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shinonFandom: Fire Emblem: Awakening
Characters: Laurent, Miriel
Word count: ~640
Warnings: None
Notes: Someone wanted more weirdo science mage family. I'm still missing huge chunks of Awakening canon and probably making shit up that contradicts what actually exists but ah well
“Laurent, may I examine your hat?”
“Certainly, Mother,” he said, and handed it to her at once. Only after doing so did he feel the usual pang of irrational anxiety at letting it go.
He did not need that memento, he told himself, now that he was here speaking to her. But as was so often the case, reason availed nothing in the face of such a long-ingrained sentiment. That was no longer the only thing he had left of her, but he couldn't make himself feel it.
“This was mine, was it not?”
“It was.”
“And still in such good repair after so many years. I admit I did not think it particularly well-constructed, but it seems to have held up far better than anticipated under the rigors of time.” She talked as if she had no idea what that might mean. But she must know, surely. She was the consummate scientist; she saw everything.
And now she pointed to a small rent in the brim that had long since been repaired. “Did this happen after it passed to you?”
“Yes.” He didn't like to think about it. “I asked Gerome to repair it.”
“He has his mother's skill with a needle.”
“I know.” Laurent smiled wryly at this, a more pleasant memory. “I observed that very early on. He offered his services in exchange for my silence on that score; it's a skill he prefers to keep to himself.”
“How impractical. He should know the army would have great use for it.”
“He's not a terribly practical person.”
Miriel made an expression of disdain and resumed turning the hat over in her hands, and at last discovered the thing he had hoped she wouldn't (and had known she would). “This repair was not so neatly achieved, I see. One of Gerome's earlier attempts?”
“No,” Laurent said, looking down. “One of mine. It was... after we all became separated.”
She brought it closer to her eyes and frowned intensely at the stitches for several seconds. Then she set the hat down in her lap and turned back to Laurent. “You're no seamstress.”
He nodded. “I knew I would ruin it, but I had to do something.” He had wondered that night, as he hunched over squinting in the weak candlelight, if Mother would ever forgive him. You were supposed to take good care of your possessions, everything in good repair and in its proper place. This is specialized headgear, not a storage rack for stray arrows, he had imagined her saying, though he'd forgotten her voice by then.
“Laurent.” He looked up. She was smiling.
“Yes, Mother?”
She said nothing further, only reached over and – haltingly, as though it were some foreign custom she had read a great deal of theory on but had never seen in practice – ruffled his hair.
It had never been her voice telling him he wouldn't measure up to her legacy. That had all been his own invention. He would do well to remember that, and try to let go.
A few days later, she walked up unannounced and handed him her hat. It sported signs of recent damage – but this gash in the crown was not a tear. The edges were too neat. It had been placed there deliberately with some very sharp implement. “Could you mend this for me?” she said.
She had to know that he noticed. “You could ask Cherche. I know the two of you are friends, and her abilities are far more -”
“I know I could.” She adjusted her glasses. “I didn't. Will you do it?”
“To the best of my ability.”
“Good.” She started to walk away, then turned back and added unnecessarily, “I think we understand each other.”
Characters: Laurent, Miriel
Word count: ~640
Warnings: None
Notes: Someone wanted more weirdo science mage family. I'm still missing huge chunks of Awakening canon and probably making shit up that contradicts what actually exists but ah well
“Laurent, may I examine your hat?”
“Certainly, Mother,” he said, and handed it to her at once. Only after doing so did he feel the usual pang of irrational anxiety at letting it go.
He did not need that memento, he told himself, now that he was here speaking to her. But as was so often the case, reason availed nothing in the face of such a long-ingrained sentiment. That was no longer the only thing he had left of her, but he couldn't make himself feel it.
“This was mine, was it not?”
“It was.”
“And still in such good repair after so many years. I admit I did not think it particularly well-constructed, but it seems to have held up far better than anticipated under the rigors of time.” She talked as if she had no idea what that might mean. But she must know, surely. She was the consummate scientist; she saw everything.
And now she pointed to a small rent in the brim that had long since been repaired. “Did this happen after it passed to you?”
“Yes.” He didn't like to think about it. “I asked Gerome to repair it.”
“He has his mother's skill with a needle.”
“I know.” Laurent smiled wryly at this, a more pleasant memory. “I observed that very early on. He offered his services in exchange for my silence on that score; it's a skill he prefers to keep to himself.”
“How impractical. He should know the army would have great use for it.”
“He's not a terribly practical person.”
Miriel made an expression of disdain and resumed turning the hat over in her hands, and at last discovered the thing he had hoped she wouldn't (and had known she would). “This repair was not so neatly achieved, I see. One of Gerome's earlier attempts?”
“No,” Laurent said, looking down. “One of mine. It was... after we all became separated.”
She brought it closer to her eyes and frowned intensely at the stitches for several seconds. Then she set the hat down in her lap and turned back to Laurent. “You're no seamstress.”
He nodded. “I knew I would ruin it, but I had to do something.” He had wondered that night, as he hunched over squinting in the weak candlelight, if Mother would ever forgive him. You were supposed to take good care of your possessions, everything in good repair and in its proper place. This is specialized headgear, not a storage rack for stray arrows, he had imagined her saying, though he'd forgotten her voice by then.
“Laurent.” He looked up. She was smiling.
“Yes, Mother?”
She said nothing further, only reached over and – haltingly, as though it were some foreign custom she had read a great deal of theory on but had never seen in practice – ruffled his hair.
It had never been her voice telling him he wouldn't measure up to her legacy. That had all been his own invention. He would do well to remember that, and try to let go.
A few days later, she walked up unannounced and handed him her hat. It sported signs of recent damage – but this gash in the crown was not a tear. The edges were too neat. It had been placed there deliberately with some very sharp implement. “Could you mend this for me?” she said.
She had to know that he noticed. “You could ask Cherche. I know the two of you are friends, and her abilities are far more -”
“I know I could.” She adjusted her glasses. “I didn't. Will you do it?”
“To the best of my ability.”
“Good.” She started to walk away, then turned back and added unnecessarily, “I think we understand each other.”
