You come into the world on a cold morning in a room that used to be a storehouse.Your mother bleeds on a straw mattress while the midwife works between her legs and your father prays in the hall. He prays standing. Kneeling is hard for him now. His left leg was shattered below the knee two years ago by a mace blow at the siege of Chauvency, and the bone never quite set the right way. He does not limp so much as lurch. He was captured in that same battle, dragged from under his dead horse, and held for a ransom that cost him everything. Everything. The silver plate. The grain stores. The warhorses, all three. The income from two villages, pledged to the abbey of St. Rémy for six years. And the castle -- your great-great-grandfather's castle, the seat of the family for five generations -- signed over to the man who captured him. Sire Gérard de Valenne, who lives there now with his wife and children and hounds, and who nods to your father at mass on Sundays with the faintly superior courtesy reserved for men one has ruined.There is only the manor house now. Stone foundations, timber above, a leaking roof your father lacks the constitution or the silver to mend. A mere forty souls in the village depend on upon him. Yet he serves them well. He hears their complaints, settles their quarrels, forgives their debts even when he shouldn't. The old servants, the ones who knew him from his boyhood and followed him from the relinquished castle, say he is a different man since the siege. They mean it as praise. Certainly, your mother found a new depth of love for him in his weakness, his humiliation. You were, perhaps, the product of it. The midwife holds you up, still bloody, and you scream.She carries you to the hall, where your father turns from his prayers. He takes you in his arms -- carefully, because his grip is not what it once was -- and studies your face with grave attention, as though your destiny were writ in the lines above your eyes and he alone the augur who could decipher them. The midwife watches too. So does old Agnès, your mother's woman, who has opinions about everything and a liberty to air them that could only come from long, trusted service.Naturally, it is Agnès who breaks the peace.>She says you have your father's jaw, set firm, even now, as though daring the world to move you. A proud nature.>She says you have your mother's eyes, wide open, watching, beautiful, taking everything in and giving nothing back. A patient nature.>She says you have your grandfather's ears, big for a newborn, with fleshy lobes and disposition which seems to suggest their frequent use. A suspicious nature.>Write-in
>>6393577>She says you have your mother's eyes, wide open, watching, beautiful, taking everything in and giving nothing back. A patient nature.
>>6393577>>She says you have your father's jaw, set firm, even now, as though daring the world to move you. A proud nature.
>>6393577>She says you have your father's jaw, set firm, even now, as though daring the world to move you. A proud nature.It is hubris which dug our dynasty's grave, and it is hubris which will claw our way out.
>>6393577>She says you have your father's jaw, set firm, even now, as though daring the world to move you. A proud nature.
>>6393577>>She says you have your mother's eyes, wide open, watching, beautiful, taking everything in and giving nothing back. A patient nature.
>>6393577>Write-in>She cries out for we are a freak, a monster in human guise.
>>6393577>>She says you have your father's jaw, set firm, even now, as though daring the world to move you. A proud nature.Chauvency? lemme google that...oh no...St. Rémy? de Valenne?!?...OH NO! WERE FRENCH!
>>6393884https://youtu.be/6ehn_8NqXPA
>>6393577>>She says you have your father's jaw, set firm, even now, as though daring the world to move you. A proud nature.We're going to take back our birthright or die trying.
They christen you on the third day, in the chapel of St. Demetrius.The chapel is far older than the manor, older than the castle it once served. The stone is river-gray and fitted without mortar in the old way. The baptismal font is older still -- rough granite, its rim worn smooth by centuries of use, carved along the base with shapes that are not quite leaves, not quite letters. Father Silvain does not like to discuss them.Father Silvain is young for a parish priest. Thin, dark-eyed, handsome, with beautiful, manicured hands, the fingernails stained with ink. He preaches sermons too clever for his congregation but always manages to make them feel elevated rather than stupid. Your three godparents stand at the font. For a great lord's son, you would have dukes and countesses. For you, there are these:Abbot Thierry of St. Rémy. Your father's creditor and now your spiritual guardian. He agreed to stand when your father asked -- on his knees, in the abbey chapel, with all his debts still unsettled. He holds your body with soft hands accustomed to jeweled chalices and account books in equal measure.Sire Arnaut de Gressy. Your father's oldest companion, who fought beside him at Chauvency. He has come twelve miles on a swaybacked mare, for he sold his good horse many years ago. He grasps your left leg with a soldier's grip. His eyes do not quite rise to the level of your father's.Dame Isabeau de Lys. Your mother's elder sister. She holds your right leg and weeps openly, because she weeps at everything, and because your mother -- still too weak to attend -- asked her forgiveness and mercy. To be your godmother were their terms of sisterly reconciliation.Father Silvain speaks the words. Abbot Thierry lowers you into the water.You do not cry, but you fuss ferociously. The candle flames bend toward the font as though drawn by a great breath inward, and the water seems to catch a light that has no earthly source. Then you are lifted out, gasping, screaming, and the moment passes. Father Silvain's eyes linger on the font.Afterward, in the yard between the chapel and the manor, your father walks with Sire Gérard de Valenne, who came late and stood at the back. They speak in low voices, your father's expression gradually darkening with the progress of conversation. Agnès, watching from the doorway with you in her arms, cannot hear the words. But she sees (and shall soon report to your mother) your father close his eyes, and nod.There remains the matter of your name.>Hugues. Your great-great-grandfather's name. Five generations bore it. To name you this is to say: we remember what we were.>Martin. The soldier-saint who halved his cloak for a freezing beggar. Your father's choice. To name you this is to say: what we lost matters less than what we give.>Roland. The paladin of Roncevaux, who died with his sword in his hand and his face toward the enemy. To name you this is to say: we will not go quietly.>Write-in
>>6394037>Roland. The paladin of Roncevaux, who died with his sword in his hand and his face toward the enemy. To name you this is to say: we will not go quietly.
>>6394037>Hugues. Your great-great-grandfather's name. Five generations bore it. To name you this is to say: we remember what we were.
>>6394037>Lucien. From Latin, meaning light. For the ray of joy he has brought into his parents’ hearts, a small spark that has filled their darkest days with hope for the future. To name you this is to say: you are our light, our joy, and the promise that better days will come.
>>6394065support
>>6394054+1
>>6394065+1
>>6394037>Martin. The soldier-saint who halved his cloak for a freezing beggar. Your father's choice. To name you this is to say: what we lost matters less than what we give.
