Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2520473.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      Other
  Fandom:
      The_Grand_Budapest_Hotel_(2014)
  Character:
      Dmitri_Desgoffe_und_Taxis, The_Desgoffe_und_Taxis_Family, Marguerite
      Desgoffe_und_Taxis, Laetizia_Desgoffe_und_Taxis, Carolina_Desgoffe_und
      Taxis, Madame_D.
  Additional Tags:
      Origin_Story, Dark_Past, Dysfunctional_Family, Family_Issues, Non-Graphic
      Rape/Non-Con, Angst_and_Tragedy, Psychological_Trauma, Childhood_Trauma,
      Implied_Childhood_Sexual_Abuse, Implied/Referenced_Child_Abuse,
      Psychological_Horror
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-10-27 Words: 3642
****** Fragment ******
by DmitriDesgoffeUndTaxis
Summary
     This specific (and very dark) story takes place during Dmitri's
     childhood years in Schloß Lutz, detailing a harrowing event occurring
     in his early youth (as per my imaging, of course) at the hands of one
     of his mother's various beaus. It is meant to be a horrifying quasi-
     origin tale to partly explain the obviously overflowing well of rage
     that is adult Dmitri, but also grants a brief insight into the
     dynamic of the relationships (or, more aptly put, lack thereof)
     between the various members of the immediate Desgoffe-und-Taxis clan,
     shadows of which we can observe in the film, but which I try to paint
     with a more detailed brush. (It's also very original content-y,
     considering it takes place so early in his life, and we are given
     almost no information on it--but it expresses a continuum as far as
     my major Dmitri work goes).
     It is an attempt to grant Dmitri further complexity in the
     incarnation of my works, meaning it obviously doesn't necessarily
     apply to the canonical version of the character. The story itself was
     quite difficult to pen and is rather grim, so the proper warnings are
     given. Though it is not explicit in its vocabulary, the subject
     matter is sensitive. I offer advanced apologies.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
The hallowed halls of Schloß Lutz resonated with the soft, rhythmic echo of a
bouncing red ball, the light pitter-patter of a set of young footsteps adding
to the upbeat noise which starkly contrasted with the usual piercing silence of
the medieval manor.
It was a pleasant midsummer afternoon, the weather being unusually breezy for
the season (compared to the sometimes humid climate of summertime Lutz). Bright
rays of sunlight managed to peek through dark velvet curtains, illuminating the
long, narrow passageways with a gentle glow as the raven-haired owner of the
ball happily bounced his toy against the dark cherrywood floor, softly humming
a Zubrowkan children's song as he skipped along.
“Dmitri!” A sharply shrill voice emanating from the Schloß Lutz library
suddenly disrupted the young boy's harmonious idyll.
The small child (aged six) rose to attention, pale grey eyes widening in
surprise at the sound of his name. He immediately ceased his play and directed
himself to the library.
“Yes, mother?” Dmitri emerged, cradling the small ball in his arms.
“Stop that insufferable noise at once!” The owner of the sharp voice, Madame
Céline Desgoffe-und-Taxis, sternly commanded, taking a sip of her Chardonnay.
“Gilbert and I are trying to converse.”
Dmitri looked to his mother, whose aging face bore a stony expression, velvety
red lips tightly pursed in disapproval.
“Yes, mother.” He bowed, his boyish voice lowering to convey apology.
Mme. Desgoffe-und-Taxis did not acknowledge him further, returning to her prior
exchange with M. Gilbert Herbert, her latest boyfriend and invited guest.
“It's just...” Dmitri unwisely uttered, once again intervening in their
discussion to express his distress. “I'm bored. I've no one to play with.”
He clutched the red ball to his chest, glancing up at his mother.
“And what do you want me to do about that?” She harshly replied, huffing with
impatience. “Why don't you go see if your sisters want to play with you?”
“They never want to play with me.” Dmitri sighed, exasperated. “They're always
playing card games and they never let me have a turn.”
Mme. Desgoffe-und-Taxis rolled her eyes in annoyance, resenting her young son
for having butted into what she considered to be a highly pleasant afternoon up
until that point.
“Maybe...” His small fingers nervously dug into the smooth surface of his toy.
“I thought, if it's alright with you, I could stay here and read for a little
bit?”
He watched for a reaction from his mother, his prospects not looking too
favourable.
“Absolute--” Mme. Céline started, her complaint impeded from completion.
“I don't see why not.” M. Herbert stated, a bemused grin etching itself upon
his rosy face as he eyed the dark-haired boy. “If he promises to be quiet as a
good boy should, darling, I think he could stay.”
Mme. Céline shot daggers at M. Herbert (she despised spending any sum of time
with her children, especially her youngest, whom she considered naught but a
bothersome insect), but conceded to his will, wishing not to fall out of favour
with him.
“Alright, Dmitri.” She said reluctantly, her glacier-blue gaze piercing her son
with absolute loathing. “You may stay here with us for a while, but I better
not hear any noise coming from you, or you will be dealt with accordingly.”
The inference, of course, was to the pine switch she often used to discipline
her children—an instrument they grew to fear well into adulthood.
Dmitri flinched at the subtle mention of the pine switch, his small body
growing instantly rigid.
“I won't make any noise.” He confirmed, excusing himself from their presence
and bouncing over to the rather small children's section of the library, which
contained a humble collection of books gifted to the Desgoffe-und-Taxis by
various members of the extended family, usually upon the occasion of one of the
progeny's birthdays.
After a few moments of perusing the glossy covers of several books, Dmitri
settled upon a handsome, gold filigreed book bound in Japanese paper,
illustrated in hand-drawn ink. It was a custom publication, commissioned by his
mother's half-brother (once-removed), Gregor Lagerfeld, for Dmitri's 5th
birthday.
Book in hand, Dmitri walked to the red armchair located at the furthermost end
of the library, placing as much distance as possible between himself and the
two other inhabitants sharing the common space. He curled up in the spacious
chair--the only piece of furniture he found comfortable or inviting in the
otherwise severely furnished space--his ivory legs (despite being rather long
for his age) dangling from the edge, hovering several inches above the ground.
A small, bony hand grasped the front cover of the book, which featured a
winsome pastel-coloured drawing of a tiny black rabbit walking amidst the
breeze of a sunlit garden, an azure swallow flying towards the sky in the
distance.
The golden letters of the book's cover blazed against seeping rays of sunlight
as he turned it, revealing the book's title: “The Laughing Winds.”
His steel-grey eyes pored over the volume, reading its contents with marked
interest.
The story itself, he found, was heavily illustrated and rather brief (contained
in the text which follows):
“A young little black rabbit was skipping through a farmer's garden during a
warm summer day, a rustling gust swaying the varied array of wildly coloured
flowers decking the field as he navigated the scenery, curiously spying his
surroundings.
He happily embarked on his bouncing trek, playfully chasing a baby-blue
butterfly as it fluttered past him, stopping only when he spotted a market-
bound wagon housing a caged calf, the bovine mooing mournfully as she struggled
to move within the confines of her cage.
'What are you doing there, little calf?' The black rabbit asked, curiously
tilting his head. 'Why are you in a cage?'
The calf shed a fat tear, her dull eyes filled with dread as she stomped
helplessly.
'I'm here because I'm going to the market...' the calf replied, black lashes
matted with the wet residue of her tears.
'The market?' The rabbit repeated, his ears pointing with interest.
'Yes, the market.' The calf echoed, her voice strained with sorrow.
'What is a market?' The ebony rabbit asked. It was clear to the calf that he
had never head of a farmer's market, being a wild animal who belonged in the
forest.
'It's a horrible place...' The calf continued, nuzzling her head against the
cold wrought-iron bars in search of nonexistent comfort during what she
perceived to be her last moments. 'The market is where the farmer takes you to
get sold, and after you get sold you get turned into steak.'
'Steak?' The little rabbit furrowed a brow, not quite following the calf, but
deducing from the tone of her voice that steak was not something pleasant.
'Yes, steak.' She trembled, dreading the inevitable moment of her unnatural
transformation.
'What is steak?' The rabbit asked again, lowering his head in advanced apology
for placing the calf in further distress.
'I don't know!' The calf answered, shutting her eyes and shaking her head in
disgust. 'But whatever it is, I know it's something I don't want to be! I'm
happy being a calf, eating grass all day and rolling in the meadows! I don't
want to be steak!'
She emitted a faint moo as the cart began to roll, her visage drifting further
out of the black rabbit's view as a soaring swallow clouded the midday sun.
'Wait, little calf!' The rabbit hollered, trying his best to keep up with the
pace of the wooden cart as it began its journey to the market, but being too
slow to catch up with the horse-drawn vehicle.
The little black rabbit looked on sadly as the calf disappeared from his view,
hoping against hope that she would not become the dreaded steak.
He could not help, however, but be relieved he was born a rabbit and not a
calf, innocently resuming his skipping across the flowered hillside which led
to the forest he called home. 'After all,' he thought as he took in the
suffused fragrance of some nearby violets, 'a rabbit could never become steak.'
He spent the afternoon playing in the forest, but eventually wandered from it,
enticed by the chase of a palpitating moth as it flew towards the outskirts of
a cabbage field.
The blazing orange backdrop of the setting sun contrasted sharply against the
dull green sea of cabbages, the small rabbit joyfully chasing the tiny moths
gathered around the garden to the melodious sound of crickets.
The sky's hues waned to a rich plum colour, night swiftly ushering the bright
white moon and shimmering stars as the sun faded entirely out of view, the
moths receding into their garden whilst the small rabbit shivered, its soft fur
moved by a brisk evening breeze.
He decided it was time to return to the forest, having spent the entire day
playing, the midday meeting with the crying calf entirely effaced from his mind
as he hopped in the grass, dispersing lightning bugs which shone like stars in
the still field.
Suddenly, however, a harrowing howl echoed from the distance, its presence
alarming the young rabbit. He picked up his pace, swiftly skipping as far away
from the sound as he could, but to his horror, a large brown hunting dog
appeared, taking the rabbit's frail form betwixt its teeth and pressing until
the struggling little rabbit ceased movement.
A grey-haired hunter sporting a red hunting cap emerged from the forest shortly
therafter, patting the dog for a job well done and gathering the little
rabbit's carcass in his hairy hand.
'He'll make for a nice entree at some rich folks' dinner, don't you think?' The
hunter remarked to his salivating dog, the nighttime wind cackling as it
crackled against the forest's trees.”
Dmitri set the book upon his lap, not knowing quite what to make of it (he had
never previously read it, despite it being presented to him as a gift).
Meanwhile, Mme. Desgoffe-und-Taxis giggled as she dipped into her third glass
of Chardonnay, spiritedly chatting with M. Herbert, who constantly stole
glances at Dmitri, his blue eyes glinting as he observed the latter
absentmindedly swinging his ivory-white leg against the red velvet of the
chair, entirely absorbed in his book.
“Did you finish that whole book all by yourself?” M. Herbert spoke, ignoring
Mme. Céline in favour of addressing Dmitri, much to the woman's irritation.
“Yes, Mr. Herbert,” He shrugged, warily eyeing the relative stranger (they had
been formally introduced before, but the increased frequency of his presence in
the house was novel happening). “It was mostly pictures.”
“I see.” M. Herbert stroked his blond moustache, his thick fingertips caressing
the corners of his lip as he looked upon the boy. “But I've told you before,
Dmitri. There's no need to be so formal. You can call me Gilbert.”
Dmitri's eyes darted to the side at this remark, instantly deciding there was
no way in Hell this would ever be the case—he had a shy and formal manner
around adults, which would never permit for such casual reference. Furthermore,
he did not much favour M. Herbert, whom he looked upon as a stifling nuisance
and was secretly jealous of, given the fact he received so much of his mother's
attention (as opposed to him and his three sisters, who were destined since
birth to be the servants' chore to look after).
Mme. Céline clutched Herbert's hand, attempting to divert his attention from
her son, being the vain, needy, narcissistic woman she always was.
“Dmitri!” She called to the small boy as she caressed the man's hairy hand, her
pearl necklace shining ominously as she looked down upon him. “Why don't you be
a dear and let Gilbert and I have some time alone. I think we've entertained
you enough for the day...”
Dmitri dared not defy his mother, especially given the ice-cold tone of her
voice, painfully evident to him even at six years of age. At the behest of this
thinly veiled order, he placed the borrowed book back in its shelf and promptly
exited the library, unwittingly leaving his red ball behind.
“I swear, that kid will be the death of me...” Mme. Céline huffed, locking the
door as soon as Dmitri crossed its threshold and returning to her seat at M.
Herbert's side, picking up their exchange precisely where it left off.
*****
Several hours passed since the incident at the Schloß Lutz library, seeing
Dmitri spending the interim between midday and evening in varied company. He
shadowed his favourite caretaker, Amélie, during most of the afternoon, the
latter taking a reprieve from her other duties to compile a castle from
coloured wooden blocks with him until she was called to assist with the
preparation of dinner.
Once robbed of her company, Dmitri wandered the vast halls of Schloß Lutz,
briefly conversing with an array of passing servants along the way (or rather,
being resigned to do as such, being the only child his age within the walls of
the old mansion) until he was summoned to the table for dinner by the family
butler, a thinly moustached man named Antoine X.
The course for that evening, the butler announced, would consist of
Hasenpfeffer (a rabbit dish), accompanied by asparagus in a thick, creamy
sauce. Once it reached completion, the meal was promptly presented to the
awaiting family.
Laetizia, Carolina, and Marguerite were seated alongside each other (as always,
the three sisters being practically inseparable), with Mme. Desgoffe-und-Taxis
settling on the other side of the table. Dmitri and M. Herbert occupied the two
opposing ends of the structure, young Dmitri being the furthest from the clan
(a space of two empty chairs placing due distance between himself and his
mother).
Each member of the family plus the invited guest was served a generously sized
portion of the night's dish, Laetizia being the first to taste the decadent
meal (she had always been rather on the fuller side, having a fondness of food
unsurpassed by any other in the family).
Dmitri simply stared at his meal, a faint feeling of nausea settling in his
stomach as he examined the cooked rabbit, remembering the story he had read
hours earlier.
“What's wrong, Dmitri?” M. Herbert asked, arching a blond brow, keenly watching
the young boy on the other side of the table. “You look like you've seen a
ghost.”
Dmitri didn't answer, merely continuing to stare into his plate, his face
growing paler by the second.
“Don't be rude, you little brat!” Mme. Céline snapped at the boy, breaking him
from his trance. “Answer him or I'll tell Carolina to get the pine switch!”
The threat was enough to rouse Dmitri from his troubled thoughts.
“I don't think one should eat rabbits.” He stated, looking down.
“Why not?” Herbert inquired, skewering the Hasenpfeffer with his fork and
taking a hearty bite. “I've always had a preference for tender little rabbits.”
Dmitri shuddered in horror at Herbert's remark, pushing his plate aside.
“Rabbit is something one normally eats, is it not?” Mme. Desgoffe-und-Taxis
scoffed at her young son, placing her hand on Herbert's lap from under the
table as the latter drenched his asparagus with the sauce.
“Yes, darling...” He let out a soft, barely audible moan as she caressed him,
his slick eyes set squarely on Dmitri.
The remainder of dinner ensued in the midst a tense silence, with everyone at
the table save for Dmitri finishing their meal before dispersing once again.
Mme. Céline and M. Gilbert returned to the aged confines of the prestigious
manor's library, where they continued to empty their bottle of white wine,
smoking from slim cigarettes as they chattered further.
Dmitri reluctantly followed his sisters to the terrace, where the latter three
alternated between perusing piles of women's fashion magazines and playing a
series of card games, Dmitri yawning with evident boredom, shunned from their
affairs.
The sky was overcast and starless that evening, the ebony-haired boy noted, the
pale moon's iridescent rays failing to reach him from the haze of grey clouds
heralding a summertime storm.
Half an hour later, Amélie appeared upon the terrace, her blonde hair swaying
in the evening breeze as she fetched little Dmitri from the corner of the stone
structure.
“It's time for bed, Dmitri,” She affectionately cooed to the child, taking his
small hand in hers as she walked him to his room.
It was customary for Amélie to put Dmitri to bed by reciting a bedtime story,
which she produced entirely from memory this night. She fed him a sweet dessert
of lemon-lavender scones with accompanying glass of warm, honeyed milk before
tucking him in his bed and tenderly telling him of her days as a young girl
frolicking in the French lavender fields of Provence (which she swore she'd
take him to see someday, noting the boy's sparkling eyes in reaction to her
story).
Dmitri seamlessly drifted into sleep as Amélie stepped from the room, sunlit
lavender gardens conjured in his mind's eye as he imagined himself alongside
her in the fabled Provence, fetching a thousand little stalks of lavender from
which to produce delicious scones.
His idyllic state of dreaming continued unperturbed until a sudden hail of
raindrops violently beat against his windowpane, dark clouds engulfing the
dusky sky in their chaos amidst a mercilessly howling wind, diverging
completely from the calm image of his dream.
He nestled himself within his blankets (he was deathly afraid of storms),
valiantly attempting to lull himself back to sleep despite the descending
obscurity, a dull creak creeping from the periphery of his door.
A shadowy figure slowly approached the sleepy boy from within the opening, the
latter at first thinking it a ghost and trembling in his bed as its abysmal
presence drew nearer. Precarious lightning revealed the presumed specter to be
none other than M. Gilbert Herbert, however, as a blinding flash illuminated
the room.
“I came to return your ball,” The man evoked a pretext for his presence in a
hoarse voice, releasing the red toy and climbing onto Dmitri's bed as the ball
bounced faintly upon the floor.
“W-what are you doing?!” Dmitri exclaimed in evident alarm, trying to lay as
far away from the panting invader as his bed allowed.
“Be still, Dmitri.” Herbert clasped Dmitri's thin arm in a sinister vice grip
before the boy could hope to make an escape. “Your mother is sleeping.”
The raven-haired boy struggled wildly to release himself from the man's
clutches, but found himself easily overpowered by the much-stronger Herbert,
who cast him an oily glance as he pinned him onto the bed.
Dmitri flailed helplessly whilst the man hovered above him, his steel-grey eyes
widening with dismay as the pervert grazed him with his beefy lips, choking on
the nauseating stench of alcohol emanating from the moustached mouth as a hairy
hand coarsely wandered down his slim, lily-white torso. A surge of panic pulsed
through his shivering body as he vainly tussled in protest, the fortitude of
his movements faltering as his mind drifted from the present terror in
realization he was waging a losing battle.
Relinquishing all will to fight, he instead focused his dull grey gaze on the
ceiling, looking past the haze of Herbert's grunting form, imagining himself to
be somewhere else, wishing he were someone else.
Perhaps, he thought, his pallid skin tingling as his senses numbed, he was not
really in Lutz, but in Provence. He gasped, seeking refuge from the crashing
waves of his relentless reality in the consolation of this fiction, closing his
heavy eyes and labouring to extract an entire ocean of swaying lavender fields
in richest shades of purple, exactly as the ones sweet Amélie spoke of hours
prior to the current torture.
Dmitri longed for absolutely anybody to come barging through that dreaded door
as Herbert's sweltering form opaqued him in a suffocating embrace—a salvation
which never came. Finding himself incapable of speech, he buoyed between
consciousness and fantasy, lifting his gaze further into the whitewashed
ceiling and retreating into a world of his own fabrication upon each thrusting
resurgence—a world filled with vast seas of sweet-smelling lavender and
fluttering butterflies, a world where Gilbert Herbert could never hope to touch
him.
The transpiring minutes felt like an infernal eternity to Dmitri, who laid
matted and motionless upon his mattress, resembling a strewn rag doll as his
lifeless eyes transfixed themselves upon the blank infinity of the ceiling.
An ice-cold chill ran down his spine as Herbert caressed the wan contour of his
tear-strained cheek, bringing a portion of the boy's traumatized mind back to
the bed whereupon his innocence was shed.
“You better not tell anyone about tonight, darling...” The sweating swine of a
man purred into the boy's ear, retreating from his carcass with sick
satisfaction.
Dmitri looked on hollowly in disgusted disbelief, a dull ache pulsating through
the body he felt was no longer his own.
“If you breathe a single word of this, I'll make sure your mother beats you to
death with that special little pine switch,” Herbert threatened, buttoning his
trousers. “And you know she will, because she loves me more than she loves
you.”
The young boy's frame gave an involuntary flinch at the criminal's cruel
utterance, quivering as he heaved a rushing stream of vomit upon his bed.
“Moreover,” The pervert's perspiring palm gripped the brass door handle. “If
you were to tell anyone, do you know what that would make you?”
The man remorselessly continued despite the lack of response on Dmitri's frozen
part, the broken child tearfully crumpling into a cocoon of blankets, no longer
merely terrified of thunder.
“It would make you a fucking faggot.” Herbert bellowed, exiting the room, his
final words resounding throughout the hollowed darkness as he shut the door.
End Notes
     (The calf portion of the little story that Dmitri reads is based on
     the song "Dona Dona" by Arthur Kevess & Teddi Schwartz, the bunny
     parts are my own composition).
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