Thread: A Discussion of Theology (SnowGlassRoses)

There was much more to do before Mass this morning than she had anticipated. And she had lost track of time. And she'd had to rush. And if he let her, if he allowed her sweet voice and quick wit to do so, Yvette would talk him out of things, talk him into things, and have him completely forgetting the point before a moment's time. Aramis' eyes remained closed still, breath entering through his nose, filling his lungs to be let out in a slow, heavy sigh. Did she know what she put him through, every time she fought it? Was she aware of the pains striking your child caused a father, how it hurt to hit one you cared for so? Or was she only thinking of herself at this moment, of evading a punishment that, in time, would make her a better person for it? Every blow he'd deal her would be like two to himself, both straight to his heart. One day, he hoped, she may come to understand why he must now endure it. Enough, the priest stated plainly. Aramis' voice was not raised, but rather it was powerful, powerful as it ever was. A man of learning. A man of God. And, when necessary, a man of the blade, they like a trinity that never demanded, but rather earned respect wherever he may go his home no less than any. Your father cares for you deeply, Yvette. I will not ask you to calm, not with what is to come, but I will ask you to listen, for right now you waste both time and patience. ...I take no pleasure in this. In truth I take great pain, my hope for arriving home early this evening to embrace you in warmth, not to have to strike my child because she failed to sneak around behind my back. A pause. Are you sorry? Another, brief but meaningful. Ask yourself why. Is it because you failed in your duty or because you were caught? Enough stalling. Taking another deep, slow breath, a breath of courage, Aramis reached for his young daughter's hand to guide her right up against his side. She would know what was coming. She would know it well, this, he thought in disappointing reflection, an act between them too often as of late. And she would know that at this point any further argument would only make it worse. Aramis' second hand slid to his daughter's hip, to her waist, sliding around to the small of her back which he had caressed so tenderly so that morning upon waking her. Now his hand pressed to it for a different reason entirely, bare palm against her finely woven dinner dress, perhaps not as fancy an outfit as a lady of the King's court but far extravagant by a country girl's standards, urging her to lean forward, at which point she should know to take her position stretched upon his waiting lap. I have no interest in bringing in additional help, monetarily or out of necessity. You made a very significant stink about the ladies who used to be here several years ago, and you swore to me, swore rather fervently if I remember, that you were a big girl now and could handle it all on your own. How would you ever learn to be a good wife one day, Papa, you asked, if I did not let you try? He did not shift when she strewn out across him. He simply sat still, back straight and against the chair, though once his daughter was in place his hands shifted, his right now at the top of her back where her shoulder blades came together, open palm resting against the soft cotton of her dress, his other reaching for the hem of her skirts. And you have done wonderfully so, Yvette. You have proven very capable, and I have enjoyed using the money saved to splurge on you as most fathers only wish they could. Yet I would be letting you down as a father if all I did was spoil you, if I never used a firm hand to remind you of the way of things. The skirts came up, one at a time, pulled over the curve of her bottom to come to rest in a bunched up pile at the small of Yvette's back. You have your rosary, my love, he stated, hand taking hold of her soft cotton undergarment when that was all which was left, guiding it down over the curvature of her fifteen year old backside. Firm and lovely. Bare and vulnerable. Use it to make peace. The first strike came quick, without hesitance, for give himself a moment to reconsider and he very well might. Peace with me. A second raise of his arm, a second falling blow, open palm stinging across the same left cheek as the first. Peace with yourself. Followed by the third, swift and unforgiving, Aramis' whole body tense. Peace with God. Perhaps she would never know the pain which winced upon his face with every blow. Perhaps such was for the best.