Chapter Text
“Mon garçon, mon fils” She whispered down into Regulus's ear. She cradled his delicate body in her pale arms, her bones were showing through her skin, and though her husband had named them dainty and elegant she wasn't believing his words as much anymore.
Walburga's voice was just above a breath. “Regulus." Her fingers ghosted over his small, rosy cheeks.
Beneath them was a carpet, it had waving patterns which swirled around the fabric, it wasn't very big and wasn't very small. In Walburga's mind though, it was something grand and to cherish, like the ocean. She would be able to swim in it, grasp it in her fists.
She said something to her son but couldn't hear what it was. It was like that now, she said things but couldn't understand what they were, all the words that came from her mouth mixed in her mind. Names became just a noise and sentences were nothing.
Regulus cried out and she covered his mouth with her palm. “Shh, shh” she gasped and blocked his nose too. He struggled against her to breathe. He was so very small. She let go but still held him tightly to her chest to stop him from coughing or spitting up.
When her sons were still young, Walburga's family had moved to Normandy, a nice home, a nice doorway, a path to the ocean. She wanted it. She had wanted all of it. The sons, the husband, the neighbours who she had never met. She had wanted all and nothing of it.
Walburga had once had dreams to travel, to love and be worriless. Most will never achieve those dreams; she understood that fairly quickly. To learn had been a large admiration of hers, equations, stories, history, anything really, as long as Walburga had something to focus her attention on then all would be well. Though languages most of all, to be able to speak to whoever she pleased gave Walburga excitement. She was never able to study, never able to learn any language besides her mother tongue, she mourned her loss in silence.
Regulus squirmed again, she stood and black him back into the crib. Being a mother was not something she had wanted when she started life, but Walburga hadn’t had time to not want things, she took and stole and borrowed and would act grateful for it all as that was what she had been taught.
She closed the door behind her, softly, quietly.
Your Flower Opening Face —
Mon garçon, mon fils
My boy, my son.
Are you having fun? I watch you run.
Would you reach for me if I asked,
or is that chance already past?
Do you love me enough to close the gap?
If I reach out, if you come back,
Would you forgive the love I lack?
My boy, my son.
Your flower-opening face
Is sewn into my lace,
I carry your animal grace.