end, all had not been in vain—not buried beneath pride or lost to ambition. He smiled, and inclined his head in gratitude.

Thank you, truly, for your kind words. It warms my heart to know the world did not simply go on, but flourished—progress refined, ideas carried forward.

I have learned that my son, along with my two nieces, established a foundation in my memory, a trust to support the next generation of minds with bright ideas. It brings me comfort, I confess. And in hearing such things, I find the peace here all the more restful.

[thefatherofconcordianinnovation]

A lovely depiction of my dearest and I—if only I’d had the chance to place the ring upon her finger much sooner.

💗💗

[thefatherofconcordianinnovation]

Ah, good day to you, dear guest! I must confess, I hadn't quite expected to receive visitors—what with being rather...well, where I am now, you understand.

It's been quite some time since I heard the stir of another soul about. Peace and quiet are all very well, of course, but even the most retiring of old men may find himself longing for the noise that comes along with good company.

So do make yourself comfortable, won’t you? Your presence is a rare kindness. I do consider myself most fortunate to have you here.

My beloved Minerva is here with me—she was to have been my second wife, had fate not intervened rather prematurely. And my son, Rockley, resides here as well. I daresay I’ve them both to thank for the pleasant sort of noise that makes a house feel lived in.

The garden, you’ll find, is rather more expansive in this place than it ever was before. Lady Highmore would be delighted were you to accompany her for a stroll. As for Rockley, well—he keeps himself ever occupied, even in a place meant for rest. Busy as ever, that one.

But do not let that deter you! He’ll be glad to speak with you, I’m sure—though I must offer a gentle warning: he is rather spirited. Minerva insists he takes after me in that regard, though I haven’t the faintest idea what she means by it.

Should you have any questions—of the past, of myself, of the life I once lived—do ask them freely. I shan’t shy away. I’ve little left to guard—no reputation to uphold, no secrets I need to carry.

And… if you are someone who has ever borne pain at the hands of a Rochester—my name included—then I entreat you, truly, to accept my company. You are most welcome here. More than that—you are owed kindness, and I shall do what is within my power to offer it.

Whatever you seek—rest, recompense, even just a warm chair by the hearth—I hope you’ll allow me to provide it.

There are things my family has done which cannot be undone. Matters I turned from, or did not question soon enough. One looks back, and sees clearly what they ought to have challenged, and where silence was a poorer companion than courage.

Regret, I’ve found, is not loud—it is quiet, and it lingers. But so too is the chance, however faint, to mend what may still be mended. That is what I hold to.

I shall do my best to answer with the honesty one ought to have had all along. I find truth a far better companion than pride ever was.

Yours most sincerely,

Leopold Rochester.

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Household Records & Correspondence:

#a word from leopold rochester: Leopold replies directly. #a letter from leopold rochester: Leopold replies through written letter (refers to posts styled as letters). #thoughts from the old man: Leopold makes posts of his own accord. #to whom it may concern: Leopold answers asks. #in correspondence with [name]: RP involving Leopold. #the quiet beyond: Lore related to the setting (the afterlife he finds himself in). #what the old man saw: Anything Leopold reblogs in-character. #letter received and answered (highmore): Lady Minerva Highmore answers asks. #rockley replies: rockley answers asks. #casual dispatches from the disaster zone: goofy commentary from Rockley.

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Hey there, and welcome to this RP account centered around Leopold Rochester! Run by yours truly, @chelleinyy !!

A quick heads-up: This account is purely for fun, but just a fair warning—there may be mentions of sensitive topics like violence, trauma, abuse, and complicated family dynamics. That’s just par for the course with the Rochesters, so proceed with caution when interacting with this RP account.

I ought to give them credit, so the creation of this entire operation was heavily inspired by the the ones created by @upbeatmeeting :))

Leopold’s current setting is a peaceful afterlife, with a bit of bittersweetness (almost like a sort of bubble, except Leopold won't be waking up anytime soon). Feel free to ask about it! As for why Larry isn’t here... the answer will be intentionally vague most of the time. He’s a major source of angst here (and if I may add, the Rochesters in general), and Leopold himself wonders where his son might be—so go ahead and ask about him if you’re curious.

You’re welcome to bring up anything related to Season 4 of Criminal Case (Mysteries of the Past) or things that were implied to happen after S4. Other RP interactions with the trio are absolutely welcome! Any lore you see outside of MoTP is based on my personal headcanons—feel free to ask about those too.

Asks are totally open, but just a note: hate or rudeness will get you blocked and ignored. Slightly suggestive asks are okay, but anything extremely NSFW or overly inappropriate won’t be entertained.

With all that said—have fun and enjoy your stay!