Emeric Vauquelin, Comte de Vauquelin, was as imposing a man as his daughter is slight; he stood north of 6', broad-shouldered, sporting the same aristocratic nose and sharp jawline that his only acknowledged child inherited (andβso did the other one), still leanly muscular as he approached his sixties with hair that silvered in a sort of handsomely distinguished way. He is standing in the hallway now, torchlight flickering on the gleaming gold and silver embellishments on his cloak, his pristineβ
no, it is not pristine, this fine Orlesian uniform he's wearing. GwenaΓ«lle is standing in the doorway, disoriented, and Emeric is holding her shoulders, touching her face, standing in a pool of his own blood.
His voice is rich, and deep, and kind:
βMa petit, I have a duty.β
βAnd you had rather run away to die than face itββ comes abrupt, furious, frustrated, falling in spite of herself into not only familiar patterns but walking grooves she has walked before, speaking words she has spoken before, only before he had not said,
abby.
no, it is not pristine, this fine Orlesian uniform he's wearing. GwenaΓ«lle is standing in the doorway, disoriented, and Emeric is holding her shoulders, touching her face, standing in a pool of his own blood.
His voice is rich, and deep, and kind:
βMa petit, I have a duty.β
βAnd you had rather run away to die than face itββ comes abrupt, furious, frustrated, falling in spite of herself into not only familiar patterns but walking grooves she has walked before, speaking words she has spoken before, only before he had not said,
βMa belle princesse, would you have me stay?β
and blood drips, drips, drips.