The House of Rookwood was historically a house that had been blessed with sons. However, decades of poor marital choices had wasted them and their seat in the Irish countryside was largely devoid of the coveted males. The acquisition of sons was seen as an exhibition of masculinity and power. It was a game which the sons of Raghnall Rookwood launched into eagerly. Ironically, it was Cedric and Eamon who succeeded the most, bearing five between themselves, but it was Thaddeus to whom Raghnall’s cairngorm eye turned. Both Thaddeus and Raghnall’s illegitimate but acknowledged son, Augustus, rose to the occasion – or at least intended to – and married early with the intention of fulfilling the mutual desire of the Rookwood boys: to provide the family with sons of their own. However, it was a fixation that ruined countless lives as failure was not a private matter – rather, it was one that they each revelled in and, in part, helped ensure.
For Augustus and Thaddeus, nearly twenty elapsed between the first and last pregnancies of their wives. Augustus had one son to show for it, his eldest, Kendall, but it was Thaddeus’s decades which seemed to inspire the most pathos. Desdemona would not prove to be as forthcoming with children as Cordelia was. For every pregnancy, Cordelia seemed to provide a child, albeit most of them being girls, but Desdemona could not carry to term or, in many cases, carry at all and hundreds of miscarriages seemed to drift by until, when she finally carried a child to term, she provided her husband with a daughter: Catherine. For the next three years, more miscarriages followed and then again, she carried to term. This time, it was another daughter but this was not a failure Thaddeus would contentedly condone, one he eliminated. A certificate of death was hastily tucked into a compartment in Desdemona’s desk and whilst the girl was mourned she was forgotten, replaced by another string of mistakes and failures.
Lionel was born, finally, and it soothed Thaddeus’s fears. Following Lionel, Desdemona had another son who, perhaps in a form of warped karmic retribution, did not live beyond the first chills of winter. Two girls followed: Irina and Adriana. They were given the allowance of life, good fortune or the presence of a new, fertile mistress giving Thaddeus leave not to worry after two largely useless females. Thereafter, hope was largely abandoned and Thaddeus took up permanently with his mistress. He finally got his wish, though, when Theodore was born: his spare. No questions were asked after Theodore’s paternity where perhaps some should have – it was merely accepted and thanks were given to whichever higher power had blessed them. However, even at the time there was the suggestion that if there had been one more girl then she would have gone the same way as her elder sister. Desdemona’s last pregnancy ended on a high, albeit with a slightly disfigured son – so in that case, surely a Rookwood.
Theodore could remember the day he found out about his sister. He found the death certificate tucked in amongst papers in one of the drawers in his mother’s desk. He knew better than to be looking but the mischievous little boy didn’t think to care. However, once the roll of parchment was in his hands, his small eyes perceiving the delicate script, his mother happened upon him. It was not a discussion that Desdemona wanted to have with her youngest child but Theodore’s prying question forced her to divulge what exactly had happened. It was an event which sealed his opinion of his father, his own experience of the man’s brutality etched forever into his own skin. The idea that Thaddeus would do that, though, chilled Theodore to the soul and in an effort to deviate from his father’s presence, he joined his mother whenever he could, wherever she went, becoming her near constant companion until he went to school.
Theodore felt like his mother. Just like her, he had no control. Only, it was not a male’s will being thrust upon him but the misguided will of his own wife to whom he did not feel he answered. Part of him persisted that she answered to him. His will was one she should dance to. But of course, that did not come with marrying a Gryffindor Half-Blood. No, had it been anyone else then perhaps. Perhaps he could have. Perhaps they wouldn’t have even been having the very conversation he found himself part of. But he had taken the moral high ground, or so he believed, and whilst he could do nothing, he wouldn’t forgive her if she acted in the way she intended.
“Fine!” Theodore spat, his own anger rising. “We’ll bloody talk, shall we? How come the only time I’m included in this decision is so you can declare I’m ‘not ready?’ You can’t raise a child! You can’t do it! Sod off, Hallie. You’re off your rocker if you think I’m just going to leave everything to you. Who the hell do you think I am? I can raise a child. I can do it. But of course, it’s all on you isn’t it? You know, it’s not difficult. You should have done as I said and gotten it regrown but instead you decided to put up with that farcical prosthetic so you can hide! Oh, I’m sorry… I can’t do this because I don’t have a fucking leg! It’s not difficult! Put up with a few weeks of skele-grow and you’ll get to repaint your toenails by the end of the month! But no, you’d rather use it to hide! I’m not victimising you! I’m not Henry! I’m your bloody husband and I am sorry if I’d like to have a child. Never mind how I feel about it, though. Never mind! This might be the only chance I get to have a family but, you know, your god damn career is more important and, of course, being an advocate for all of the things you can’t do with only one leg. There! We’ve talked! Happy?!”
(OOC: Not sure what the background at the start was all in aid of. Ah well, Rookwood history lesson!)
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