"Homecoming" is a fanfic based off the historical series written by Dorothy Dunnett – House of Niccolo. I LOVE LOVE LOVE this series as well as the Lymond Chronicles. Go READ THEM IF YOU HAVEN'T READ THEM! Don't read this one-shot 'cause it may spoil you about a few things.
This is a conversation between Thibeault de Fleury and Nicholas de Fleury. Everytime I read Caprice and Rondo, I have this overwhelming wish the two of them could have sat and talked. This is my homage to what I hoped their first meeting in heaven would be like.
Read this with the Gladiator OST and you hopefully will get the full effect that I was working toward.
p.s. I slipped a John Donne in there. I couldn't help myself! T_T Forgive me. He's the anachronistic element.
p.p.s. To people who are wondering what's up with Distortions In Time (my Loki fic)... I'M SO SO SO SORRY! I'M WORKING ON THE NEW CHAPTER. This just had to be written. (whispers) Sorry.
Homecoming
The gate beneath his hand was wooden with hinges of iron. Black iron which glinted with sharp shine. A gate. It was a small one, chest high, and his broad palm, his long fingers rested upon it momentarily, welcoming the rough feel of the wood. He raised his eyes to look beyond.
Beyond was a gently curving slope of grain. Wheat, he saw, and down the middle of the field, a small, brown footpath wended, making its way along the shortest trajectory to the far orchards. Or it was a forest.
He pushed. The wooden bars shifted silently, the hinges well oiled. John would have approved. John. John le Grant, Nicholas mused, the engineer of the Charetty company, would-have-been saviour of Constantinople and Trebizond. Would he be waiting? Nicholas mused. Nicholas had always assumed that where his journey's end, John would be there – with Astorre and Tobie and Thomas and the others. This, this was a surprise.
He was alone.
He pushed the gate wider and passed through. Nicholas's grey-eyed gaze swept over the fields again. Right and left they stretched, behind the fence and before it. To his left, the field ended where the path ran – into a deciduous forest of apple trees and lemon trees and elm and oak. The scent of sweetness and green mingled in the air. To his right, to his right stretched the nodding, gently bobbing heads of wheat. A rich, golden blanket which met a vivid, blue sky. A seemingly endless vista.
If he stared hard enough, Nicholas fancied he could see the faint smudge of something in the distance. Mountains? A thick forest? He could not tell. Instead, he found himself moving forward, feet following the narrow path which led to another forest. The Forest of Plenty.
From the garden of Heaven a western breeze blows through the leaves of my garden of earth; with a love like a huri I'll take mine ease, and wine! bring me wine, the giver of mirth!
There wasn't any sign of wine. Pity, Nicholas thought. Then, he thought not. Perhaps this one last journey would be better faced with all of his faculties in tact. The wheat bowed in the breeze, soft whiskers that tickled his hands as he moved forward. He alone brushing against the rows of soft golds and browns. In the end, he had been alone. It was disarming, rather discomfiting.
Once he arrived at the edge of the field, Nicholas took stock of his bearings once again. There was no obvious way other than forward and the path now led to a small wooden footbridge which crossed over a thin, clear brook, chattering gaily as it wound through its delineated grey-stoned road. How long would have to go? When would he arrive? Would he ever arrive or would this world also fade away from shadows and greys to the warmth of darkness? Would he arrive home, safely arrived in port.
A stray memory of Greek verse flitted into his head and out. Safe home, safe home in port... but oh! The joy upon the shore to tell your voyage-perils o'er! The prize, the prize secure! ….he may smile at troubles gone who sets the victor-garland on! Nicholas shook his head and a dimple marked his cheek as a sense of amusement at his own idiocy rose within him. Idiot Nicholas. Or not. A more sincere smile flitted across his face as he moved over the bridge and left behind the wheat field and the river and entered the orchards.
Wind rustled through the branches, shaking and quivering among the newly spouting tendrils of wood and leaf. Green, light and dark and golden, shifted as the unseen hand turned the leaves this way and that under the soft light of the sun which now dappled the road and the small hills before him. Wending his way past apple and cherry and pear and lemon trees, Nicholas stepped over root and rock and weed.
There should be bees, he thought. Bees and birds and ants and spiders and other things. People. Yet the air still hung silent about him as though everything had drawn breath. Rounding a jut of earth interwoven with hardy root, Nicholas also drew breath. Before him, a small dale spread outwards, the path, making its way through an open circle, a green, high-grassed meadow, passed a small gazebo before continuing onward and upwards out of the quiet valley. It wasn't the haunting, almost sacred quiet, the crowds of lily of the valley and columbines and marigolds and daisies and primroses all blending together in riotous colour which put to shame the best of the Charetty dyeworks, the picturesque architecture of the small ivy wreathed resting place – or the surprise of the scene itself.
No. There was someone. A face blurred within the darker shadows of the dome's trellis ceiling now mostly filled with climbing roses and ivy. The face of one who brought a myriad, a confusion, a torrent of memories to the forefront of Nicholas's mind. A dark room and a broad hand which he had kissed as a loving grandson, yet treated as a lowly servant. He had never held anger toward the silent figure whose face he had not had a chance to glimpse. And there had been another meeting. A meeting of minds. Gelis had spoken of it in detail only once or twice in the twilight of their years together. A meeting in at a monastery's hospice, a place of silence and a mute man. A mute man with large, grey, intelligent eyes and dimples and quick fingers and an even quicker mind.
I shall keep your work for my son, who will pass it to his: yours is an evergreen flourish.
...an evergreen flourish...
May your journey, when it comes, be a swift one, with happiness waiting, and friends.
A puzzle, a long night of intense concentration and a swift call to a messenger who had borne out his response with a heavy purse and a sheaf of words, the last words Nicholas could hope to send since his own plans, his own machinations had landed him in a land too far from that of his newly discovered like-minded family member: his grandfather.
He had lit the brazier and filled the room with the heady incense of drugs. It had all been a masquerade for Adelina's benefit. Adelina and Sophia, Jaak and Esota, Marian and Cornelis. Simon and Henry and Jordan. And Julius. There was so much to say. Would there be time?
Without further thought or a word, Nicholas's steps increased in speed, followed the suddenly sloping path and, confronted with (perhaps) the same brook now wending its way again alongside his road, crossed yet another small footbridge. It was only a minute or two, yet it seemed forever and when he arrived at the door to the circular gazebo, when the eyes of the waiting man turned finally to meet his, Nicholas found himself not only out of breath but also out of words.
A verse rose then, in the language of the desert, in the tongue of Uzum, an unwieldy translation from the original Persian. My life has gone From willfullness to disrepute, And I won't conceal, either, the joy That led me out toward laughter... Hafiz! Stay in the dangerous life that's yours. THERE you'll meet the face That dissolves fear. Moses, it was said, had not been allowed to see the face of God and had settled for His back, but here, Nicholas felt as though he had been gifted something he had never expected.
Oh ye of little faith!
But the mustard seed must have been there, he thought disjointedly, his foot setting on the lowest step.
"Ecce enim ego creo cælos novos, et terram novam: et non erunt in memoria priora, et non ascendent super cor. Sed gaudebitis et exultabitis usque in sempiternum in his, quæ ego creo: quia ecce ego creo Ierusalem exultationem, et populum eius gaudium." His grandfather finally broke the silence. "Or did you forget?"
"I must have," Nicholas said rather incoherently. "Perhaps I walked through the wrong door. What did They say again? '...etenim correxit orbem qui non movebitur iudicabit populos in aequitate laetentur caeli et exultet terra commoveatur mare et plenitudo eius'? Unto whom I sware in my wrath that they shoulde not enter into my reste."
His grandfather, Thibeault de Fleury in life, smiled then, cheeks dimpling and something flashed through his grey eyes. Nicholas sat then, elbows on his knees and frowned at the floor.
"Is that why you waited?" he finally asked.
"Yes." Thibeault stirred and added quietly. "I wanted this. It is, after all, a choice."
"A choice?"
"I needed... to make amends, to ask your forgiveness even though now I know it is too late, too late."
"I did not-"
"It is for me," Thibeault said quickly. "If it is only for me, forgive me. Forgive me."
"No. I – I understand. I am grateful." Nicholas smiled then. "I cannot tell you that your apology is unnecessary, make light of the burden to which you have held... Now," his brightening grey eyes met another matching pair of relieved ones, "now, I suppose, we can go together."
"Thank you." A pause. "Thank you."
"You must have waited a long time."
"Time has no meaning here." Another pause. Then: "But I am glad that your life was long and full. You lived to the end of your days and saw the line of your house blossom and it continues on even now."
It sounded like a question.
"I had a son, who married. He had a child as well. I have a young grand-daughter. Blue eyes, so vivid – like cornflower blue – such a colour you could not recreate in any dyework. God's masterpiece. Like... Henry."
Like Simon. Oddly, the thought did not even have the memory of a sting. The entire debacle was dimming and sinking into white – two golden heads together, arms clasping in death.
"Like Simon," Nicholas added in clarification, "and Lucia. The Semple heritage. That was – that is – that was how I knew the truth."
"Henry was Simon's child?" Thibeault asked.
"Mine. I had two sons. Henry and Jordan. Henry died as a son of Simon's within his father's arms. I tried... I tried to save him – them."
"But there is another. Jordan," Thibeault repeated. "That is a name I did not expect."
"I did not either," Nicholas admitted. "That was Gelis. In the end, he – Jordan – became Lord of Kilmirren and a Semple. The line will continue on. Through Sybilla. Last I heard she was in France with a Crawford. I thought it well."
"So they are happy."
"I hope," Nicholas smiled then, allowing a dimple to show for a second before disappearing. "That was their life. Mine was filled with sorrows and joys. I am content."
"I am glad."
Thibeault sat back and watched the leaves stir in the gentle breeze and Nicholas looked about and took stock of the grey-white marble upon which he sat, the graceful colonnades which rose upward, holding an iron domed trellis bearing now a glorious confusion of white roses. The rounded bases and stems were simple yet balanced and smooth. The upper entablature consisted of several scrolling embellishments topped by four faces on four sides: an eagle, a lion, an ox and a man. Seraphim with wings covered in eyes. Or were those the cherubims? At any rate, although the size was not glorious, the entire proportions of the circular wayside stop were a symphony to mathematics. Somewhere Donatello was crying. Or in heaven with a blessed chisel making gazebos for Purgatory.
"I heard that you sing." A half-question, half-statement.
Nicholas, turning to his grandfather, chuckled, "I know that you compose music. Have you composed something while you waited?"
"I did not wait," Thibeault glanced at his grandson amused. "As I said, time has no meaning. Yet, I have heard of your abilities."
"Heard?"
"Others pass by. There are others like me who hold a memory not willing to be released... and so they wait. As I have done."
"I thought you said time has no meaning."
"Waiting... in a manner of speaking," Thibeault said voice now tinged with a note of fond exasperation. "There are others like me who also pause in this in-between place in hopes of making restoration before completing the journey."
"I do not see them," Nicholas twisted about to peer past the strands of ivy and flowers. "I saw no one in the fields or in the orchard."
"You are not meant to, perhaps." Thibeault sighed. "But I was not only thinking of this half-life, but the past one, when I waited for the end, peacefully, and was given a gift in my latter years."
"Gelis," Nicholas guessed. "I have a lot to be thankful for; her, most of all."
"Indeed. A beauty and strong-willed."
"If she had not visited, I would never have known, never have surmised," Nicholas admitted. "She told you?"
"The details fade..." Thibeault's eyebrows knit together momentarily and then he shrugged. "Your wife, Gelis, or your doctor."
"Ihesu, for þe swetnes þat in þee is, Have mynde of me whan y hens wende, With stidfast truþe my wittis þou wis, And, lord, þou scheelde me from þe feende! For þi mercy forȝeue me my mys, Þat wickid werk my soule neuere schende, And lede me, lord, in-to þi blis, With þee to wone withoute eende." Nicholas paused. "Sorry. Would you prefer something closer to home? Rivière, fontaine et ruisseau..." The jester of Bruges, the banker of the world, the husband of Gelis and the father of Jordan Semple frowned. "Sorry... It is getting fuzzy."
"Portent, en livree jolie, Gouttes d'argent d'orfaverie, Chascun s'abille de nouveau: Le temps a laissié son manteau." Thibeault finished for his grandson. "All things will be lost in time – the unnecessary, the painful-"
"And all teares shalle be wyped from their eyen."
"Do not be afraid."
"I am not..." Nicholas trailed off.
He glanced again over at his grandfather. Thibeault de Fleury's hair was brown and his eyes were grey – a middle-aged man who appeared to have escaped time. Nicholas wondered if someone were to pass by, if the two of them would look like brothers. Perhaps not. There was something more handsome, more classically pleasing about his grandfather's cheekbones. Jaak. Jaak and Esota and Adelina. At that memory – a memory of darkness and hunger, of shouting and a rising and falling arm, of shackles and quiet comfort in the night, of eyes the colour of violets and a flaming hair of red. All of the colours blurred and sank away into the white until Nicholas felt nothing, submerging into peace and a growing understanding.
Whether they were ahead, whether they too waited at the end of his journey mattered not. The state of one's soul was a matter only between God and the one who came before His Judgement Seat. Nicholas had passed the test of fire with much dross but some greatness which glowed within the embers. Now, the past, Nicholas's ever precious burden was slowly carried away into the depths of time, relegated to where it belonged and joined to all of Nicholas's own misdeeds, never to plague him again.
And when the spirit of Hafiz has fled, Follow his bier with a tribute of sighs; Though the ocean of sin has closed o'er his head, He may find a place in God's Paradise.
He should be angry. He should stubbornly cling to what he had fought for so long. He should rage against the loss of what he had been for so long, but then he realized that perhaps he had released those burdens long ago for something better. Whoever shall cast love aside, shall lose everything. Now, Nicholas could see the reward of what he had cast off in life long ago. Hold onto love and let all else go. The greatest of these is love. Nicholas suddenly felt like singing but the words had not yet come to him.
Looking across, Nicholas's gaze was caught by Thibeault's and held.
Quand l'oeil aux champs est d'esclairs esblouy, Luy semble nuict quelque part qu'il regarde: Puis peu à peu de clarté resjouy, Des soubdains feuz du Ciel se contregarde.
"Car seulement pour t'adorer je vis."
For only to adore you I live.
"Tell that to Him," Thibeault said, "yourself. And to Gelis."
"My other soul, the fix'd foot," quoted Nicholas suddenly breathless. "She is here?"
"You think she would not be?"
Nicholas found himself rising to his feet and in his chest swelled something indescribable: joy as golden and constant as sunlight and energy as a young child greeting the dawn with never lessening excitement.
"Is there much singing up ahead?" He asked then, with rising hilarity, "because I may have forgotten everything but the glorias."
"It is like riding a horse," his grandfather clapped him on the back and rising. "We can go together."
They went together, slowly yet quickly. Time has no meaning here, Thibeault had said. It seemed like nothing and forever and a day when the two, chattering on matters of music and art and mathematics, broke free of the orchard and looked down at a city spread before them in a valley. Working their way down to a gate with doors which dwarfed the glory of Trebizond and the grace of Venice and the ingenuity of the Flanders, the two men continued their discussion and eventually found something to sing. A new song for which they half-knew, half-understood the words. A new song.
When they reached the road, Nicholas realized that the paving stones themselves were laced with rare and precious gems and glittering metals for which he had no name. Crossing a bridge of yet another great river (was it the brook now flowing as a river to a throne?), Nicholas's heart sped up as he caught sight of a small throng waiting at the doors.
Waiting for him. He saw a blur of familiar, youthful faces: contented Marian and stalwart Bel and young Jordan and restored Robin and energetic Kathi and graceful Anselm. And there was Gelis – with sparkling, joyous, pale blue eyes and flaxen hair.
For by love, laws are made, kingdoms governed, cities ordered, and the state of the commonwealth is brought to its proper goal.
Crions, chantons, a lie chere, bien vienne.
And there was his mother.
Ecce tabernaculum Dei cum hominibus, et habitabit cum eis. Et ipsi populus ejus erunt, et ipse Deus cum eis erit eorum Deus: et absterget Deus omnem lacrimam ab oculis eorum: et mors ultra non erit, neque luctus, neque clamor, neque dolor erit ultra, quia prima abierunt.
...and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be anymore pain: for the former things are passed away...
And there was his mother.
Nicholas loves Kathi and Gelis and Marian and Umar and everyone, but we all know he'd be so pumped to see his mama. So there you go. I hope someone enjoys this fic and has knowledge of the book series and can do some ugly sobbing with me.
Following are references to the Latin, French and etc that are used in the one-shot. Most of the translations aren't mine.
Once again, sorry about the Donne. I just think of that poem whenever I think of Nicholas and Gelis.
References:
Revelations 21:1-4: And I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first heaven and the first earth were passed away; and there was no more sea. And I, John, saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down from God out of heaven, prepared as a bride adorned for her new husband. And I heard a great voice out of heaven saying, Behold the tabernacle of God is with men, and He will dwell with them, and they shall be His people, and God Himself shall be with them, and be their God. And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be anymore pain: for the former things are passed away.
Isaiah 65:16-18: By that name, whoever is blessed on earth, will be blessed in God. Amen! And whoever swears on earth, will swear by God. Amen! For the past anguishes have been delivered into oblivion, and they have been hidden from my eyes. For behold, I create the new heavens and the new earth. And the former things will not be in memory and will not enter into the heart. But you will be glad and exult, even forever, in these things that I create. For behold, I create Jerusalem as an exultation, and its people as a joy.
Psalm 57:11: Unto whom I sware in my wrath that they shoulde not enter into my reste.
Joseph of the Studium, "The Return Home" (translated from Greek)
Safe home, safe home in port!
—Rent cordage, shattered deck,
Torn sails, provisions short,
And only not a wreck:
But oh! the joy upon the shore
To tell our voyage-perils o'er!
The prize, the prize secure!
The athlete nearly tell;
Bare all he could endure,
And bare not always well:
But he may smile at troubles gone
Who sets the victor-garland on!
Hafez, excerpt from "The Danger" (translated from Persian)
This is how we wake, with winespills
On the prayer rug, and even the tavernmaster
is loading up. My life has gone
From willfullness to disrepute,
And I won't conceal, either, the joy
That led me out toward laughter.
Hafiz! Stay in the dangerous life that's yours.
THERE you'll meet the face
That dissolves fear.
Hafez, excerpt from "From The Garden of Heaven" (translated from Persian)
And when the spirit of Hafiz has fled,
Follow his bier with a tribute of sighs;
Though the ocean of sin has closed o'er his head,
He may find a place in God's Paradise.
Anonymous
Sire in þes two comaundementes of loue is al goodnesse fulfild· & al euel eschewed· & so þe lyuynge of oure soule & þe riȝt weye to heuene is to be leuyn stedefastliche in crist & to kepe þes two comaundementes of loue.
(my translation) Sire in these two commandments of love is all goodness fulfilled and all evil put off [...] and the right way to heaven is to be steadfast in Christ and to keep these two commandments of love.
Anonymous
Ihesu, for þe swetnes þat in þee is,
Have mynde of me whan y hens wende,
With stidfast truþe my wittis þou wis,
And, lord, þou scheelde me from þe feende! 116
For þi mercy forȝeue me my mys, [page 20]
Þat wickid werk my soule neuere schende,
And lede me, lord, in-to þi blis,
With þee to wone withoute eende. 120
AMEN.
(my translation) Jesus, for the sweetness that is in Thee,
Have mind of me when I go from here
With steadfast truth my (knowledge?) is yours,
And, Lord, shield me from the fiend (Satan)!
For your mercy forgive me my sins,
Those wicked works in my soul never shunned,
And lead me, Lord, into your bliss
with you to (one) without end.
Charles D'Orleans, "Le temps a laissé son manteau"
Rivière, fontaine et ruisseau
Portent, en livree jolie,
Gouttes d'argent d'orfaverie,
Chascun s'abille de nouveau :
Le temps a laissié son manteau.
(translation) Rivers, fountains and brooks
Wear, as handsome garments,
Silver drops of goldsmith's work;
Everyone puts on new clothing:
The season removed his coat.
Maurice de Sceve, excerpt from "Délie XXIV"
Ne me pers plus en veue coustumiere.
Car seulement pour t'adorer je vis.
(translation) I no longer get lost in regular sights.
For only to adore you I live.
John Donne, "A Valediction Forbidding Mourning"
Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to aery thinness beat.
If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two ;
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th' other do.
And though it in the centre sit,
Yet, when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th' other foot, obliquely run ;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.