Notes: ...okay. This is a lot of conjecture, pretty much sprung from a single flashback scene. Also, if it comes across as trying to be terribly pretentious, I do apologise; it's not intentional, it just turned out that way. :p
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"Where are you going?"
His hand freezes, fingers already clasped around the cold brass of the door handle. Ah. He'd thought she would have been working on her embroidery at this time of the morning; it had been so long since she'd become a person of habit, clinging to those thing she knew and could keep with her.
Which is why…
"To the river, Mother." It pains him to keep his voice so calm and detached, but it's necessary. He turns as he speaks, and his gaze is drawn to the solitary figure standing silhouetted in the doorway on the other side of the room. She's so gaunt these days; she looks tired and old, and he can't stop feeling guilty.
Not that she'd want him to.
Our father, who art in heaven; hallowed be Thy name…
She draws her hands together and takes a step forward into the light. Her blonde hair looks pale and bleached out, and there's a kind of permanent sadness in her eyes that he almost can't bear to look at.
"Franz, oh… my Franz… you don't really need to go, do you? You have to stay here," her voice hardens, slipping into a colder, almost commanding tone, "-- with me."
"I can't," his grip tightens on the handle, and as always, he sends her a pleading look, hoping in vain that perhaps this time she'll understand. "I've agreed to meet a friend - I have to go, I'm sorry."
And then he's turning, opening the heavy door as she begins to shout after him, as though her screams will somehow bring him back and make them a normal family again.
Franz steps outside into the hazy heat of early summer, and though he pulls the door shut behind him he can still hear her, those same words spilling out of her troubled mouth. He's learned by now, though, that humouring her only makes things worse. But it still doesn't stop that slow, guilty sick feeling which creeps up on him every time he walks away from the house, leaving her anguish in his wake.
It's been a long time now; eight difficult years of blame and responsibility. Of waking up, and every morning praying to God that today would be the day his mother might find some kind of peace or acceptance. It's been a long time now, but Franz still prays.
…Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven…
Dried sticks and stray dead blossoms crunch beneath him as he walks down the uneven stone path towards the main road. The grass of their garden is patchy and has yellowed under the beginnings of the dry summer sun; it is not looked after, now, and even the prevalent weeds which wind their way through the flowerbeds, strangling those few surviving pale blooms are wilting.
The house behind him shows its age; thin cracks spider out along the walls, and the thick wooden door is worn and battered. Their family has never been that affluent; they are of the old aristocracy - an admired name, a well-established family-tree, rife with connections. The money, though, is long gone, and all the d'Epinays can hope for is an alliance with a nouveau-riche, desperate for a noble, well-regarded name.
After all, Franz thinks, as he reaches out for the heavy handle of the iron gate, rusting around the lock, isn't that what his engagement to Valentine de Villefort is all about? He shakes his head and his mouth tightens, just a little. He doesn't… mind. In a sense, he is resigned to it; what else could be expected?
And… it will make his mother happy. This is reason enough for Franz.
He gently shuts the gate behind him, and gazes down the quiet street; the tall, straight trees which line either side of the road are still green, and the warm morning sunlight tumbles through their leaves and dapples the dusty pavement.
He had agreed to the engagement without giving it much thought; truth be told, he'd had little real choice in the matter - and it was hardly as though Franz had any real preference when it came to potential wives. His mother believed it would please his father, and that looking down on them from Heaven, he would give Franz and Valentine his blessing.
Oh, he still feels so guilty.
…give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses…
He crosses the road and pushes his hair behind his ears, tilting his head back a little as a gentle breeze escapes past him down the street. Was it his sin? He still doesn't know. Franz hasn't been to confession in a very long time; but he went, years ago, and the priest absolved him.
No, my child, you were not at fault.
But every day until the funeral, his mother had begged him to kneel down on their hard wooden floor, and told him to pray for forgiveness, and had him counting beads and reciting Hail Marys until it became a mess of meaningless rituals.
…as we forgive those who trespass against us…
Franz turns a corner and catches a glimpse of the Seine glittering in the sunlight. The Pont de Suresnes bridge stretches out ahead, arcing over the water as though pointing the way to Paris. Franz has, at least in his own mind, made peace with his mother. It troubles him to know that he must be a living reminder to her of all that she has lost - but he realises that on some level, she does want him there, and that even if she doesn't say it, she blames herself for what happened far more than she does him. He can see it in her eyes, and in the way she shouts at him and tugs on his arm, simultaneously resenting and needing.
They both know he can't be with her forever, and they're reaching a point where soon, something will have to be resolved.
He reaches the apex of the bridge, and a bright flash of sunlight off metal attracts his gaze down to the bank on the opposite side. A boy stands facing the river; helmet tucked under his arm, brown hair tousled and eyes closed in an expression of sheer contentment.
Franz smiles, and feels his heart lighten.
…and lead us not into temptation; but deliver us from evil…
Albert suddenly looks up, and spots Franz with a cheerful shout, waving happily, motorbike propped up precariously against the tree behind him. He hurries down towards his friend, the sunlight warm on his back, and all at once Albert is grinning and words are tumbling out of his mouth as fast as he can manage, and he's grabbing Franz's arms and dragging him towards the bike.
Petals are floating lazily down the Seine, and the soft summer breeze weaves throughout the trees. But Franz is oblivious to both: clutching Albert as they speed into Paris, the wind whipping through his hair, his guilt and worries pushed from his mind in a way that prayer could never manage. Franz knows he's a sinner no matter what the priest may say - but when he's here with Albert, all else becomes inconsequential.
…Amen.