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Light Cream held a thin, red leather-bound book as she excitedly sat down onto the wide lounge chair next to her guests: Clotted Cream and Financier. She opens it, revealing various pictures attached onto every page: a photo album. It was aged, slightly worn, and looked well-used, but otherwise well-kept. Some of its brittle pages curled at the edges, ending in frayed corners where one's hand may have turned to the next. The occasional splashes of tea or coffee stained its margins, the tiny specks of dark browns mixing into the antique sepia of the formerly-white paper. The colors in the pictures have all but faded with time, but the bygone memories captured in them still vividly remain in Light Cream's mind, forever cherished in her heart even after all the years that have passed.
The assortment of images depicted a significantly younger Light Cream and Clotted Cream, likely before the latter's adoption into House Custard. The older cookie then starts recalling the memories behind each and every one of them, animatedly retelling them with a joyful pitch in her voice and a hint of sentimentality in her eyes as they all enjoy an assortment of snacks over tea.
Financier seemed to be amused by all this, practically leaning towards the elder as she's regaled with colorful accounts of both her partner's early childhood and his mother's early parenthood. Seated beside her is a rather nonplussed Clotted Cream, wearing a nervous smile. Unsure of how to act, he eventually decides to focus on drinking his tea. He feels his face heat up with each passing story and comment that comes by, though he tries to attribute this to the warm weather and hot steam wafting from the teacup he clutched close.
Light Cream continues her spiel until the sun reaches the horizon and prepares to retire for the day, when she decides to retreat to the kitchen to prepare for dinner. She excuses herself and proceeds to take the empty plates and teacups with her, leaving the red-faced consul with the still-amused paladin, the open book left in her care.
"Clotted Cream," he hears Financier call, snapping him out of his flustered daze. "Are you alright?" she asks.
"Yes," he answers, willing away the last bits of flushed color on his dough. "My apologies, I… did not expect that sort of situation, is all."
"Unexpected" was putting it very lightly. Clotted Cream has experienced and recovered from a myriad of mishaps and awkward situations, but there was something downright embarrassing—mortifying even—about his mother showing photos of his younger self to his lover. Adorable, they called him. That was years ago, he protested to no one but himself. Nevertheless, he did not have the heart to stop them, especially not when both ladies seemed to be enjoying themselves.
The paladin merely blinks, aware of his discomfort, though she chooses not to comment on it. "There is no need to apologize," she instead replies, before returning to the photobook she still held.
"This all takes me back to my own childhood," Financier remarks, brushing a pale hand across one of its yellowed pages. "It has been such a long time ago, so I am afraid I might forget. I wish I had something like this to always help me remember."
"You do not have any?" Clotted Cream inquires, somewhat puzzled at her admission. “Photos like these, I mean."
"No," she sighs. “If anything, they might have all been lost... along with—"
"I apologize for bringing back such painful memories," he interrupts. "I am certain my mother did not intend to dredge them up, sharing this album with you."
"It is alright," she reassures him. "I can tell by her enthusiasm that was not her intention."
They sat in reticence for a moment, soaking up the last rays of the warm Republican sun filtering through the room’s sheer curtains dancing with the faint sea breeze. Clotted Cream turns his gaze back on Financier, noting the subtle wistful look in her eyes as she examined the pictures once more, still visible in the approaching dusk.
He knows nothing can ever bring House Financier—her family—back. He knows he should offer her a shoulder to lean on, but offering genuine, unembellished comfort has never been his forte. Even so, he wishes for her not to stow away her grief once more, to reassure her there was no problem in expressing such sorrow, to let her know that he will be there for her—just as she has always done for him.
He considers his words, lets out a long, subdued sigh, and steadies himself for the inevitable bout of vulnerability.
"… Do you still miss them?" he softly asks, finally breaking the silence.
Financier jolts slightly, taken aback by his question. She pauses for a bit, pondering her next words. "Yes," she replies, closing the album shut and setting it down on her lap. "I do not think I will stop missing them, not when they were ripped away from me at a too-early age."
"... I see," came Clotted Cream's flat reply, though his brows furrowed in concern.
"However, unlike then"—she continues, as if sensing his worry—"I find myself reminiscing all the good times I've had with them, instead of wishing them back every waking moment or burying their memory entirely."
"We both simply ignored our longing for our families back then, it seems."
"I suppose we were both foolish and stubborn in that way," she chuckles, a short breathy sound. "I must say, it felt… very liberating when I allowed myself to openly mourn them again."
Clotted Cream grins at the rare sound of her soft laughter and the sight of her small gentle smile, delighted to have eased his beloved's burden by simply letting her share her feelings.
"I do feel a familial bond with a lot of the cookies in the Sanctum and in the orphanage, even though we may not share the same ingredient ties," Financier adds. "I just… "
The mention of Financier's found family evokes memories of one duplicitous ex-Elder—her once-guardian figure—at the back of Clotted Cream's mind. He dispels the thought quickly, not wanting to reopen old wounds without her prompting. Instead, he trains his olive-green eyes on her, patiently and wordlessly encouraging her to finish her thoughts. The knight blushes a faint pink, endeared by his undivided attention.
"… I only wish my jam-and-dough family could see the cookie I am now," she finishes as she gingerly picks at the pointed edge of the album's leather cover on her lap.
"I am certain they would be very proud of you. I know I am," he declares, further deepening the tint on Financier's cheeks.
There was a beat of contemplative silence before he starts again, "I do not think I have thanked you enough for your role in reuniting me with my mother,” he says with atypical earnestness. "If not for your gentle advice, I cannot imagine I would be with her again like this..."
"It is nothing, really. Are you happy with Madame Light Cream?"
"Yes," he affirms, placing his hand on top of hers. "Truly."
"Then, that is all that matters. I am very happy for you," she replies as she shifts her hand to hold his. Her kind smile grows wider as the mellow beams of the setting sun reaches her eyes, shining amidst the warm glow of twilight permeating throughout the room.
𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒
Their conversation echoed through Clotted Cream’s mind as his eyes scan over the few papers on his desk, illuminated under the meager light of his lamp. He has drafted and prepared countless speeches in his life, but he has never written anything like the one currently in his hand. It was not for a convocation meeting; neither was it for a debate, nor a public address or any form of oration. Their contents were very heartfelt, very personal—very much unlike the ones that came before it. Some may call him an overthinker for preparing an entire speech for such an occasion, but he's nothing if not a meticulous planner.
He stores the papers into a drawer once he is finished making corrections, tucked away neatly beside a small velvet box containing a ring: a thin silver band dotted with dainty white stones, topped with a modest yellow gem. He lingers for a moment, fondly remembering their intended recipient—her long, elegant light brown hair swaying with her every unyielding step; a smattering of scars decorating her fair-colored dough that blushes easily; her disciplined hands, well-practiced in swordsmanship and light magic, folding into solemn prayer and soothing one’s pains with a gentle touch; stern almond eyes that once hid her own pain and grief, softening with her radiant and sincere smiles; a tender compassion concealed behind her serious voice and formal, courteous speech.
The very same voice that stood by him all this time, continuing to provide him comfort and support.
Please do not dismiss someone who cares for your well-being the most.
Especially if you share a doughline thicker than cream itself.
Her profound words ring in his mind once more, though now he might be inclined to disagree that doughline connections were a thing of great import.
After all, Clotted Cream may not be the family that Financier has longed and yearned for to return, nor do they share the same jam coursing beneath their dough…
… but he is resolved to give her the family she has always deserved.