josan (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} josan) wrote,@ 2007-12-26 19:01:00 |
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New Fic, New Fandom
Title: Kuzum
Author: Josan
Fandom: The Lymond Chronicles
Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. They belong to Dorothy Dunnett.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Francis and Kuzum
Warning: None
Summary: Francis has to respond to a question.
Dedication: To the very patientfajrdrako, to whom I promised a story in this fandom ages ago. Dear lady, please excuse any inconsistencies: it's been a while since I read the books.
&&&&&&&&&&
"Are you truly my father?"
The question, slipped in amongst a discussion of local gossip, nearly passed by Francis. He had to think a moment to realise that it had been asked. That the subject he had hoped would never be broached had been.
He glanced up from the accounts he had been verifying to see Kuzum sprawled in a feline manner in the window seat, looking for all in the world as though Francis's answer was of no importance.
But Francis knew the pose to be a lie. He could see the tensed muscles, the firmly held jaw. The eyes shining with a sense of determined resolution.
Francis looked back down at the parchment and made a careful mark next to some innocuous rendering.
"I have," he said calmly, as if this was not something he'd dreaded, "fed you, clothed you, housed you, educated you, given you my name. Would I do such for the incestuous by-blow of Gabriel Mallett?"
He hoped that would put an end to it. Luck was not with him.
"Yes, you would," said Kuzum, his voice even.
Francis sighed. There would be no getting away from this. Damn the boy.
He sat back in his chair, examining the boy, once more looking for signs, for traits that would reveal him to be Mallett's, and not really finding them. That was the problem with progeny from similar types.
Kuzum's shoulders had not the width of Mallett's, though they were wider than Francis's. No wider, however, than Richard's get.
The hair was not brighter. Not fairer. It darkened in winter, lightened to between his and Mallett's with the summer sun.
The eyes were not bluer. Slightly less blue, in fact. With more than a hint of grey in them when the lad was angry.
Oh, if he tried hard, he thought he could see a trace of Oonagh in the width of the face.
If he tried hard.
Problem was that he didn't really remember what Oonagh looked like. The last image of her overrode any that he might have kept of her.
Truth was the bone structure fit in with both Crawfords and Culters.
To everyone else in his household, Kuzum was his acknowledged son. The boy may have been brought up mainly with Kate and Archie, but he'd been a frequent visitor to Crawford Manor. Just as he and Philippa and their children had been frequent visitors at Kate's.
Kate and Archie certainly had claimed him as Francis's son from the very beginning. Philippa had as well. He'd been in her care and she was very fond of him. Even his mother...
Kuzum had been about nine. The boy had escaped from his tutor – a frequent occurrence – and disappeared. He'd returned in late afternoon, wet, scratched, muddied, grinning like fool, with three large fish and two rabbits offered as his excuse.
Francis had been about to berate him when Sybilla had laughed: "You look just like your father did at that age!" And Francis had kept his mouth shut.
Now the boy looked at him, just waiting.
No, not really a boy any longer. Kuzum had celebrated his twentieth birthday only recently. A man. A man who wanted an answer and was willing to chance a lot on that answer.
Francis rose from his chair and went to stand in front of Kuzum, who rose to his feet as Francis approached. He reached out and clasped the boy's face between his hands, his fingers painfully catching the sunlit locks worn long.
His son?
He could with one word destroy the lad. And the boy knew it. His face grew tight and his eyes darkened. Francis could see in those eyes the boy bracing himself to have his world destroyed, to have his place in life taken away from him, to be removed from the household.
Kuzum.
The boy who had become to Francis and Philippa's children the older brother Francis had so yearned for as a child.
The one who took them up on his pony before they could walk. Who had taught them the many ways of escaping tutors. How to fish. How to hunt. Even his daughters.
The older brother whom his sons ran to to display their latest acquired skill. Whom his daughters laughed with, took their first dancing steps with. The brother who laughed at their silly japes, who wiped their tears, who told them stories when they were ill. Who carved them flutes and small animals, which they held precious.
The boy who had done all that had been asked of him, with a smile, intelligence and good grace.
Francis looked deep into the eyes that were fearful yet would accept whatever it was Francis told him.
"You are my son," said Francis quietly.
Kuzum wrapped his arms around Francis and buried his face against Francis's shoulder. His body trembled slightly with relief.
Francis slowly raised his arms and held the boy close to him.
Neither acknowledged that this was the first time Francis had actually held the boy since they'd returned to Scotland all those years ago.
Francis looked at the image reflected in the leaded glass and knew it had been the right response for them all.
But in his heart, the boy he held was Khaireddin.
&&&&&&&&&&
Title: Kuzum
Author: Josan
Fandom: The Lymond Chronicles
Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. They belong to Dorothy Dunnett.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Francis and Kuzum
Warning: None
Summary: Francis has to respond to a question.
Dedication: To the very patient
fajrdrako, to whom I promised a story in this fandom ages ago. Dear lady, please excuse any inconsistencies: it's been a while since I read the books."Are you truly my father?"
The question, slipped in amongst a discussion of local gossip, nearly passed by Francis. He had to think a moment to realise that it had been asked. That the subject he had hoped would never be broached had been.
He glanced up from the accounts he had been verifying to see Kuzum sprawled in a feline manner in the window seat, looking for all in the world as though Francis's answer was of no importance.
But Francis knew the pose to be a lie. He could see the tensed muscles, the firmly held jaw. The eyes shining with a sense of determined resolution.
Francis looked back down at the parchment and made a careful mark next to some innocuous rendering.
"I have," he said calmly, as if this was not something he'd dreaded, "fed you, clothed you, housed you, educated you, given you my name. Would I do such for the incestuous by-blow of Gabriel Mallett?"
He hoped that would put an end to it. Luck was not with him.
"Yes, you would," said Kuzum, his voice even.
Francis sighed. There would be no getting away from this. Damn the boy.
He sat back in his chair, examining the boy, once more looking for signs, for traits that would reveal him to be Mallett's, and not really finding them. That was the problem with progeny from similar types.
Kuzum's shoulders had not the width of Mallett's, though they were wider than Francis's. No wider, however, than Richard's get.
The hair was not brighter. Not fairer. It darkened in winter, lightened to between his and Mallett's with the summer sun.
The eyes were not bluer. Slightly less blue, in fact. With more than a hint of grey in them when the lad was angry.
Oh, if he tried hard, he thought he could see a trace of Oonagh in the width of the face.
If he tried hard.
Problem was that he didn't really remember what Oonagh looked like. The last image of her overrode any that he might have kept of her.
Truth was the bone structure fit in with both Crawfords and Culters.
To everyone else in his household, Kuzum was his acknowledged son. The boy may have been brought up mainly with Kate and Archie, but he'd been a frequent visitor to Crawford Manor. Just as he and Philippa and their children had been frequent visitors at Kate's.
Kate and Archie certainly had claimed him as Francis's son from the very beginning. Philippa had as well. He'd been in her care and she was very fond of him. Even his mother...
Kuzum had been about nine. The boy had escaped from his tutor – a frequent occurrence – and disappeared. He'd returned in late afternoon, wet, scratched, muddied, grinning like fool, with three large fish and two rabbits offered as his excuse.
Francis had been about to berate him when Sybilla had laughed: "You look just like your father did at that age!" And Francis had kept his mouth shut.
Now the boy looked at him, just waiting.
No, not really a boy any longer. Kuzum had celebrated his twentieth birthday only recently. A man. A man who wanted an answer and was willing to chance a lot on that answer.
Francis rose from his chair and went to stand in front of Kuzum, who rose to his feet as Francis approached. He reached out and clasped the boy's face between his hands, his fingers painfully catching the sunlit locks worn long.
His son?
He could with one word destroy the lad. And the boy knew it. His face grew tight and his eyes darkened. Francis could see in those eyes the boy bracing himself to have his world destroyed, to have his place in life taken away from him, to be removed from the household.
Kuzum.
The boy who had become to Francis and Philippa's children the older brother Francis had so yearned for as a child.
The one who took them up on his pony before they could walk. Who had taught them the many ways of escaping tutors. How to fish. How to hunt. Even his daughters.
The older brother whom his sons ran to to display their latest acquired skill. Whom his daughters laughed with, took their first dancing steps with. The brother who laughed at their silly japes, who wiped their tears, who told them stories when they were ill. Who carved them flutes and small animals, which they held precious.
The boy who had done all that had been asked of him, with a smile, intelligence and good grace.
Francis looked deep into the eyes that were fearful yet would accept whatever it was Francis told him.
"You are my son," said Francis quietly.
Kuzum wrapped his arms around Francis and buried his face against Francis's shoulder. His body trembled slightly with relief.
Francis slowly raised his arms and held the boy close to him.
Neither acknowledged that this was the first time Francis had actually held the boy since they'd returned to Scotland all those years ago.
Francis looked at the image reflected in the leaded glass and knew it had been the right response for them all.
But in his heart, the boy he held was Khaireddin.