“It really is a beautiful portrait.”
“So you have said twice today.”
“Then I shall say it a third time, littlest and dearest sister, for yours is the finest countenance in all the land.”
The Lady Gwynnette de Fortemps has a brother.
She has three brothers, in fact, and they are each in their way the most annoying lordlings to ever (dis)grace the family estate. Their personalities have the grand misfortune of being aligned with their birth seasons, so that each brother can trouble others in ways particular to him and have been honed over the years with great skill.
The first, the eldest, he of the bright summer, is a ray of such unfaltering sunshine that oftimes Gwyn feels the need to wear a wide-brimmed hat in his presence. He finds this very funny and endearing, even should she hit him with it as she did when she was a frolicsome child. There is naught in this world that has left so much as a chip upon his gallant optimism, though his sister would say it is not because the world has rewarded his good and kindly nature, but that he is unreasonably lucky at both life and table games.
The second, the dutiful son, is of the striking winter, and never was there ever a stick as deep in the frozen mud as he. Steadfast and studious, exceeding excellence is the court and castle over which he holds unending sway. There has never been a tome he did not immediately absorb, a concept that he did not at once fully analyze, and worse still, his memory is so fine that he can repeat these great learnings at will, at length, at every family gathering where he continues to wrongly assume that anyone there other than the eldest brother is enjoying the lecture on river sediment or the chemistry of flatulence.
And the third, the youngest son and yet still older than his littlest and dearest sister, is Amos, he with a smile like the sun through red maples, warm and welcoming even as cool autumn winds usher one closer to hearth and home.
He is a lout.
“You are a lout, and a flatterer. If you’ve nothing else to do save wax poetic at me about my portrait, then go.”
“Ah! My swan of a sister wounds me!”
He shows her this by putting a hand over his heart, where the wound now supposedly lives, and when Gwyn scowls at him, he chuckles at last and drops his arm.
“Very well, very well, I shall skuttle out of your library before I truly displease you.”
Yet having said that, he lingers, then steps around the sitting area between them and joins her at the window. Past the gauzy curtains, summer is in full swing, the gardens gone to brilliant green, and yet in his shadow, there is a crimson light. The leaves that twine through his antlers and cascade off his hair are thin, brittle-seeming through she knows they are soft, and the sunlight passes through them.
It is a very handsome look, as the ladies of society often say while swooning, but rather than partner it with another smile, there is a serious touch to his expression and in the lay of his long ears.
At long last, Gwyn raises her eyes from her book and meets his.
“He named it Daughter of Spring.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Does it bother you?”
With a little exhale, she closes her book.
In the halls of art and learning throughout this hilly region there are hung portraits of a Lady of de Fortemps who is not Gwynnette. Her name is Shannet and she is yet today thought of as the greatest painter the kingdom has ever known. Her theories on color and composition encompass the opening chapters of every artistry textbook; her techniques and brushwork in oil on canvas are the subjects of a lifetime of study by modern masters. When one hears the name Fortemps, the venerable count certainly comes to mind, but only second, after his ancestor who was said to have brought the king himself to tears with her portrait of the late queen.
She is oft called Daughter of Spring in honorary works.
When Amos asks, Gwyn knows what worries him.
“The painter had a vision. I helped him realize it.”
“But it is not you,” Amos says, and she hears stiffness enter his voice. “I will have him recalled. It will be done again–”
But she puts her hand on his arm before he can step away in his anger.
“Wait, first. Wait a while.”
Impatience has the leaves in his hair shake, the pointed end of his tail giving a hard enough flick to alter the lines of his waistcoat.
“...I assume you mean wait more than an hour.”
For the first time since he called on her, Gwyn gives her brother a smile.
“Wait ten years.”
“Ten?”
“Mhm. By then, I will be–”
“A great writer?”
She knows he does not mean to, but Amos does sound dubious. He hears it himself and flinches. “I did not mean…”
“I know what you meant, brother of mine, and I suspect the painter would feel similar if he wondered if I would be a great author.”
“Then…?”
He steps back, allowing her to stand so that they can face the windows and the green gardens together.
“In ten years, I could be great or I could not. What I write might be held in royal vaults or it might be bound into penny dreadfuls on a cluttered old shelf. It might be nowhere at all save in this very library, kept only by family, who loves me.”
The little rustling sound belongs to Amos, whose ears have risen out of their worry, perking forward.
“But its vision will be all mine, only of me, the only such work in the world, and then the painter will know who to paint.”
She is not wrong.
~*~
A story on expectations and self-fulfillment.
Written for and inspired by this AMAZING commission from that I adore. They do incredible work, I can't recommend them enough. Character is my fursona, Gwyn.
“So you have said twice today.”
“Then I shall say it a third time, littlest and dearest sister, for yours is the finest countenance in all the land.”
The Lady Gwynnette de Fortemps has a brother.
She has three brothers, in fact, and they are each in their way the most annoying lordlings to ever (dis)grace the family estate. Their personalities have the grand misfortune of being aligned with their birth seasons, so that each brother can trouble others in ways particular to him and have been honed over the years with great skill.
The first, the eldest, he of the bright summer, is a ray of such unfaltering sunshine that oftimes Gwyn feels the need to wear a wide-brimmed hat in his presence. He finds this very funny and endearing, even should she hit him with it as she did when she was a frolicsome child. There is naught in this world that has left so much as a chip upon his gallant optimism, though his sister would say it is not because the world has rewarded his good and kindly nature, but that he is unreasonably lucky at both life and table games.
The second, the dutiful son, is of the striking winter, and never was there ever a stick as deep in the frozen mud as he. Steadfast and studious, exceeding excellence is the court and castle over which he holds unending sway. There has never been a tome he did not immediately absorb, a concept that he did not at once fully analyze, and worse still, his memory is so fine that he can repeat these great learnings at will, at length, at every family gathering where he continues to wrongly assume that anyone there other than the eldest brother is enjoying the lecture on river sediment or the chemistry of flatulence.
And the third, the youngest son and yet still older than his littlest and dearest sister, is Amos, he with a smile like the sun through red maples, warm and welcoming even as cool autumn winds usher one closer to hearth and home.
He is a lout.
“You are a lout, and a flatterer. If you’ve nothing else to do save wax poetic at me about my portrait, then go.”
“Ah! My swan of a sister wounds me!”
He shows her this by putting a hand over his heart, where the wound now supposedly lives, and when Gwyn scowls at him, he chuckles at last and drops his arm.
“Very well, very well, I shall skuttle out of your library before I truly displease you.”
Yet having said that, he lingers, then steps around the sitting area between them and joins her at the window. Past the gauzy curtains, summer is in full swing, the gardens gone to brilliant green, and yet in his shadow, there is a crimson light. The leaves that twine through his antlers and cascade off his hair are thin, brittle-seeming through she knows they are soft, and the sunlight passes through them.
It is a very handsome look, as the ladies of society often say while swooning, but rather than partner it with another smile, there is a serious touch to his expression and in the lay of his long ears.
At long last, Gwyn raises her eyes from her book and meets his.
“He named it Daughter of Spring.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Does it bother you?”
With a little exhale, she closes her book.
In the halls of art and learning throughout this hilly region there are hung portraits of a Lady of de Fortemps who is not Gwynnette. Her name is Shannet and she is yet today thought of as the greatest painter the kingdom has ever known. Her theories on color and composition encompass the opening chapters of every artistry textbook; her techniques and brushwork in oil on canvas are the subjects of a lifetime of study by modern masters. When one hears the name Fortemps, the venerable count certainly comes to mind, but only second, after his ancestor who was said to have brought the king himself to tears with her portrait of the late queen.
She is oft called Daughter of Spring in honorary works.
When Amos asks, Gwyn knows what worries him.
“The painter had a vision. I helped him realize it.”
“But it is not you,” Amos says, and she hears stiffness enter his voice. “I will have him recalled. It will be done again–”
But she puts her hand on his arm before he can step away in his anger.
“Wait, first. Wait a while.”
Impatience has the leaves in his hair shake, the pointed end of his tail giving a hard enough flick to alter the lines of his waistcoat.
“...I assume you mean wait more than an hour.”
For the first time since he called on her, Gwyn gives her brother a smile.
“Wait ten years.”
“Ten?”
“Mhm. By then, I will be–”
“A great writer?”
She knows he does not mean to, but Amos does sound dubious. He hears it himself and flinches. “I did not mean…”
“I know what you meant, brother of mine, and I suspect the painter would feel similar if he wondered if I would be a great author.”
“Then…?”
He steps back, allowing her to stand so that they can face the windows and the green gardens together.
“In ten years, I could be great or I could not. What I write might be held in royal vaults or it might be bound into penny dreadfuls on a cluttered old shelf. It might be nowhere at all save in this very library, kept only by family, who loves me.”
The little rustling sound belongs to Amos, whose ears have risen out of their worry, perking forward.
“But its vision will be all mine, only of me, the only such work in the world, and then the painter will know who to paint.”
She is not wrong.
~*~
A story on expectations and self-fulfillment.
Written for and inspired by this AMAZING commission from that I adore. They do incredible work, I can't recommend them enough. Character is my fursona, Gwyn.
Category Artwork (Digital) / Portraits
Species Pokemon
Gender Female
Size 800 x 1158px
Comments