{ Invasive Questions }

In the lieutenant’s defense, Thomas had been quite adamant on familiarity and the abject abolishment of propriety in the household. He had not necessarily declared any topic taboo – and indeed, encouraged controversial discussion for the sake of engaging in more scintillating discourse. Although, none of those topics were quite so personal in nature. 

What did he remember? Astonishing, how swiftly the world could bury people when powerful men set their mind to erasing the idea that they ever existed at all. When it became prudent to pretend they had never been vital to one’s image or favored above the others for the very same ambitions which ultimately destroyed them. 

He remembered how small David had seemed in his impeccable uniform, how proudly he had polished every button and how certain he had been that he could make a name for himself that would stand apart from the Hamilton family politics. He recalled, too readily, the letters which had detailed in a script too cramped and quick to be speaking truths an air of optimism, confidence and quiet resolve. 

Worse still, he remembered the bruises and the cuts, the pains his brother worked so desperately to conceal behind a dutiful smile and the repeated assurance that it was all part of the training. How dearly he had wished to rise to his brother’s defense then – but of course, their father was so proud, and could no more see the damage being born than he could the possibility that David was not the most ideal of his children. 

He remembered hating David for that. 

“My brother – was a singularly focused person,” The statement is delicate as it is vague – neither praising nor condemning him in any particular fashion. Diplomacy at it’s finest, to say as much as one could without saying anything at all. “I cannot recall a time in which he wasn’t driven to some sort of action. Parliament did not suit him.” There was a thin, self-deprecating smile at this – for as the eldest, such affairs were his to inherit, and thus the greater scrutiny of their father was his to bear. 

David had a perfectionist nature – even as a boy, he was disciplined beyond Thomas’ comprehension, and had a means of gleaning their father’s praise as if it were easy. When he decided to join the navy Thomas had been relieved, certain that with his brother out of sight, their father would grow to appreciate more the efforts Thomas put forth. That it was not to be should not have surprised him. 

That their father could turn so dramatically in his opinion – without evidence or trial, with greater concern and alarm for appearances than the threat of David’s demise, Thomas had learned a valuable lesson. Alfred Hamilton’s approval would always be conditional upon one’s capacity to be useful to his image – the moment one became a taint upon that carefully constructed persona, their value diminished rapidly and, as in the case of David, could render them so low that destroying them utterly and making all the whispers disappear took precedence over understanding what really happened.      

“Though I suppose it goes without saying that the Navy did not suit him either.” A flat and unfeeling conclusion to what was in fact a wound that festered and rotted within him, sticky sweet in some company and foul with bitterness in others. “I cannot say I remember anything particularly significant about him that is not already public knowledge.” The dismissal of the topic came in the form of an apologetic, urbane smile that was better suited to a courtroom than in the comfort of his own sitting room, but what could be done?

As to the other sibling. 

“Anna was – the stuff that poems are born from, the inspiration behind legends and fairytales alike.” Here, the careful grip on his composure slipped, and a hint of mournful wistfulness touched upon his features as surely as it colored his voice. “I never knew a kinder person – to this day, in fact, I would say hers remains the brightest and most forgiving of spirits.” And so it was no wonder, that this world had fucking destroyed her. 

Rising to his feet, Thomas turned toward the window, containing the heated fury that rose whenever he thought about the sheer pointlessness of her demise. The ease in which it could have been avoided if only their father had not been so obsessed with ascertaining the family name was above reproach for their association to David. As if he wasn’t theirs, was something that could just be swept aside and forgotten – 

“She loved to sing.” A sudden, quiet offering of something personal, something the world didn’t already know. “She had a nightingale, whom she shared her songs with most often. I had thought she would entrust the bird to someone – it had always been so dear to her – but as it turned out, she set it free before she died. The flock on my father’s estate are descended of that particular bird. They return there every year.”

Thomas liked to believe it was to remind the man of his crimes, though he doubted Alfred Hamilton would heed the scoldings of the nightingales any better than he would the grief of his wife or the bitterness of his last remaining child. 

Turning back once he regained himself, he raised his brows slightly, “Why do you ask?”