Post by max on Feb 20, 2010 17:27:35 GMT 10
Bright Star III
Rating: PG
Length: 444
Joren
1/E
Summary: An almost intervention. Continuation of the Bright Star storyline thingy.
_____________________________________
Wyldon calls him into his office before midwinter, and he sits opposite the man whose voice is second only to his father’s, everything Joren would ever want to be or become.
‘I hope my opinion holds some weight with you Joren.’
His teacher’s eyes are the steady brown he associates with rivers, swollen after rain, and he has always found this comforting (his father has eyes through which he can see the eastern glacier of the mountain, eating earth and almost singing with malevolent cold). Nonetheless, he holds his hands behind his back (though really, it has been an age since they last gave him trouble) as a precaution. Then he nods.
‘The fights with Page Keladry must end.’
And his universe is fraying – the training master is not meant to acknowledge the fighting, the way they are not meant to acknowledge their injuries – and there is something terribly, terribly wrong with all of this and he can only blurt out ‘Sir?’ and his voice sounds tinny and distant.
The training master grimaces – and not because of his hurrok-wounds – says, ‘To whom is our first duty, Joren?’
‘The realm, my lord.’
‘And how do we exercise this duty?’
‘By being knights.’
His cheeks flush at the juvenile answer – he will be fourteen so very soon – and Wyldon looks at him in a way he never has before – partly worried, partly loving – and he has all the explanation he needs for his presence here, this conversation.
‘And you grow closer to that eventuality every day… which is why you must rise above such petty squabbles.’
And he is ashamed.
His sleep deteriorates after that, but when he sinks down into the very base of things, Lord Wyldon’s esteem matters more to him than she ever could. And in between Zahir and he pretending that the last few months haven’t happened, Vinson and Garvey plotting, Quinden muttering about how they should be doing something, he tries to understand why this is happening, the fatigue and the bruisey shadows beneath his eyes, the somehow desolation of exceeding everyone’s expectations of him.
He has never entirely been at ease with other people his own age – indeed, Zahir is the only person he seems able to meet halfway – but that is nothing compared to the wilderness of his insides. And that Midwinter, when something has to give, and he stares at her without betraying a boy to whom he owes nothing (chalky, beneath his acne) he feels a strange kind of solace in her anger.
She wins, outnumbering them with her supporters, but he lifts something from her passion, which is almost soothing (and it isn’t his game anyway).
Rating: PG
Length: 444
Joren
1/E
Summary: An almost intervention. Continuation of the Bright Star storyline thingy.
_____________________________________
Wyldon calls him into his office before midwinter, and he sits opposite the man whose voice is second only to his father’s, everything Joren would ever want to be or become.
‘I hope my opinion holds some weight with you Joren.’
His teacher’s eyes are the steady brown he associates with rivers, swollen after rain, and he has always found this comforting (his father has eyes through which he can see the eastern glacier of the mountain, eating earth and almost singing with malevolent cold). Nonetheless, he holds his hands behind his back (though really, it has been an age since they last gave him trouble) as a precaution. Then he nods.
‘The fights with Page Keladry must end.’
And his universe is fraying – the training master is not meant to acknowledge the fighting, the way they are not meant to acknowledge their injuries – and there is something terribly, terribly wrong with all of this and he can only blurt out ‘Sir?’ and his voice sounds tinny and distant.
The training master grimaces – and not because of his hurrok-wounds – says, ‘To whom is our first duty, Joren?’
‘The realm, my lord.’
‘And how do we exercise this duty?’
‘By being knights.’
His cheeks flush at the juvenile answer – he will be fourteen so very soon – and Wyldon looks at him in a way he never has before – partly worried, partly loving – and he has all the explanation he needs for his presence here, this conversation.
‘And you grow closer to that eventuality every day… which is why you must rise above such petty squabbles.’
And he is ashamed.
His sleep deteriorates after that, but when he sinks down into the very base of things, Lord Wyldon’s esteem matters more to him than she ever could. And in between Zahir and he pretending that the last few months haven’t happened, Vinson and Garvey plotting, Quinden muttering about how they should be doing something, he tries to understand why this is happening, the fatigue and the bruisey shadows beneath his eyes, the somehow desolation of exceeding everyone’s expectations of him.
He has never entirely been at ease with other people his own age – indeed, Zahir is the only person he seems able to meet halfway – but that is nothing compared to the wilderness of his insides. And that Midwinter, when something has to give, and he stares at her without betraying a boy to whom he owes nothing (chalky, beneath his acne) he feels a strange kind of solace in her anger.
She wins, outnumbering them with her supporters, but he lifts something from her passion, which is almost soothing (and it isn’t his game anyway).