Homecoming
Today was the day Mordred Beaumont came home. Home… After all theses years. He didn’t know what to feel, what to think. Happiness? …No… Anger?... No… The feeling was regret. He regretted not fighting harder. He regretted not fighting his urge to run, run far far away. He regretted leaving. He regretted not loving enough. He regretted not holding on tighter to what mattered. Instead he had watched it fade away, everything he loved disappear, slipping like sand between his fingers. All he had left now … was himself to blame
He looked out of the window. He must be in the grounds now. He could, hear smell, even taste the beautiful English country side, the fresh taste of spring on his pale lips. He touched the glass, feeling the rain beat down on it. Underfoot he felt the ever familiar gravel, rolling under the tires of the sleek black car. Home, he though. He was almost seventeen years old. He was getting older, colder. Gone was the happy ignorance of childhood replaced by the apathy of adolescence. The world had changed and he had changed with it. But Beaumont Manor had not.
It never changed. Same mosaics, same old masters, same marble pillars, same green moors. His family had held the estate for centuries. But it would never belong to him, only his idiot cousin. His father was the youngest son, and no one cared about youngest sons, even if they happened to be billionaires. He frowned, his brows creasing. He could see the main house now, peaking in the distance, the gravel road segueing into stone. He could feel the car run across the old stone bridge. See the endless green lawns, shining like emeralds in the rain and the familiar pale stone building glowing in the background. Anticipation build up, his heart skipped a beat, homecoming, finally, a warm meal, a soft bed; after years eating trash sleeping in flea ridden cot. He was home.
A familiar figure opened the door. The cold wet air flooding in. He stepped outside, eyes wide, looking up into the giant pillars, the intricate stone of his ancestral home. He looked down upon himself. Dirty T-shirt and bloodstained black jeans. But his face was stone cold, carved by the gods more intricate and beautiful than his home could ever be, he belonged here.
The two famous Beaumont lions where raised to great him, up and rampant, stone yet still alive, their eyes burning with an ever familiar fire. He climbed the majestic stone stairs looking onto the classical gardens, statues of his noble ancestors, head held up high. He ignored the large figure that rose up behind him, caring what little belongings he had. The grand doors opened for him, servant’s rushed quietly about cleaning up the muddy foot prints of his dirty boots. He gave them no notice instead staring into the grand staircase; platforms of perfect wood, marble and delicate metal curling their way up into what seemed to be the heavens.
“Master Beaumont, welcome home. We are short of time, I shall lead you up to your room. Your grandparents are waiting in the library,” said the figure behind him. The boy turned and smiled.
“Long time no see, old friend,” he said. Both stayed silent. Understanding… neither of them wanted to talk about what had happened in the last five years .
He stepped into his room. Memories of a happy childhood flooding back like a great tsunami flushing all the pain, apathy and hate away but only for a second. His eyes widened, his thoughts running as he walked though the drawing room. The luxury! It was mind-blowing almost sickening. It made his stomach churn, the gold guild sky blue wall paper, the frescoed ceilings, little cherubs in the sky, the luxury, the money dripping from the walls it was too much. He lived here, once upon a time, a spoilt little brat.
Spawn of capitalism, spawn of feudalism, spawn of greed across the centuries. His eyes ran greedily across the walls, the portraits. His mother stared at him, her green eyes unearthly, and her pale skin almost maliciously beautiful. Mother, monster, nurturer and murder. Dirty blood sucker. His eyes found the face the was looking for. Something warmed his heart, first love. How old was he back then? A child? But the thought of her had stayed, every night, everyday, thoughts of her plagued him. What she think of him, drug dealer, murder in all but name. What would she look like now? Beautiful, she must be beautiful, so beautiful. She was a exquisite child. He ran his finger along the oil paint face. She sat with him, in the plumb tree pure white dress black tresses held in pale blue ribbons. The purity, pick flushed cheeks; doe eyes the color of violets. Innocent, inquisitive, independent but at the same time sweeter than anything he had ever tasted.
He wanted to find her. He wanted her. Where ever she was. Maybe they could be dirty blood suckers together. Maybe… Just maybe…
My review, and I read without once think about stereotypes or anything. Personally, I don't care as long as something is well done and catches my attention. First up, we have nitpicks! 