Post by wordy on Nov 15, 2010 13:33:15 GMT 10
Title: How To Thaw A Heart That's Broken
Rating: G
Summary: Tortall/Emelan crossover. After Vivenne's death, Wyldon needs someone to warm his frozen heart.
A/N: What was I thinking? I have no idea. Also, it turned out slightly longer than I planned, so I suppose there will be a Part 2.
As was his routine, Wyldon rose the hour before dawn. That was, however, all that was routine about that morning; smoothing a hand over the empty bed beside him, he wondered if there would ever come a day when he didn't expect Vivenne to be there, by his side.
At times he thought that there was nothing to keep him going through the day, no reason for him to keep on living a life without her. But, unfortunately, he was smarter than that. His wife would have scolded him for ever thinking such things. And she would be right, of course.
There were still the pages to train. Tortall's future generation of knights: young and pliable, waiting for the right craftsman to bend them into the correct shape. Sometimes Wyldon dreaded the thought of facing that determined and disillusioned sea of faces, a sea that never seemed to stop washing more young men - and now, young women - into shore, despite how many left as knights, or worse. But, he knew, someone had to teach and guide these young people. Everyone had a purpose, if you believed that sort of thing. Wyldon had made this his, and he intended to see it through.
With a sigh, Wyldon turned back the sheets and slid out of bed; he had been staring into space again, without even realising it. He found himself doing that more and more these days, especially after...
With Vivenne, he had been a young man. Without her, he realised that he had been growing older all along.
“Keep your fingers together, Nond,” said Wyldon, pacing slowly down the line.
High.
Middle.
Low.
“Stop slouching, Meron, if you look like you’re going to get hit, you probably are,” Wyldon said, distastefully. “Have some backbone, boy.”
He stopped at the end of the line, the insistent clacking of wooden staffs ringing out behind him. In the other field, he could see the Wildcat training with some of the older pages, a predatory smile shining out from her weathered face. Watching her as she talked to the boys, Wyldon tried to recall Vivenne’s smile. The flash of her eyes and the dimple in her cheek were there, but the rest was hazy. A pain clutched at his heart, and Wyldon turned back to the pages. One day at a time was too difficult. He wondered how he could possibly live through this.
One afternoon, after the pages thoroughly wearing him out, Wyldon found himself walking in the direction of the palace forge, his sword in hand. There was something comforting about being in the company of a craftsman who was at one with their craft.
The heat hit him almost as soon as he walked inside, rippling over his skin and seeming to warm him from the inside out. The sharp clang of metal striking metal rang out from across the forge, and Wyldon moved closer, though he did not see who he was expecting to. Instead, there was a stranger in his place.
The woman must have heard him approach, for she turned to look at him, giving Wyldon the chance to take in her appearance. Her stocky, muscled frame was wrapped in dark skin that glinted with a sheen of sweat from standing so close to the open fire. She wore a leather apron over a dark tunic and breeches, and the braids of her black hair pulled up and away from her collar.
She smiled. “Can I help you with something?”
Wyldon looked down at the sword in his hand. “I can come back another time, if you’re busy,” he began, but she gave him a look that spoke of well-practiced patience.
“Come on, then,” she said, beckoning with her free hand. Wyldon paused, then walked over to stand beside her, trying to avoid the strong heat radiating from the forge in front of her. He glanced down as he unsheathed his sword and handed it over, and was startled to see that she wasn’t wearing any gloves.
She must have seen the shocked expression on his face. “It’s alright,” she said, with that smile of hers. “I have,” she paused, thinking. “The Gift.” As if to demonstrate, she put aside the piece of hot metal that she was holding and wriggled her fingers in front of him.
Before he could think of what he was doing, Wyldon reached out and caught her hand in his. “What’s this?” He lightly ran a finger over the soft metal covering her palm, then turned her hand over. It was on the other side too.
When he looked up, the woman was looking at him curiously, her head tilted to one side like a bird. “It doesn’t hurt.”
He dropped her hand and took a step back, suddenly realising that he was holding the hand of a woman he was barely acquainted with. “Beg your pardon, I should introduce myself. Wyldon of Cavall.”
The woman smiled. “The hero?”
“The training master.”
She gave him a look that he couldn’t read and turned to place his sword on the workbench behind her. “Come back tomorrow, I’ll have it shiny as new,” she said.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”
“Daja.” Wyldon waited for a surname or a title, but she just continued to stand there and smile at him. “Just Daja,” she added.
When he turned to leave, he could feel her eyes watching him all the way to the door.
Rating: G
Summary: Tortall/Emelan crossover. After Vivenne's death, Wyldon needs someone to warm his frozen heart.
A/N: What was I thinking? I have no idea. Also, it turned out slightly longer than I planned, so I suppose there will be a Part 2.
As was his routine, Wyldon rose the hour before dawn. That was, however, all that was routine about that morning; smoothing a hand over the empty bed beside him, he wondered if there would ever come a day when he didn't expect Vivenne to be there, by his side.
At times he thought that there was nothing to keep him going through the day, no reason for him to keep on living a life without her. But, unfortunately, he was smarter than that. His wife would have scolded him for ever thinking such things. And she would be right, of course.
There were still the pages to train. Tortall's future generation of knights: young and pliable, waiting for the right craftsman to bend them into the correct shape. Sometimes Wyldon dreaded the thought of facing that determined and disillusioned sea of faces, a sea that never seemed to stop washing more young men - and now, young women - into shore, despite how many left as knights, or worse. But, he knew, someone had to teach and guide these young people. Everyone had a purpose, if you believed that sort of thing. Wyldon had made this his, and he intended to see it through.
With a sigh, Wyldon turned back the sheets and slid out of bed; he had been staring into space again, without even realising it. He found himself doing that more and more these days, especially after...
With Vivenne, he had been a young man. Without her, he realised that he had been growing older all along.
***
“Keep your fingers together, Nond,” said Wyldon, pacing slowly down the line.
High.
Middle.
Low.
“Stop slouching, Meron, if you look like you’re going to get hit, you probably are,” Wyldon said, distastefully. “Have some backbone, boy.”
He stopped at the end of the line, the insistent clacking of wooden staffs ringing out behind him. In the other field, he could see the Wildcat training with some of the older pages, a predatory smile shining out from her weathered face. Watching her as she talked to the boys, Wyldon tried to recall Vivenne’s smile. The flash of her eyes and the dimple in her cheek were there, but the rest was hazy. A pain clutched at his heart, and Wyldon turned back to the pages. One day at a time was too difficult. He wondered how he could possibly live through this.
***
One afternoon, after the pages thoroughly wearing him out, Wyldon found himself walking in the direction of the palace forge, his sword in hand. There was something comforting about being in the company of a craftsman who was at one with their craft.
The heat hit him almost as soon as he walked inside, rippling over his skin and seeming to warm him from the inside out. The sharp clang of metal striking metal rang out from across the forge, and Wyldon moved closer, though he did not see who he was expecting to. Instead, there was a stranger in his place.
The woman must have heard him approach, for she turned to look at him, giving Wyldon the chance to take in her appearance. Her stocky, muscled frame was wrapped in dark skin that glinted with a sheen of sweat from standing so close to the open fire. She wore a leather apron over a dark tunic and breeches, and the braids of her black hair pulled up and away from her collar.
She smiled. “Can I help you with something?”
Wyldon looked down at the sword in his hand. “I can come back another time, if you’re busy,” he began, but she gave him a look that spoke of well-practiced patience.
“Come on, then,” she said, beckoning with her free hand. Wyldon paused, then walked over to stand beside her, trying to avoid the strong heat radiating from the forge in front of her. He glanced down as he unsheathed his sword and handed it over, and was startled to see that she wasn’t wearing any gloves.
She must have seen the shocked expression on his face. “It’s alright,” she said, with that smile of hers. “I have,” she paused, thinking. “The Gift.” As if to demonstrate, she put aside the piece of hot metal that she was holding and wriggled her fingers in front of him.
Before he could think of what he was doing, Wyldon reached out and caught her hand in his. “What’s this?” He lightly ran a finger over the soft metal covering her palm, then turned her hand over. It was on the other side too.
When he looked up, the woman was looking at him curiously, her head tilted to one side like a bird. “It doesn’t hurt.”
He dropped her hand and took a step back, suddenly realising that he was holding the hand of a woman he was barely acquainted with. “Beg your pardon, I should introduce myself. Wyldon of Cavall.”
The woman smiled. “The hero?”
“The training master.”
She gave him a look that he couldn’t read and turned to place his sword on the workbench behind her. “Come back tomorrow, I’ll have it shiny as new,” she said.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”
“Daja.” Wyldon waited for a surname or a title, but she just continued to stand there and smile at him. “Just Daja,” she added.
When he turned to leave, he could feel her eyes watching him all the way to the door.