AU Lucetific - Baronverse 4/21
Title: 21 Could-Have-Been Years in the Life of Cecil Harvey
Fandoms:
luceti, Tales of Legendia, Final Fantasy IV
Genre: Gen
Rating: This part G; PG overall
Words: 955, ?? overall
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the above fandoms.
Summary: Perhaps moving almost directly from playing with a three-year-old to attending a court banquet isn't the best of ideas.
Author's Notes: So, erm, this is the point where things start getting longer and longer. I seem to have quadrupled the previous fic's word count, whoops. That's what happens when Cecil starts getting more able to interact, I guess!
As a side note...does the King of Baron have an official name? I've seen it suggested that it's Odin, given the summon and all, but I'm kind of under the impression that's fanon. So yeah.
(3)
Cecil sits back and surveys his work, satisfaction in every line of his small body. "All done!"
Grune leans over to admire the blobby mass of swirls as if it were a sublime work of art. "Oh, that's very pretty, Cecil! Good job!"
He beams at her, then reaches for another piece of paper with paint-covered hands. He gives his previous picture a shove to make room for the next, pauses to think, then splays his whole hand in the dish of blue fingerpaint. Paint is transferred to paper by means of a series of gleeful smacks. Droplets fly absolutely everywhere.
Immersed as she is in rounding out the shape of a flower petal with a delicate finger, Grune doesn't notice. After a time, though, she looks up to point at the paint Cecil is currently smearing about his page.
"What colour is that?"
Cecil stops to consider his picture a bit uncertainly. "Gween?"
She shakes her head, smiling. "That's a good guess. It's yellow. This is green." She points at her paint-speckled dress.
Cecil gives it a glance, but painting is far more interesting than learning the colours, and so back he goes to his page. A moment later, absorbed in his work, he scratches his nose.
Grune giggles when she sees the resulting purple dab. "Uh-oh!"
"Uh-oh!" Cecil mimics, though he's obviously not sure why.
She looks about for their cleaning cloth, but it seems to have gone missing. Hmm. . . . Oh well.
And so she picks up a corner of her veil. "Cecil?"
He looks over—and scrunches his nose when she cleans him up. When she kisses his newly depainted nose, however, he giggles.
"There," she says in satisfaction. "All better."
"All better," Cecil echoes—then dabs his paint-covered fingers down her cheek.
She laughs and wipes herself off, too. "No, no, Cecil. The paint is for the paper."
"Okay. . . ."
There's a knock at the door; at Grune's invitation, it swings open to reveal a nursemaid, come to collect Cecil.
"Oops—all done," Grune says to Cecil, who looks disappointed. "We'll have to finish our pictures another time."
Cecil heaves a surprisingly big sigh, but he—oh, so that's where the cloth went! —he dutifully dabs at his fingers and dumps the cloth on the table. Once she's cleaned her hands as well, Grune follows him to the door.
Grune misses the way Lynna's smile is a bit strained at the sight of the rainbow of paint in Cecil's fluffy white hair, and so her voice is entirely cheerful when she says, "That was fun! I think Cecil is going to be an artist when he grows up."
"We'll see," is all Lynna says. "I'll send someone to collect Master Cecil's pictures when they dry, shall I?"
"No!" Cecil says emphatically. "They're for Gwune!"
Grune bends down so he can see how delighted she is by his generosity. "Thank you, Cecil! That's so sweet!"
"All right, then. By the way, His Majesty has a message for you, Lady Grune," Lynna adds as she shepherds Cecil to the door with a hand. "He wants to be sure you haven't forgotten the formal dinner tonight to welcome Lord and Lady Greenglen."
"Oh, I haven't forgotten," Grune assures her. "But thank you, Lynna. See you tomorrow, Cecil!"
"Bye-bye!" Cecil waves with an orange-streaked hand, and off he and Lynna go.
*
Grune is, as usual, quite late for the banquet. By now, the King of Baron is well used to her . . . rather different sense of time, and so he's already taken a moment to quietly explain her lost memory and simple nature to his guests, making certain to emphasize how highly valued she is at court.
Consequently, when Grune takes her seat a few spaces below him and gives Lord and Lady Greenglen her usual sunny smile and cheerful greeting, the older couple barely blink.
. . . At that, at least. Seated farther away, it takes him a moment to understand why they are politely Not Staring—until he locates the long smear of red on the fine fabric of her veil.
"Grune," he says with a smile, "were you painting with Cecil earlier this afternoon?"
"Yes, that's right," she answers in mild surprise before pride fills her voice. "He's gotten very good."
"Perhaps his skill has improved, but his aim has not." He signals for a servant rather needlessly; it seems he is not the only one to have noticed the paint.
When she gives him a confused look, he says gently, "Go change your veil. You can join us later."
"All right," Grune agrees and takes the arm of the manservant who had noticed her difficulty. She smiles at their guests again and adds, "I'll see you soon!" Then, as always, she departs without the slightest curtsy.
The king watches Lord and Lady Greenglen carefully, ready to smooth over any perceived affront. Both nobles are wearing very . . . neutral expressions.
"I apologize for Grune's eccentricity," the king begins. "I have a three-year-old son to whom she is devoted. Sometimes, certain matters escape her notice."
Lord Greenglen smiles, then, his wrinkles deepening into laugh lines. "There is no need to apologize, Your Majesty. Matilda and I have four grandchildren—we quite understand."
Relieved, the king replies, "I am glad to hear it." And then, in what he's well aware is an underhanded tactic, he says, "Perhaps you could tell me about them."
As he suspected, such fond grandparents could not possibly resist his ploy, and by the time Grune returns with a fresh veil, their visitors are far too caught up in their tales of their brilliant grandchildren for there to be any residual awkwardness at all.
Fandoms:
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
Genre: Gen
Rating: This part G; PG overall
Words: 955, ?? overall
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the above fandoms.
Summary: Perhaps moving almost directly from playing with a three-year-old to attending a court banquet isn't the best of ideas.
Author's Notes: So, erm, this is the point where things start getting longer and longer. I seem to have quadrupled the previous fic's word count, whoops. That's what happens when Cecil starts getting more able to interact, I guess!
As a side note...does the King of Baron have an official name? I've seen it suggested that it's Odin, given the summon and all, but I'm kind of under the impression that's fanon. So yeah.
Cecil sits back and surveys his work, satisfaction in every line of his small body. "All done!"
Grune leans over to admire the blobby mass of swirls as if it were a sublime work of art. "Oh, that's very pretty, Cecil! Good job!"
He beams at her, then reaches for another piece of paper with paint-covered hands. He gives his previous picture a shove to make room for the next, pauses to think, then splays his whole hand in the dish of blue fingerpaint. Paint is transferred to paper by means of a series of gleeful smacks. Droplets fly absolutely everywhere.
Immersed as she is in rounding out the shape of a flower petal with a delicate finger, Grune doesn't notice. After a time, though, she looks up to point at the paint Cecil is currently smearing about his page.
"What colour is that?"
Cecil stops to consider his picture a bit uncertainly. "Gween?"
She shakes her head, smiling. "That's a good guess. It's yellow. This is green." She points at her paint-speckled dress.
Cecil gives it a glance, but painting is far more interesting than learning the colours, and so back he goes to his page. A moment later, absorbed in his work, he scratches his nose.
Grune giggles when she sees the resulting purple dab. "Uh-oh!"
"Uh-oh!" Cecil mimics, though he's obviously not sure why.
She looks about for their cleaning cloth, but it seems to have gone missing. Hmm. . . . Oh well.
And so she picks up a corner of her veil. "Cecil?"
He looks over—and scrunches his nose when she cleans him up. When she kisses his newly depainted nose, however, he giggles.
"There," she says in satisfaction. "All better."
"All better," Cecil echoes—then dabs his paint-covered fingers down her cheek.
She laughs and wipes herself off, too. "No, no, Cecil. The paint is for the paper."
"Okay. . . ."
There's a knock at the door; at Grune's invitation, it swings open to reveal a nursemaid, come to collect Cecil.
"Oops—all done," Grune says to Cecil, who looks disappointed. "We'll have to finish our pictures another time."
Cecil heaves a surprisingly big sigh, but he—oh, so that's where the cloth went! —he dutifully dabs at his fingers and dumps the cloth on the table. Once she's cleaned her hands as well, Grune follows him to the door.
Grune misses the way Lynna's smile is a bit strained at the sight of the rainbow of paint in Cecil's fluffy white hair, and so her voice is entirely cheerful when she says, "That was fun! I think Cecil is going to be an artist when he grows up."
"We'll see," is all Lynna says. "I'll send someone to collect Master Cecil's pictures when they dry, shall I?"
"No!" Cecil says emphatically. "They're for Gwune!"
Grune bends down so he can see how delighted she is by his generosity. "Thank you, Cecil! That's so sweet!"
"All right, then. By the way, His Majesty has a message for you, Lady Grune," Lynna adds as she shepherds Cecil to the door with a hand. "He wants to be sure you haven't forgotten the formal dinner tonight to welcome Lord and Lady Greenglen."
"Oh, I haven't forgotten," Grune assures her. "But thank you, Lynna. See you tomorrow, Cecil!"
"Bye-bye!" Cecil waves with an orange-streaked hand, and off he and Lynna go.
Grune is, as usual, quite late for the banquet. By now, the King of Baron is well used to her . . . rather different sense of time, and so he's already taken a moment to quietly explain her lost memory and simple nature to his guests, making certain to emphasize how highly valued she is at court.
Consequently, when Grune takes her seat a few spaces below him and gives Lord and Lady Greenglen her usual sunny smile and cheerful greeting, the older couple barely blink.
. . . At that, at least. Seated farther away, it takes him a moment to understand why they are politely Not Staring—until he locates the long smear of red on the fine fabric of her veil.
"Grune," he says with a smile, "were you painting with Cecil earlier this afternoon?"
"Yes, that's right," she answers in mild surprise before pride fills her voice. "He's gotten very good."
"Perhaps his skill has improved, but his aim has not." He signals for a servant rather needlessly; it seems he is not the only one to have noticed the paint.
When she gives him a confused look, he says gently, "Go change your veil. You can join us later."
"All right," Grune agrees and takes the arm of the manservant who had noticed her difficulty. She smiles at their guests again and adds, "I'll see you soon!" Then, as always, she departs without the slightest curtsy.
The king watches Lord and Lady Greenglen carefully, ready to smooth over any perceived affront. Both nobles are wearing very . . . neutral expressions.
"I apologize for Grune's eccentricity," the king begins. "I have a three-year-old son to whom she is devoted. Sometimes, certain matters escape her notice."
Lord Greenglen smiles, then, his wrinkles deepening into laugh lines. "There is no need to apologize, Your Majesty. Matilda and I have four grandchildren—we quite understand."
Relieved, the king replies, "I am glad to hear it." And then, in what he's well aware is an underhanded tactic, he says, "Perhaps you could tell me about them."
As he suspected, such fond grandparents could not possibly resist his ploy, and by the time Grune returns with a fresh veil, their visitors are far too caught up in their tales of their brilliant grandchildren for there to be any residual awkwardness at all.
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Aww, I'm...glad I was able to make you wibble? /terrible She was so sad that day, man. It was on par with the whole Luceti Valley thing.