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Gwendolyn has always known that things are different for them. For her family. For her, really.
Gwendolyn is only nine but she knows- can see it in the cherry red of her skin and the way sometimes, not often but sometimes, strangers look at her askance. Like she’s a food they don’t like (she has a lot of those. She doesn’t like carrots or lettuce no matter how much Auntie Keyleth tries to get her to eat them).
She’d asked her mother about it once, wondering why she looked so different from everyone else. Why she had a tail (one that was so good for playing pranks with), why she had horns (like a crown Vesper often said, dark eyes glittering). Mother had sat her down, quite plainly with her father, and told her that she was perfect just the way she was. She had never done anything bad, she wasn’t wrong. And Papa had nodded, something very sad in his eyes, brushing a hand down her hair and telling her that there was nothing wrong with her at all. She was just different and different was wonderful and beautiful and good.
But that wasn’t what she’d asked. They told her that all the time. What she’d asked was why.
It frustrated her, to be missing the answers she wanted. Papa was usually so good at giving her answers and she was very tempted to ask again, but something stayed her tongue and she didn’t press. It was probably one of those Grown Up Things again. Where they said they’d tell you when you were older. Auntie Cass had a lot of those. Sometimes if she pressed her advantage and made very big sad eyes she could get what she wanted.
Sometimes.
But Papa had gotten that faraway look in his eyes, his hands trembling, and Gwendolyn had decided it wasn’t really worth it.
She wished she had asked.
Papa became distant after that conversation, the faraway look in his eyes spreading to his arms and legs, taking him around their home in strange distant circles.
After a few hours of this, Gwendolyn decided that enough was enough and, slamming the book she’d been struggling to concentrate on down, she wiggled her way off of the chaise longue. It was a book that Vax’ildan had been reading and one he’d teased about being too advanced for her age. And sure there were some words she didn’t understand but she knew what was happening! Mostly.
She pursed her lips, poking her head around the corner of the door as Papa passed by the library yet again. He drifted, like the curtains when Mama left the windows open, lighter than air.
Mama usually would’ve found him and pressed kisses to his chin until he came down from the clouds, but Mama had been called away into the city. So it was obviously up to her to find her Papa and bring him home today.
Gwendolyn tiptoed after him, reaching out to tug on his fingers when they got close enough. She was careful, of course, of the leather glove on his hand. She’d seen his palm once without it, she'd seen what looked to be something old and knotted and hurt- she knew sometimes it ached.
Papa looked down at her gentle touch, his mind struggling to come back down to Exandria. Gwendolyn waited patiently for him, fingers wrapped around his. She rather liked his hands. They had neat little bumps and ridges and funny lines. She could trace them with her fingers for hours. And he was always quick to hold her, laughing, warm, and safe- to fix her toys and things with those same hands.
Papa found her finally, blinking owlishly behind his glasses- a look that reminded her so much of Leona for a moment that she laughed. His brows furrowed with a fond confusion, “Gwendolyn, dear, is something the matter?”
“No,” she giggled, swinging his hand, feeling his fingers wrap around hers in response, “I came to walk with you. You keep turning round and round. I think you need me to give you directions,” she pronounced the word carefully, “Where are you going?”
Papa glanced out the broad window at the end of the hallway, the window seat filled with pillows, Whitestone spread out below and the sun tree branching off in the distance.
He was going far away again.
He sucked in his breath suddenly, hand tightening around hers, “I’m… I believe I’m lost, dear Gwendolyn. I’m looking for something and I can’t seem to find it.”
Gwendolyn beamed, tugging on his hand until he looked down at her again, “I can help you find it! And you can always get Mama too. She’s so good at finding things. And so’s Trinket! And Charlie could help even though he’s just a baby and still learning.”
His brow softened with deep endless affection, “Thank you, Gwendolyn. But I believe this is something I have to find by myself.”
Ah. One of those Grown Up Things again. She blew a breath out, exasperated. She was getting very tired of this nonsense. Papa was usually so levelheaded. She didn’t know why he was being so silly now.
He seemed to sense her frustration and, taking a few steps, sat down on the window seat, patting the cushion beside him. Gwendolyn clambered onto his lap with a huff, resting her head against his shoulder and indulging in a good pout.
Papa chuckled, pulling her close into a hug, very warm and very safe, “What’s wrong?”
Gwendolyn sulked, burying her face in his cravat and breathing in his comforting book-smoke smell, “You never tell me anything.”
“Oh?” His voice was soft, no judgment there, no vindication. Just a simple query, gentle and curious.
His chin rested on her head, scratchy-soft. She picked at the shiny gold buttons on his vest, emblazoned with the De Rolo crest, “Well… you go away a lot.”
“I do?”
He stared down at her and she amended helpfully, “You don’t leave but you go away. Like-“ she searched for the words and fell short, peering up at him, “Like you’re sleeping standing up. And with your eyes open!”
“Ah. Yes,” his face did something funny then, all pulled downwards, “That does happen sometimes.”
Gwendolyn frowned, but continued to air her grievances, “And you lie a lot.”
He glanced down at her again, teasing, “Oh, I do do I?”
Gwendolyn’s eyes narrowed, unamused by her Papa’s wry smile, “You do. You and Mama say it’s wrong but you do it a lot.” Her tone was full of reproach, “And sometimes…”
She swallowed, remembering the events of last night- the real reason she’d stopped asking why, “Sometimes,” she played with his hand, moving his fingers experimentally, “You start screaming in your sleep,” his face scrunched, all pinched and upset and very very sad, “And Aunt Cass tells us to go to bed but there’s something wrong,” Gwendolyn’s brows furrowed, carefully watching the way her father’s white head bowed with shame as she asked plaintively, “What’s wrong?”
It took him a long time to answer. Long enough that she squirmed around and pushed his face up out of his chest so she could see it.
His glasses were all blurred and mussed and Gwendolyn carefully eased them off of his face, admiring the gold frames before she delicately placed them in her lap. They were like Leona’s but with extra glass and little lines. She looked up and frowned at his crumpled face, taking it in her small hands, “Papa, you know it’s okay to cry. Mama tells that to Vax all the time.”
He laughed, all soggy and sad, breath hitching, “Yes, dear. Your mother is, as always, quite right.”
Gwendolyn frowned, watching his brows furrow as he squinted at her, tears still dripping down his cheeks, onto her fingers, “Then why are you hiding?”
“Because,” he choked on another wet laugh, “I’m afraid your father is being rather foolish.”
She waited, impatient as he softened, his words thick, a hand drying his eyes, “You have a right to know. But it is a very ugly story. And very cruel for one so young. I suppose I have been rather selfish keeping it from you because it will change what you think of m-“
Gwendolyn frowned, watching the telltale signs of her father rambling on and on forever. She didn’t mind it usually- when it was about his clocks. She liked to do that, actually, to sneak into his workshop and listen to him mutter and hum for hours and hours about gears and metal. But she didn’t have time for that now, not when he was so sad, “Papa.”
He paused, bright blue eyes wide, blurred by tears. She liked his eyes. She had dark hair and pretty pointed ears like her mother but she had her father’s eyes, “What’s the story?”
“Well… I suppose it began a long time ago,” Gwendolyn settled again, playing with his glasses that were still in her lap. She set them on the edge of her nose, the world twisting strangely as he talked, “You know your grandmother and grandfather?”
Gwendolyn nodded, “Grandpa Fred and Grandma Jo? In the big picture in the front hallway?” She gestured widely with her hands.
He laughed a little, “Yes, indeed. And all your other aunts and uncles.”
Gwendolyn kicked her legs, squinting up at him through the blurry glass, “You’re in the picture too. But you’re… you’re small. Like Leona and Wolfe’s age.”
His voice was dry, one eyebrow arching, “The twins are bigger than you, my dear.”
Gwendolyn crossed her arms, “Maybe. But they’re smaller than Vesper. And you. And Uncle Grog. They’re just as big as the you in the picture.”
“I cannot argue with that.”
She cocked her head, watching his face shift and change with the weight of the Grown Up Things. They had to be very heavy, didn’t they? She asked, quiet, “Are you sad because they’re not here anymore?”
He seemed taken aback for a moment, “What?”
Gwendolyn lifted the glasses off of her face, admiring how they glittered in the light. She’d left smudges on them, unforgivably big fingerprints marring their pristine surface, “They’re not here anymore. And you and Aunt Cass can’t see them.”
“Hm,” her father’s face looked almost barren- empty without the glass as he ran a hand down his face, rubbing his bearded chin with his long knobby fingers, “Yes, that’s one way of putting it.”
She began cleaning his glasses, using the hem of her velvet dress to do the trick. Her father cleared his throat but before he could tell her not to dirty her dress, she asked curiously, “Why did they leave?”
He slumped a little, “That’s part of the story, dear. They didn’t want to leave. But ah, a very bad man and woman made them leave Cass and I alone.”
Gwendolyn paused in her cleaning, eyes wide, “Forever?”
“Forever.”
She looked down at his glasses, thinking. What would she do if someone made sure that she could never see her mother and father again? Mama who always held her tight and pressed laughing, loving kisses to her head and horns- Papa who fixed all her toys and said she was the best invention of all (and he had a lot of brilliant inventions so that was pretty amazing all on its own). Vesper with her pretty white hair who was the smartest person in the world, Vax’ildan who was the funniest and the kindest of them all and Leona and Wolfe who were… well, pretty annoying- but they gave her piggyback rides and snuck her chocolates before dinner when it wasn’t allowed so they were okay.
She would cry a lot if they all went away forever and ever. The thought made her eyes sting. No wonder Papa looked heavy if he was carrying the memory of that around. There had been so many people in the picture. She knew because she read their names every time she passed through that hall since she’d first learned the alphabet.
There was Grandpa Fredrick and Grandma Johanna, then Percy who was Papa and then her Uncle Julius, Aunt Vesper, Uncle Oliver, Aunt Whitney, Aunt Cassandra (who didn’t like to look at the picture very much), and finally Uncle Ludwig. Uncle Ludwig looked to be as tall as she was. Though, she supposed, he’d probably be much taller now if he’d grown as much as her Papa had since that picture was first painted.
Papa was looking at the sun tree again, sadder than she’d seen him in a long time. Almost as if he wasn’t looking at the sun tree anymore. Not really.
She asked hesitantly, a little afraid, “What happened to the bad man and the bad woman?”
He seemed knocked loose from his thoughts, “I um. Made sure they couldn’t hurt anybody else. That they… that they couldn’t take away anyone else’s family.”
“Oh, like when Mama took out her bow and shot the man trying to sneak into Leona and Wolfe’s bedroom?”
That had been a wild and exciting night. There had been yelling and shouting and the man had been bleeding everywhere. Gwendolyn probably should’ve been more scared but Leona and Wolfe had been laughing so hard about it (he had apparently tripped over the traps they seemed so fond of setting everywhere) and Papa had held her tight the whole time.
After all, what could possibly hurt her when her father was there?
He flushed, unaware of her thoughts, “Er, essentially.”
Gwendolyn finished cleaning the glasses, satisfied with their sparkle. She placed them on the edge of her father’s nose, smoothing back his white hair over it, her curious fingers lingering on his round ears, nothing at all like hers or any of her siblings really. They were special and just his. Like her scarlet skin.
His smile was still sad and Gwendolyn’s mouth twisted, “You don’t have to be sad anymore. You took care of the bad people. They won’t take us away.”
He didn’t answer her for a long while, mouth working on words, like when Trinket took forever to chew.
Finally he folded, pressing a kiss to her forehead, right on the crown of her head, “Oh my dear Gwendolyn, you’re as perceptive as Vex’ahlia.” He brushed her hair back from her face gently, “Thank you.”
He was still sad and she growled a little with frustration, “Is that it?”
He acquiesced, telling her the truth as she’d requested, “There is more to the story, I’m afraid.”
She blinked, brows furrowing, lips pursing, still not understanding. This Grown Up Stuff was super complicated, “Then why are you sad?”
He ran a hand through his hair, evasive, “I made a very bad decision. I did something very bad in order to win. And I shouldn’t have done it.”
Gwendolyn knew all about that. Sometimes when Vax was being annoying about a game, she’d cheat just a little to win. She had special magic, after all, and sometimes she’d use it for mischief. It was wrong, but also very very satisfying, “What did you do?”
She wondered if her Papa had cheated at a game was well. Though she couldn’t imagine him playing games with the people who took her grandmother and grandfather away.
He looked like it pained him to speak, ashamed, sad, and a little broken. Like he knew very well he’d done something very wrong, “I… I hurt people.”
Oh she’d done that sometimes. They all had at one point or another, “Did you say sorry?”
He laughed, dry, “Yes, I suppose in a way I did.”
That always fixed the problem. An apology and then a hug and an ‘I forgive you’ either now or a few days later, and then they were all alright. Her brows furrowed, trying to understand, “Then what’s wrong?”
“I… I am still paying the price for it,” at her quizzical look he started again, “Do you know how when the twins thought it would be a fine idea to make a snowman in their bedroom?”
Yes, Gwendolyn did remember. Leona and Wolfe had let snow into their bedroom and they’d made snowmen on the bed! It had been the funniest thing in the world. Mama had been spitting mad when she found all of her children in the middle of a snowball fight in their ruined soaking room, covered in damp snow with wet fingers and red cheeks. Papa had burst into tears of laughter and that had made Mama’s fury break into hysterical giggles.
When she nodded, he continued, “And then they had to clean it up? And for weeks afterwards the room was damp in places and it stunk?”
Gwendolyn also remembered that. There had been murmurs of wet rot and Auntie Keyleth had to come over and fix it, green eyes dancing with laughter (and vague disapproval whenever Aunt Cass looked at her). Even now, the smell sometimes still lingered.
Papa was still talking, a hand adjusting his glasses, “It’s like that except instead of just me dealing with a messy bedroom… You also have to deal with it. I messed up and- and hurt you. Now there is nothing wrong with you, nothing at all.”
He gave her a stern look, earnest, voice cracking, hands clenching into fists by his side, “But it will make things harder. You are a blessing, I want you to remember that first and foremost. I just- I’m sorry,” He wilted a little, “You are a treasure, a blessing, Gwendolyn. You deserve the world and sometimes… sometimes I am afraid that I took that away from you.”
Gwendolyn decided to say what her Mama and Auntie Cass liked to say a lot, “Percival Frederickstein Von Musel Klo- Klossowski De Rolo the III,” and she preened when she said it all right, just like the plaque in the picture, her father’s face wide and astonished and a little bit proud, “You are the smartest idiot in-“ she searched for a big enough place, whatever Mama usually said, “On this plane.”
His lips quirked up at that, his cheeks still marred by tear tracks, “You have been spending far too much time with your mother.”
Gwendolyn grinned even if he still seemed a little sad. She was beginning to realize that maybe being a Grown Up Thing meant the sadness wouldn’t ever really go away. And that was okay.
But, right here, right now, she could still try just one last thing. Because whenever she did something bad, and said sorry, there was still one last step.
Gwendolyn leaned forward, taking her Papa’s head in her hands again, his scruffy beard tickling her fingers. She stretched upwards and pressed a small kiss to the crown of his white hair- just as he’d done to her, “Whatever it was, Papa…”
He stared at her, surprised at the gesture. Gwendolyn couldn’t contain the love she felt then for his funny face and big glasses and snow white hair and scarred hands, odd things that attracted attention almost as much as she did sometimes.
She wiped the wetness on his face away with her small thumbs, finishing her sentence with a sad smile, just like her Papa’s, “…I forgive you.”