After my Father is laid to rest in the church yard, I sit numbly at his desk. Mr and Mrs Cordon had just left the house after giving their condolences. Mrs Cordon said she would write to her son to inform him of the loss. For that I was thankful, as having to write down the death of my father once was more than enough. I grab the quill and dip it into the black ink. The fresh paper infront of me, I try to find the words. As I write, I find myself crying once again. I thought it strange I was able to produce anymore tears, when I was sure I had cried them all on the night of his death and the day of his burial.
When I finish the letter, I seal it with my father's seal. Charles comes in the room to collect it, he says nothing as he grabs it from my hand, just hurried out of the room to mail it.
I don't think we've spoken more than a few words to eachother in the past few days. Both too distracted, or maybe both too scared and confused. Either way, I knew we couldn't go on as we were. I was all he had Left and He was all I had now.
Wrong Daria. You have a fiancé remember.
Frederick, yes. The boy I was in love with. Of course, my betrothed.
These days though, he seemed to be miles away in my mind. I wasn't sure if that was because of the distance we resided or the events of this week.
Later that day I begin to pack up my father's room. After sorting through his clothes, I spot something glimmer from the other side of the room.
His Sword sheath was hung at the edge of his bed. Its silver handle still shined, despite the years. I took he handle in my hands, freeing it from its holder. His sword was heavier than mine, but performing a few quick practices moves, I could feel how much more precise it was.
"Hello." I jumped at the voice.
Charles stood leaned against the doorway, looking over the now half bare room. His eyes landed on the sword. I guiltily resheath it and stick it out to him.
"You should have it. You're the oldest and his son."
Atlast, he seems to look me in my eyes.
"It's yours. You may not have seen it, but you were always the better swordsman. I did it to get strong and protect myself, but you? You have mastered it, and I see how confident it makes you. A master swordsman should have a proper sword." He gently pushes my stretched out arm back towards me.
"Thank you."
He pulls me into a tight hug. I am once again crying but not alone this time.
YOU ARE READING
The Female Musketeer
Historical FictionDaria La Vielle was just a farm girl. The Three musketeers Athos, Porthos and Aramis were just soldiers. But all four found they were more than just titles given to them. Love, Revenge and Swords make for a good time. but when it comes to being a wo...
