Post by journeycat on Oct 30, 2009 13:15:27 GMT 10
Title: This Son of Mine
Rating (and Warnings): PG, because Neal's an ass.
Series: PotS
Word Count: 913
Summary: Something special happens the first time a man holds his son.
Notes: For the Kel/Wyldon thread.And Wyldon's Lair.
-----
He was beginning to pace a hollow in the floor.
Wyldon dabbed at the sweat trickling down his face with a damp cloth. On the other side of the door, there was a strained cry of pain. For all her considerable discipline, even his wife succumbed to that most difficult of trials. And for all his discipline, he thought he would go mad listening to her.
“You should sit, sir,” Owen ventured.
Wyldon ignored him and continued pacing. Four daughters, he thought in disgust, and one would think I’d never had a child. She’s healthy, and strong, and—young. She’ll be fine.
Strange, that he was not reassured. He was brought back to the day when his eldest, Eiralys, was born, and he had bitten his nails to the quick. He had feared for Vivenne, much like now. Birth was a Great Mystery that he had no control over.
He did not like mysteries, especially divine ones.
They had been married for six years and he had given little thought to children in that time. After all, he was a father four times over, not to mention a grandfather of two young boys. He thought fatherhood was a finished era.
But Keladry had wanted a family, and it would have been selfish of him to deny her what she wanted just because he was old and tired. And in the back of his mind, something stirred in excitement at the endless possibilities that her youth and desire for children afforded him.
“Sir Cavall.”
Wyldon abruptly stood, heart hammering in his chest. In spite of the circumstances, a small part of him couldn’t help but be amused at Queenscove’s—Neal, he corrected himself instinctively, as Keladry preferred he call him by his given name—extremely formal tones. The impudent boy had never quite reconciled with the fact he married Keladry. It made for awkward conversations, but he had a suspicion she was endlessly entertained; she always wore that vexing Yamani Mask whenever the three of them dined together...which was always at her insistence.
“Well?”
“Kel was delivered of a fat, healthy son. She’s exhausted, but fine. You can come in and see them if you want.”
Well, of course I want to, you great, silly ass. Wyldon held his tongue...barely. He was rather certain Keladry would be greatly displeased to learn her husband was being tried for her best friend’s murder.
The others that crowded in the small waiting room hovered behind him—Alanna and her brazen temper, Prince Roald, his daughter, Sunarine, who had finally forgiven him for marrying a woman younger than she, three of Keladry’s sisters and many of her friends like King’s Reach and Hollyrose and Queenscove’s sensible wife.
He took a breath and followed Neal into the infirmary.
His wife, sweaty and droopy-eyed and so cursed beautiful she near stole his breath away, reposed on the narrow bed. Neal immediately went over to her and began fussing with her pillow and checking her pulse. Baird shooed him away, casting the briefest of knowing glances in his direction, and quietly left the room.
He slowly knelt by the bed.
“Your son,” Keladry whispered, looking pleased. “Handsome, isn’t he?”
Handsome was too mild a word, in his opinion. The infant fussed a little in her arms, screwing up its face in outrage and waving little fists—so tiny!—in the air. Still, Wyldon had no problem picking out the smallest of details: the light brown hair plastered to its fragile skull, the delicate nose and wide rosebud mouth, and dark eyes that were not the baby blue with which all his daughters had been born.
“He’s beautiful,” Wyldon murmured in awe.
“He’s yours,” she half-giggled. “You can hold him. He won’t bite.”
“Of course not,” he replied, “he doesn’t have any teeth.”
She just gave him one of her looks. It was a wife thing, he supposed, for Vivenne used to give him the exact same ones. He held out his arms and she gently deposited the little creature in his arms. The baby scowled up at him with a defiant face, already a warrior.
“He’s beautiful,” he whispered.
A hot rush of emotion suddenly flooded him, curling all the way to his tingling fingertips and numbing him all over. This child he held was so perfect—a son, a son for him when he never asked for one, an heir for Cavall when it never mattered to him that there wasn’t one—that the world tilted on its axis and when it righted, it was not the same world. It was a breaking and a mending; a halting and a winding; a loosing and a binding; a losing and a finding.
“What do you want to call him?”
With an effort, Wyldon came back to himself. “Call him?”
“He needs a name,” Keladry explained patiently.
He shrugged, feeling, for the first time in his life, at a total loss. “Let’s give him a family name. Yours or mine, it doesn’t matter. Piers would work well.”
She frowned. “He doesn’t really look like a Piers, though.”
He didn’t pay her any mind; her voice was wordless honey in his ears, in a sphere of narrow scope where all he saw was a red-faced, mewling infant who, one day, would be a man.
A son, Wyldon thought, overwhelmed. He pressed his lips against the baby's chubby cheek, inhaling his fresh, clean scent. I have a son.
Rating (and Warnings): PG, because Neal's an ass.
Series: PotS
Word Count: 913
Summary: Something special happens the first time a man holds his son.
Notes: For the Kel/Wyldon thread.
-----
He was beginning to pace a hollow in the floor.
Wyldon dabbed at the sweat trickling down his face with a damp cloth. On the other side of the door, there was a strained cry of pain. For all her considerable discipline, even his wife succumbed to that most difficult of trials. And for all his discipline, he thought he would go mad listening to her.
“You should sit, sir,” Owen ventured.
Wyldon ignored him and continued pacing. Four daughters, he thought in disgust, and one would think I’d never had a child. She’s healthy, and strong, and—young. She’ll be fine.
Strange, that he was not reassured. He was brought back to the day when his eldest, Eiralys, was born, and he had bitten his nails to the quick. He had feared for Vivenne, much like now. Birth was a Great Mystery that he had no control over.
He did not like mysteries, especially divine ones.
They had been married for six years and he had given little thought to children in that time. After all, he was a father four times over, not to mention a grandfather of two young boys. He thought fatherhood was a finished era.
But Keladry had wanted a family, and it would have been selfish of him to deny her what she wanted just because he was old and tired. And in the back of his mind, something stirred in excitement at the endless possibilities that her youth and desire for children afforded him.
“Sir Cavall.”
Wyldon abruptly stood, heart hammering in his chest. In spite of the circumstances, a small part of him couldn’t help but be amused at Queenscove’s—Neal, he corrected himself instinctively, as Keladry preferred he call him by his given name—extremely formal tones. The impudent boy had never quite reconciled with the fact he married Keladry. It made for awkward conversations, but he had a suspicion she was endlessly entertained; she always wore that vexing Yamani Mask whenever the three of them dined together...which was always at her insistence.
“Well?”
“Kel was delivered of a fat, healthy son. She’s exhausted, but fine. You can come in and see them if you want.”
Well, of course I want to, you great, silly ass. Wyldon held his tongue...barely. He was rather certain Keladry would be greatly displeased to learn her husband was being tried for her best friend’s murder.
The others that crowded in the small waiting room hovered behind him—Alanna and her brazen temper, Prince Roald, his daughter, Sunarine, who had finally forgiven him for marrying a woman younger than she, three of Keladry’s sisters and many of her friends like King’s Reach and Hollyrose and Queenscove’s sensible wife.
He took a breath and followed Neal into the infirmary.
His wife, sweaty and droopy-eyed and so cursed beautiful she near stole his breath away, reposed on the narrow bed. Neal immediately went over to her and began fussing with her pillow and checking her pulse. Baird shooed him away, casting the briefest of knowing glances in his direction, and quietly left the room.
He slowly knelt by the bed.
“Your son,” Keladry whispered, looking pleased. “Handsome, isn’t he?”
Handsome was too mild a word, in his opinion. The infant fussed a little in her arms, screwing up its face in outrage and waving little fists—so tiny!—in the air. Still, Wyldon had no problem picking out the smallest of details: the light brown hair plastered to its fragile skull, the delicate nose and wide rosebud mouth, and dark eyes that were not the baby blue with which all his daughters had been born.
“He’s beautiful,” Wyldon murmured in awe.
“He’s yours,” she half-giggled. “You can hold him. He won’t bite.”
“Of course not,” he replied, “he doesn’t have any teeth.”
She just gave him one of her looks. It was a wife thing, he supposed, for Vivenne used to give him the exact same ones. He held out his arms and she gently deposited the little creature in his arms. The baby scowled up at him with a defiant face, already a warrior.
“He’s beautiful,” he whispered.
A hot rush of emotion suddenly flooded him, curling all the way to his tingling fingertips and numbing him all over. This child he held was so perfect—a son, a son for him when he never asked for one, an heir for Cavall when it never mattered to him that there wasn’t one—that the world tilted on its axis and when it righted, it was not the same world. It was a breaking and a mending; a halting and a winding; a loosing and a binding; a losing and a finding.
“What do you want to call him?”
With an effort, Wyldon came back to himself. “Call him?”
“He needs a name,” Keladry explained patiently.
He shrugged, feeling, for the first time in his life, at a total loss. “Let’s give him a family name. Yours or mine, it doesn’t matter. Piers would work well.”
She frowned. “He doesn’t really look like a Piers, though.”
He didn’t pay her any mind; her voice was wordless honey in his ears, in a sphere of narrow scope where all he saw was a red-faced, mewling infant who, one day, would be a man.
A son, Wyldon thought, overwhelmed. He pressed his lips against the baby's chubby cheek, inhaling his fresh, clean scent. I have a son.