butter pecan and strawberry
Story: Timeless { backstory | index }
Title: Distance
Rating: G
Challenge: Strawberry #10: mask, Butter Pecan #2: sharp
Toppings/Extras: none
Wordcount: 569
Summary: Edward Ashdown breaks some news to his mother.
Notes: I must write more about my so-called protagonist. This contrasts quite a lot with my other piece for today… er, yeah, this is what Ashdown’s like with people he really doesn't like.
Edward Ashdown sat in his usual seat in the parlour, pale blue eyes glossy and blank as he sipped from a teacup. He was lost in thought as he so often was, only just about managing to portray the smallest of polite smiles while at the same time exuding the atmosphere of one not enjoying their present company. Lady Isobel Ashdown, his mother, frowned at him across the room.
“The New World?” she asked bleakly. “Are you certain about this, Edward? It seems a little exuberant for your tastes.”
The little statue-boy she called her son turned his head to face her for the first time, looking as serene and as unruffled as ever, and impenetrably cold. Since Rosalind had died, he had scarcely spoken to her, instead simply sat opposite to her with a small, taciturn smile and unseeing eyes.
“You do not know me, Mother,” he said calmly, as if this were a perfectly acceptable thing to say. Then he stood up and placed his teacup and saucer on a small side-table, knowing that a servant would be along to sweep it away the moment it became polite to do so. Her son’s gaze twitched over towards his aide and he gave the smallest of nods. Mr Prowse strode away to open the door.
“Is it because of James?” Isobel asked, clasping cadaverous fingers around the back of a chair to stop herself from striding across the room and shaking her boy by the shoulders. He was still a child in her eyes, and perhaps rightfully so; the boy was just nineteen.
“No,” he said, excruciatingly at peace with the cold expanse of distance he had purposely placed between them. “You know perfectly well what I think of Father.”
Isobel wondered why it was that Edward had taken the very, very worst traits of both of his parents and incubated them lovingly for so long: raised their flaws from fledgling evils to the deep cold that resided behind his sharp eyes. He seemed determined to outdo them both in regards to being a generally bad person.
This was not a good thing.
“You cannot simply go gallivanting off, you do not have the resources,” Isobel replied through gritted teeth.
Edward blinked at her brightly.
“Not yet,” he said.
“Edward,” she responded, appalled. The two of them had never gotten along swimmingly, but that was what was expected. What she read into his statement, however, sent chills to her bone. “Are you referring to my impending death?”
It was just like her to be blunt. Her son tilted his head slightly, like an animal coming across something unfamiliar. There was clinical interest there but not a lot more.
“No, Mother,” he said. “I do not resent you quite that much.”
“Remember you still have a lot to learn about the world.”
Her automaton of a son’s expression did not change. She was starting to really hate that smile.
“Of course,” he said politely. “Good day, Mother.”
He strode out of the door to the parlour, already tugging a pair of gloves onto his slender harpsichordist’s hands. From the door, Mr Prowse shot her an almost apologetic look-which she waved off agitatedly-before he closed the door quietly behind himself and his master. She could just about hear the two of them departing, and after a while she heard stirrings of the carriage wheels against the gravel drive.
Title: Distance
Rating: G
Challenge: Strawberry #10: mask, Butter Pecan #2: sharp
Toppings/Extras: none
Wordcount: 569
Summary: Edward Ashdown breaks some news to his mother.
Notes: I must write more about my so-called protagonist. This contrasts quite a lot with my other piece for today… er, yeah, this is what Ashdown’s like with people he really doesn't like.
Edward Ashdown sat in his usual seat in the parlour, pale blue eyes glossy and blank as he sipped from a teacup. He was lost in thought as he so often was, only just about managing to portray the smallest of polite smiles while at the same time exuding the atmosphere of one not enjoying their present company. Lady Isobel Ashdown, his mother, frowned at him across the room.
“The New World?” she asked bleakly. “Are you certain about this, Edward? It seems a little exuberant for your tastes.”
The little statue-boy she called her son turned his head to face her for the first time, looking as serene and as unruffled as ever, and impenetrably cold. Since Rosalind had died, he had scarcely spoken to her, instead simply sat opposite to her with a small, taciturn smile and unseeing eyes.
“You do not know me, Mother,” he said calmly, as if this were a perfectly acceptable thing to say. Then he stood up and placed his teacup and saucer on a small side-table, knowing that a servant would be along to sweep it away the moment it became polite to do so. Her son’s gaze twitched over towards his aide and he gave the smallest of nods. Mr Prowse strode away to open the door.
“Is it because of James?” Isobel asked, clasping cadaverous fingers around the back of a chair to stop herself from striding across the room and shaking her boy by the shoulders. He was still a child in her eyes, and perhaps rightfully so; the boy was just nineteen.
“No,” he said, excruciatingly at peace with the cold expanse of distance he had purposely placed between them. “You know perfectly well what I think of Father.”
Isobel wondered why it was that Edward had taken the very, very worst traits of both of his parents and incubated them lovingly for so long: raised their flaws from fledgling evils to the deep cold that resided behind his sharp eyes. He seemed determined to outdo them both in regards to being a generally bad person.
This was not a good thing.
“You cannot simply go gallivanting off, you do not have the resources,” Isobel replied through gritted teeth.
Edward blinked at her brightly.
“Not yet,” he said.
“Edward,” she responded, appalled. The two of them had never gotten along swimmingly, but that was what was expected. What she read into his statement, however, sent chills to her bone. “Are you referring to my impending death?”
It was just like her to be blunt. Her son tilted his head slightly, like an animal coming across something unfamiliar. There was clinical interest there but not a lot more.
“No, Mother,” he said. “I do not resent you quite that much.”
“Remember you still have a lot to learn about the world.”
Her automaton of a son’s expression did not change. She was starting to really hate that smile.
“Of course,” he said politely. “Good day, Mother.”
He strode out of the door to the parlour, already tugging a pair of gloves onto his slender harpsichordist’s hands. From the door, Mr Prowse shot her an almost apologetic look-which she waved off agitatedly-before he closed the door quietly behind himself and his master. She could just about hear the two of them departing, and after a while she heard stirrings of the carriage wheels against the gravel drive.