The Silver Razor: Ayrshire
Sep. 23rd, 2012 12:16 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
anteros_lmcTitle: The Silver Razor: Ayrshire
Author: Anteros
Characters: Kennedy, Archie Kennedy
Rating: R
Notes: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
eglantine_br, who wanted to know where Archie's silver razor came from. This is also a companion piece to Other Sons. There are several more parts to this but they are currently scribbled in notebooks and on the back of receipts. Hopefully I'll get round to writing them up some time soon!
Ayrshire, 9th February 1791
Kennedy held the silver razor in his palm, its handle was smooth and cool, reassuringly familiar. Unsurprising, he had used it daily for the last thirty years. The razor had been his first inheritance from his father, a small heirloom passed from father to son. It was said to have been a gift from a French monarch, but from which one and to whom, had long since been forgotten. Some obscure family tradition dictated that the razor passed to the youngest son. Kennedy himself had been the only son and, as such, had inherited his father’s whole estate comprising a minor title, modest entail and extravagant debts.
But the razor had been his first inheritance. His father had presented it to him on his sixteenth birthday. Kennedy had coveted the razor as a boy, watching in fascination as his father balanced the razor momentarily on one finger before sliding the blade over his cheek in a single fluid arc. His father had always shaved himself, despite retaining the services of an under-employed valet.
Fascinated though he was, Kennedy had also been rather afraid of the bright sharp razor, but his father had patiently taught him how to use it; how to sharpen the blade till it was honed to perfection, how to shave quickly and cleanly without nicking the skin. Kennedy had set his fear aside, and despite several minor but bloody mishaps, soon became familiar with the razor, with the smooth curve of the handle and the fine precision of the edge. But try as he might, he had never learned to balance the open blade as his father had done. That was by the by. It was a good razor, he would be sorry to see it go. Sorry to pass on the inheritance.
He had considered keeping it, perhaps to bequeath to some grandson, but his youngest son was still his son, disgraced or not. It was two years now since Archibald Kennedy, Archie to all that knew him, had been packed off to the navy. Kennedy had refused to acknowledge or correspond with his son since he left, but he continued to pay his monthly allowance, and his wife and daughters wrote regularly. Though he affected disinterest, he waited just as impatiently as the women for the replies that variously returned from “HMS Slough of Despond”, “His Majesty’s Scow Justinian”, or “Purgatory, at anchor, Spithead”. It had cost him dear to maintain his veneer of indifference when the replies had petered out and finally stopped, some eighteen months ago.
Kennedy refused to revoke his decision to send his son to sea, but he regretted not being able to hand him the worn calf skin case, not to be able to teach him how to hold the razor and sharpen the blade. The boy must learn for himself, make his own way in the world. It was little more than he deserved. He had been lucky not to have been cut off altogether, Kennedy told himself, ignoring the ache buried deep in his chest. There was no place for regret, he had other sons to be proud of.
But still, Kennedy found he could not withhold this small inheritance. Not that Archie was likely to have need of the razor yet. His youngest had inherited his wife’s fine tawny hair and bright complexion, so different from the dark colouring characteristic of his own family. He remembered running his hand over his son’s smooth cheek, soft as a girl’s, teasing him that perhaps he would have need of the razor by the time he was twenty six. The boy had looked so crest fallen, that Kennedy had laughed and solemnly promised that the razor would be his on his sixteenth birthday, as was his due.
That was a long time ago.
And now his youngest son’s sixteenth birthday was only days away and still he had not sent the razor. Kennedy opened the drawer of his desk and removed the oil cloth packet that had lain there for several weeks. It was addressed in his own broad even hand to Mr Midshipman Abld. Kennedy, His Majesty’s Ship Justinian, Spithead. He closed the razor, placed it in the calf skin case, slid it into the oil cloth packet and closed it with his seal. Then he laid the package aside and placed his head in his hands. He would need a new razor.
Author: Anteros
Characters: Kennedy, Archie Kennedy
Rating: R
Notes: For
eglantine_br, who wanted to know where Archie's silver razor came from. This is also a companion piece to Other Sons. There are several more parts to this but they are currently scribbled in notebooks and on the back of receipts. Hopefully I'll get round to writing them up some time soon! Ayrshire, 9th February 1791
Kennedy held the silver razor in his palm, its handle was smooth and cool, reassuringly familiar. Unsurprising, he had used it daily for the last thirty years. The razor had been his first inheritance from his father, a small heirloom passed from father to son. It was said to have been a gift from a French monarch, but from which one and to whom, had long since been forgotten. Some obscure family tradition dictated that the razor passed to the youngest son. Kennedy himself had been the only son and, as such, had inherited his father’s whole estate comprising a minor title, modest entail and extravagant debts.
But the razor had been his first inheritance. His father had presented it to him on his sixteenth birthday. Kennedy had coveted the razor as a boy, watching in fascination as his father balanced the razor momentarily on one finger before sliding the blade over his cheek in a single fluid arc. His father had always shaved himself, despite retaining the services of an under-employed valet.
Fascinated though he was, Kennedy had also been rather afraid of the bright sharp razor, but his father had patiently taught him how to use it; how to sharpen the blade till it was honed to perfection, how to shave quickly and cleanly without nicking the skin. Kennedy had set his fear aside, and despite several minor but bloody mishaps, soon became familiar with the razor, with the smooth curve of the handle and the fine precision of the edge. But try as he might, he had never learned to balance the open blade as his father had done. That was by the by. It was a good razor, he would be sorry to see it go. Sorry to pass on the inheritance.
He had considered keeping it, perhaps to bequeath to some grandson, but his youngest son was still his son, disgraced or not. It was two years now since Archibald Kennedy, Archie to all that knew him, had been packed off to the navy. Kennedy had refused to acknowledge or correspond with his son since he left, but he continued to pay his monthly allowance, and his wife and daughters wrote regularly. Though he affected disinterest, he waited just as impatiently as the women for the replies that variously returned from “HMS Slough of Despond”, “His Majesty’s Scow Justinian”, or “Purgatory, at anchor, Spithead”. It had cost him dear to maintain his veneer of indifference when the replies had petered out and finally stopped, some eighteen months ago.
Kennedy refused to revoke his decision to send his son to sea, but he regretted not being able to hand him the worn calf skin case, not to be able to teach him how to hold the razor and sharpen the blade. The boy must learn for himself, make his own way in the world. It was little more than he deserved. He had been lucky not to have been cut off altogether, Kennedy told himself, ignoring the ache buried deep in his chest. There was no place for regret, he had other sons to be proud of.
But still, Kennedy found he could not withhold this small inheritance. Not that Archie was likely to have need of the razor yet. His youngest had inherited his wife’s fine tawny hair and bright complexion, so different from the dark colouring characteristic of his own family. He remembered running his hand over his son’s smooth cheek, soft as a girl’s, teasing him that perhaps he would have need of the razor by the time he was twenty six. The boy had looked so crest fallen, that Kennedy had laughed and solemnly promised that the razor would be his on his sixteenth birthday, as was his due.
That was a long time ago.
And now his youngest son’s sixteenth birthday was only days away and still he had not sent the razor. Kennedy opened the drawer of his desk and removed the oil cloth packet that had lain there for several weeks. It was addressed in his own broad even hand to Mr Midshipman Abld. Kennedy, His Majesty’s Ship Justinian, Spithead. He closed the razor, placed it in the calf skin case, slid it into the oil cloth packet and closed it with his seal. Then he laid the package aside and placed his head in his hands. He would need a new razor.
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no subject
Date: 2012-09-23 12:03 am (UTC)I have shied away from writing Archie's dad. I know that Archie does not yet see him as he will in later years. We come to see our parents, I think, in the end as individual beings, who happen to have been the parents we got. Archie is not there yet. He is too young, and too hurt still.
Love is so complicated. I am sorry for them both. And teenagers are hard at the best of times. I am sure that Archie know how to speak to hurt.
And I like the detail that deft clever Archie could balance the thing on his finger like his grandfather.
I will, forever now, have the image of Archie's dark haired dad, sitting at a desk, with his head in his hands.
no subject
Date: 2012-09-24 05:46 pm (UTC)Love is so complicated. I am sorry for them both. And teenagers are hard at the best of times. I am sure that Archie know how to speak to hurt.
Oh yes, definitely. I'm sure Archie was no angel. His father may be quite convinced that he did The Right Thing, but deep down he misses him fiercely.
I will, forever now, have the image of Archie's dark haired dad, sitting at a desk, with his head in his hands.
And if he looks up, this icon is the view he will see from his window. This is Ailsa Craig, from the Ayrshire coast, the pic was taken just a few miels up the road from Culzean.
no subject
Date: 2012-09-23 03:09 am (UTC)May I try my own take on the silver razor, to go with my different Archie backstory?
no subject
Date: 2012-09-24 05:48 pm (UTC)Of course you can take the silver razor, it belongs to Archie now :) Or at least it will once his father gets round to putting it in the mail!
no subject
Date: 2012-09-23 08:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-09-24 05:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-09-23 12:53 pm (UTC)Isn't it odd? I seem to be the only person in fandom who sees Archie as having a sympathetic dad...
no subject
Date: 2012-09-24 05:53 pm (UTC)I think Archie's father is trying very hard to convince himself that he has done what's best for his son, but I don't think he really believes it.
no subject
Date: 2012-09-24 06:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-09-27 09:19 pm (UTC)No. And I don't think he ever knew the damage he caused.
But you have made him seem real and fallible and human, angry and hurt, just like Archie.
Yes, in that respect Archie is very much his father's son.
no subject
Date: 2012-09-23 01:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-09-24 05:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-09-23 04:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-09-24 06:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-09-25 09:26 am (UTC)Perhaps now the Archie's father I will see just such a person.
no subject
Date: 2012-09-27 09:22 pm (UTC)