Never Told
Who: Clement Devereux
Where: A small antique shop in Barcelona, Spain
When circa November 2003
What: An unexpected visit.
"It's been a while, hasn't it?"
The entire room was dim. Light filtered through the narrow slats of the window, barely outlining a seated Olivier surrounded by walls and shadows of various antiques, glinting off polished glass framed by the thin gold filling of the man's monocle as he raised one of the delicately elaborate teacups to his lips. Porcelain clinked as the cup was set back upon its matching saucer within muted silence. There was a brief glance of acknowledgment-or something close to it, in a way-before he spoke again.
"...You look healthy. I'm glad you've managed to surpass your illness." A hand floated over the tea tray and its assorted goods, picking up a biscuit. Another look was given in between practiced bites, lasting a while longer than the first. It also felt uncomfortably weighted. "Well. Don't just stand there, boy," he added quietly. A hint of impatience slipped passed his composed tones. "You're here. Why not walk over and join me at the table? Or have you forgotten basic etiquette?" His free hand tapped the wooden surface twice, moving the tablecloth slightly. "There's no reason to keep me waiting. The tea will get cold. You'll insult Mrs. Samara. The poor old woman helped set this out for the both of us, after all."
Clément was still gaping. It was obvious his mind was still reeling over what he saw; his eyes were wider than usual. He said nothing as his body awkwardly lurched forward, mechanical, subsiding into a more natural gait to close the distance faster.
Meanwhile, Olivier spoke on without pause, pushing the teapot toward the center of the table. It sat parallel to the empty cup waiting to be used. "How old are you now? Sixteen? Seventeen? Do forgive me if I'm off by a few years. It's been a trying time, keeping everything in order lately." A sigh followed as the teenager wordlessly seated himself, staring at the man as he readjusted the space between the table and his body. "Business is business, I suppose. There never are any real breaks from that, let me tell you..."
From the boy's point of view, all that followed was silence.
To him, it felt like an old, vivid memory, seamlessly blending surreal elements into a familiar setting. He was sitting there, having tea, with someone from his past. Someone who was suppose to stay in the past.
But it was not a dream.
And now he noticed this person was now speaking directly to him. "Clément." Olivier did not look pleased. Despite the fact he knew it was his uncle's general expression, the pause took it to another level of indifferent displeasure. The dry, low tone he used only made it worst. "Ever since you arrived, you have said nothing. I know I have not been around. Some depth into your present life would be nice-"
"-But you're dead."
Clément's eyes were locked onto his uncle's. The latter merely arched a thin brow seconds later.
"...Come again?"
"You. Are suppose to be dead." Clément's voice quavered slightly. He swallowed the lump that was forming in his throat, taking another breath before adding onto the thought. "O-or, to be more specific, you went...missing."
"And?"
"-We searched for you," he blurted, almost bolting up from his chair. His hands braced upon the table's edge, shoulders squared and rigid. "For two whole years, we waited." He did not expand upon the facts. They both knew. Hazel eyes stayed upon the man, flickering with conflicting emotions. At the beginning, he had been torn between anger and relief. He still did not know which one to lean toward first. Overall etiquette and its standards immediately reappeared, however, and the feelings at hand were reigned inward. His voice grew taut. "But you never returned. We had to go on because there was nothing else we could have done. So...you were pronounced dead."
Fatigued, Clément's stance slackened as he sat back down, averting his gaze to stare at the empty teacup. "...Until now..."
Olivier...did not react. He merely kept his gaze upon the boy, carefully reaching over to lift the teapot, filling both of their cups. It was hard trying to read his inner thoughts when he showed nothing on the outside. "...As I expected," came the cool and even-toned reply, both closing and stretching the short distance between the two. "Of course, I was also expecting more dramatics from you. To be honest, I'm glad you managed to keep your head." A faint smirk appeared. "You are your father's son after all."
Here, Clément glanced back at his uncle while forcing himself to think about that last statement. His father. He was nothing like his father. The man was reserved, yes, but when he got angry, it was better to avoid him until things blew over. He was also very anxious when it came to stressful situations. Despite the fact they were nothing wrong with this relationship, finding other common traits and interests were few and far between. Then what did any of this have to do with his father?
That was when something clicked.
He felt uneasy. "...What...do you mean...?"
The smirk slowly faded. "It is precisely as I said," Olivier answered, returning the teacup to its saucer with its contents half-finished. "You are your father's son," he repeated quietly. "You have known me as your late uncle-forever adored and esteemed-Olivier Roche. And, at the moment, you now know me to be quite alive." The words he spoke then gained a commanding edge. "...But there is one more thing I never had the chance to tell you..." His hands folded over one another, fingers meticulously interlaced as he leaned back, poised. The shadows darkened around him, dramatically giving him a different form. The monocle gleamed before vanishing, gold eyes sharply contrasting against shades of flowing black.
The doctors could be right about Clément's eyesight and psychological health, but he saw what he saw.
Dark. Black. Unnatural.
Canine?
In an instant, everything went back to normal. Same small room, same musty smell. Even the tea settings were left undisturbed. Nobody moved. Olivier kept his pose as Clément finally gasped, his whole body trembling while his fingers rapidly uncurled from their tightened fists. He still could not believe what had just happened; never have his eyes had grown so wide. His uncle cleared his throat. "That was it," said he, with a nonchalant gesture of his hand, "but I now realize you may need a little more help comprehending the matter."
Clément kept staring at him, saying nothing in response. "I am Inpu," the man continued without a hint of hesitation in his voice. "The more common name is Anubis." Clément looked incredulous. "Yes, that one." Another look. His mouth was partially open. "Yes, this is all very real. Now stop interrupting." He closed his mouth, ducking his head slightly.
Olivier sighed, folding his hands together once more. "I've come here today because I am your father and it would be pointless to keep you in the dark about your divine heritage. Yes, I mean it. Your mother and I...well, I don't need to get into that. I did care about her, but I suppose we were not, as they say, "meant to be." It was a very hard time, her being married to my business partner-your "father"-and dealing with all of the problems that ensued...you remember that much, I'm sure. But I can see they did well enough raising you and your elder siblings.
"Moving onto my "disappearance"...As I've said earlier, I honestly have been busy. That was part of the reason I left. As a god, I had other important duties to attend to. Humans are not unbiased and they cannot be trusted to gauge their circumstances fairly. That is why I and the others constantly keep watch over them. Technically speaking, anyway-some slacking does happen now and then, but we do manage get back on track. And yes, there are others. They are just as real and everything you know is being turned on its head but you're going to have to deal with it." He paused to readjust his monocle. "Please try not to faint on me, boy."
"With all of this information, it's sort of hard not to," Clément finally breathed. He just felt odd. And light-headed.
"There's a different reaction for everyone," his uncle replied, taking another biscuit for himself. "But there's nothing to worry about. Compared to some, you have taken the news rather well. I think you're ready for your own special tasks." The boy had a question. It was disregarded as the man checked his pocket watch. "That will have to be reserved for another time, unfortunately. I cannot keep my clientele waiting." The chair was pushed back, the biscuit now missing from the hand that reached for the tailored black coat hanging on a knob of the old Victorian dresser. "Take care of your family," he said with a stern edge as he slipped it over his arms and shoulders. "Do not tell any of them about me or this meeting. Especially your father. The less grief, the better."
The walking stick, made of dark wood with a carved ivory handle, was the last to be picked. It was the very same one he had when he first left. Clément also rose, stepping to the side to push the chair toward the table. "Clean and lock up the shop for Mrs. Samara," Olivier added. "No one else is coming in for the day. She needs the rest."
He wanted to him to stay longer. He wanted to continue talking. But instead of stopping him, Clément allowed himself to obediently follow these orders.
"...Yes sir."
With that said, the man he once knew as his uncle vanished once more.
~ = = = ~
Clearing the place settings took longer than it should have. After taking care of that, the boy went to check every other room within the shop. All was silent. Too silent. The shop was never meant to be noisy, but he knew Mrs. Samara would have been shuffling between the kitchen and her room every so often. Just as she usually did. But there was nothing. No murmuring, no soft strains of music from an old radio were heard. Clément walked past the kitchen to her bedroom. Knocking on the door did not stir her. Maybe she really was asleep. He thought about leaving. The decision to do so would have been rude, and a vague sense of concern was forming the longer the silence went on.
Carefully, he turned the knob, giving the door a gentle push.
"Mrs. Samara...?"
The light of day was weakening, its dwindling warmth washed over the floor and a cushioned chair between threadbare curtains. Clément stepped quietly inside, stopping short of the bed that was in the darkest part of the room. He stood there, looking down at the sleeping woman.
After a moment, he pulled the rest of the white sheets over with respect.
Where: A small antique shop in Barcelona, Spain
When circa November 2003
What: An unexpected visit.
"It's been a while, hasn't it?"
The entire room was dim. Light filtered through the narrow slats of the window, barely outlining a seated Olivier surrounded by walls and shadows of various antiques, glinting off polished glass framed by the thin gold filling of the man's monocle as he raised one of the delicately elaborate teacups to his lips. Porcelain clinked as the cup was set back upon its matching saucer within muted silence. There was a brief glance of acknowledgment-or something close to it, in a way-before he spoke again.
"...You look healthy. I'm glad you've managed to surpass your illness." A hand floated over the tea tray and its assorted goods, picking up a biscuit. Another look was given in between practiced bites, lasting a while longer than the first. It also felt uncomfortably weighted. "Well. Don't just stand there, boy," he added quietly. A hint of impatience slipped passed his composed tones. "You're here. Why not walk over and join me at the table? Or have you forgotten basic etiquette?" His free hand tapped the wooden surface twice, moving the tablecloth slightly. "There's no reason to keep me waiting. The tea will get cold. You'll insult Mrs. Samara. The poor old woman helped set this out for the both of us, after all."
Clément was still gaping. It was obvious his mind was still reeling over what he saw; his eyes were wider than usual. He said nothing as his body awkwardly lurched forward, mechanical, subsiding into a more natural gait to close the distance faster.
Meanwhile, Olivier spoke on without pause, pushing the teapot toward the center of the table. It sat parallel to the empty cup waiting to be used. "How old are you now? Sixteen? Seventeen? Do forgive me if I'm off by a few years. It's been a trying time, keeping everything in order lately." A sigh followed as the teenager wordlessly seated himself, staring at the man as he readjusted the space between the table and his body. "Business is business, I suppose. There never are any real breaks from that, let me tell you..."
From the boy's point of view, all that followed was silence.
To him, it felt like an old, vivid memory, seamlessly blending surreal elements into a familiar setting. He was sitting there, having tea, with someone from his past. Someone who was suppose to stay in the past.
But it was not a dream.
And now he noticed this person was now speaking directly to him. "Clément." Olivier did not look pleased. Despite the fact he knew it was his uncle's general expression, the pause took it to another level of indifferent displeasure. The dry, low tone he used only made it worst. "Ever since you arrived, you have said nothing. I know I have not been around. Some depth into your present life would be nice-"
"-But you're dead."
Clément's eyes were locked onto his uncle's. The latter merely arched a thin brow seconds later.
"...Come again?"
"You. Are suppose to be dead." Clément's voice quavered slightly. He swallowed the lump that was forming in his throat, taking another breath before adding onto the thought. "O-or, to be more specific, you went...missing."
"And?"
"-We searched for you," he blurted, almost bolting up from his chair. His hands braced upon the table's edge, shoulders squared and rigid. "For two whole years, we waited." He did not expand upon the facts. They both knew. Hazel eyes stayed upon the man, flickering with conflicting emotions. At the beginning, he had been torn between anger and relief. He still did not know which one to lean toward first. Overall etiquette and its standards immediately reappeared, however, and the feelings at hand were reigned inward. His voice grew taut. "But you never returned. We had to go on because there was nothing else we could have done. So...you were pronounced dead."
Fatigued, Clément's stance slackened as he sat back down, averting his gaze to stare at the empty teacup. "...Until now..."
Olivier...did not react. He merely kept his gaze upon the boy, carefully reaching over to lift the teapot, filling both of their cups. It was hard trying to read his inner thoughts when he showed nothing on the outside. "...As I expected," came the cool and even-toned reply, both closing and stretching the short distance between the two. "Of course, I was also expecting more dramatics from you. To be honest, I'm glad you managed to keep your head." A faint smirk appeared. "You are your father's son after all."
Here, Clément glanced back at his uncle while forcing himself to think about that last statement. His father. He was nothing like his father. The man was reserved, yes, but when he got angry, it was better to avoid him until things blew over. He was also very anxious when it came to stressful situations. Despite the fact they were nothing wrong with this relationship, finding other common traits and interests were few and far between. Then what did any of this have to do with his father?
That was when something clicked.
He felt uneasy. "...What...do you mean...?"
The smirk slowly faded. "It is precisely as I said," Olivier answered, returning the teacup to its saucer with its contents half-finished. "You are your father's son," he repeated quietly. "You have known me as your late uncle-forever adored and esteemed-Olivier Roche. And, at the moment, you now know me to be quite alive." The words he spoke then gained a commanding edge. "...But there is one more thing I never had the chance to tell you..." His hands folded over one another, fingers meticulously interlaced as he leaned back, poised. The shadows darkened around him, dramatically giving him a different form. The monocle gleamed before vanishing, gold eyes sharply contrasting against shades of flowing black.
The doctors could be right about Clément's eyesight and psychological health, but he saw what he saw.
Dark. Black. Unnatural.
Canine?
In an instant, everything went back to normal. Same small room, same musty smell. Even the tea settings were left undisturbed. Nobody moved. Olivier kept his pose as Clément finally gasped, his whole body trembling while his fingers rapidly uncurled from their tightened fists. He still could not believe what had just happened; never have his eyes had grown so wide. His uncle cleared his throat. "That was it," said he, with a nonchalant gesture of his hand, "but I now realize you may need a little more help comprehending the matter."
Clément kept staring at him, saying nothing in response. "I am Inpu," the man continued without a hint of hesitation in his voice. "The more common name is Anubis." Clément looked incredulous. "Yes, that one." Another look. His mouth was partially open. "Yes, this is all very real. Now stop interrupting." He closed his mouth, ducking his head slightly.
Olivier sighed, folding his hands together once more. "I've come here today because I am your father and it would be pointless to keep you in the dark about your divine heritage. Yes, I mean it. Your mother and I...well, I don't need to get into that. I did care about her, but I suppose we were not, as they say, "meant to be." It was a very hard time, her being married to my business partner-your "father"-and dealing with all of the problems that ensued...you remember that much, I'm sure. But I can see they did well enough raising you and your elder siblings.
"Moving onto my "disappearance"...As I've said earlier, I honestly have been busy. That was part of the reason I left. As a god, I had other important duties to attend to. Humans are not unbiased and they cannot be trusted to gauge their circumstances fairly. That is why I and the others constantly keep watch over them. Technically speaking, anyway-some slacking does happen now and then, but we do manage get back on track. And yes, there are others. They are just as real and everything you know is being turned on its head but you're going to have to deal with it." He paused to readjust his monocle. "Please try not to faint on me, boy."
"With all of this information, it's sort of hard not to," Clément finally breathed. He just felt odd. And light-headed.
"There's a different reaction for everyone," his uncle replied, taking another biscuit for himself. "But there's nothing to worry about. Compared to some, you have taken the news rather well. I think you're ready for your own special tasks." The boy had a question. It was disregarded as the man checked his pocket watch. "That will have to be reserved for another time, unfortunately. I cannot keep my clientele waiting." The chair was pushed back, the biscuit now missing from the hand that reached for the tailored black coat hanging on a knob of the old Victorian dresser. "Take care of your family," he said with a stern edge as he slipped it over his arms and shoulders. "Do not tell any of them about me or this meeting. Especially your father. The less grief, the better."
The walking stick, made of dark wood with a carved ivory handle, was the last to be picked. It was the very same one he had when he first left. Clément also rose, stepping to the side to push the chair toward the table. "Clean and lock up the shop for Mrs. Samara," Olivier added. "No one else is coming in for the day. She needs the rest."
He wanted to him to stay longer. He wanted to continue talking. But instead of stopping him, Clément allowed himself to obediently follow these orders.
"...Yes sir."
With that said, the man he once knew as his uncle vanished once more.
~ = = = ~
Clearing the place settings took longer than it should have. After taking care of that, the boy went to check every other room within the shop. All was silent. Too silent. The shop was never meant to be noisy, but he knew Mrs. Samara would have been shuffling between the kitchen and her room every so often. Just as she usually did. But there was nothing. No murmuring, no soft strains of music from an old radio were heard. Clément walked past the kitchen to her bedroom. Knocking on the door did not stir her. Maybe she really was asleep. He thought about leaving. The decision to do so would have been rude, and a vague sense of concern was forming the longer the silence went on.
Carefully, he turned the knob, giving the door a gentle push.
"Mrs. Samara...?"
The light of day was weakening, its dwindling warmth washed over the floor and a cushioned chair between threadbare curtains. Clément stepped quietly inside, stopping short of the bed that was in the darkest part of the room. He stood there, looking down at the sleeping woman.
After a moment, he pulled the rest of the white sheets over with respect.