Post by Cass on Dec 2, 2010 9:27:27 GMT 10
To: inthefire
Message: I was squeeful when I saw your totally awesome prompts, because they basically gave me license to write this! I hope you like it
From: Cassandra
Title: The Longest Night
Rating: PG-13
Wishlist Item: 2. Wyldon-loving (W/Vivenne and W/Kel are nice...), 3. Jon-loving, 4. Platonic Wyldon or just general Wyldon, and a little bit, kind of, of 5. young!PotS or young!SotL
Summary: Wyldon is not the man to dream, but Ganiel, well, Ganiel is more of a trickster than previously thought.
-
first.
He thanks the Mother Goddess, protector of women in labor, that they are at the palace for the Midwinter celebrations when Vivenne's time begins.
It should not be something to worry about- women do this all the time- but it is obvious that the baby is killing her.
Wyldon could not explain for the life of him the physical reasons exact why, but he sees how starkly her eyes gaze out, how her skin is pulled tight against her cheekbones and jawline, how thin she is, even with her great pumpkin belly in between.
He prepared himself weeks ago for the possibility that he might lose his first child. But now, at the palace- Duke Baird is attenting the birth, along with a priestess of the Goddess and at least two other Healers, both from the temple. He allows himself to hope for a fighting chance, as a soldier does, even though he will not be allowed in the room.
So he waits outside. He tries to harden his heart against the screams, and tries even harder against the quiet crying.
And then, what seems likt days later, there is one different-sounding wail that warms him, and it is strong and proud- his firstborn, breathing in earthly air for the very first time. And yet minutes later, Wyldon still is not allowed in to see Vivenne. Duke Baird comes out the door followed by another Healer, who holds the screaming baby in the crook of her arms.
Baird is stained dark red. He puts a cool hand on Wyldon's arm.
"We could not save her," the royal healer murmurs. "We tried, but sometimes, the mind is already in the Peaceful Realms while the body lingers. I am so, so sorry. But I will also say- you have a healthy son."
The healer places the boy into Wyldon's arms and he stares down at the very red, very new face. The baby quiets in his hold, and deep blue eyes blink back up at him.
He names the boy Owen.
second.
"You've been a bachelor for too long," Elasabenne tells him, when she sees him for Midwinter celebrations. "People talk."
"I know they do," Wyldon sighs. "Raoul of Goldenlake gets the same thing, Elasa, and so does every other single man at court over a certain age."
"Well you're a man of a certain age now, Wyldon, and it's you and all those pages. Not only do people talk- and in front of me no less!- but don't you ever get lonely, Wyl?" Her eyes sparkle a little bit impishly, and Wyldon is struck with the distinct memory of being twelve and being teased by Elasabenne for something very similar.
"How could I be lonely," he tells his sister, "when I've got you and all my nieces and nephews?"
"Amarine's starting to be courted by all sorts of scamps, and Edrin is a squire. The rest may be little enough for some time yet, but they're getting older just as we are." Elasabenne reminds him. "I just wish you would find someone to be stoic and honorable with."
"Very funny," Wyldon sighs, and tugs at the stray curl escaping from her hairdo. "Let us go to the celebration now, before you start listing off all the eligible court ladies you know."
"Find someone for Midwinter," his sister says. "If you don't do it for you, do it for me. I worry, you know."
"Elasa," but he follows her out to the party to greet the Yamani delegation and his king and queen.
It is exactly twenty minutes later that Wyldon of Cavall meets Lady Keladry of Mindelan, the daughter of the Tortallan ambassador to the Islands (and, as it is whispered in secret by those same gossips who like to slander him, bodyguard to the Yamani princess).
She is, he thinks, strikingly poised.
third.
"It's the holiday season," the prince says. "I should be able to do what I wish."
"Your Highness-" and perhaps this is not the best time to have this conversation, draped in sheets in a warm bed with candles flickering, but Wyldon is determined to have his way. "You know we must keep secret, if we are going to be anything at all. You are the heir to the throne of Tortall, the only child of the king and queen. You will not be able to-"
"I've never cared," Jonathan snaps, anger tightening the soft lines of his face. "I shouldn't be so constricted by duty that I cannot love who I choose."
"But you are," and Wyldon lays a hand on the prince's shoulder. Jonathan makes a move to angrily shrug it off but then lets it lie. "Look, Jon, my father has made it clear to me that I am to propose to Vivenne soon."
"And you're going to do it?"
"I have no choice, do I not? We need to save Cavall from devastion, and-" Wyldon raises an eyebrow, and drags a hand through his thick mop of hair. "There are no appropriate alternatives, and no, Jonathan, as much I would like it to be this is not the alternative."
"I know that," the prince mutters sullenly. "I do know that, Wyl."
"You do," Wyldon agrees, and relaxes. "If you would like I will of course stay, even if it can only be for the night."
"Very well," Jonathan agrees, but his mouth is a harsh line. Wyldon kisses him, tries to smooth him out again without the use of words, but he can tell that for tonight at least, it will not work.
four.
He is but one man and she is a tempest of a woman, clad in the earth's own color, grassy eyes beckoning to him across a ballroom.
He sighs her name as he attempts to court her, fumbling through the proper motions even though she pushes her hardest to move him past the bounds of propriety.
Goldenlake and Naxen get into a duel over her. He thinks that they are fools. Wyldon knows that any time Delia gives them would be given falsely, knows it at well as he knows the way her name feels on his lips when he speaks the syllables.
He thinks he could maybe marry her; that maybe she could keep him bewitched and astonished enough for them to survive, maybe even savor a lifetime together. He pictures waking up and seeing long-lashed green eyes blink back at him. He pictures sons with his dark eyes and daughters with hers. Wyldon likes the image.
Delia tells him that of course he can wake up next to her, that all he has to do is follow her into her rooms discreetly and she shall be his for the cost of not very much at all.
When he eventually succumbs, following a laughing, dizzying whirl of green silk and flowery perfume, it is Midwinter Eve and the stars shine too brightly in the crisp night sky.
The next morning, he finds himself in a curiously locked room with Duke Roger of Conte, a platter of breakfast pastries, and a game of chess.
five.
Wyldon wakes up sweating.
It is familiar to him: tradition, at this point. The longest night of the year is the night he dreams the most vividly. Dreams of things he cannot understand, of whose edges he can only grasp at, gasping as they slide away from him. Ganiel's curse is what it is, understanding and meaning granted only to be snatched away.
Vivenne is sleeping at his side, curled into a ball. Her hair is streaked with gray, just a little, but she is still as dignified and beautiful as the first time he saw her sitting on a garden bench with a philosophy book. She will, he knows, be with him until they both die. He reaches to touch her hand as she murmurs a little, stirring in her presumably dreamless sleep.
He tells himself that this, his life, is not but a dream (you have lingered here, while these visions did appear) and look at this, he is awake and in bed, lying here looking up at the canopy trying to remember things that never happened, and he has been foolish long enough.
He doesn't wake up unhappy, but he isn't quite satisfied with himself either.
Every year for him, the longest night is what time really means it to be.
Wyldon wishes he could remember of what he dreamt.
Message: I was squeeful when I saw your totally awesome prompts, because they basically gave me license to write this! I hope you like it
From: Cassandra
Title: The Longest Night
Rating: PG-13
Wishlist Item: 2. Wyldon-loving (W/Vivenne and W/Kel are nice...), 3. Jon-loving, 4. Platonic Wyldon or just general Wyldon, and a little bit, kind of, of 5. young!PotS or young!SotL
Summary: Wyldon is not the man to dream, but Ganiel, well, Ganiel is more of a trickster than previously thought.
-
first.
He thanks the Mother Goddess, protector of women in labor, that they are at the palace for the Midwinter celebrations when Vivenne's time begins.
It should not be something to worry about- women do this all the time- but it is obvious that the baby is killing her.
Wyldon could not explain for the life of him the physical reasons exact why, but he sees how starkly her eyes gaze out, how her skin is pulled tight against her cheekbones and jawline, how thin she is, even with her great pumpkin belly in between.
He prepared himself weeks ago for the possibility that he might lose his first child. But now, at the palace- Duke Baird is attenting the birth, along with a priestess of the Goddess and at least two other Healers, both from the temple. He allows himself to hope for a fighting chance, as a soldier does, even though he will not be allowed in the room.
So he waits outside. He tries to harden his heart against the screams, and tries even harder against the quiet crying.
And then, what seems likt days later, there is one different-sounding wail that warms him, and it is strong and proud- his firstborn, breathing in earthly air for the very first time. And yet minutes later, Wyldon still is not allowed in to see Vivenne. Duke Baird comes out the door followed by another Healer, who holds the screaming baby in the crook of her arms.
Baird is stained dark red. He puts a cool hand on Wyldon's arm.
"We could not save her," the royal healer murmurs. "We tried, but sometimes, the mind is already in the Peaceful Realms while the body lingers. I am so, so sorry. But I will also say- you have a healthy son."
The healer places the boy into Wyldon's arms and he stares down at the very red, very new face. The baby quiets in his hold, and deep blue eyes blink back up at him.
He names the boy Owen.
second.
"You've been a bachelor for too long," Elasabenne tells him, when she sees him for Midwinter celebrations. "People talk."
"I know they do," Wyldon sighs. "Raoul of Goldenlake gets the same thing, Elasa, and so does every other single man at court over a certain age."
"Well you're a man of a certain age now, Wyldon, and it's you and all those pages. Not only do people talk- and in front of me no less!- but don't you ever get lonely, Wyl?" Her eyes sparkle a little bit impishly, and Wyldon is struck with the distinct memory of being twelve and being teased by Elasabenne for something very similar.
"How could I be lonely," he tells his sister, "when I've got you and all my nieces and nephews?"
"Amarine's starting to be courted by all sorts of scamps, and Edrin is a squire. The rest may be little enough for some time yet, but they're getting older just as we are." Elasabenne reminds him. "I just wish you would find someone to be stoic and honorable with."
"Very funny," Wyldon sighs, and tugs at the stray curl escaping from her hairdo. "Let us go to the celebration now, before you start listing off all the eligible court ladies you know."
"Find someone for Midwinter," his sister says. "If you don't do it for you, do it for me. I worry, you know."
"Elasa," but he follows her out to the party to greet the Yamani delegation and his king and queen.
It is exactly twenty minutes later that Wyldon of Cavall meets Lady Keladry of Mindelan, the daughter of the Tortallan ambassador to the Islands (and, as it is whispered in secret by those same gossips who like to slander him, bodyguard to the Yamani princess).
She is, he thinks, strikingly poised.
third.
"It's the holiday season," the prince says. "I should be able to do what I wish."
"Your Highness-" and perhaps this is not the best time to have this conversation, draped in sheets in a warm bed with candles flickering, but Wyldon is determined to have his way. "You know we must keep secret, if we are going to be anything at all. You are the heir to the throne of Tortall, the only child of the king and queen. You will not be able to-"
"I've never cared," Jonathan snaps, anger tightening the soft lines of his face. "I shouldn't be so constricted by duty that I cannot love who I choose."
"But you are," and Wyldon lays a hand on the prince's shoulder. Jonathan makes a move to angrily shrug it off but then lets it lie. "Look, Jon, my father has made it clear to me that I am to propose to Vivenne soon."
"And you're going to do it?"
"I have no choice, do I not? We need to save Cavall from devastion, and-" Wyldon raises an eyebrow, and drags a hand through his thick mop of hair. "There are no appropriate alternatives, and no, Jonathan, as much I would like it to be this is not the alternative."
"I know that," the prince mutters sullenly. "I do know that, Wyl."
"You do," Wyldon agrees, and relaxes. "If you would like I will of course stay, even if it can only be for the night."
"Very well," Jonathan agrees, but his mouth is a harsh line. Wyldon kisses him, tries to smooth him out again without the use of words, but he can tell that for tonight at least, it will not work.
four.
He is but one man and she is a tempest of a woman, clad in the earth's own color, grassy eyes beckoning to him across a ballroom.
He sighs her name as he attempts to court her, fumbling through the proper motions even though she pushes her hardest to move him past the bounds of propriety.
Goldenlake and Naxen get into a duel over her. He thinks that they are fools. Wyldon knows that any time Delia gives them would be given falsely, knows it at well as he knows the way her name feels on his lips when he speaks the syllables.
He thinks he could maybe marry her; that maybe she could keep him bewitched and astonished enough for them to survive, maybe even savor a lifetime together. He pictures waking up and seeing long-lashed green eyes blink back at him. He pictures sons with his dark eyes and daughters with hers. Wyldon likes the image.
Delia tells him that of course he can wake up next to her, that all he has to do is follow her into her rooms discreetly and she shall be his for the cost of not very much at all.
When he eventually succumbs, following a laughing, dizzying whirl of green silk and flowery perfume, it is Midwinter Eve and the stars shine too brightly in the crisp night sky.
The next morning, he finds himself in a curiously locked room with Duke Roger of Conte, a platter of breakfast pastries, and a game of chess.
five.
Wyldon wakes up sweating.
It is familiar to him: tradition, at this point. The longest night of the year is the night he dreams the most vividly. Dreams of things he cannot understand, of whose edges he can only grasp at, gasping as they slide away from him. Ganiel's curse is what it is, understanding and meaning granted only to be snatched away.
Vivenne is sleeping at his side, curled into a ball. Her hair is streaked with gray, just a little, but she is still as dignified and beautiful as the first time he saw her sitting on a garden bench with a philosophy book. She will, he knows, be with him until they both die. He reaches to touch her hand as she murmurs a little, stirring in her presumably dreamless sleep.
He tells himself that this, his life, is not but a dream (you have lingered here, while these visions did appear) and look at this, he is awake and in bed, lying here looking up at the canopy trying to remember things that never happened, and he has been foolish long enough.
He doesn't wake up unhappy, but he isn't quite satisfied with himself either.
Every year for him, the longest night is what time really means it to be.
Wyldon wishes he could remember of what he dreamt.