Disclaimer: I don't own "A Discovery of Witches" or any of the show/book's characters, wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: I wanted to examine Baldwin's backstory a bit and his relationship with Philippe. This is really just a study about their father/son relationship and how much Baldwin misses him.
Warnings: family, death of a parental figure, mourning, loss, vampires, vampire turning, blood drinking, animal traits and behaviors, canon appropriate violence, drama, angst.
Inmarcesible
Chapter One
"I think I can come up this weekend, I just need to make sure someone can cover my shift. Debbie isn't working and owes me one - two actually."
It was late when he stepped out of his office. Late enough that the city had achieved the sort of quiet it only ever got when it was dark and past the final rush hour. The kind still punctuated by the rattle of passing cars and distant sirens.
There was a saying about some cities never sleeping.
The first one he'd known was Rome.
The wooden shudder of wagons banging between the cobblestone ruts.
The creak of leather and smell of horse.
He missed it sometimes.
The Empire in it's early days.
Before Rome had become just another cesspool.
"No, I'm taking it off! Hey. Yeah- I mean it. I miss you. Besides, it's tradition. We always go to the lake that weekend. I know Danny can't make it, but I'm coming. Oh, stop- I'm not letting you get all the fish!"
He looked towards the voice as he reached his car. Nodding as the driver hurried to open his door. There was a woman on the phone in her car across the street. Smelling like diner grease and cheap perfume. He recognized her from the restaurant a few blocks away. He'd overheard his staff talking about it, referring to it as a 'grease spoon' and a hanger-over cure. Not that he would know, it wasn't the type of establishment he frequented. Rather, she was familiar only by virtue of sharing his schedule.
She worked the graveyard shift and parked her car across from his building.
He often worked into the early morning, usually leaving while she was on her smoke break.
Ships in the night.
His driver started the car. But he paused, half in the door, listening.
"I love you too, dad. See you soon."
There was a smile on her face as she ended the call. Temporarily transforming the tired lines of her face. Lips still rouged in the creases where her lipstick had been gradually wiped away. Drowned out by caffeine and sweat - reeking of fries and synthetic vanilla fabric softener as she stared morosely at her reflection in the drop-down mirror. It was the kind of messy honesty he normally had little patience for when it came to warmbloods. Yet now, with just a few words heard, the condition was surprisingly relatable.
"I love you too, dad. See you soon."
He folded himself into his seat with less grace than usual. He wasn't one to be overtaken by sentiment, but for some reason her words sent him back. Aware he'd been carrying a rawness since the week prior - the anniversary of Philippe's death.
The woman sighed, exhaling early onset cancer as she bent down and lit a cigarette. Tarring the air with angry chemicals that singed his sinuses. He didn't bother with the moral question of how to tell her, she carried the heavy anapestic tang of the hospital already. A muscle in his cheek twitched. Depending how early they'd caught it, it might be her last year at the lake with her father.
"Drive," he said raggedly. More grateful than he could express when his driver didn't wait for him to buckle up. Leaving him to his thoughts as they pulled out into the street. Where it was best he be left alone, quite frankly.
It had shamed him in his youth, but he didn't remember much of his human father. The man had been gone from birth until after his fourth name day on campaign. Long enough for him to build a mental shrine on which to idolize him. Imagining all sorts of things as he played with his wooden Centurions and wobbly trebuchets in the dust around his home.
That his father was a great general.
A warrior.
That he'd teach him how to use a sword. How to fight.
That some day he'd be honored by the Emperor himself for his service.
He tended to that image for so long that when his father returned, the arrival of the stranger made his lips quiver. Dishonoring himself as he shed childish tears onto his mother's neck. Peaking at the hardened man through her copper braids. Seeing little to envy and even less of note. Certainly nothing like the vivid day-dreams he'd spent years courting.
"His name is Lucius. After your father..."
The man only nodded, the line of his chin jagged. Dark eyes flicking from his mother, to him, then down to the worn table between his hands. The time between spanned far too long before she ducked down to kiss him. Upsetting his seat on her hip as the tang of horse-sweat and iron came off the stranger in waves.
There were no words exchanged when his mother straightened and stepped away. Allowing him to rub his runny nose into her neck and grip her tighter. Already wondering when the stranger would leave. But after a moment, the man gestured for her to set him down and fill his wine.
They stared at each other with equal amounts of suspicion as she over-filled the stranger's cup with the sour-red. His father examining his progeny critically and he staring back with equal confusion. There were no officers' markings. No signs he was a brilliant fighter or a tactician. The man's armor was worn, his sword in need of a grinding wheel. And perhaps worse still, his purse was more empty than full.
In the end, the only kind word the stranger said to him was that he looked like he would grow up strong.
The man left again on campaign three weeks later and never returned. The moment news of his death reached them, his mother exhaled in shaky relief. As if even she hadn't known what to do with him. It hadn't been long before there were suitors vying for her attention. Some even bothering to entertain him with stories of battlefields and distant wars. But none took up the fraternal mantle he so desperately wanted as he grew out of baby fat and wooden toys.
He didn't understood until later.
And by then, he was a solider himself.
He had followed in his father's footsteps, then quickly outgrew them. Rising in the ranks of the Legion from the moment he'd been old enough to hold a sword. His skills on the battlefield - and for strategy - became known to the right people almost faster than he was comfortable with. Often making him the youngest person in the Command tent and the target of jealousy from his brothers. But it only made him more determined to prove himself. To expand the Empire for the glory of Rome. To bring order to a chaotic world and find meaning for himself within it as the sun set on the age of the primitive.
He had been born for this.
That much was certain.
His mother had been fiercely proud of him, and he'd doted on her until she was taken by sickness not long after he made rank. He'd always considered it a pity he couldn't take her name with him into the world. She'd been more worthy of having her name carried on after all. Not that he had any intention of taking a wife and fathering children. Not yet at least.
The world had been open to him after that, and with no ties to any city, he traveled far with the Legion. Finding his own way in the Empire of his birth until he came under the command of a man who would one day answer to the name Philippe De Clairmont. Though, back then, he was known as Imperial Legate Alcides Leontothymos. And right from the start, he knew there was something different about him.
At that time, the Imperial Legate was a title of means. Given to the men of families of high standing. But Philippe was a true military Legate in every semblance of the word. He fought and won wars. He pissed in the same latrines as the lowest of his foot soldiers and trained the men himself. He lived in the field, not in Rome. And was one of the most gifted riders and swordsmen he'd ever seen.
He was remarkable.
Ferocious.
Privileged.
Gifted.
Vicious.
Unearthly.
Arrogant.
Intelligent.
And- strange.
He watched his Commander closely as the months stretched into years. Sensing there was something he wasn't seeing. Something more. Something that itched. He couldn't explain it. But there was always a degree of suspicion there, an unbelievability whenever the man said or did something that seemed a bit too easy. Too perfect. Too strange. Sometimes the reason was on the tip of his tongue. Sometimes it seemed impossible the feeling could have a name.
No one else seemed to think the Legate was anything but an extraordinary Commander who actually gave a shite about his men. Maybe no one wanted to know more than that. Maybe it didn't matter. Only it did. To him. Because he wanted every part of Philippe he could get and the idea there was something more, something secret, was too much of a draw for him to let go of.
Not that he had much time for such musings. Under Philippe's command he was quickly promoted to First File and granted a seat at his stratagem table. Spending long nights in his company as their first campaign stretched into four. And all the while, Philippe never once cautioned him to remember his place. In fact, the man encouraged it when he started to read the texts of long dead Generals, philosophers and Kings. His loyalty and devotion had been fierce – almost pathological. Looking up to him as Philippe indulged every interest, every excuse just to be near. Seeming to know more than a little about everything as he allowed him the books in his private quarters. Keeping each other company long into the night as Philippe drank wine by the goblet but never once appeared drunk.
Any excuse to be in the Commander's company was jealously hoarded.
And in time, he flourished.
It did not go unnoticed.
Soon Philippe took his council to heart when they planned their tactics. Giving him more responsibility on and off the battlefield. Even gifting him with a beautiful white charger from his personal stables that he quickly named Sica. And in balance, Philippe never hesitated to hold him to an increasingly higher standard. Challenging his plans and strategies at every turn. Often making his blood run hot. Demanding perfection. Creativity. More.
And he utterly thrived.
That was when he truly understood the concept of a father's love.
Even if it was only ever one-sided.
At least he finally had someone who was worthy of the title.
The man could have been Pluto himself and he would have followed him to the death.
Indeed, he fully intended to, someday.
But it wasn't until a close call that left him with a slash on his back and a story to tell, that Philippe took him into the woods and changed his perception of the world and his place in it forever.
A/N: Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think. – There will be more to come.
Reference:
- Inmarcesible - unfathomable, everlasting.
- Legatus Augusti pro praetore, Imperial Legate: The commander of two or more legions. The Imperial Legate also served as the governor of the province in which the legions he commanded were stationed. Of Senatorial rank, the Imperial Legate was appointed by the Emperor and usually held command for 3 or 4 years. In the present time, an Imperial Legate would be called a General.
- Primus pilus, literally First File: The Primus Pilus was the commanding centurion of the first century, first cohort and the senior-most centurion of the entire legion. He was paid 60 times the base wage.
- Sica: roman word for 'blade'.