11 sheep in the heap
title: Mother
pairing: None
rating: PG.
word count: 1493
It may be a little embarrassing to admit, but I really, really love my mother. I always have. In spite of her misgivings, in spite of anything she may have done wrong by me. Mother was the gentlest woman I knew and have known, and also one of the quietest. She was a woman of few words, but each one was carefully chosen, and she always, always got her meaning across. Although she was soft-spoken, no one asked her to repeat herself. And she was very firm, resolute, and determined. I think my mother was very feelingful, but she didn't like to show it. It was rare for her to say things like "I love you," or even, "Take care," but she would smile and nod her head slightly and her eyes spoke it very clearly.
Mother's eyes were always like that. She never could disguise them. Once, when I was really young, I told her her eyes were very beautiful and she chastised me for staring.
One thing that mother really liked to do with me was watch television together. I was only permitted to watch select shows and channels, which she monitored, but I didn't mind that. Maybe because I didn't know what I was missing. Maybe because I only sometimes paid attention to the screen. I loved to talk with my mother, and she loved to listen. Since our time spent together was rare most of the time, we would start off silent and then she would ask me a question. A simple question, like, "How was your week?" or "Are you well?" and I would go on and on about everything from there. Sometimes she would interject with commentary, but mostly she would listen, look up at me from the sewing in her lap and nod, or smile.
On certain days she would stop me to have me try on whatever she was sewing for me. She made me ribbons and blouses, cravats and socks, little white gloves and once she even made a cloth belt for me. Usually it was skirts, tops with frills and even a dress or two, bonnets and bows. When I was younger I had no idea this wasn't what I ought to be wearing, but as I got older I protested and she silenced me. She said she always wanted a daughter, but that she loved me all the same, and since I was fair and slender and all variety of emasculating words that there was no reason why I couldn't indulge her.
Since I would do anything to please mother, I complied. And I got used to it, even had fun with it. And it made my mother happy, so her eyes would sparkle when I was all dressed up, I felt happy, too.
All that stopped when I was six. I came into the parlor where mother was sitting in her rocking chair, sewing. The TV was already on and she seemed intent, so I went to her side, bowed and greeted her. She was humming. And she looked more peaceful than I had ever seen her before.
She shushed me and kept sewing. As I looked at what she was making, I observed that it was all far, far too small for me - it was more like what you'd put on a baby, and I wasn't one. So I told her so. And of all things, she asked me to leave!
This went on for a long while. Mother was very content the entire time, and she was in the parlor sewing in front of the television every day that I went in to see her. And, save a few instances, she would tell me to give her peace every time. I started finding new ways to entertain myself during those afternoons, but when the subject came up, I was vindictive because I was wounded. I commented flatly that mother didn't have the time for me, didn't want to see me, and that that was fine. But it wasn't fine. I... wanted my mommy, I guess. I wanted to be dressed up in ruffles and ribbons and admired and praised.
Several months later I went in to see mother again. I figured it would be the same as always, but as I opened the door I saw the TV was off. Her sewing and balls of yarn lay in a basket, on the floor by her chair. And she was doubled over, face in her hands and crying. She seemed thinner than usual and I could see she was shaking as I creeped closer. When I reached her side I waited for her to acknowledge my presence somehow, and when she didn't I touched her arm.
She slapped my hand away and looked at me with... with fury, and shouted in my face, "I wanted a daughter!"
Well, that stunned me, enough that the hurt of the statement hadn't sunk in. She yelled at me to leave and it wasn't until I had shut the door behind me that I realized the sting of her comment and, since I was forbidden to cry, I ran to my room and bit my lip until it swelled and then finally crawled behind the boxes under my bed to sneak a few tears before anyone caught me.
I still don't really understand what happened in just that one short year, why mother acted like that toward me. The next time I saw her we watched TV together as usual and we talked about everything except that subject, just like always. She stopped making me girl's clothes, or any clothes at all for that matter, and had them tailored and delivered instead. And she never seemed to express that vehement interest in having a daughter ever again. Even when I was arranged to be engaged to a baroness, she simply commented on the wealth it would bring us. And when that failed and I was told of a princess they wanted me to marry instead, mother only commented on what wonderful status we would have.
Some time after Masuyo was sent away I remember arguing with my mother for the first time in my life. I told her, if she hadn't been so selfish and close-minded she might've had a grand-daughter someday. I regretted it right as I said it, which was completely warranted because mother took off her glove and slapped me with her bare, open hand, right across the face. It was the first time I'd ever been struck by anyone before. And it was the second time she had been the cause of my having to crawl behind the boxes under my bed to cry.
But two months after I became a Knight of the Round, I received a letter from my mother herself, in her own writing, which was unusual. She begged me to come home, which was also unusual. And she apologized for having wronged me and how could she have been so blind, and oh, her baby, her darling son, a soldier, what a world, what a terrible, terrible world would do to her precious baby boy, and oh, the damage it would do to me and how the commoners and Elevens would skew my thinking until I was no longer myself.
I wrote back that I hoped she was right, embittered and again, vindictive. I even went so far as to withhold the closing of "Love," which I had always put on everything I wrote to her even though I wasn't supposed to. I signed it stiffly the way they taught me in the military, sent it in a plain envelope, and when I got a reply I tossed it in a box and forgot about it.
When Pendragon was destroyed, I wrote home immediately, as well as to every major contact of my family's that I could think of to find out if my parents were alright.
They weren't.
I... I miss my mother, and I'm constantly full of regret over my last words to her. I wish I could have told her I loved her again, even though she had hurt me. Really, I wish a lot of things, but no wishing is going to right my wrongs or bring her back. Theirs was the first of a long string of funerals that I attended in those few months, and the only one that I hadn't the composure to keep from crying at.
But I think the most ironic thing is, my mother was right. And sometimes I think, what if she hadn't written me that letter in the first place? Would things have gone the same? I like to think that my mother, silent and wise, had had a feeling about what was going to happen, if that makes any sense. And even though it's been painful, I'm grateful that she helped me find my place. She always was really good at that.
pairing: None
rating: PG.
word count: 1493
It may be a little embarrassing to admit, but I really, really love my mother. I always have. In spite of her misgivings, in spite of anything she may have done wrong by me. Mother was the gentlest woman I knew and have known, and also one of the quietest. She was a woman of few words, but each one was carefully chosen, and she always, always got her meaning across. Although she was soft-spoken, no one asked her to repeat herself. And she was very firm, resolute, and determined. I think my mother was very feelingful, but she didn't like to show it. It was rare for her to say things like "I love you," or even, "Take care," but she would smile and nod her head slightly and her eyes spoke it very clearly.
Mother's eyes were always like that. She never could disguise them. Once, when I was really young, I told her her eyes were very beautiful and she chastised me for staring.
One thing that mother really liked to do with me was watch television together. I was only permitted to watch select shows and channels, which she monitored, but I didn't mind that. Maybe because I didn't know what I was missing. Maybe because I only sometimes paid attention to the screen. I loved to talk with my mother, and she loved to listen. Since our time spent together was rare most of the time, we would start off silent and then she would ask me a question. A simple question, like, "How was your week?" or "Are you well?" and I would go on and on about everything from there. Sometimes she would interject with commentary, but mostly she would listen, look up at me from the sewing in her lap and nod, or smile.
On certain days she would stop me to have me try on whatever she was sewing for me. She made me ribbons and blouses, cravats and socks, little white gloves and once she even made a cloth belt for me. Usually it was skirts, tops with frills and even a dress or two, bonnets and bows. When I was younger I had no idea this wasn't what I ought to be wearing, but as I got older I protested and she silenced me. She said she always wanted a daughter, but that she loved me all the same, and since I was fair and slender and all variety of emasculating words that there was no reason why I couldn't indulge her.
Since I would do anything to please mother, I complied. And I got used to it, even had fun with it. And it made my mother happy, so her eyes would sparkle when I was all dressed up, I felt happy, too.
All that stopped when I was six. I came into the parlor where mother was sitting in her rocking chair, sewing. The TV was already on and she seemed intent, so I went to her side, bowed and greeted her. She was humming. And she looked more peaceful than I had ever seen her before.
She shushed me and kept sewing. As I looked at what she was making, I observed that it was all far, far too small for me - it was more like what you'd put on a baby, and I wasn't one. So I told her so. And of all things, she asked me to leave!
This went on for a long while. Mother was very content the entire time, and she was in the parlor sewing in front of the television every day that I went in to see her. And, save a few instances, she would tell me to give her peace every time. I started finding new ways to entertain myself during those afternoons, but when the subject came up, I was vindictive because I was wounded. I commented flatly that mother didn't have the time for me, didn't want to see me, and that that was fine. But it wasn't fine. I... wanted my mommy, I guess. I wanted to be dressed up in ruffles and ribbons and admired and praised.
Several months later I went in to see mother again. I figured it would be the same as always, but as I opened the door I saw the TV was off. Her sewing and balls of yarn lay in a basket, on the floor by her chair. And she was doubled over, face in her hands and crying. She seemed thinner than usual and I could see she was shaking as I creeped closer. When I reached her side I waited for her to acknowledge my presence somehow, and when she didn't I touched her arm.
She slapped my hand away and looked at me with... with fury, and shouted in my face, "I wanted a daughter!"
Well, that stunned me, enough that the hurt of the statement hadn't sunk in. She yelled at me to leave and it wasn't until I had shut the door behind me that I realized the sting of her comment and, since I was forbidden to cry, I ran to my room and bit my lip until it swelled and then finally crawled behind the boxes under my bed to sneak a few tears before anyone caught me.
I still don't really understand what happened in just that one short year, why mother acted like that toward me. The next time I saw her we watched TV together as usual and we talked about everything except that subject, just like always. She stopped making me girl's clothes, or any clothes at all for that matter, and had them tailored and delivered instead. And she never seemed to express that vehement interest in having a daughter ever again. Even when I was arranged to be engaged to a baroness, she simply commented on the wealth it would bring us. And when that failed and I was told of a princess they wanted me to marry instead, mother only commented on what wonderful status we would have.
Some time after Masuyo was sent away I remember arguing with my mother for the first time in my life. I told her, if she hadn't been so selfish and close-minded she might've had a grand-daughter someday. I regretted it right as I said it, which was completely warranted because mother took off her glove and slapped me with her bare, open hand, right across the face. It was the first time I'd ever been struck by anyone before. And it was the second time she had been the cause of my having to crawl behind the boxes under my bed to cry.
But two months after I became a Knight of the Round, I received a letter from my mother herself, in her own writing, which was unusual. She begged me to come home, which was also unusual. And she apologized for having wronged me and how could she have been so blind, and oh, her baby, her darling son, a soldier, what a world, what a terrible, terrible world would do to her precious baby boy, and oh, the damage it would do to me and how the commoners and Elevens would skew my thinking until I was no longer myself.
I wrote back that I hoped she was right, embittered and again, vindictive. I even went so far as to withhold the closing of "Love," which I had always put on everything I wrote to her even though I wasn't supposed to. I signed it stiffly the way they taught me in the military, sent it in a plain envelope, and when I got a reply I tossed it in a box and forgot about it.
When Pendragon was destroyed, I wrote home immediately, as well as to every major contact of my family's that I could think of to find out if my parents were alright.
They weren't.
I... I miss my mother, and I'm constantly full of regret over my last words to her. I wish I could have told her I loved her again, even though she had hurt me. Really, I wish a lot of things, but no wishing is going to right my wrongs or bring her back. Theirs was the first of a long string of funerals that I attended in those few months, and the only one that I hadn't the composure to keep from crying at.
But I think the most ironic thing is, my mother was right. And sometimes I think, what if she hadn't written me that letter in the first place? Would things have gone the same? I like to think that my mother, silent and wise, had had a feeling about what was going to happen, if that makes any sense. And even though it's been painful, I'm grateful that she helped me find my place. She always was really good at that.