Father, Dearest
Posted: Tue Aug 31, 2021 9:34 pm
Searing 83, 121 Age of Steel
A quiet had fallen upon the ancient house the day after Anton's introduction to Zaichaeri society. It was not the calm of a well soused family slumbering the day away, nor was it the understated satisfaction of distant parents pleased by a performance well executed by their heir. It was the tense moment - the soldier's moment - in between the first trigger being pulled and the hammer striking home where the world faded away to nothing save the awareness that what had been done could not be undone. For some, it was over in a flash. For others, it seemed to drag on for an eternity only to end as all the world erupted in fire and death. For Anton, it lasted the entire day.
General Franz Stefan Michaelis had, for as long as Anton could remember, made it a habit to eat an early breakfast with his family before departing to attend to his duties. Though not precisely happy occasions, they were pleasant enough by the standards of any military family. Typically, the patriarch would would read the morning's paper with a particular attention to military bulletins, commending or disparaging the performance of this or that officer. His family, perhaps luckily, was not required to be entertained by such displays. Merely to listen. But on this day, the meal was silent save for the soft clattering of silverware upon china.
General Franz Stefan Michaelis had, for as long as Anton could remember, made it a habit to eat a late dinner with his family after returning from a day spent upon his duties. Ordinarily this would entail a loosening of rigor as beers, or spirits on a particularly good or bad day, were opened and the day's triumphs and failures were recounted by the entire table. Such was not the case on this night. Alcohol was nowhere to be seen, and conversation unheard. All remained at their seats well after the meal had ended, awaiting the word to leave, all hoping to be well away from the rage sure to follow. All hoping that is save for Anton, the heir knowing that he would at very least be witness to, if not target of, his father's furor.
Finally, the general stood, the rest of the table joining him as he did. Turning smartly upon his heel, the soldier said the only word that he needed to say as he departed for his study.
"Anton."
Dutifully, son followed father, the lordling at last permitting himself the crutch of his smuggled sight. Gazing at Franz from behind as the pair made their way through the estate's halls told him little that he did not already know. The man was made of strings wound too tight, shrill notes sounding from them with every step he took. Accompanying them was the harsh rapping notes of a cadence to keep soldiers in step - or to presage a hanging from the gallows. It was with some relief however that he realized the barely contained tension was not directed towards him, the man's thoughts quite elsewhere.
Entering the study, Franz sat himself down upon an armchair and immediately poured himself a dark brown liquor before lighting a cigar. Anton remained standing, hands clasped behind his back, as was proper. His father's refreshments assaulted his unnatural senses, the glass containing the low notes of an oversized woodwind while the stench of the lit cigar washed over him as streaks of black light. The pair remained silent until the glass had been half emptied, the cigar's lit end glowing bright enough to drone a low sonorous tone.
"We have been disgraced," the general seethed, his son once more grateful that his venom was directed elsewhere. "A Lysanrin in our house, and one barely a month into his service no less! What cruel joke has Lir played upon us? Sending us his tori bastard instead of any of his daughters was bad enough, but this?" His head visibly drooped as he thought, his cigar forgotten. "To think the Angevins would do us such disrespect... Surely I have done nothing to warrant bringing a Tyrant's broodling to my son's debut as revenge? Perhaps our lords no longer have need of us with the likes of the Dornkirks rising," he wondered softly, his last words trailing off into a bitter sigh.
Though their relations had been distant for generations the Angevins had produced kings prior to the Sundering, and such a pedigree still mattered to the Michaelis even after centuries. Any slight stung, but one that came close to the touchy subject of Anton hurt Franz all the more. But then his expression turned from the morose to the exasperated as his thoughts shifted.
"And then the Monteliyet boy. They have all always been eccentrics, but Dreyfus is bold as well. At least he does not mean offense, at least I do not think he does," he said with a frown before finally returning to his neglected cigar. "But still, his intent is irrelevant. Luckily, a pet Rathari is an indulgence that says more of him than us. Though perhaps we have permitted ourselves to become too bound by far to their own fates. Yet there is no polite way to remove ourselves from those agreements for at least a century," Franz mused. Anton's calm demeanor finally broke at the not so subtle reference to himself, the mage's face falling for a moment before he mastered himself once more.
Franz's own frown only deepened at his son's reaction, the hand gripping his cigar tightening as his thoughts took a darker turn. "Or perhaps this was all the Order's idea of a joke. A warning, perhaps? An insult? The only Reconciliators invited, and both decide to stretch the limits of propriety?" At last he lapsed into silence, conferring now solely with his drink.
Anton was less member of this conversation and more witness, a state of affairs he was both accustomed to and preferred. Ordinarily, at least. The vitriol in his father's voice had taken him aback however, the dutiful son remaining silent and still out of a guess that was what he best ought to do. There had been little call in his secluded life for any sort of active prejudice, and he was wholly uncertain how to react. After all, who would even think to expose their sickly son to any of the lesser races, let alone those with the legacy of betrayal that the Lysanrin held in their very veins? And as far as the Order, there was little he could do about them than embrace whatever his fate was with a measure of dignity. The question was not what to do if they knew, for there was nothing, but instead focused solely upon that if itself.
"You did well, considering the circumstances," Franz said warmly, stirring Anton from his thoughts. "If it was a test, you have definitely passed the Monteliyet. I am less certain in the case of the Angevin. I shall meet with Dreyfus' father to ensure that this was simply one of his affectations, and not something more. As for you, you are to respond to Eitan's invitation in the affirmative and do your utmost to secure his acquaintance. As much as it galls me, you may yet please him by treating his batman with courtesy. To say nothing of the fact that so new a servant may let slip information a more experienced one would not. We cannot undo last night, but we can at least assure ourselves it is not the harbinger to greater issues."
His orders given, the general snuffed out his cigar with a tired sigh and then finished his drink in a single go. Relieved of his refreshments, his eyes met his son's sightless own, the pair of them gazing at each other in a silence that was finally free of tension. "I am proud of you, Anton," the tensed strings morphing into martial trumpets blaring triumphant notes. "But now the true work begins. Do you understand?"
"Yes, father," Anton replied almost immediately, differing from the parade ground mostly in that his voice was quiet and subdued.
"You must take pains to treat Eitan as you would any other, Lir has put enough work into the boy that few even know the truth," Franz cautioned, a word of warning that his son frankly had no idea what to do with.
Certainly, he had absorbed the words and insults - baseborn, half-breed, bastard - and knew which company to use and not use them in, but there was no venom in him. Eitan had even seemed perfectly cordial in person, far different from how he had been told a Dratori would act. Still, it seemed a grave warning, and he was duty bound to reply. "Of course, father. He is the son of Admiral Lir Angevin, and no less."
Satisfied with the answer, Franz relaxed into his chair, truly relaxed, for the first time. The general's eyes closed as dinner and drink did their work upon him, what little tension remained within him draining away. "You are a man now, Anton. This shall be your problem to solve, in your own way. Do not fail."
"I will not, father," the lordling replied once more on reflex, but the first inklings of a plan had already begun to form in his mind.
"I will need to miss breakfast."