etrayalogs | songe, sombre

[Renoir is too focused on his work to see the gesture the younger man is making. He is wrapped up as tightly by his thoughts as he is binding wire in plaster. There is something in his voice suggestive of understanding; the ache of pain and loss.]

I have designs upon the space.

[Better uses that he does not elaborate upon, such as honouring and burying a daughter he has never been able to lay to rest. He refuses her justifications for her actions and her permanence in his presence.]

It is a quiet and reasonable adjustment.

[One example of his restraint when encountering someone who murdered his daughter.]

Designs.

[Clive’s voice is quiet as he lowers his shaking hand. He clenches it desperately at his side and turns to take in the rest of the space.

And it’s changing, one bit at a time. With each shift, a bit of Clea is lost, taken away and replaced. Gone.

He looks to Renoir and watches him work in silence for a couple of seconds before he can find his voice again. It is forcibly steady when he speaks next, but there is nothing he can truly do to hide the ache there.]

How long was she gone before you started making these changes?

[He’s too afraid to ask what he truly wants to know. How long has she been gone? How long was she here without him? How long did she stay in this place thinking that he might not want her? That he didn’t love her?

Clive nearly chokes on what he wants to ask.]

One or two months or sixty-seven years.

[The words come out like another one of his lessons; a vague allegory or metaphor that means nothing without understanding. His voice shifts together with his position on the latter, one foot moving down before the other, as the bandage is wrapped over and around what resembles an elbow. He smooths down the end and ensures it sits in position before returning to the floor.]

Time is immaterial, monsieur. When painting ceilings or walls, artists understand another will eventually do the same. Such is the nature of aesthetics.

[The consequences of such a medium.]

[Clive blinks and furrows his brow.]

Sixty seven… years?

[There was certainly a story there. Part of Clive wondered if he wanted to know, but a larger part wants to understand Renoir more. For having lost someone from his home, he seemed rather, well, aloof? That word didn’t feel quite right.]

I suppose that makes sense.

[Clive approaches the statue and looks up at it. He tries not to think about how Clea would get paint smudged on her knuckles or her cheek, how he would help wash any stray pigment from her hair, how she would scowl at something she made that was perfectly beautiful because it wasn’t quite right.]

Are you going to paint something else?

[Clive tries to hide the way his voice shakes.]

[There are no smudges of paint on his knuckles nor nose, nor luminous colours in his white hair. His fingers are covered in a sheen of jelly and caked in plaster. This medium is not his preferred means of exploring his emotions, but helps him remember a daughter he has not seen in a lifetime. One hand clasps the other, and he stares at the younger man for a while.]

I would not have repainted the space otherwise, non?

[This question would have an element of warmth. But today his words are as sodden as the plaster coating his fingers. His gaze continues searching for something he cannot see, someone who was never here, but who this man once saw.]

[Clive lets the quiet sit between them. It wasn't the first time they had moments like these, the contemplative silence, but this was the first time he felt that it was something fragile. Was it just him? Was he imagining this tension through his own grief?

Clive takes a short walk around the partially completed statue, taking in the scent of the plaster, examining the places where the wire frame is still uncovered, trying not to let himself drown in thoughts of the person who would otherwise be here, creating. When he reaches Renoir, he stops and finally looks at the man.

His eyes are red-rimmed, wetter than they otherwise might have been, but no tears have fallen.]

Do you know what you are going to paint?

[Clive wanders off to break the uncomfortable silence, reminding them both of someone dear who should be here.

The young man studies his work like it belongs to another. He examines every corner and detail, acting like he will reach around and claim her hand, and remind her to rest and remember she can breathe.

His thoughts linger on his wife teaching him the same lesson, knowing without her care and concern he would not be alive.

In any case, he stares into those eyes, but breaks contact when he behind stepping to the basin towards the rear. His old hand turns the handle and the silence is replaced by the sound of running water.

A distraction.]

A memorial.

[Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps next month. Then there is next year. He will paint once the time is right, and convince himself that is what she would have wanted.

Because the truth is far too violent.]

[Clive watches as Renoir moves to clean his hands before turning to sit on the oh so familiar couch. He runs a hand over the fabric, well-loved and well taken care of, and tries not to bury his face in the backrest to see if it still smells like her.

He waits until the water stops before looking back over at the man he has come to care for, double-layered as their interactions have been. Perhaps it was a Dessendre trait to be simultaneously critical and non-judgmental.

He wants to ask about the memorial, of course he does, but something else has been weighing on him.]

What did you mean when you said Clea had been gone for sixty-seven years?

[Renoir loosens the valve before lugging a bucket into the basin. Unscrewing the spigot, he allows the water to flow and fill the container - a convenient excuse he can utilise longer than necessary. Clive wants to know about his family? Chances are he is terrified of loneliness. Should he share his pride for a daughter who is no longer amongst the living?

Does he want to?

Plaster cakes his fingers and coats his nails. The composition of the material means he cannot slough off residue in the sink, so he soaks his skin inside the container.]

I mean exactly what I said.

[Family is a personal and private affair. Does Clive want more? Will he take every secret until none are left to offer?]

Why does it concern you?

[Clive has to fight the kneejerk reaction to help. Maybe it is this place that makes him feel so inclined. It certainly is within his nature. But Renoir is a grown man, private, and reserved when it comes to touch, so Clive sits and waits.

Renoir's response takes Clive a bit by surprise.]

Why? Because I-

[Clive huffs and shakes his head. Dessendres.]

Because I care about you and want to know you better.

[He looks over at the statue again.]

And I care about her.

['And you're my only connection to her I have left.' goes unsaid.]

Of course. She is a remarkable woman.

[His emotions are reversed from their normal positions. His affirmation lacks criticism and disappointment, while his compliment sounds as wet as the water surrounding his fingers. This somber demeanor exists not because he cannot believe what he is saying, but because the women he is remembering was remarkable.

Was.

He inhales deeply, the burden of her loss an impossible weight upon his shoulders.]

I suppose you are here seeking some object of remembrance?

[His body starts moving as he begins cleaning his nails. That he is redirecting the conversation to something less painful might be too obvious.]

She is.

[Clive looks back at Renoir, brows furrowed. There really is something there that Renoir is holding back. And then the very graceless topic shift?

Clive wants to pry, wants to know what Renoir is hiding. It isn't just to gain more knowledge of the man, but to help him carry whatever it is that is dragging him down. He still hasn't figured out the best way to approach this man, guarded as he is.

Clive stands and approaches before crouching down to be on level with Renoir as he cleans his nails.]

That was my original intention when I came here, yes.

[He wants to lay a hand on the older man's shoulder, show him that he isn't alone. He hesitates, loosely clenching his hand.]

Though I don't think I'm the only one who was brought here because of grief.

[Renoir looks into the bucket, imagining what will happen should he plunge inside and float in its shallow depths. The picture he paints offers cold comfort compared to the image of his daughter dead in the ground.

Or the ocean. He cannot even recover her body his family can mourn.]

I am not here to grieve.

[His anger is scoured and shed with each scrap of plaster. He almost grasps the rim of the bucket with a tight curl of his fingers. But he controls himself physically, imposes control mentally, and speaks in a low and thoughtful tone.]

I am here to remember someone I love.

[That is something he must do alone. His wife and youngest daughter are not here, his son is isolating himself, and his eldest daughter has long passed away.]

Edited 2026-02-11 02:52 (UTC)

[Clive watches the tension in Renoir's body build and wonders if he should leave. Perhaps it would be better for Renoir to allow himself the space he clearly needs were he on his own.

But Clive knows he won't leave. He can't leave the older man to his grief. While there were times when solitude would be best, there were also times when someone's desire to bury themselves should be tested.

Clive only hopes he is making the right choice.]

Remembering those we love is a part of grieving, too.

[Still, he does not touch, but he leans a little closer.]

What is a favorite memory you have of her?

[Honestly, he doesn't expect Renoir to give him a straight answer.]

[Both shoulders pull into his body. His head leans towards the opposite side of the young man, followed by the gentle slope of his upper body. He does not run or speak immediately, as he brings his emotions into his body, swallowing those that threaten to run. He looks around and seizes a towel from Clive's side of the basin, as though wishing to keep himself physically separate.

But he does speak.]

Making a kite for her seventh birthday. We travelled outside the city for its maiden voyage, and she was so intent on doing it perfectly while I kept telling her to let it fly. And it did - until she unravelled it to the end of the spool. I had forgotten to tie the string.

[One can only imagine the look on their faces.]

We just stood together and watched our hard work disappear into the heavens. She threatened to tie me to the kite next time.

[Unfortunately, she became even more serious after that day.]

[Clive stays still as Renoir pulls himself together, pulls inward. He stays still, but he watches carefully. There is concern there in his features, loud and clear, and care. He sees no point in hiding it.

Still, he can't help but smile a bit at the story.]

Even at seven, ever the perfectionist.

[He hides a quiet cough of a laugh behind his hand. That most certainly sounds like the Clea he knows, even as an adult.]

Of course she did. That part of her certainly has not changed.

[Clive looks into the plaster-murky water.]

I'm going to miss her. I already do.

[His brow furrows, nose itching in a way he recognizes as the first sign of oncoming tears.]

I wish I could have said goodbye.

[Renoir hides in that internal world, where his children are alive and happy, and his wife is not too terrified to venture beyond the manor gates. His hands still in the bucket without notice. Clive is too kind but has he done anything to deserve it?

Does he want peace from somebody who only sounds like his son? Someone with his own family and friends, who will never be the same? That is a difficult question and one he is trying to answer.

But that one turn of phrase, I wish I could have said goodbye, is enough to make him exhale through his nose. His shoulders lock together. His hands tightly combine and there is a long silence before he replies, a rolling storm of emotion thundering on the horizon. He looks away towards the floor before returning his gaze to the bucket of water.]

Be happy she is somewhere she deserves.

[His hands remain still, locked as tightly together as his shoulders.]

[Something that Clive has learned is that there is often far more said in the body than in the voice. There is a war brewing in Renoir. The conflict rests in his locked shoulders, his seeming inability to look up, how he seems to be clenching his hands in the murk of the water.

'Somewhere she deserves,'. Clive frowns, has half a mind to tilt himself so he can see Renoir's face, but opts to stay where he is.]

That... is an interesting way to phrase that.

[Clive places a hand on the edge of the basin.]

Renoir, what's wrong?

[Clive hovers somewhere near, close enough to feel by presence, if not the imposition of posture or voice. There is a moment of peace while he holds a silent vigil. Renoir keeps his hands together, slowly rubbing his palms while contemplating the situation - and almost separates them when the young man rests one hand along the edge of the basin.

Control. There is something rewarding about finding it in these dark moments.]

I wanted to say goodbye.

[He removes his hands from the bucket and begins drying each finger. The ritualistic motion offers comfort and a glimpse at a reserved expression. One does not feel broken by the world because they were unable to say goodbye. Nor should one sound unmoved. But the urge to let his voice run wild is there directly below the surface.]

She never gave me the chance.

[There is clearly something that runs deeper here than Clea’s departure from Etraya. His former lover had been just as cagey about her relationship with Renoir, bristling at the idea that he would be considered her father. There was much about this family that he didn’t understand, but he didn’t need to understand to provide support and empathy.

He knows there is nothing he can say that will make the pain go away.

He waits quietly as Renoir manages his emotions in short sentences and carefully meticulous motions. He waits until Renoir is finished before standing and fetching his cane. He holds it out for his friend.]

C’mon. Let’s go enjoy the museum. It’s not the same, but we can say our quiet goodbyes to the ones we love.

[He smiles softly at Renoir, sad yes, but also gentle, caring. This strange man has certainly found a space in Clive’s heart in their time together.]

And then maybe share a glass of wine or two.

[Renoir keeps drying his fingers, one after another and another, needing as much control in this moment as his mind. There is some reluctance to lean on the young man for support. There is some unwillingness to turn him down and wave him aside. He stops after a moment, regarding the friend of his son with a sharp and distinct impression, before tossing the towel aside.

He thinks the younger man will understand the sincerity of accepting his help.]

Give me five minutes.

[One to find his waistcoat. Two to fix his sleeves and change. Three more to step into his coat, collect his bearings and approach the threshold. He opens the door and steps outside without looking back.

But he stops to think about her.

Perhaps he will be forgiven if he refuses to raise a glass in her name.]

[If there is anything he has learned about Renoir, it is that the man is guarded in nearly all things, accepting help being one of those things.

At Renoir's request for time, Clive leaves him to stand just outside the workshop. He thinks on the first time they met on the beach, how he had to curb his anger and impatience toward the man. He huffs a quiet laugh to himself. Funny how time changes things. Now Verso is a stranger to him and Renoir a confidant.

The two men wander the museum quietly, pausing together to admire the works on display. Clive has spent days wandering these halls, examining and learning from both the art and from Clea. Her memory will always saturate this place. He doesn't know what Renoir sees as they wander and he doesn't ask.

It isn't until they are outside in the perfectly curated gardens that Clive speaks again. He pauses at one of the statues and looks up. There is something that Clive has been thinking about for quite some time, something he never had the courage to ask Clea herself. He knows this is a loaded question, but he asks anyway.]

Was there a Painted version of Clea?

[Changing is a simple affair. Renoir sheds his workclothes and guises himself with those acceptable in society. The adjustment is simple; there are defined rules and consequences and the choices he can make are controllable. Now he is strolling these halls with an acquaintance, a student who is willing to learn and prepared to question.

But the question is nothing he expects.

He is peering at the statue when it enters his ears and assaults his sense of reality. His memory of his eldest daughter is sacred, and hearing her spoken about in connection with her prompts him to inhale and hold his breath. It takes a moment before he pivots on the spot and scrutinises the younger man.]

Does the fact she was painted make a difference?

[Clive speaks of his daughter like she was a creation and not an individual. He understands the man means well, but to him as her father, she was simply Clea.

It took a while for him to speak. It takes a moment for him to continue.]

She had a name.

[An identity. A family.]

[There is something delicate here that has been disturbed. Clive has misstepped, he can see it in how Renoir takes a moment to compose himself before turning to fix that stare that means to search another's soul.

He does not waver under that gaze. It is with that same unwavering spirit that he says, with conviction:]

Of course it doesn't. How we are born, be it from a body or a mind, doesn't change that we are people. We each have experienced life in our own ways, learned in our own ways. It's how we have become who we are.

[This time, Clive does opt to touch. He places a hand, present but gentle, on Renoir's shoulder.]

I'm sorry if my words hurt you, it wasn't my intention. Will you tell me about her?

[The younger man is emotionally honest in ways reminiscent of his son. Once they talked, before the world broke their family apart, followed by their relationship. But he referred to his daughter as the painted version of somebody else, automatically setting her apart. Those accidental words are something he can forgive, though when he glances at the hand of comfort, they are clearly something he cannot forget.

His gaze returns to being that omnipotent and omnipresent force that stopped his eldest in her tracks, forcing her to confront her failure. He does not shake off the embrace but he offers little in return.

Nothing except a true and honest account of his emotions.]

She was innocent... innocent... with everything left to see and experience. But her life was cut short and your love is responsible for the fact she is no longer here. Would that she could see what she had done. But she never even acknowledged her right to exist...

[People learn in their own ways to become who they are. But their reactions to the truth can reveal who they are.]

songe, sombre

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)