Work Text:
Father, Sylvain writes on the page, quill creaking underneath his fingers. Dear Father.
He pauses.
It is all over now, isn't it? Good riddance, Felix said when he heard the news. Perhaps Miklan would agree with him. Perhaps not. Who knows.
It doesn't matter either way. This letter will be burnt as soon as I finish it, after all, and even if it weren't - dead people have no need for parchment.
Sylvain pauses again to take a deep breath. His hand tenses as he writes the next few phrases.
You know, father, I have to say that you were a horrible parent. People like you should not be allowed to have children. People like us, I should say. I don't know who or what broke you to make you the way you were, but I can assure you that in my case, you are the one to blame. You broke Miklan, and he broke me.
The tip of the quill trembles slightly. Switching to past tense when talking about his father took him no effort at all - and yet, he still expects the former Margave Gautier to rise up from his grave and start berating Sylvain for his lack of respect. As he dips the quill in ink, the page becomes blurry. Sylvain freezes. For a moment, it seems like the letters are shifting, changing positions to form an accursed reply to him - then, he realises that it's not the words on the parchment that are moving, it's just the tears in his eyes that create the illusion of movement. He hastily wipes them away.
Do you know what you've done to me, father? For years - for decades, he underlines the last word with an angry line, you have told me that I will never be complete without a wife and children. Not to mention the crests. Do you have any idea how I felt when I realised I was unable to love anyone the way I should? I was 13, father. No 13-year-old should be made to feel like he's broken.
For a brief moment, longing rises up in him, and he pushes the feeling as far down as he can. It's too late to start wishing for a reconciliation with his father. It wouldn't have happened either way.
Congratulations, fatherdearest. Or rather, my condolences. And my condolences to the entire line of Gautier, because if I get any say in this at all - it will end with me. I don't want to marry, father, and I don't want to have children, either. None that are my own, anyways.
Sylvain's eyes widen when an idea strikes him and worms its way inside his mind and quill-holding hand.
You know... why don't I turn the Gautier estate into an orphanage? There are plenty of orphans thanks to the war, and probably countless more beyond the borders in Sreng or Duscur or Almyra. You'll love it, father, won't you, to know that all those dark and gloomy halls will soon be filled with the laughter of countless of children, noble and common alike? More common than noble, actually, now that I think about it. I'm sure His Majesty will be very generous in regards to funding, and I will not have any issues with finding people to aid me. Why, remember Mercedes?
He starts to laugh. It comes off slightly hysterical, very bitter, but underneath, there is some legitimate joy and glee. And maybe, that's all he needs.
I'm certain you do. You proposed that we marry several years ago, after all! You said she would make a great wife and mother, what with her crest and all, and you know - I don't think that's why she'd be great with kids, but we've gotten to know each other quite well over the course of the war. She loves kids, and she wants to help other people. I've never met a person who carried so much love inside themselves before... except you know what? She's like me. She never wants to marry or have children of her own, either, she just loves people the way you- the way one loves their friends and family. You never loved anyone, I'm certain of that.
Sylvain will have to write a letter to Mercedes as soon as possible. No, scratch that. He'll set out for Fhirdiad today, as soon as he's done with writing the letter.
I have to say, I'm rather fond of that idea. The orphanage, that is, not the way you hated everyone around you. Including yourself, probably. I don't know if you wanted to be a role model for me, father, but I can tell you that thanks to you, I know exactly what not to do. Thanks for that, at least, if nothing else. Well, and thank you for this lovely estate. The kids will love it.
Hopefully, one day, so will I.
Farewell for now, father. Hopefully, farewell for good.
S.
When the fireplace receives the letter, it lets out a triumphant roar, logs cracking loudly. Sylvain smiles through his teeth, then turns and leaves the room.
Farewell for good, indeed.