Who: Xavier and Leonide. What: Their child is dead and neither one of them is qualified to handle this. Where: Selwyn manor. When: Sunday evening, November 29. Rating: S FOR SADNESS AND E FOR EMOTIONAL Status: Closed/Incomplete.
Well maybe there is a God above But all I've ever learned from love Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you And it's not a cry that you hear at night It's not somebody who's seen the light It's a cold and it's a broken
Odette is dead. Xavier hadn't believed it when Alastair told him and he didn't believe it now. Even with his daughter lying in state a floor below him, her body preserved and peaceful so that it made her look like she was doing nothing more then sleeping, he still didn't believe it. There was no logical way that this could be possible and yet, even after spending hours sitting with Odette, talking to her, stupidly thinking that somehow he could make her sit up and look at him or respond to the things he had said, the stark reality was still staring him right in the face and calling him out for his actions or in this case, all of his inactions that had led to the death of his child.
She was dead. He had failed. All of this was his fault.
Xavier sighed softly, the glass that had been pressed against his forehead clinking softly on the table after he drained it and the glass refilled itself and appeared back in his hand. He didn't care that he wasn't supposed to drink, that he was under strict healers orders as well as strict orders from Alastair to not drink, this was a situation where making it through without alcohol was physically impossible. He took another long drink the glass, the slow burn of the whiskey distracting his mind from the constant mantra that it had been on for the last few hours but it wasn't enough. Xavier didn't think anything was ever going to be enough to distract himself from the harsh reality he was now facing.
She was dead. He had failed. All of this was his fault.
He was fearing telling Leonide what had happened. How he had sat in a cell while their child was dying. He didn't know how he was going to face the look on her face or the anger that would no doubt come from her and he deserved it. He knew he did. Their child was dead and he was suppose to have been able to protect her. It was his job to ensure her safety and wellbeing and he had failed in every single aspect of that. At no point had he ever thought that he would bury a child. Lurking in the back of his mind was always the fact that he knew he would die long before he should have and that his children would bury him while they were still young and it was something that he had come to terms with. This? His child cold and still and unresponsive was something he had never prepared and really, how did you do such a thing? No parent ever thought they would bury child and here he was facing that reality with no idea how to deal with it or what to do.
There were steps that needed to be taken, things that needed to be done. Logic told him that going through the motions was necessary and needed but he had no desire to do any of that. He didn't want to see anyone or speak to anyone, even though he had forced himself to tell though closest to him outside of his immediate family what had happened but even that had taken a great deal of effort that he had not been prepared for. He had other children that needed him, one who was injured and a wife that was no doubt raging somewhere in the manor but he didn't care. He couldn't bring himself to care in that moment. The only thing that mattered was the glass in his hands that refilled itself once more and that the liquid inside was doing a wonderful job of blurring nerves that were raw and damaged and needed numbing to a point that he wasn't sure was possible.
She was dead. He had failed. All of this was his fault.
How long he had been sitting there he had no idea but it had been long enough that as his glass set down on the table the decanter remained still, the glass twinkling in the dim light and clear instead of the amber color it normally was when full. Rising to his feet slowly he picked up the cane that had fallen to the floor and picked up the decanter before making his way across his room, the thunk of his cane muffled in the plush carpet as he went. For a long moment he stood in front of his liquor cabinet, staring at it's bare contents and wondering where to go from there. Where to go forward from here. How was he suppose to bury a child who had barely begun to live her life. Odette should have been old and gray when she finally passed, Xavier having gone long before her. This was not suppose to happen. This was never suppose to happen.
She was dead. He had failed. All of this was his fault.
The sound of shattering glass barely covered the cry of rage that came from him, his hands gripping the edge of his liquor cabinet tightly, his shoulders slumped and his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tried to convince himself that he could do this. He could make it through this. He was strong enough.