maman / liam + odette
@liamlockhartâ
He senses the guest coming before he sees her. Even once heâs laid eyes on the figure coming up the pathway of the house heâs just moved back into, Liam can say he saw this coming. A surprise, really, that heâd avoided such a reunion during his first stay in Lethe. But there is no avoiding it now, as hard as he tries, staying still and silent behind his door as his mother begins to speak. A voice that sways something in him, the turn of the faintest tide of memory. He swallows it down. For now, at least, in order to listen properly. Itâs what he owes his mother, maybe. As much as he feels she owes him the truth. He feels his jaw working then, more recent memories abound, of Edmundâs recollection of his motherâs departure. By choice, he said. And isnât that something? Something that had stung, that aches now, a long closed wound reopened. How many lies had there been, really? Well, thereâs no Edmund to ask anymore. Only one other option, the way he sees it, and with the phantom sensation of that tin soldier in the midst of his clenched palm, he opens the door wide. Wider than he maybe should, but heâd like to look at her as much as it seems sheâd like to see him. After a momentâs pause, when blue eyes find blue in the midst of everything, the man speaks in a tone almost removed from what it is saying. âEdmund told me you left by your own will. Because you wanted to. And here you are telling me it was for your own sake. So he was right, then. You simply left us.â His eyes take in her face slowly, searching. The inquisition comes up short, though, and his head shakes before he can think twice about it. âBeyond what I see we have in common, I donât recognize you.â Itâs frank, and perhaps callous, but he was the one who had been orphaned. What pity should he give? âYou look young.â Another fact, laid bare, no frills about it. âImagine that means you did die when Pa claimed you did. At least that part was true.â This next bit is cruel, maybe. Skills endowed in him by his maker â or perhaps a lack of skill. Lack of empathy, lack of nuance. Whatever it is, itâs turned into something like instinct by this point. âHe grieved you like it was his sole occupation. For years. I donât remember you. But I can remember the way he mourned. Did you ever tell him the truth? Write a letter, at least? You told Riley, evidently. When was she filled in? I never was. Not about her. Not about you. Not until now. I got no information, and I suspect Pa didnât, either. Is that right?â
âNon, non. That is not what I meant, I only meant the rest... not seeking you until now, that was for my sake,â she says swiftly, shaking her head, rattled and cursing herself for being surprised. She knew-- she knew seeking him out would be painful. Odette underestimates how much when heâs looking at her, as if she is little more than a passing stranger rather than the one who had, once, chased away his nightmares. She bites her lip, but the experience with Riley, and indeed the centuries of practice in general makes it easy to smooth her face to something calmer. I donât recognize you. Ah, cruel, and she flinches at the truth of it. âI recognize you. I see a lot of your father in you, but you have my familyâs eyes. My eyes.â Itâs why her first time seeing him had struck her silent, and why she could think of nothing to do except flee from the ghost standing in front of her. That is, after all, what he is, isnât it? A phantom of the boy she knew, no traces of the round cheeks and bright eyes she recalls. âI was thirty-one when I died, and lucky to be well-cared for in that time, but yes. I did not feel young at the time,â Odette admits, a little awkwardly, frowning. âIt felt as though I had aged a great deal in a short time, as most do after dying.â Her words trail off, looking up at him. He is taller than her, and older, too. Riley, at least, was young enough for Odette to pretend, but she cannot here. No chance to think of this, or even remark upon it, when he speaks next, and his words, though more statement than sharpness, are more painful than any knife. Sheâs learned from some of her mistakes, though, and she cuts in when he finishes with a rough shake of her head. Her head shakes, and they are standing on the threshold still, unable to step forward or backwards. âI didnât leave him without a word, Liam. If he grieved... if he still... Then he did not heed my last request, but I shouldnât have expected otherwise, he always did love deeply.â Too much so. She blinks rapidly. Donât focus on William, she can do nothing for him, even if the idea of him grieving her until his last breath brings another sharp pang. âI didnât abandon our family! When they killed me, when I woke up, I didnât know where to go or what to do, it was like... I do not know how to describe dying.â And she doesnât need to, does she? Odette runs a hand through her hair, and her hand shakes, her hard-worked control trying to unravel. âI came home, and we tried to make sense of it. I should not have been alive, and we thought it best for me to leave. To not endanger you both by being different. DĂŠsolĂŠe, Liam, I asked him not to tell either of you, you deserved not to think I had willingly abandoned you.â










