Post by Kit on Mar 18, 2010 13:13:39 GMT 10
Title: Squires and Sons
Rating: PG
Length: 420
Round: 3/A
Competitor: Alanna
Summary: "I'm easy, me." (I'm also possibly way off in Trickster timeline--forgive me.)
“You don’t have to keep away just because of me, My Lady.”
Keladry of Mindelan levelled a look at her Squire. He was, she reflected, taking in the openly inscrutable lines of his face, his father’s son.
“There isn’t much more scandal in the world for any of us to endure, and I’m easy, me. Word has it, I’ll soon have chicks for nieces and nephews. So, really, seeing you happy with M—
And his mother’s habit of fitting himself neatly into the centre of all the worlds. “—Alan,” she said.
The young man sighed. “Yes, Kel?”
“Better.”
Alan waited, relieved that they had left The Own that spring, so this stern, solid, infuriating moment would not be intensified with another generation of wisdom and small parcels of words that conveyed everything the young and callow needed to know. Lord-Uncle Raoul seemed to communicate entirely through wickedness and raised-eyebrows.
“Being charming about your mother and me is not going to make your Ordeal fade away,” she told him. “I promise.”
“You know, I wasn’t actually thinking about procrastination,” he said. “I was thinking about how—“
“Procrastination,” said Kel, firmly, "just happens. It’s part of my job to spot it,”
Alan looked into her calm, familiar face, taking in lines around her eyes and mouth, sharp and well-used in her freckled skin, that he had somehow never noticed and never not seen, there. She smiled, just a little, and it was in her touch as she rested a firm hand on his shoulder. “And your mother will be in Corus, of course,” she told him. “Biting bits out of everyone, tearing her hair—“
“—amazing she has any.”
“Hush. Tearing her hair, picking fights—“
“—and winning,” said the Lioness’s son, implacable.
“And winning, Alan.” Kel smiled fully now, a brief light across her face, her hand just as warm. “And being far too nervous and being proud of you, most of all.”
Alan swallowed. “Let’s not talk about it,” he said.
Kel nodded. “Finish saddling up, then.”
Alan checked his mare’s girth with slim, steady hands. Thieves hands, and striped with sword callous, muscles small and tight and ready at his wrists and forearms. “I hope you are, too,” he said, very soft and, despite the four years and more in which his Knight Mistress had seen him grow from a slim, sardonic boy into a clear, determined, often wickedly funny man, very, very young.
“I hope you’re proud.”
Kel knew, still, when not to speak.
Rating: PG
Length: 420
Round: 3/A
Competitor: Alanna
Summary: "I'm easy, me." (I'm also possibly way off in Trickster timeline--forgive me.)
“You don’t have to keep away just because of me, My Lady.”
Keladry of Mindelan levelled a look at her Squire. He was, she reflected, taking in the openly inscrutable lines of his face, his father’s son.
“There isn’t much more scandal in the world for any of us to endure, and I’m easy, me. Word has it, I’ll soon have chicks for nieces and nephews. So, really, seeing you happy with M—
And his mother’s habit of fitting himself neatly into the centre of all the worlds. “—Alan,” she said.
The young man sighed. “Yes, Kel?”
“Better.”
Alan waited, relieved that they had left The Own that spring, so this stern, solid, infuriating moment would not be intensified with another generation of wisdom and small parcels of words that conveyed everything the young and callow needed to know. Lord-Uncle Raoul seemed to communicate entirely through wickedness and raised-eyebrows.
“Being charming about your mother and me is not going to make your Ordeal fade away,” she told him. “I promise.”
“You know, I wasn’t actually thinking about procrastination,” he said. “I was thinking about how—“
“Procrastination,” said Kel, firmly, "just happens. It’s part of my job to spot it,”
Alan looked into her calm, familiar face, taking in lines around her eyes and mouth, sharp and well-used in her freckled skin, that he had somehow never noticed and never not seen, there. She smiled, just a little, and it was in her touch as she rested a firm hand on his shoulder. “And your mother will be in Corus, of course,” she told him. “Biting bits out of everyone, tearing her hair—“
“—amazing she has any.”
“Hush. Tearing her hair, picking fights—“
“—and winning,” said the Lioness’s son, implacable.
“And winning, Alan.” Kel smiled fully now, a brief light across her face, her hand just as warm. “And being far too nervous and being proud of you, most of all.”
Alan swallowed. “Let’s not talk about it,” he said.
Kel nodded. “Finish saddling up, then.”
Alan checked his mare’s girth with slim, steady hands. Thieves hands, and striped with sword callous, muscles small and tight and ready at his wrists and forearms. “I hope you are, too,” he said, very soft and, despite the four years and more in which his Knight Mistress had seen him grow from a slim, sardonic boy into a clear, determined, often wickedly funny man, very, very young.
“I hope you’re proud.”
Kel knew, still, when not to speak.