Post by devilinthedetails on Feb 21, 2023 1:51:36 GMT 10
Title: Bedside Manner
Summary: Neal heals Kel when she breaks her nose standing up to bullies in the pages' wing. AU. Somewhat of a companion piece to "Fools Rush in Where Horse Lords Tremble to Tread" but can be read and understood independently.
Rating: PG-13
Author's Notes: This story is set within the larger arc of my "Twisted Roads and Turning Points" AU. The basic premise of this AU is that Neal remained at the Royal University and Roald became Kel’s sponsor during her probationary year instead.
For those not following my broader "Twisted Roads and Turning Points "series, this story should make sense independently as long as the basic premise I noted in the above paragraph is understood and treated as a given.
For those following the overarching narrative of my "Twisted Roads and Turning Points" AU, this story takes place concurrently with my recently finished “Fools Rush in Where Horse Lords Tremble to Tread.” It can even be regarded as a missed scene or scenes from that work although from Neal’s perspective rather than Roald’s.
Broken Nose and Bruises
Tortall’s lone girl page–court and Corus gossip alike informed Neal that her name was Keladry of Mindelan–entered the healers’ wing. Drawing gasps and stares from those patients who could be distracted from their pain as well as those healers who could afford to neglect their duties for a moment’s gawking.
Father didn’t gape. Merely evaluated her bruises and broken nose as if she were any other page. Any other patient. “A broken nose and sundry other minor injuries. My son Neal can attend to you.”
At the mention of his name, Neal stepped forward. Bowed slightly and began to guide Keladry toward one of the ward’s empty cots for a quick healing as his father added, “Fetch me if you need help with anything, Neal.”
“If I can’t manage a broken nose and miscellaneous bruises myself after all my training, I’d be a hopeless case indeed, wouldn’t I?” Neal rolled his eyes. Irked by the implication that he was an imbecile. Humiliated by his father’s tendency to baby him when he believed himself far more of a man than a boy. “An incurable idiot?”
Father ignored this as he did the majority of Neal’s snide remarks. Striding away to assist another patient.
“Are you an apprentice healer then?” Keladry inquired. Her tone polite. Pleasantly conversational as she settled herself on the cot Neal had directed her toward.
“I am a great scholar,” Neal proclaimed loftily. Sticking his nose in the air. “No such undignified label as apprentice applies to me.”
Her bruised face remained blank. Apparently she was as tragically deficient in imagination and humor as the average warrior. Warriors, Neal had observed, were serious types who seldom appreciated his keen and cutting wit. He had more success amusing his fellow scholars.
“I am a student of healing at the Royal University.” He heaved a dramatic sigh at her failure to detect his obvious jest. His comically exaggerated haughtiness. “I intern here in my spare time to gain more practical experience and graduate more swiftly.”
He hadn’t cared about graduating swiftly before Graeme died. Before he had wanted to become a knight to fulfill the tradition dating back centuries of there always being a Queenscove knight in service to the Crown. An obligation that stretched back centuries. Demanding to be satisfied. Requiring sacrifice.
Father hadn’t been eager to permit Neal to satisfy that obligation, however. Had adamantly refused to allow Neal to quit studying at the university and enroll in page training instead. Gone so far as to threaten to disown Neal if Neal ceased studying at the university and commenced page training.
Neal’s throat and jaw still tightened when he recalled that threat of disownment. Of being cast out of his family. Forever abandoned and disavowed by his father. He wasn’t sure he would ever forget or forgive that. Wasn’t certain it could be forgotten or forgiven by any son. Especially one as stubborn and passionate as him.
He and his father had reached a reluctant compromise, however. One equally bitter to both sides. That Neal could train as a knight after he graduated university.
Therefore, Neal felt impelled to complete his studies rapidly as possible. He was taking double the standard student course load and interning with the royal healers in what scant spare time he had. He was still excelling in his classes. Receiving top marks. Garnering praise from his masters.
He did not see a reason to regale Keladry of Mindelan with the sad saga of his life, though.
She took on the weight of continuing their conversation. Her words making him question whether she might possess more humor and imagination than the average warrior after all. “An intern? That is nothing at all like an apprentice.”
“Quite,” agreed Neal tartly. Resting his fingers on her nose. Kindling and summoning the emerald flames of his magic. “We’ll start with your nose and then deal with your nasty assortment of bruises if that is acceptable to you.”
“I think,” Keladry said as his Gift streamed into her nose. Sewing shattered cartilage back together with slender green threads. Straightening the pieces that had become warped. Misaligned. Restoring her nose to its former glory. An unbroken state which he had never had the honor of beholding previously. “That Lord Wyldon only intended for my nose to be healed, which you have done. Thank you.”
She was on the cusp of rising. He gestured irritably for her to remain seated. The folly of a budding warrior stoic was eternally vexing to him.
“Lord Wyldon sent you with no written instructions, so I’m at liberty to use my own discretion.” Neal let all his scorn for the rigidly conservative training master who seemed to be the walking embodiment of the principle that warriors had no sense of humor or imagination infuse his voice as he went on, “Besides, Lord Wyldon is not a healer. He would be wise to defer to the judgment of healers educated in the craft. As would you.”
“I’m fine,” insisted Keladry, who seemed to have an irrational attachment to her colorful array of bruises. “It’s just some bruises.”
“Bruises that will make you look like you have egg on your face tomorrow.” His patience exhausted, he began channeling his magic into the bruises they were debating. Healing them. “Bruises that will make me seem an incompetent buffon instead of a proper healer.”
“I can handle a bit of pain.” Keladry staunchly refused to surrender. To yield an inch of ground.
“You might.” Neal persisted in healing her bruises as if she wasn’t the most intractable page he had ever encountered. “My pride can’t handle people thinking I’m an incompetent buffon, though, so there you are.”
“Lord Wyldon wouldn’t approve.” Keladry seemed to care about the training master’s opinion for some unfathomable reason.
“Why does that matter?” Neal gave an exasperated click of his tongue. “Do you believe for one instant that he could be impressed enough by your toughness if you refuse a proper healing that he will allow you to stay once your probationary period is over?”
The entire court knew of Keladry of Mindelan’s probation. Neal had become aware of it sooner than most. His father being one of the trusted confidants Alanna the Lioness had vented her fury to before departing Corus. Seeking knightly business as far from the king who had disappointed her as possible.
Neal, of course, had eavesdropped on that particular conversation between his father and the King’s alienated Champion. A university education encouraging a sharp curiosity and boundless desire to obtain knowledge by means fair and foul.
He regretted his words to Keladry almost as soon as they shot from his mouth like poison-coated arrows. Yet he couldn’t retract them. It wasn’t in his nature to apologize to anyone. Especially when he was convinced he was right in his logic and predictions. He should not have to apologize for speaking the truth as he saw it.
For the first time, Keladry’s steady hazel gaze dropped from his. “He might. You don’t know what he’ll decide.”
“How did you break your nose and get speckled with bruises anyway?” Not an innocent question when directed toward a page. More shifting the angle of attack. Even though he didn’t want to wound her. He could just no more resist arguing than he could reading poetry that made his soul soar and sing.
“I fell down.” Her answer was flat. Devoid of all emotion as she recited the classic page excuse so old it creaked. Familiar and worn out even to outsiders like Neal. The excuse that meant she had been brawling like a drunkard in a tavern.
“I bet the sons of some of our stuffiest conservatives helped you fall.” Neal snorted both to show that he could not be fooled and to convey the utter disdain in which he held the sons of the realm’s stuffiest conservatives. “It wouldn’t surprise me if a bunch of senior pages pounded on a first-year. Not even a first-year. A probationer. How brave and chivalrous of them!”
“That’s enough, Neal.” Father came up behind Neal. Clasped Neal’s shoulder firmly.
Kealdry’s bruises were indeed all healed, but Neal had the sneaking suspicion that wasn’t what his father was referring to.
A theory that only gained more credence as Father addressed Keladry. “Please forgive my son. He means well, but we are still refining his bedside manner.”
Neal flushed. Wondering when his father would stop apologizing for him. When he would stop providing an endless list of reasons for his father to apologize for him. Being a source of shame rather than joy.
“I am grateful for the healing, Your Grace.” Keladry stood. Every inch the courteous diplomat’s daughter.
“Don’t hesitate to return if you need another healing or anything else.” Father smiled at her gently. “My son and I are happy to help. To support you as we can.”
Keladry murmured her thanks. Bowed deeply to Father. Then departed the healers’ wing.
Once she had taken her leave, Father observed mildly, “You would do well to remember the healers’ ward is not a classroom for one of your university debates. That your rhetoric can hurt our patients.”
Neal bristled at the reproof. Snapped, “I hope you’re happy, Father!”
Father appeared baffled by this nonsequitur.
Neal’s vehemence and insubordination had attracted the scolding, speculative stares of patients and fellow healers alike.
“We will not have this discussion–whatever it’s about–where our patients might be disturbed.” Father lifted a palm. Quelling further outbursts from Neal, who reflected not without a trace of cynicism that he should have known patients would always be his father’s first priority and concern. Father was a healer before he was anything else. That betrayed itself in many ways. Small and large. “You will join me in my office and explain what has you so disgruntled.”
Summary: Neal heals Kel when she breaks her nose standing up to bullies in the pages' wing. AU. Somewhat of a companion piece to "Fools Rush in Where Horse Lords Tremble to Tread" but can be read and understood independently.
Rating: PG-13
Author's Notes: This story is set within the larger arc of my "Twisted Roads and Turning Points" AU. The basic premise of this AU is that Neal remained at the Royal University and Roald became Kel’s sponsor during her probationary year instead.
For those not following my broader "Twisted Roads and Turning Points "series, this story should make sense independently as long as the basic premise I noted in the above paragraph is understood and treated as a given.
For those following the overarching narrative of my "Twisted Roads and Turning Points" AU, this story takes place concurrently with my recently finished “Fools Rush in Where Horse Lords Tremble to Tread.” It can even be regarded as a missed scene or scenes from that work although from Neal’s perspective rather than Roald’s.
Broken Nose and Bruises
Tortall’s lone girl page–court and Corus gossip alike informed Neal that her name was Keladry of Mindelan–entered the healers’ wing. Drawing gasps and stares from those patients who could be distracted from their pain as well as those healers who could afford to neglect their duties for a moment’s gawking.
Father didn’t gape. Merely evaluated her bruises and broken nose as if she were any other page. Any other patient. “A broken nose and sundry other minor injuries. My son Neal can attend to you.”
At the mention of his name, Neal stepped forward. Bowed slightly and began to guide Keladry toward one of the ward’s empty cots for a quick healing as his father added, “Fetch me if you need help with anything, Neal.”
“If I can’t manage a broken nose and miscellaneous bruises myself after all my training, I’d be a hopeless case indeed, wouldn’t I?” Neal rolled his eyes. Irked by the implication that he was an imbecile. Humiliated by his father’s tendency to baby him when he believed himself far more of a man than a boy. “An incurable idiot?”
Father ignored this as he did the majority of Neal’s snide remarks. Striding away to assist another patient.
“Are you an apprentice healer then?” Keladry inquired. Her tone polite. Pleasantly conversational as she settled herself on the cot Neal had directed her toward.
“I am a great scholar,” Neal proclaimed loftily. Sticking his nose in the air. “No such undignified label as apprentice applies to me.”
Her bruised face remained blank. Apparently she was as tragically deficient in imagination and humor as the average warrior. Warriors, Neal had observed, were serious types who seldom appreciated his keen and cutting wit. He had more success amusing his fellow scholars.
“I am a student of healing at the Royal University.” He heaved a dramatic sigh at her failure to detect his obvious jest. His comically exaggerated haughtiness. “I intern here in my spare time to gain more practical experience and graduate more swiftly.”
He hadn’t cared about graduating swiftly before Graeme died. Before he had wanted to become a knight to fulfill the tradition dating back centuries of there always being a Queenscove knight in service to the Crown. An obligation that stretched back centuries. Demanding to be satisfied. Requiring sacrifice.
Father hadn’t been eager to permit Neal to satisfy that obligation, however. Had adamantly refused to allow Neal to quit studying at the university and enroll in page training instead. Gone so far as to threaten to disown Neal if Neal ceased studying at the university and commenced page training.
Neal’s throat and jaw still tightened when he recalled that threat of disownment. Of being cast out of his family. Forever abandoned and disavowed by his father. He wasn’t sure he would ever forget or forgive that. Wasn’t certain it could be forgotten or forgiven by any son. Especially one as stubborn and passionate as him.
He and his father had reached a reluctant compromise, however. One equally bitter to both sides. That Neal could train as a knight after he graduated university.
Therefore, Neal felt impelled to complete his studies rapidly as possible. He was taking double the standard student course load and interning with the royal healers in what scant spare time he had. He was still excelling in his classes. Receiving top marks. Garnering praise from his masters.
He did not see a reason to regale Keladry of Mindelan with the sad saga of his life, though.
She took on the weight of continuing their conversation. Her words making him question whether she might possess more humor and imagination than the average warrior after all. “An intern? That is nothing at all like an apprentice.”
“Quite,” agreed Neal tartly. Resting his fingers on her nose. Kindling and summoning the emerald flames of his magic. “We’ll start with your nose and then deal with your nasty assortment of bruises if that is acceptable to you.”
“I think,” Keladry said as his Gift streamed into her nose. Sewing shattered cartilage back together with slender green threads. Straightening the pieces that had become warped. Misaligned. Restoring her nose to its former glory. An unbroken state which he had never had the honor of beholding previously. “That Lord Wyldon only intended for my nose to be healed, which you have done. Thank you.”
She was on the cusp of rising. He gestured irritably for her to remain seated. The folly of a budding warrior stoic was eternally vexing to him.
“Lord Wyldon sent you with no written instructions, so I’m at liberty to use my own discretion.” Neal let all his scorn for the rigidly conservative training master who seemed to be the walking embodiment of the principle that warriors had no sense of humor or imagination infuse his voice as he went on, “Besides, Lord Wyldon is not a healer. He would be wise to defer to the judgment of healers educated in the craft. As would you.”
“I’m fine,” insisted Keladry, who seemed to have an irrational attachment to her colorful array of bruises. “It’s just some bruises.”
“Bruises that will make you look like you have egg on your face tomorrow.” His patience exhausted, he began channeling his magic into the bruises they were debating. Healing them. “Bruises that will make me seem an incompetent buffon instead of a proper healer.”
“I can handle a bit of pain.” Keladry staunchly refused to surrender. To yield an inch of ground.
“You might.” Neal persisted in healing her bruises as if she wasn’t the most intractable page he had ever encountered. “My pride can’t handle people thinking I’m an incompetent buffon, though, so there you are.”
“Lord Wyldon wouldn’t approve.” Keladry seemed to care about the training master’s opinion for some unfathomable reason.
“Why does that matter?” Neal gave an exasperated click of his tongue. “Do you believe for one instant that he could be impressed enough by your toughness if you refuse a proper healing that he will allow you to stay once your probationary period is over?”
The entire court knew of Keladry of Mindelan’s probation. Neal had become aware of it sooner than most. His father being one of the trusted confidants Alanna the Lioness had vented her fury to before departing Corus. Seeking knightly business as far from the king who had disappointed her as possible.
Neal, of course, had eavesdropped on that particular conversation between his father and the King’s alienated Champion. A university education encouraging a sharp curiosity and boundless desire to obtain knowledge by means fair and foul.
He regretted his words to Keladry almost as soon as they shot from his mouth like poison-coated arrows. Yet he couldn’t retract them. It wasn’t in his nature to apologize to anyone. Especially when he was convinced he was right in his logic and predictions. He should not have to apologize for speaking the truth as he saw it.
For the first time, Keladry’s steady hazel gaze dropped from his. “He might. You don’t know what he’ll decide.”
“How did you break your nose and get speckled with bruises anyway?” Not an innocent question when directed toward a page. More shifting the angle of attack. Even though he didn’t want to wound her. He could just no more resist arguing than he could reading poetry that made his soul soar and sing.
“I fell down.” Her answer was flat. Devoid of all emotion as she recited the classic page excuse so old it creaked. Familiar and worn out even to outsiders like Neal. The excuse that meant she had been brawling like a drunkard in a tavern.
“I bet the sons of some of our stuffiest conservatives helped you fall.” Neal snorted both to show that he could not be fooled and to convey the utter disdain in which he held the sons of the realm’s stuffiest conservatives. “It wouldn’t surprise me if a bunch of senior pages pounded on a first-year. Not even a first-year. A probationer. How brave and chivalrous of them!”
“That’s enough, Neal.” Father came up behind Neal. Clasped Neal’s shoulder firmly.
Kealdry’s bruises were indeed all healed, but Neal had the sneaking suspicion that wasn’t what his father was referring to.
A theory that only gained more credence as Father addressed Keladry. “Please forgive my son. He means well, but we are still refining his bedside manner.”
Neal flushed. Wondering when his father would stop apologizing for him. When he would stop providing an endless list of reasons for his father to apologize for him. Being a source of shame rather than joy.
“I am grateful for the healing, Your Grace.” Keladry stood. Every inch the courteous diplomat’s daughter.
“Don’t hesitate to return if you need another healing or anything else.” Father smiled at her gently. “My son and I are happy to help. To support you as we can.”
Keladry murmured her thanks. Bowed deeply to Father. Then departed the healers’ wing.
Once she had taken her leave, Father observed mildly, “You would do well to remember the healers’ ward is not a classroom for one of your university debates. That your rhetoric can hurt our patients.”
Neal bristled at the reproof. Snapped, “I hope you’re happy, Father!”
Father appeared baffled by this nonsequitur.
Neal’s vehemence and insubordination had attracted the scolding, speculative stares of patients and fellow healers alike.
“We will not have this discussion–whatever it’s about–where our patients might be disturbed.” Father lifted a palm. Quelling further outbursts from Neal, who reflected not without a trace of cynicism that he should have known patients would always be his father’s first priority and concern. Father was a healer before he was anything else. That betrayed itself in many ways. Small and large. “You will join me in my office and explain what has you so disgruntled.”