Peppermint #9 + Pomelo #27
Author: pareidolia
Flavors: Peppermint #9 "blanket" + Pomelo #27 "the best way out is always through"
Rating: G
Note: Latest in the series of tales about the children of Wyndham House, now with a handy-dandy Index.
Summary: September 20, Prospero and Philippa arrive.
In a village by the sea, a woman mourned the death of her husband. In a house in the thick of the forest, a lost sibling is found. In a house that bears promises of forever, a man awakens.
Felice Graham had died, but his existence was one that was born of a mad denial. Now, Felice Wyndham lived again, washed clean of his sins and memories, bound once more to his other half.
--
As Michel watched, Felice’s eyes opened slowly, in a way that suggested a dreamless sleep. He stared at the ceiling for a few silent moments, before his eyes wandered and caught that of his younger sibling’s. Identical pairs of blue met and they held each other’s stare, and the bubbling excitement that John had glimpsed in Michel was replaced by the eerie blankness with which he met Felice’s gaze.
Was there accusation in that gaze? Separated for four years, whereas before no one could tear the two apart. Being left with Severin only made things worse. And for what reason? Love? A human girl whose name meant death in the whispering tongues of Wyndham?
Was there sadness? Little boy blue, indeed; clever, yes, one of the cleverest of them all; happy-- no one could lay claim to such an emotion in the house of Wyndham, but at least there was contentment. And with his other half gone, what else did Michel have?
Or, heaven forbid, was there a warning? Should Felice have remained in that village, continuing his denial of their name? Should he have cut his hand off, disposed of it along with the horrid mark of the wedding ring?
But there was nothing in Michel’s gaze, just as there was nothing in Felice’s. Like a mirror set before a mirror, they reflected and concealed nothing.
And then, suddenly, Michel launched himself onto his brother, crying with surprisingly sincere happiness, “Felice!” The older Wyndham smiled as he wrapped his arms around the younger, ignoring the way his sleeves clung to his arms and left large wet patches on Michel’s shirt. “Michel...”
“You’re back, you’re back!” the boy cried almost deliriously, sounding like a much more innocent version of the screaming harpy that was their sister. Felice sat up and curled his legs around him, molding the smaller body to himself, and creating a shield from the rest of the world. “You’re back, you’re finally back!”
Felice Wyndham’s smile turned sad at his sibling’s choice of words. Four years, for four years he’d denied the promise he’d made, for four years he’d sealed himself away-- for the chance to live as one who was not a Wyndham, the chance to love another who would only have led him to death, the chance to run from his hand-made fate. It was foolishness, and it was cruelty to his precious Michel, the only one he truly cared for in this wretched house.
His grip on Michel tightened, and he bent his head to whisper into his brother’s ear, to beg for his forgiveness, but Michel raised his head instead and told him a secret. He pulled back slightly and allowed the young boy to point to the rings around their fingers, and then to his throat, and finally, he uttered a saying the father of Wyndham had been so fond of proclaiming.
“The best way out is always through.”
--
Philippa wished the man had had a blanket. As it was, he only had a slightly smelly jacket and not much else. She frowned down at the corpse she sat on, even as moments before she had been praising him for the meal he provided her. The smell of candy and sweets lingered in the air, and Philippa breathed in the scent like a gourmet with his nose in a particularly tasty glass of wine.
“Prospero, are we there yet?” she asked, succumbing to the mantra of young children who have been forced to wait too long on a trip. Prospero made a turn and glanced at the rear view mirror long enough to see that Philippa wasn’t playing with the remains of her food.
“Near, Philippa, at the next corner you’ll have to throw him away.”
Philippa nods, peering over the passenger seat to look at the road ahead. Home, home, home at last. No matter the reason, Philippa had missed the house she and the other children fondly referred to as home. She pushes the fears of what the house held (Severin, Kandor’s secret smiles, the well, the basement) to the back of her mind, just as Prospero parks the car and unlocks the doors. She kicks the man who smelled of candy out of the car, unmindful of the way he lay so conspicuously on the side of the road like a misplaced vagrant.
Prospero considers running the man over, but with Wyndham house so close, his pledge could not bear the wait. He grips the steering wheel tightly and drives on, and in his mind’s eye Prospero can almost see the house that held their pledges, the house that would be their home forever, the house where the wedding would begin, and where it would end.
He looks straight ahead, ignoring the unnerving silence and the vanished sun. Clouds loomed overhead and shielded it, and shadows disappeared to be replaced by a blameless whiteness.
After another turn, Prospero and Philippa arrived at Wyndham house. The date was September 20, the day of the wedding.
Flavors: Peppermint #9 "blanket" + Pomelo #27 "the best way out is always through"
Rating: G
Note: Latest in the series of tales about the children of Wyndham House, now with a handy-dandy Index.
Summary: September 20, Prospero and Philippa arrive.
In a village by the sea, a woman mourned the death of her husband. In a house in the thick of the forest, a lost sibling is found. In a house that bears promises of forever, a man awakens.
Felice Graham had died, but his existence was one that was born of a mad denial. Now, Felice Wyndham lived again, washed clean of his sins and memories, bound once more to his other half.
--
As Michel watched, Felice’s eyes opened slowly, in a way that suggested a dreamless sleep. He stared at the ceiling for a few silent moments, before his eyes wandered and caught that of his younger sibling’s. Identical pairs of blue met and they held each other’s stare, and the bubbling excitement that John had glimpsed in Michel was replaced by the eerie blankness with which he met Felice’s gaze.
Was there accusation in that gaze? Separated for four years, whereas before no one could tear the two apart. Being left with Severin only made things worse. And for what reason? Love? A human girl whose name meant death in the whispering tongues of Wyndham?
Was there sadness? Little boy blue, indeed; clever, yes, one of the cleverest of them all; happy-- no one could lay claim to such an emotion in the house of Wyndham, but at least there was contentment. And with his other half gone, what else did Michel have?
Or, heaven forbid, was there a warning? Should Felice have remained in that village, continuing his denial of their name? Should he have cut his hand off, disposed of it along with the horrid mark of the wedding ring?
But there was nothing in Michel’s gaze, just as there was nothing in Felice’s. Like a mirror set before a mirror, they reflected and concealed nothing.
And then, suddenly, Michel launched himself onto his brother, crying with surprisingly sincere happiness, “Felice!” The older Wyndham smiled as he wrapped his arms around the younger, ignoring the way his sleeves clung to his arms and left large wet patches on Michel’s shirt. “Michel...”
“You’re back, you’re back!” the boy cried almost deliriously, sounding like a much more innocent version of the screaming harpy that was their sister. Felice sat up and curled his legs around him, molding the smaller body to himself, and creating a shield from the rest of the world. “You’re back, you’re finally back!”
Felice Wyndham’s smile turned sad at his sibling’s choice of words. Four years, for four years he’d denied the promise he’d made, for four years he’d sealed himself away-- for the chance to live as one who was not a Wyndham, the chance to love another who would only have led him to death, the chance to run from his hand-made fate. It was foolishness, and it was cruelty to his precious Michel, the only one he truly cared for in this wretched house.
His grip on Michel tightened, and he bent his head to whisper into his brother’s ear, to beg for his forgiveness, but Michel raised his head instead and told him a secret. He pulled back slightly and allowed the young boy to point to the rings around their fingers, and then to his throat, and finally, he uttered a saying the father of Wyndham had been so fond of proclaiming.
“The best way out is always through.”
--
Philippa wished the man had had a blanket. As it was, he only had a slightly smelly jacket and not much else. She frowned down at the corpse she sat on, even as moments before she had been praising him for the meal he provided her. The smell of candy and sweets lingered in the air, and Philippa breathed in the scent like a gourmet with his nose in a particularly tasty glass of wine.
“Prospero, are we there yet?” she asked, succumbing to the mantra of young children who have been forced to wait too long on a trip. Prospero made a turn and glanced at the rear view mirror long enough to see that Philippa wasn’t playing with the remains of her food.
“Near, Philippa, at the next corner you’ll have to throw him away.”
Philippa nods, peering over the passenger seat to look at the road ahead. Home, home, home at last. No matter the reason, Philippa had missed the house she and the other children fondly referred to as home. She pushes the fears of what the house held (Severin, Kandor’s secret smiles, the well, the basement) to the back of her mind, just as Prospero parks the car and unlocks the doors. She kicks the man who smelled of candy out of the car, unmindful of the way he lay so conspicuously on the side of the road like a misplaced vagrant.
Prospero considers running the man over, but with Wyndham house so close, his pledge could not bear the wait. He grips the steering wheel tightly and drives on, and in his mind’s eye Prospero can almost see the house that held their pledges, the house that would be their home forever, the house where the wedding would begin, and where it would end.
He looks straight ahead, ignoring the unnerving silence and the vanished sun. Clouds loomed overhead and shielded it, and shadows disappeared to be replaced by a blameless whiteness.
After another turn, Prospero and Philippa arrived at Wyndham house. The date was September 20, the day of the wedding.