Peppermint #11 + Pomelo #7
Author: pareidolia
Flavors: Peppermint #11 "butterfly" + Pomelo #7 "do not tear down the east wall to repair the west"
Rating: G
Note: Latest in the series of tales about the children of Wyndham House, now with a handy-dandy Index.
Summary: Michel misbehaves.
Michel ripped his gaze away from the rings (his and Felice’s, they were his and Felice’s) and shook his head, now pleading before an imaginary judge and jury as he repeated their dead brother’s words.
“He said he was taking it back. He said he quit. Nobody can do that...”
Kandor’s eyes are on Michel, drawn by his mumbling and the unfamiliar light in his eyes. “Of course not, Michel,” he murmured, so low that only Felice could hear him. The same gaze is on him, now, and Kandor shrugs, as if to say, What else can I say?
Michel had taken to clutching at his temples, shooting all of them a look that did not differ much from that of a hawk trapped in a cage. Finitia would have gone to him, and Kristopher was on his way, but Philippa was the one who got to him first, leaving Prospero’s protective embrace, reaching out with her hand and her voice, so it was Philippa whom he saw first.
His eyes widen, and he almost takes a step back, if not for the hand on his shoulder. Philippa’s hand-- his sister’s hand. “Michel, it’s alright,” she says, “you didn’t do anything wrong, Michel.”
Philippa might have been right, she might even have meant her vague affirmation of her sibling’s innocence, but no one will ever know, because after she spoke, Michel’s eyes went half-lidded, and he swung his brass horn in an upwards arc, to connect harshly with Philippa’s jaw, breaking it in the process.
The girl let out a muffled scream, and Michel bore down on her, catching the crown of her head with a dull thunk. Philippa, who was already on her knees, grabbing for her broken jaw, slumped forward after the sound, and it seemed that she needn’t have worried about her jaw at all, as Michel knelt down and continued to attack his sister’s head with his horn.
The children of Wyndham stood as still as statues, merely watching the murder of one of their own-- by one of their own.
Prospero moves suddenly, but Kristopher’s arm shoots out to stop him. The younger Wyndham winces at the sounds, but he forces himself to wrap his arms around his brother, if only to keep him away from Michel.
“Don’t!” he whispers miserably, Don’t look anymore, but he knew as well as anybody that Prospero wouldn’t have obeyed. Miguel had gathered Finitia in his arms, and both of them had shut their eyes against the scene. John had not even turned at Michel’s confession, and he now stood just behind Felice, gazing intently at the rings and his eldest brother. Felice ached to run to his other half, but Kandor had seen the look in his eyes and had shackled him to his post with a vice-like grip on his wrists. Kandor tutted into the strange silence that was broken by Philippa’s weak sobs, the strange silence now made complete by her final, ragged breath, a word, a name, “Michel,”, the name uttered by all the dead children.
“Is that any way to behave at a wedding, Michel?”
The child’s head snapped up, and their eyes met, and in that instant, as Michel was consumed by a beast that may have been guilt (perhaps it was something bigger than guilt, Felice thought later), Michel saw his eldest brother and he knew that he was meant to die.
Kandor saw the light change, heard the almost audible snapping of pieces in Michel’s head, and suddenly he shoved Felice aside and drew John to him, crying out, “Prospero, Kris, look out!”
And not a moment later, Michel pulled out a knife and threw it at his brothers.
(Felice could have told everyone that he wasn’t aiming for Prospero and Kristopher at all, but of course, they only asked Michel, and that was one of the first mistakes.)
Prospero caught the knife as Kristopher dodged it, but later they would admit that that display of coordination wasn’t what stopped Michel at all, and that what had done it was simply Felice’s voice, asking him to stop.
“Please, Michel?”
(The bonds of Wyndham are wondrous, Monkshood would have said, and then he’d have added: also, disturbing, unfair, wicked, malevolent...)
Kandor grabbed Kristopher’s arm and leaned down to whisper, “Take John and run.” When Kristopher looked, John was standing there between him and Prospero, and Kandor was standing at the altar again, Finitia at his feet and Felice in front of him. Miguel had vanished to Michel’s side-- his eyes were glassy, but his grip on Michel’s wrists were strong.
Prospero tugged on his hand, and suddenly they were crossing the chapel, leaving through the broken window, and Kristopher’s last look at his family was not a pleasant one at all.
Kandor’s gaze, most of all, was disconcerting. It was a gaze that said You’ll be back, I know it, you’ll come back, won’t you Kristopher? He glances back at their mother’s corpse, at the yellow around her wrist, and he realizes the consequences when his feet touch the ground outside the chapel, and then, he runs.
Inside the chapel, Michel hangs limp in Miguel’s hold, a butterfly whose wings have been clipped off. Finitia weeps openly, clutching at herself and subtly inching away from their eldest brother as he spoke:
“The pledges give their consent,” he begins decisively, “the marriage is sacred and rings true. Felice, the rings.” Felice steps forward and slides the rings on Kandor’s ring fingers, one on the left and one on the right, and he kneels, just as Kandor waves his hand and bids Miguel and Michel kneel as well.
“With the power vested in me now as the head of Wyndham house, I present myself as the Father and the Son, the eternal spirit, the Will of Wyndham!”
He held his arms out, as if to gather them all into his embrace, and that is when Michel screams, the sound mad enough to rival Severin’s. Michel poured out his soul into one word, and Felice would have echoed his sentiments, could he but look away from the grin on his eldest brother’s face.
(It was the grin, that was the second mistake, Felice thought, of course, everyone should have realized that, Philippa’s corpse notwithstanding.)
Michel screamed out, “No!”
Kandor swept gracefully away from the struggling boy, skipped over the dead little girl, and opened the doors of the chapel a bit wider with his grin, and he called over his shoulder, “I’ll go look for Severin and Karol, now!”
Felice watched Finitia cry against a broken pew, and decided that he could do nothing for her. He stood, shakily, and walked towards his other half, who locks his eyes with his, and repeats the word that could do nothing but be said as he buries himself in Felice’s embrace. Miguel collapses, and Felice knows he can do nothing for him as well.
He holds Michel to his chest, and warns the rest of his siblings, He wants to kill you, John, but it is without any real effort, for all of that (as well as everything Felice had any claim to) had gone to comforting his other half, his precious Michel.
There wasn’t anything left in their broken family worth protecting, anyway: all the walls had been torn down in Kandor’s mad attempt to right their wrongs, and there was nothing left to do but wait until forever ended.
(Or, they would all conceded later, until Monkshood arrived.)
Flavors: Peppermint #11 "butterfly" + Pomelo #7 "do not tear down the east wall to repair the west"
Rating: G
Note: Latest in the series of tales about the children of Wyndham House, now with a handy-dandy Index.
Summary: Michel misbehaves.
Michel ripped his gaze away from the rings (his and Felice’s, they were his and Felice’s) and shook his head, now pleading before an imaginary judge and jury as he repeated their dead brother’s words.
“He said he was taking it back. He said he quit. Nobody can do that...”
Kandor’s eyes are on Michel, drawn by his mumbling and the unfamiliar light in his eyes. “Of course not, Michel,” he murmured, so low that only Felice could hear him. The same gaze is on him, now, and Kandor shrugs, as if to say, What else can I say?
Michel had taken to clutching at his temples, shooting all of them a look that did not differ much from that of a hawk trapped in a cage. Finitia would have gone to him, and Kristopher was on his way, but Philippa was the one who got to him first, leaving Prospero’s protective embrace, reaching out with her hand and her voice, so it was Philippa whom he saw first.
His eyes widen, and he almost takes a step back, if not for the hand on his shoulder. Philippa’s hand-- his sister’s hand. “Michel, it’s alright,” she says, “you didn’t do anything wrong, Michel.”
Philippa might have been right, she might even have meant her vague affirmation of her sibling’s innocence, but no one will ever know, because after she spoke, Michel’s eyes went half-lidded, and he swung his brass horn in an upwards arc, to connect harshly with Philippa’s jaw, breaking it in the process.
The girl let out a muffled scream, and Michel bore down on her, catching the crown of her head with a dull thunk. Philippa, who was already on her knees, grabbing for her broken jaw, slumped forward after the sound, and it seemed that she needn’t have worried about her jaw at all, as Michel knelt down and continued to attack his sister’s head with his horn.
The children of Wyndham stood as still as statues, merely watching the murder of one of their own-- by one of their own.
Prospero moves suddenly, but Kristopher’s arm shoots out to stop him. The younger Wyndham winces at the sounds, but he forces himself to wrap his arms around his brother, if only to keep him away from Michel.
“Don’t!” he whispers miserably, Don’t look anymore, but he knew as well as anybody that Prospero wouldn’t have obeyed. Miguel had gathered Finitia in his arms, and both of them had shut their eyes against the scene. John had not even turned at Michel’s confession, and he now stood just behind Felice, gazing intently at the rings and his eldest brother. Felice ached to run to his other half, but Kandor had seen the look in his eyes and had shackled him to his post with a vice-like grip on his wrists. Kandor tutted into the strange silence that was broken by Philippa’s weak sobs, the strange silence now made complete by her final, ragged breath, a word, a name, “Michel,”, the name uttered by all the dead children.
“Is that any way to behave at a wedding, Michel?”
The child’s head snapped up, and their eyes met, and in that instant, as Michel was consumed by a beast that may have been guilt (perhaps it was something bigger than guilt, Felice thought later), Michel saw his eldest brother and he knew that he was meant to die.
Kandor saw the light change, heard the almost audible snapping of pieces in Michel’s head, and suddenly he shoved Felice aside and drew John to him, crying out, “Prospero, Kris, look out!”
And not a moment later, Michel pulled out a knife and threw it at his brothers.
(Felice could have told everyone that he wasn’t aiming for Prospero and Kristopher at all, but of course, they only asked Michel, and that was one of the first mistakes.)
Prospero caught the knife as Kristopher dodged it, but later they would admit that that display of coordination wasn’t what stopped Michel at all, and that what had done it was simply Felice’s voice, asking him to stop.
“Please, Michel?”
(The bonds of Wyndham are wondrous, Monkshood would have said, and then he’d have added: also, disturbing, unfair, wicked, malevolent...)
Kandor grabbed Kristopher’s arm and leaned down to whisper, “Take John and run.” When Kristopher looked, John was standing there between him and Prospero, and Kandor was standing at the altar again, Finitia at his feet and Felice in front of him. Miguel had vanished to Michel’s side-- his eyes were glassy, but his grip on Michel’s wrists were strong.
Prospero tugged on his hand, and suddenly they were crossing the chapel, leaving through the broken window, and Kristopher’s last look at his family was not a pleasant one at all.
Kandor’s gaze, most of all, was disconcerting. It was a gaze that said You’ll be back, I know it, you’ll come back, won’t you Kristopher? He glances back at their mother’s corpse, at the yellow around her wrist, and he realizes the consequences when his feet touch the ground outside the chapel, and then, he runs.
Inside the chapel, Michel hangs limp in Miguel’s hold, a butterfly whose wings have been clipped off. Finitia weeps openly, clutching at herself and subtly inching away from their eldest brother as he spoke:
“The pledges give their consent,” he begins decisively, “the marriage is sacred and rings true. Felice, the rings.” Felice steps forward and slides the rings on Kandor’s ring fingers, one on the left and one on the right, and he kneels, just as Kandor waves his hand and bids Miguel and Michel kneel as well.
“With the power vested in me now as the head of Wyndham house, I present myself as the Father and the Son, the eternal spirit, the Will of Wyndham!”
He held his arms out, as if to gather them all into his embrace, and that is when Michel screams, the sound mad enough to rival Severin’s. Michel poured out his soul into one word, and Felice would have echoed his sentiments, could he but look away from the grin on his eldest brother’s face.
(It was the grin, that was the second mistake, Felice thought, of course, everyone should have realized that, Philippa’s corpse notwithstanding.)
Michel screamed out, “No!”
Kandor swept gracefully away from the struggling boy, skipped over the dead little girl, and opened the doors of the chapel a bit wider with his grin, and he called over his shoulder, “I’ll go look for Severin and Karol, now!”
Felice watched Finitia cry against a broken pew, and decided that he could do nothing for her. He stood, shakily, and walked towards his other half, who locks his eyes with his, and repeats the word that could do nothing but be said as he buries himself in Felice’s embrace. Miguel collapses, and Felice knows he can do nothing for him as well.
He holds Michel to his chest, and warns the rest of his siblings, He wants to kill you, John, but it is without any real effort, for all of that (as well as everything Felice had any claim to) had gone to comforting his other half, his precious Michel.
There wasn’t anything left in their broken family worth protecting, anyway: all the walls had been torn down in Kandor’s mad attempt to right their wrongs, and there was nothing left to do but wait until forever ended.
(Or, they would all conceded later, until Monkshood arrived.)