Proud (manxman)

Cayne Alastor Vasille hated the big galas his mother always held, but this one was more insufferable than most.  Its splendor and elegance was only outshone by its deception.  A beautiful lie, but a lie none the less.  The twelfth century stained glass windows that lined the expansive Vasille ballroom seemed as fragile as panes of sugar glass now.  That which had once been his life, was now only an exquisite mirage, and just as intangible to his covetous hands.  But it had not always been so.  Only days before Cayne had been heir to one of the country’s grandest estates, drunk with wealth and influence.  Then had come the proverbial fall; just as harsh and unforgiving as was fabled. 

He had been quietly practicing his penmanship when the gong of the doorbell resonated through the house and prompted Cayne to sit up a little straighter before emerging from his chambers to peer over the carpeted landing.  He looked upon the scene with speculative eyes as a servant scuttled to the door.  Strange, there was a government official at their door asking to speak with the master of the house.  Confused but doubtlessly intrigued, Cayne wandered to his father’s study to retrieve the ‘lord of the manor,’ showing him to the door where the official stood tapping his foot impatiently.  Cayne frowned a little at that, the paper-pusher obviously thought he was something special that lords should hurry just because he was getting impatient.

“Father, what is that ruddy man doing lurking on our doorstep?”

But his father seemed in a hurry and he didn’t give an answer, another curiosity.  His Father always had time to humor him, but now he was rushing to go and speak with this lackey? 

When his father met the official at the door they both started speaking in rapid fire, their words going by too fast to follow, but it was clear his father was growing more and more distressed.  He had never seen his father so much as relinquish his stoic exterior in front of guests, let alone allow an edge of pleading in his voice.  What was this man saying?!  Cayne couldn’t stand it any longer and rushed down the stairs, just in time to catch part of the official’s words, “we’re seizing this manor, you Lord Alphonse Benedict Vasille owe the bank the sum of…” it trailed off after that.  The only thing Cayne registered was that the number was simply astronomical. 

“There must be a misunderstanding…” Cayne started, still not fully believing that this could even be possible.  Just a few weeks ago they had held a gala, the biggest one yet!  There was no way they were paupers…they were descended from one of the oldest lines of aristocracy …it was impossible…

As much as he hated it, he knew the grave look in his father’s eyes.  This was no joke. It was real.  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner Cayne, I had really hoped that this could be straightened out--” he started…  Cayne was quite nauseous as his thoughts raced…  “It seems our family has been accumulating debts for a long time now, your great grandfather was quite a gambler and we did the best we could to get out of this hole… I had thought we were making headway but suddenly the bank demanded full payment and Cayne… we just don’t have the funds.”

Cayne knew he was going to be ill now, and he stumbled on unsteady legs to a settee by the door.  One of his well manicured, aristocratic hands tightened in his carefully combed auburn locks and he tried to control the panic that was setting in.  But with every shaky breath the fabric of his world frayed just a little more.

This was not how things were supposed to happen. 

He was numb when his father crouched down to look him in the eye, pressing some silvers into his palm and smoothing his ruffled hair, a forced smile on his lips.  “Take this and go down to a pub for a little bit.  Drink, think things through.  You really do not need to see this.”

Cayne agreed completely.  He didn’t need to see this, didn’t want to see this, and in moments he had tossed on his cloak and fled out the front door. He saddled his horse with clumsy, shaking hands before he took off into the night, looking for a discreet place in which to enjoy oblivion.