Post by hawksandfeathers on Feb 17, 2013 14:56:11 GMT 10
Rating: G
Prompt: Wistful, #79
Summary: Neal wishes for opportunities.
"Nealan, have you handed in your essay yet?" a querulous voice rapped out from behind the front desk.
Neal unfolded himself from his languid position in the wooden chair and groaned. "These really aren't healthy for the back, you know. Aching triggers negative feelings in the brain, and negative feelings are not compatible with a long, redundant essay. Therefore, no, I have not handed it in." He cracked his back with a grimace. "When would you like it by?"
"Today would have been suitable," his professor answered sourly. "Because your recurring irrelevancy got in the way of productivity, you must organize a debate for the campus on Sunday, concerning the Code of Chivalry."
"Got it," Neal said. "May I include the element of mathematics in this debate? To you it might seem irrelevant, but I assure you, it has everything to do with that lovely thing called The Code."
"So you're of that opinion, are you? The 'lovely thing,' eh? Well, include what you like." The old man threw up his hands wearily, exposing the leather patches on his elbows. Neal snickered.
"Go ahead, then, and ask Mistress Iama to bring me the local tea. That Carthaki one that's all the rage is too strong for me. And it makes you students jump off the walls."
"Alright, professor," Neal said, picking up his bags. His apparent optimism as he bit casually into an apple made the old teacher grumble, and Neal knew it. He grinned and pocketed his compass, waving saucily on his way out the door.
Making his way through the crowds of students in line for the hot food, Neal gagged. The odour of hygienic neglect was everywhere. Why had the healer thrown him out when he proposed the circulation of his own scented spray? It would have come in useful, had Professor HaMinch taken it to his stores. God knows Professor HaMinch had enough junk in there anyway.
He watched the few friends he'd made since he came, surveying their areas of study with idle disdain. Political science? He scoffed, seeing his blond-haired, far-fetched familiar eating broccoli. Nope. Architecture? Ugh, mathematics. Nope. The ambitious, occasional classmate beckoned him over.
Neal held up his hand absently and glimpsed Dareno, the foreign Tyran, coming through the throng. Tortallan intelligence? Zero interest.
Where were their hearts in any of this? Why did he have to put up with being a healer; all physicality and practicality?
Neal smiled and walked toward the architect's table, knowing that the debate was the perfect opportunity to attain the unattainable. Fingering his compass, he felt its point, imagining the curve of a sword in his hands, and the opening it provided him.
