Come lift up your voices all grief to refrain (for we may or might never all meet here again)
Part I
July 1990
De Vienne Summer Estate
Asher awakens with his face resting on a book, the screeching of seagulls having summoned him from the depths of dreams back into reality. It takes him a moment to remember where he is, not asleep at his university desk, but asleep at his desk at the Summer Villa. A noticeable difference for this desk is smaller and smells faintly of the sea, like every other item in this house. Sighing, he straightens, dragging fingers through his hair and wincing when all they encounter are tangles. The call of birds draws his gaze to the window, and he finds it open, a flimsy curtain swaying slowly in the breeze. He goes to it, intending to close the window and preserve his sanity for a little longer, but his attention is captured by the figures down below.
Their villa had been built on the very edges of the beach, and even now its back porch stretches out across white sands, supporting posts looking akin to the gangly legs of some strange beast. Asher leans further out, squinting against the harsh sunlight for he is positive that at least one of those noisy figures is his brother. Given past precedent, it is likely his younger brother who seems to forget all manner of property the moment he steps outside and out of their parent's direct eyesight.
Scoffing at the figures, he retreats from his window and instead goes to the vanity, eyeing his reflection with displeasure. The figure staring back at him is sallow of skin, has deep bags under his eyes, and possesses a tangled mass of hair that not even a bird would find appealing. If he goes down to breakfast appearing such, his mother will likely have a fit and send him straight back to his chambers, so he tries his best to at least comb it out. An endeavor that only results in him having a sore head to go along with his aching back. Cursing the genes that had given him the curls in the first place, Asher fights them down into a semblance of a ponytail and stomps to his closet. He dresses himself in attire appropriate for any self-respecting scion, and if he struggles with the ascot for several minutes, it is not as if anyone is present to witness his embarrassment.
When he has deemed himself as presentable as he is likely to get without professional assistance, Asher departs his room and walks along the long hallway, scuffing his feet in the soft rugs. It's improper but he's always liked how they feel against his skin, and there's something amusing about sticking his toes in some ancestor's ugly nose. Whoever decided that that was the best way to remember their forebears either possessed a wicked sense of humor or simply had not the faintest lick of sense for decor. Asher suspects it's the latter, given the rest of the estate's austere and dark atmosphere. Seeing as it is their summer residence, it is lighter in scheme than their city dwelling but Asher has always found both to be dreadfully dour. There's little point in seeing paintings of those who have gone before, cold sneers on their frozen faces when all he needs to do is look to his parents to witness such expression in the flesh.
It is perhaps unkind and unfair to think such of the people who have raised him since birth, but Asher has found such thoughts assailing him more often as of late. He blames the university with its free spirits, deceitfully kind librarians, and cheerful scholars for his unfilial thoughts; it has certainly been a different experience from the schooling he was used to. The stairs creak under his passage, and Asher winces pre-emptively, but no one appears to be around to hear his noisiness. Relieved, he takes more care in his descent and bypasses the dining room entirely to continue into the kitchen. It is bustling, as it often is when there is a family of four young men to keep fed. Five, Asher corrects himself automatically, remembering that Renier had somehow managed to convince a lady not only to marry him but also to take him to bed and carry his heir. He'd always assumed that Milon would marry first, but Renier is their parent's favorite for a reason, and Asher half-suspects his eldest brother to be…odd. He's never paid much attention to the ladies their Lady Mother has selected for him.
"My Lord!" One of the kitchen maids exclaims, sinking into a curtsy despite already having an armful of bread. Her cry draws everyone else's attention, and Asher is soon subjected to a handful of polite mumbling.
"I'm hungry," Asher says, waving off their bowing. "Is there any leftover breakfast to be had?" He eyes a nearby basket of bread, wondering if he could get away with simply snatching it and retreating upstairs. He has schoolwork to do after all; surely no one would notice if he simply spent the day in his room.
"If His Lordship does not mind eating with the children, then we can prepare something," one of them replies. Asher eyes her for a moment, trying to remember her name, but these are the summer servants, and he rarely is given reason to speak with them.
"What children?" He asks, "Isn't Girart a little too old to be referred to as such?"
"Oh no, my Lord. Not your Lord brother, I was referring to the young heirs. They're being attended to in the next room." She gestures as she speaks, so Asher, still confused but faintly curious, passes through an archway into a small alcove off the kitchen. There, he finds another maid, entertaining two children as alike as peas in a pod. Both possessing dark curly hair and large gray eyes, tracking the maid's hand movements with curiosity. One of them laughs, mouth opening to reveal pink gums, hands flailing about in apparent excitement.
Renier's spawns, Asher realizes, curiosity somewhat abated. He hadn't realized that there were two of them, but it's impossible to tell which is the heir and which is the spare when they're dressed so alike. Still, they're quiet enough, so he supposes eating with them won't be too much of a hassle. Takes a seat at the table, frowning when one of the brats immediately looks at him. The child blinks and pokes their sibling in before pointing at Asher. Though no words have been exchanged, they both break out into that laugh again, looking for the whole world as if they've heard a great joke. Spawns, Asher thinks again, annoyed but unsure why. He resolves to ignore them.
That resolution lasts until food arrives at the table: a plateful of bread, eggs, sausage, and cheese. Asher devours it, having not realized how hungry he is until it is nearly empty. Looks up by chance and sees that one of the children is no longer by their sibling. Moments later, a soft weight strikes his knee. Reluctantly, Asher lowers his gaze, not entirely unsurprised to see that one of the brats has escaped their minder and wandered over. Said brat blinks up at him, both hands now gripping his pant leg and proceeds to try and climb up. "No," Asher says firmly, "I'm not here to play with you."
The spawn ignores him, tugging harder but not yet having acquired the skills or strength needed to make much progress. Asher glares helplessly at the ceiling; perhaps if he ignores the child, then it'll go away on its own, but that seems to be increasingly unlikely when the child releases a plaintive noise. "No," Asher hisses again, carefully removing its hand from his leg. "Go terrorize your nurse, or better yet your father."
Gray eyes blink at him uncomprehending, and then plaintively a high-pitched voice emerges, "up pwease."
Once again, the hands grab for his pant legs, and Asher wants to knock them aside, but that plaintive voice reminds him of Girart back when he'd been little and incapable of doing anything on his own. "Oh fine," he snaps crossly. Grabs the child by the back of their shirt and lifts them up, placing them on his leg. Immediately, the child attempts to scramble higher, and only Asher's steadying arm keeps them from tumbling right back off. Oblivious, the child plants both hands on the table and makes a noise that might be a name or a vocalization. Across the table, the other child responds happily.
The maid turns as well, a smile appearing on her face. "Well, hello there, young lord Olivier. Were you greeting your uncle?"
"Uncle!" The boy, likely the heir then Asher presumes, says brightly. "Uncle help!"
"How nice of him; make sure you say thank you," she replies and turns back to her other more obedient charge.
Olivier wobbles around in a circle, using the table as balance first and then Asher's arm before finally facing him again. He looks up at Asher, tiny face scrunching as if in deep thought, and Asher knows he shouldn't encourage him; he's not interested in forming a relationship with Renier's children, but the words leave his mouth all the same. "It's thank you."
"Thank you!" Olivier repeats obediently and then says it again with such happiness that Asher smiles despite himself. How such a cute kid could come from someone like Renier is beyond him, but the mother is likely responsible for it. "You're welcome," he mutters, gently stroking his hair. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to go away now?"
Olivier does not go away; instead he latches himself even more firmly onto Asher. To the point that Asher can do little else other than carry him with him when he leaves the kitchen, propelled along by the maid's helpful declaration of "take him outside and let him run around; it'll serve the both of you well." This is frankly unfair and rude because Asher does not need fresh air or sunlight, but Girart is outside, and if he can ditch the heir on his brother, then all the better. He briefly spares a thought about whether Girart is a suitable babysitter but forgoes it just as quickly. Girart's responsible enough for a 16-year-old. The kid will probably be fine, and if he's not well, it's Renier's fault for leaving him unsupervised.
Outside, the sun has calmed down somewhat, no longer blinding everyone with her bright figure and instead modestly covering herself with clouds. Thus, it is a pleasant day that Asher steps out into, making his way along the porch and into the sandy dunes. He finds Girart seated at a picnic table, dragging a towel through his hair and laughing at something his companion says. Asher pauses, startled first by the sound of his brother's laughter and secondly by the visage of the companion. He had assumed it to be one of the village boys Girart befriended in summers past, but no, he recognizes those grey eyes and aquiline noise. Recognizes those golden locks that fall loosely to broad shoulders, for out of all the brothers, Milon alone is the one who inherited their grandfather's hair coloration.
"I wasn't aware you were coming this summer," Asher says, shocked enough to forgo property in favor of honesty. "When did you get here?"
Girart turns at the sound of his voice, a smile broadening when he sees him before it fades as his gaze finds the child. Automatically, his eyes shoot past, and Asher knows who he's looking for. "It's just us," he says flatly, "I haven't the faintest idea where our Lord brother has run off to."
"This would be young Olivier, then?" Milon asks, and unlike their brother, his smile remains unperturbed. "Hello there, little one; it's a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance."
Olivier says nothing, hiding his face in Asher's neck. "Oh, don't be like that," Asher hisses and sets him on his feet, "go on, greet your uncles. I refuse to believe that you are shy." Olivier makes a noise of protest and dives behind his leg, clinging to it with both hands, and refuses to do as bid. Asher, annoyed, goes to scold him, but Milon speaks quickly.
"Girart, stop glaring; you're scaring the poor child. H— don't be like that; the poor kid hasn't done anything wrong." So saying, he stands, moves around the table, and crouches down so that he looms naught. His voice when he speaks to Olivier is far gentler. "Sorry, little one, we big people can be scary, but you're safe with us. I'm Uncle Milon, and this is Uncle Girart."
Perhaps it is the gentle tone or his smile, so rarely found among members of the de Vienne household, but Olivier slowly scoots out from behind Asher's leg, though he clings to it still. "Hi," he says, quiet and withdrawn. "Am Lowd Oli." Then, he attempts to sketch a bow, but as with many children, his head proves to be his undoing, and he pitches forward into the sand instead. There's a moment where nothing moves, and then both Asher and Milon seek to scoop him out, braced for tears and screams.
"You're alright, you're alright," Asher rambles pre-emptively, holding him still so Milon can brush the sand off his face and shirt. "See no damage done; you'll be just fine."
"Am fine," Olivier says, sniffling as his eyes fill with tears. "Am big boy." His lips are pressed together, and his pudgy hands balled up into fists as if he genuinely believes what he's saying. Honestly, Asher finds he would have preferred tears because that at least would have been normal.
"It's okay to cry," Milon says softly, "big boys can cry too. There, all clean again." He sits back, holding out his hands. "Do you want to come play in the sand with us? We have a ball, and the water is lovely."
"There's no way he can understand you," Asher starts, but to his shock, Olivier waddles forward into Milon's waiting arms and excitedly exclaims, "Ball!"
"A ball for the little lord!" Milon exclaims just as cheerfully and rises to his feet. "Come along, you two. We're going to play football, and you are going to enjoy it." Emphasizes the words with a smile that practically reeks of danger should they disobey it. Asher rolls his eyes, turning to Girart for support, but the younger only laughs again and bounds to his feet, still very much a child himself. Faced with the prospect of being left behind, Asher hurries after them. Renier will kill them all if he finds out about this, but if such a thing were to occur, then Asher will simply fling Milon under the bus and flee with the younger ones.
Playing with Olivier as it turns out, really means playing against Milon, for his brother, despite being the eldest and supposedly most mature, declares himself to be Olivier's protector and wastes no time playing foul. Asher teams up with Girart out of necessity, and because he at least still possesses a degree of honor but soon such concepts go flying out the window, and he finds himself engaging in a tussle that cannot be found within the rules of football. It goes without saying that when Olivier has the ball, his little legs are as likely to kick it as they are to suddenly quit on him, no one touches him, but when they have possession of the ball and Olivier is safely out of the way, all bets are off. Which is how Asher finds himself with both arms wrapped around Milon's broad shoulders, attempting to either strangle him or make him eat sand; he's not entirely sure himself. There is laughter in the air. The wild cackles of Girart, Milon's own deep chuckles, and Asher's rusty laughter. So shocked is he to hear himself that he loosens his grip and winds up thrown.
Lays winded and panting for air amid the sand while Girart and Milon pursue each other like puppies let loose in a field. No, Asher thinks a moment later, that is not an apt comparison for neither Milon or Girart move like youthful and innocent pups. Hunting dogs set loose would be more apt, especially when Girart launches himself at Milon and bowls him over with a concerning amount of ferocity. Automatically, Asher searches for the little one, but he need naught look far before Olivier is waddling toward him. He grins gummily when he reaches him and then plops down on his chest, hands patting his face happily. His cheeks are ruddy, hair an utter mess, and clothes covered in sand, but Olivier looks like the happiest child Asher has ever borne witness to. He giggles so brightly and loudly, and there is no fear in him now, only pure joy.
"Hi," Asher whispers around the sudden ball that has grown in his throat. "Having fun?" He lifts a hand to steady him carefully, and Olivier leans into it trustingly.
"Fun," he repeats, "uncles fun."
I'm not, Asher nearly protests. I'm dull and cold-hearted, and I far prefer books to people, and sometimes I hate my brothers just because they haven't forgotten how to be happy, but Olivier is a warm weight on his chest, trusting eyes still looking to him and somehow, despite it all Asher finds himself smiling back. "They can be," he agrees quietly, "you're a lucky kiddo."
"Who's lucky?" Milon asks loudly, flinging himself down beside them and depositing Girart like a sack of potatoes. Girart laughs though, so he's probably unharmed. "I'm sorry Oli, I've lost track of the ball. Will you forgive me?" He holds out his hand, opening his fingers to reveal a beautiful blue seashell. Asher wonders when he had the time to find such a thing or why he thinks it's an appropriate gift but Olivier squeals and reaches out in excitement. Milon gives it to him and then flops in the sand, thumping Asher heavily on the shoulder. "How are you doing, kiddo?"
"I am eighteen," Asher snaps back, immediately miffed but the irritation is as quick to fade as it is rise when he sees Milon's eyes darken. "I'm fine, tired and dirty but fine," he adds swiftly. "How are you?"
Milon hums, gaze drifting up to the sky and a thoughtful expression finally gracing his face. "This is fun," he says pensively, "it would be nice if we could do it again next year."
"Of course, we'll do it next year," Girart replies, crawling closer to affectionately bump his head against Milon's. "This is like the one time of year except for Christmas where we all gather in one place, and Christmas doesn't really count because it's impossible to get away from our Lord Parents."
"It's a promise then," Milon says, holding his hand up. "Pinky promise Olivier, we'll also play with you next year."
"Pinky pwomise?" Olivier says, holding out his hand but clearly having no idea what's happening.
"It's a solemn oath," Asher explains, gently intertangling their pinky fingers. "If you break it, you have to eat a thousand needles."
"Don't tell him that!"
"Okay!" Olivier chirps, "Pinky pwomise! Uncle pwomise!"
"I promise," Milon says solemnly, echoed by Girart, but then Olivier looks to him and how is Asher to turn him down. "I promise," he says as well and means the words with every molecule of his being. "We'll play with you again."
It only takes two months for Asher to break his promise amid a flurry of words spat in rage, and it'll take another twenty years for that promise to finally be fulfilled.