The Bear and Barnacle

Aside from the shop, and his concerns as landlord of that building (plus several others he has now added to his expanding real-estate mini-empire within Margate), he does have a purpose. He will do his best to make this world a better place for, and to provide for, his children. Or possible children. Draco, of course, whichever version he may have a chance to affect. And this child of Victoire’s, the child that could be his. He’s been thinking about children rather a lot of late.
( Open here )

Whether he lives for one more year or a millenia, Spike will never forget his mother. Sometimes, the notes come unbidden, playing through his head, and he'll catch himself humming or singing softly under his breath.

( The trigger may be broken, but the song will always remind him... )

He expects this will end any time soon. He expects it might as well... go on forever. Nothing in this place is right, and life has been restored to him, so why not youth, too? Because nothing lasts, you idiot. And while he likes his new un-heavyness, the gangly limbs and boundless energy, his elder self already sneers at him for taking such puppyish delight in things that will - will - pass again. How fleeting is youth. Take joy in today, for tomorrow remains... uncertain. Lorenzo de' Medici knew all about that, didn't he. Old before his time, and bent twice as fast.

Nervously, Cesare looks up, cradling the juice-and-something Dora sneaked between his hands. "My mother was a very enterprising woman," he says, half-proud, half-shy. "I hear you can still visit some of the places she owned in Rome. Not all of them, no. But a few. The Vacca - that was a tavern - at the corner of Campo de' Fiori; it's a bakery now. And on the other side of the market, there's the Albergo del Sole. That was hers, too. The walls were all wonky!" he laughs, and elder Cesare chokes with apoplexy that he's using such a stupid word. "Not a single beam at straight edges. That's because they built it into the ruins of Pompei's Theatre. Where Caesar was killed. Not me. I mean, Giulio Cesare. The Imperator. My mamma had an inn there. Funny, no? And she owned other places, too."

Then he falls silent for a moment, rubbing his hands before he has to sit on them to keep them still. The juice is quite. Strong, like. His elder self nearly dies of shame at his caterwauling thoughts - when I was your age I already had my doctorate, he tells himself, and blushes. "Anyway. After my youngest brother Jofré was born, our father took a new mistress, but he made sure mamma was well-appointed and lacked for nothing. He found her a husband of good repute and and. Then I had to move away from her, from her house on piazza Pizzo di Merlo, and live with Aunt Adriana. That wasn't... nice. So I guess I was happy when they sent me to school in Perugia."

"They say she - mamma, I mean - they say Vanozza de' Cattanei survived most of her children." He swallows, blinks, then quickly, hastily empties the glass.

Have you a mother? Have you known one or been one? Tell us about them this month.

Since a couple of people asked -- you can ignore the situation of the current event in your topic post, or work it into your response, as you please. As always: fic, art, or conversations are equally welcome!