Chapter Text
The first time that Freminet remembers somewhat understanding the stance that his Father took around the children wasn’t very long after she took over the House of the Hearth. They had only managed to carry out a few missions before their Father gathered them altogether, a stern look on her face.
Some of the newer children didn’t seem to understand the possible threat of this gathering, but those who had been there longer shared glances between each other. They had not yet been gathered under the new Knave’s hand as they had with the old one. They had not yet found time to understand their Father’s stance on punishments.
It was time for them to learn, Freminet realizes as the orphans fall silent as soon as she enters. They know to remain quiet, just as Mother would have wanted them to. Even the younger ones who had not met mother know that it is respectful to listen to Father, and respect is what she wanted.
“Thank you for gathering quickly when I called. This will be quick.” his father begins, standing with her ever straight posture at the head of the room.
Quicker punishments never hurt any less, in Freminet’s experience.
“It has come to my attention that the rate of injuries within missions has steadily climbed higher,” she continues, flat in tone. “That is not what I wish from you. As your injuries grow worse, so do your mission reports and quality of mission success as well. Not to mention the use of supplies it takes to care for you when you return.”
Ah.
They messed up.
Their father strides across the length of the room in silence, turning back on heel and striding back to her place before letting out a harsh sigh. “It is an oversight on my part to not expect such a thing. From now on, I am putting a new rule in place. You are all to value yourselves more than the mission. I do not care if you return without what was tasked of you being completed, as long as you return at all. Am I clear?”
Silence. For a moment. Then his father repeats, almost in a growl: “Am I clear?”
“Yes, Father!” All the kids chime out.
From where she stands at the head of the room, staring out over the sea of children of all ages, Arlecchino nods, “Good. Now then, return to the rest of your day. Dinner will be at 1800 hours, do not be late.” She turns and takes a few steps to the door, hands placed behind her back. Then she pauses, turning slightly to look back at them. Her lips pursed, eyes narrowing. “...Have fun.”
Then she is gone.
Freminet doesn’t join the other children grouping up to discuss the new rule. It is straight forward enough, as rules go. Rules are to be followed, even if they’re… strange in some ways. Value yourself more than the mission. He grabs his helmet and leaves. Value yourself more than the mission. He could think better underwater.
But his thoughts are twisted and unsure, even in the cover of the water. Valuing himself more is-... unthinkable. Mother had always said that he is to be focused on the mission first. The mission is what gives them the skills to grow stronger, it is what makes them favored in her eyes. Without missions… they risk death, or worse, the Doctor.
Freminet is useless enough that he should have been sent there a long time ago. He wonders why he wasn't there yet. He wonders when his Father will realize he should be.
Value yourself more than the mission.
Freminet will try.
But he always messes up.
Dinnertime comes and Freminet is ready, waiting with the other orphans as they set up the dinner table. It’s not his turn to help, but it would be awkward and weird to stand around and do nothing, so he helps anyway. Dinner is ready quickly and they eat what their father made for them without complaint, sitting all together until everyone is done. Some conversations break out during the time, something newer to dinner, (though a sit down dinner with everyone is new already), and their Father listens as they talk. It doesn’t feel judgemental or like she’s fishing for something… just curious. She doesn’t ever input her own thoughts into it either. She just… lets them be.
Freminet listens too.
That night, in the quiet of the dark, his mind replays each thing he did wrong with the day. Over and over and over again. He thinks. Is it his fault his Father felt the need to hold such a meeting? Did he mess up in some way? Did he set the table correctly or did he do something wrong and no one said anything? What if he was eating weird? Was he chewing too loud? What did he do wrong today? Everything. Everything you do is wrong.
He’ll do better tomorrow. Tomorrow is a new day that will eventually come. That is, if he could sleep at all. And eventually he does fall asleep, between the thoughts that plague his mind. His dreams echo his thoughts, repeating what he’s done wrong and what he could do wrong in the future. He’s so glad to wake up, even if it’s while shivering in a cold sweat.
Freminet doesn’t do better.
He messes up in training. It should be an easy move to learn, so simple and yet he just can’t get it. Each time he tries his claymore slips or he trips and stumbles or he— he just messes it up. Freminet starts again. Messes up. Starts. Fails. Starts. Fails. Again. Again. Again.
Freminet falls hard the most recent time, rolling his ankle and scraping his elbow, a somewhat impressive feat with how easy this move should be to learn. You can’t do anything right, other than messing up spectacularly. He lays there for a moment, on his back, staring up at the blue sky as the clouds drift by.
He can’t do anything right.
He’s useless. Everyone must hate him. Want him gone. Everyone must think he’s a burden. A bother. A waste of space. He shouldn’t take up space, not when there’s nothing to bring to the table—nothing to give.
Not for the first time, Freminet wishes he was a machine. Machines are better. They are built so beautifully, with cogs and screws and inner workings that could make anyone crazy with jealousy. Their inside is like their outside and yet it’s still a part of them. It’s not some other them giving them crazy ideas about their lives. If they get damaged, it’s easy to replace them. Orders are given and no feelings get in the way. They are efficient. They are strong. And if they break, they can just. Be. Fixed.
Unlike Freminet.
With a sharp breath in, and a slower one out, he gets back up to his feet and tries again. His ankle hurts. Machines don’t feel pain. His arms are tired. Machines don’t get tired. His hands burn from how tightly he holds his claymore. Machines don’t get blisters.
Freminet wants to tear himself open and apart and replace it all with cogs and screws. He wants to replace his insides with something that actually feels like him. He wants to become something efficient, where useless emotions don’t come into play. He wants to become something better. He wants to be a machine.
Freminet keeps practicing.
That night, he has to force food down his throat, even when the thought of it makes him feel seek. Even when it wants to come back up. Machines still need fuel, he logics. Dinner is his fuel. He needs to eat. He needs to keep going. To keep working. He needs to go so he is not replaced.
Tomorrow, he will do better.
But he doesn’t. He still can’t get the move. He’s still a failure.
He tries and tries and tries and nothing works. He just can’t get it. He is too stupid to understand how to do it. The next few days pass the same. Just keep trying. Fuel the machine and keep trying. Machines need to be programmed to do things and he is just writing his programming. He is just—
He can’t do it.
Freminet distances himself from the others as he practices. He can’t bear to know that they keep seeing him fail. Lying isn’t the best option if they ask but it’s better than knowing that they can see just how useless he is. It’s better this way, in a quiet corner away from everyone else, even if it is… sort of lonely.
He was getting used to seeing the others. To be around them. To watching them be kids again.
Freminet tries again.
Dinner time passes like normal: plates that he doesn’t have to place but he does anyway; food prepped and cooked by his father’s hand that is made to fuel their bodies; conversations that he and his father listen to, but never contribute to; a clean up split between so many hands that it takes barely any time at all; and then the knowledge that he has the next few hours to himself before lights out.
Freminet limps away from the table, clenching his hands into fists and ignoring how they sting. Maybe he should go diving..? No. He should work on that move again. And again. It’s been hours today but— but he’s got to be getting close!
A hand on his shoulder stops him in his place. He freezes, slowly looking up at his father.
“Let’s have a talk.” She says, expression not giving away a thing. It’s almost eerily blank but he knows that’s just how their father looks. He knows it doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t.
But perhaps it just means that now he will learn what punishments his father prefers. Learning is good. He follows her anyway as she leads him to her office, hand still on his shoulder. The older kids they pass look away. They know he might not come back.
If he’s useless—and he is—he’ll be given to the doctor. Maybe he’ll become a machine then.
His father closes the door behind them, gesturing to the chairs. Her office is a small space, a confined one. It’s nothing like the grand office that Mother held before, the one that had a door to the side, leading to that room with the tile floors so that no blood would stain anything. Freminet sits across from her desk, waiting for her to take her seat in her rightful chair, the one that’s bigger than his and grander but she— she sits beside him, in the other chair that’s rickety and old, (even if it is comfortable), and nothing like the one behind the desk.
“Let me see your hands,” she orders.
He can follow orders. Like a machine. He has been made to follow orders. Fremiet lifts his hands, wincing as the sore skin is pulled when he stretches out his fingers from the fists and— oh. He’s… hurt. His skin is raw and red.
“You rubbed off your blisters,” she sighs, “You will not form calluses like this. Instead, the only thing will be repeated pain.” she stands, rounding her desk and leaning down to go through one of the drawers. Afterwards, she returns with a first aid kit. “You should know when to stop, Freminet.”
“...I didn’t get the move down yet…!”
Arlecchino shakes her head as she sits beside him once again, opening the kit. The chair is closer now, just as she moved it to be—close enough that she can treat him without leaning forward much at all. His father pulls his hands onto her lap. She lifts some bandages, wrapping them over his palms and fingers. “Sometimes it is more efficient to take a break. You are not a machine, Freminet. You can not work continuously.”
The words shouldn’t hurt. It’s just an observation; but it feels like he’s been slapped. Tears spring to his eyes unbidden. His father tenses as she notices, movements pausing for just a second. She doesn’t like crying. She doesn’t. But he can’t stop, sniffling in vain and feeling tears slowly begin to dribble down his face. His father says nothing, finishing up the wrap on his hands as he sniffles and blinks. She pulls her hands away slowly.
“Would you… like a hug?”
Freminet's eyes widen and his head snaps up to stare at her, tears forgotten. Huh?
She seems uncomfortable, glancing away. It’s such an odd expression to see on her face and body. “I have… I have heard that it can… help in times like these. So, if you would like one…” She opens her arms.
Freminet hesitates. Is this a test? If it is a test, he’s not sure what the right answer would be. He should say no, right? He should turn her down and show her that he is worth keeping around, that he can keep going without the need for warmth or touch. He should… But what if he’s wrong? What if he fails or does something else wrong and messes everything up or— she’s warm, he realizes.
Ah. He’s already in her arms. His body moved without thinking and now he is practically in her lap, his hands wrapped tightly around her and his face pressed into her chest. Embarrassing.
She’s tense.
She hates you.
Freminet messed up again. He begins to pull away but then she’s wrapping her arms around his back and petting his hair and he melts because this is new but it isn’t wrong. Freminet’s sniffling becomes more useless. He cries, as silently as he can manage. His shoulders shake and his breathing hitches and sometimes he can’t hold back the pathetic wet sobs as he presses his face into her shoulder and tries to bite them back. She stays anyway.
Machines don’t cry.
Crying takes a while before he’s spent out and she stays the entire time. She rocks him gently, softly running a hand through his hair. Her nails scratch at his scalp in a calming manner, her other hand drawing patterns on his back. He focuses on them and fights to breathe. To just… breathe.
There’s a warm breath against the top of his head, blowing his hair just slightly with a soft sound, “...You need to take care of yourself, Child. I am not Mother. I am Father and my rules are different.”
Another sniff. You’re so gross. She thinks so too.
“I expect you to follow my rules in the future, Freminet, even if they seem a little strange right now.”
His breathing hitches once more and he hates how it almost leads to another sob. In the future. “...Are you not-... not going to send me to the doctor?”
“No.” The word is snapped as sharply as a whip. The harsh sound makes him flinch in her arms. “No.” She repeats, softer, slower. “He will never touch you children again.”
“But…. I’m useless.”
Quiet, for a second. She can’t argue against that. She agrees with you. You’re useless. No one actually cares about you. They don’t care if you leave. They all laugh about you and talk bad about you. They hate having you around. You’re a waste of space, a waste of time, and a bother and—
“...You are not useless. You just have not yet found your own potential,” his father pauses before adding the next few sentences, “There is still much to learn, Freminet, and one part of that is to see your own worth. There is potential that you hold, but if you can not understand and accept that potential, you can not grow. You are not useless but you also do not need to be completely useful at all times either. Sometimes… you can just be, Freminet. I would… not be opposed to such a thing.”
“Oh…” He breathes deeply, shifting so that the button on her jacket isn’t pushing into his cheek anymore. She smells like ash, but not in a bad way. It’s a way that reminds him of campfires and warm memories instead. It’s… nice. “Ok.”
“Okay,” she pulls back and Freminet is tempted to mourn the loss, even if he knows emotions have no real use. “Come now, let’s go get ice on your ankle… Then we should have a longer discussion, perhaps over some calming tea.”
Freminet doesn’t bother to argue. Machines can’t state opinions after all. Can’t fight for them or disagree. They are only to listen and follow. They are… just there to be.
Machines are strong. His father lets him lean on her as she helps him down the hall. Machines don’t need companions. She pulls him closer, leaning to support his short frame. Machines don’t need love. “Even machines need a break to be oiled sometimes, Freminet.” She murmurs to him.
Freminet can’t argue. Machines don’t argue. Yet he also doesn't feel the need to. He’s tired. He doesn’t want to argue or question how his father knows about the machines at all. Tomorrow will be a better day. Freminet leans further into his father's tall frame as she takes him home.
They talk for a long time.