Stray Birds | Herbert & Philippe
@philippedonadieu
How long has it been since he last saw him? Since he last sung his brother to sleep, since he last glanced upon his childish, virtuous grin?
So long, that words had turned to dust, lost in the flow of time and rendered insignificant by the crushing weight of life’s demands. Long gone were the inconsequential days back in Picardie, the laughter he shared with his dear siblings weaving through the woods of Compiègne now only a bitter aftertaste on his tongue. He had gone home, once or twice, but never in time to make it for anything that mattered, and every time, with the slight scorn in his sister’s tone, he conceded his chance to meet with his brother.
Little Philippe, all grown up now.
He wonders how much his petit frère remembers of him.
“— and then there was this damned priest, you know? That one! The new one in town that clutches onto the skirts of his eminence—”
Eighteen years was far too long. Though overjoyed upon learning the news of Philippe’s relocation, that joy quickly receded into a perplexing feeling of guilt. That of a child so long removed from home, the word felt like nothing but an uncertain murmur on inattentive lips. He had dreamt, more than once, spreading his arms out like wings and gliding back to the lands that nurtured him, only waking up to find his appendages long saturated. He couldn’t even climb off his bed, let along fly.
“The new one—” this damned priest, the priest, this could only be referring to one. There can only one god damned priest in this wretched world that would walk between two men in a tavern that was about to beat the hell out of each other.
“What did he look like?” Herbert asked, voice edged with curiosity and what may resemble repentance, if only he were to admit to it.
“What? Oh, a tall folk he was, dark, long hair…” the man voiced, recollecting some unseemly memories to his captain. “To about here,” he waved his hands right above his shoulders.
“Bit ragged and greasy for a priest if you’d ask me. Would never have guessed, if not for the cloth covering him. Why, captain? You seem concerned.” He shot Herbert a glance, tone inquisitive and slightly trimmed with heedfulness.
Right, he’d never spoke of his family. “It might be someone I knew, back in Picardie.” He reassured the soldier, in a trivial, solemn tone much like his usual one. “Perhaps I will pay him a visit.”
His letters were not replied, he hadn’t heard of Philippe from his eminence either. The incidental sojourns he’d had made to Saint-Eustache the past two months were all unaccomplished. That’s one hell lack of luck, he thought, or was it a predetermined fate that he shall not accidentally run in to his brother before his repentance had been sanctioned? Had it been the same for Philippe? Did he try to seek me out? Sure he had been busy for some weeks here and there, but he’d had expected to at least hear from his brother. If not from the one in question himself, then at least from the Cardinal.
He paced along the skirts of the Seine after a lazy morning of office work, dressed formally in his full attire feasibly to remind him of his purpose, his mind once again fallen into a trance of aching, a pitiful mourn of lost familiarity.
It was Sunday, mass day, should he give it another shot? Sooner or later, he should re-muster the courage to face the one he has forsaken, though an apology didn’t seem appropriate. He had promised he’d be back, whole, and they’d go on adventures again. Those words, also, had been broken promises, and life, the grand adventure that actually posed meaning, carried on in his absence. He was but a bygone now, no doubt. Philippe had been much too young to remember him, and it might be for the best.
Though eventually, he did find his way to the church. He paced around the corners of the newly erected, dignified architecture as masses of people swarmed the nearby streets and court. He slowly circled closer and closer to the building, as it seem to suggest that he had chosen a brilliant timing. He may, perchance, finally catch a glimpse of his brother in midst of all the solemn prayers.
He felt like a heathen.
Father Dubois… The voice was distant and meek, but the syllables were clear. Could it be?
The realisation was so obscure he felt like he was dreaming. He turned his head towards the voice, his gaze landed on a tall, courtly figure. Tall, long hair… to about here, bit ragged and greasy for a priest if you’d ask me. He couldn’t have mistaken.
…Phili? The words couldn’t form, it seemed distant, and nearly foreign on the tongue. It choked him back, along with every other emotions rampaging through every fibre of his being, he finally saw him again, that’s him, right? Mon frère? Mon frère cadet?
He took a step back, tempted to turn away as he suddenly wasn’t ready to face the one he had deserted.
His brother, the one that he had sung to, the one with that innocent and virtuous grin, the one that he had saved from a tree, patched up, played with and promised that no harm shall ever come to him. Now, eighteen years later, was standing right there, a dozen steps away from him. Were they really fated to reunite?
He might have mistaken, and in some way, he wished he had.
