Post by Lisa on Aug 17, 2011 6:08:01 GMT 10
Title: In the Stands
Rating: G
Word Count: 1360
Summary Vivenne attends the Fief Blythden tournament, sitting with conservatives in the stands.
Notes: Takes places during Squire (ahh, my OTP feels so comfy.)
“I haven’t seen you at one of these events in years,” Lord Dermid said, taking Vivenne’s hand and helping her climb the shaky wooden steps. “I thought you didn’t like watching your husband joust.”
“When I was eighteen, perhaps, and didn’t know how unlikely it would be to see him skewered on a lance,” she replied, her voice – as always – calm and neutral. “And by the time I was thirty I grew bored with it,” she added. Though I continued to watch for years. It was the same each time; the only variable seemed to be how far Wyldon’s opponent flew from the saddle, or what degree of anger would come with the inevitable shake of hands after the bout.
“This should be an interesting one, at least,” Dermid said with the smallest smirk.
“Of course it will.” That’s why I came to see it, she refrained from stating. She had no interest in small talk, especially with Elasabenne’s husband. He was a man who did not value silence the way she did.
He led her to a reserved place in the stands, amidst his and Wyldon’s friends. Vivenne sighed as she sat, nodding at the lords and ladies she was acquainted with. More small talk – whispers and laughs from people she had not seen in months, if not years. Some of the men teased that she had become a recluse, to which she calmly replied that she was seeing to the education of her daughters.
“I never understood why you didn’t send them to the City of the Gods,” Elasabenne said, in her aloof, judgmental manner.
“Because I’m a selfish woman, and wanted my girls with me before they went off to their husbands’ homes,” Vivenne replied, nonplussed. It was no use telling the younger woman the truth; she would find fault in any answer – especially if the answer criticized her own decisions. Because I prefer knowing my daughters rather than sending them off to be raised by someone who doesn’t share my values. Because I don’t want them turning into monsters like your son.
“Wyldon’s tilting against the Mindelan girl.”
“Yes. That’s why I’m here.”
“Do you think he’ll throw her from the saddle?”
“I don’t think it will reflect so poorly on her if he does. That makes her a knight as much as any Ordeal could.” Vivenne’s voice was low, and she could hear the others whispering to their friends in shock, repeating her – blasphemous? – words. “What knight among us hasn’t been knocked to the ground by Wyl’s lance?” she asked, a bit louder.
That comment was met with chortles. Let them laugh at the truth, if it makes them feel better.
Below them, the next pair of knights were preparing for their run. Squires and servants rushed to help them, looking frenzied, worried and excited at the prospect of the clash of wood and metal. Jousting, to her, was a cacophony of barely-controlled energy. The sounds of breaking lances, hoof-beats pounding and metal scraping against metal made her think of the battles she couldn’t see – the tumult of war, the unchoreographed violence that carried none of the caution or precision that these tournaments offered. The squires looked upon their knights with a pride and fervor in their eyes that she recognized from her twenty-five years with her husband. Their anticipation transferred to the mounts they stood near, and the horses became more skittish than was good for them.
When the field monitors hailed the beginning of the challenge, Vivenne winced. She may not have trained to joust herself, but she had watched enough to be a judge, and she could tell that these middle-aged knights were sloppy. There was no excuse for such lack of skill.
“Horrible,” she murmured after the first pass.
“Only because you compare everything to Wyl,” Elasabenne said, her voice bordering on the waspish.
“Only because neither ride as well as a knight ought to.” A second pass confirmed her statement, though Elasabenne refused to agree.
Thankfully the third attempt was improved, and the win was granted to a knight from a newer noble family. That brought about new muttered phrases from people whose breeding would’ve suggested better of them. Convent educations, you know, Vivenne thought with the slightest of smirks.
Her husband was next.
Vivenne leaned forward in her seat, watching the scene below with far more interest than the previous bout. The girl was large, sturdy. She’d heard stories of her from Wyldon and others: battles with spidrens and centaurs, her ability to keep her cool amidst chaos – but no one mentioned that she was so solidly built, or that she, like Wyldon, preferred to be alone before a joust.
They were mirrors of each other, in fact, calmly waiting for their match to begin. Wyldon wouldn’t be wasting the gods’ time with a prayer over a tournament; maybe the girl was. If she knows anything about how Wyl tilts, she should, Vivenne thought. Visors covered their faces, but Vivenne imagined what the girl would look like: her face would be stern, like Wyldon’s – she wouldn’t smile in nervous anticipation, like most silly young knights. Her eyes would be locked ahead of her, as if staring across an ocean, unfocused and focused at the same time.
She tried to recall what Ilane of Mindelan had said about her youngest daughter when she first showed interest in page training. Her friend had been against it from the start, but her awareness of Keladry’s calm demeanor and insistence upon justice helped convince her that she was suited to a life of duty to the crown in any form – it may as well be the form the chit wanted. Vivenne had read the letter many times before thinking to discuss it with her husband, amused at how much this girl sounded like a young Wyldon.
“Mithros guide her,” Vivenne murmured under her breath.
“She’ll need it,” Dermid said with a laugh.
She said nothing. The field monitors let the joust begin, and Vivenne studied it carefully. There were certain things she looked for – the girl’s grip on her lance, her posture in the saddle, how she controlled her mount. She went down the checklist in her mind, making cool observations.
It was over more quickly than the last, with the young squire on the muddy ground; she shook out her lance hand before speaking to Wyldon. Their conversation was brief, and Vivenne could tell by his demeanor that he was instructing her. The fans’ reactions were mixed – the girl was popular with this crowd, but Wyldon was well known amongst those who loved a joust.
“That should teach her,” one woman said coldly.
“Teach her that my husband is the best tilter in Tortall?” Vivenne asked mildly. “I’m sure the girl already knows that.”
“And maybe she’ll give up this madness of trying to become a knight,” Elasabenne said snidely.
Vivenne turned to her sister-in-law and smiled – the frosty smile she learned from years with Wyldon. “I think any girl who could remain on the saddle for two passes with him deserves accolades. Let the Chamber of the Ordeal determine if she’s worthy or not.” Very carefully, so as not to lose her balance, she stood and slid past nobles who were looking at her with surprise and disappointment. “If Wyldon can change his mind about something,” she added, upon reaching the stairs, “I think we all can consider it.”
She turned on her heel and climbed down the stairs, making her way to the stables. Wyldon would insist upon taking care of Heart himself, and he would be interested in the observations she had made from the stands. She went over the checklist in her mind again: grip, posture, horsemanship – all the things Wyldon had asked her to look out for. Certainly he would be pleased with the girl’s development, though he’d told Vivenne the night before that he would’ve never let a squire enter the lists until their third year. Getting her husband to admit that Lord Raoul was right might be harder even than talking him into suggesting a probationary period rather than turning the girl away or resigning.
Rating: G
Word Count: 1360
Summary Vivenne attends the Fief Blythden tournament, sitting with conservatives in the stands.
Notes: Takes places during Squire (ahh, my OTP feels so comfy.)
“I haven’t seen you at one of these events in years,” Lord Dermid said, taking Vivenne’s hand and helping her climb the shaky wooden steps. “I thought you didn’t like watching your husband joust.”
“When I was eighteen, perhaps, and didn’t know how unlikely it would be to see him skewered on a lance,” she replied, her voice – as always – calm and neutral. “And by the time I was thirty I grew bored with it,” she added. Though I continued to watch for years. It was the same each time; the only variable seemed to be how far Wyldon’s opponent flew from the saddle, or what degree of anger would come with the inevitable shake of hands after the bout.
“This should be an interesting one, at least,” Dermid said with the smallest smirk.
“Of course it will.” That’s why I came to see it, she refrained from stating. She had no interest in small talk, especially with Elasabenne’s husband. He was a man who did not value silence the way she did.
He led her to a reserved place in the stands, amidst his and Wyldon’s friends. Vivenne sighed as she sat, nodding at the lords and ladies she was acquainted with. More small talk – whispers and laughs from people she had not seen in months, if not years. Some of the men teased that she had become a recluse, to which she calmly replied that she was seeing to the education of her daughters.
“I never understood why you didn’t send them to the City of the Gods,” Elasabenne said, in her aloof, judgmental manner.
“Because I’m a selfish woman, and wanted my girls with me before they went off to their husbands’ homes,” Vivenne replied, nonplussed. It was no use telling the younger woman the truth; she would find fault in any answer – especially if the answer criticized her own decisions. Because I prefer knowing my daughters rather than sending them off to be raised by someone who doesn’t share my values. Because I don’t want them turning into monsters like your son.
“Wyldon’s tilting against the Mindelan girl.”
“Yes. That’s why I’m here.”
“Do you think he’ll throw her from the saddle?”
“I don’t think it will reflect so poorly on her if he does. That makes her a knight as much as any Ordeal could.” Vivenne’s voice was low, and she could hear the others whispering to their friends in shock, repeating her – blasphemous? – words. “What knight among us hasn’t been knocked to the ground by Wyl’s lance?” she asked, a bit louder.
That comment was met with chortles. Let them laugh at the truth, if it makes them feel better.
Below them, the next pair of knights were preparing for their run. Squires and servants rushed to help them, looking frenzied, worried and excited at the prospect of the clash of wood and metal. Jousting, to her, was a cacophony of barely-controlled energy. The sounds of breaking lances, hoof-beats pounding and metal scraping against metal made her think of the battles she couldn’t see – the tumult of war, the unchoreographed violence that carried none of the caution or precision that these tournaments offered. The squires looked upon their knights with a pride and fervor in their eyes that she recognized from her twenty-five years with her husband. Their anticipation transferred to the mounts they stood near, and the horses became more skittish than was good for them.
When the field monitors hailed the beginning of the challenge, Vivenne winced. She may not have trained to joust herself, but she had watched enough to be a judge, and she could tell that these middle-aged knights were sloppy. There was no excuse for such lack of skill.
“Horrible,” she murmured after the first pass.
“Only because you compare everything to Wyl,” Elasabenne said, her voice bordering on the waspish.
“Only because neither ride as well as a knight ought to.” A second pass confirmed her statement, though Elasabenne refused to agree.
Thankfully the third attempt was improved, and the win was granted to a knight from a newer noble family. That brought about new muttered phrases from people whose breeding would’ve suggested better of them. Convent educations, you know, Vivenne thought with the slightest of smirks.
Her husband was next.
Vivenne leaned forward in her seat, watching the scene below with far more interest than the previous bout. The girl was large, sturdy. She’d heard stories of her from Wyldon and others: battles with spidrens and centaurs, her ability to keep her cool amidst chaos – but no one mentioned that she was so solidly built, or that she, like Wyldon, preferred to be alone before a joust.
They were mirrors of each other, in fact, calmly waiting for their match to begin. Wyldon wouldn’t be wasting the gods’ time with a prayer over a tournament; maybe the girl was. If she knows anything about how Wyl tilts, she should, Vivenne thought. Visors covered their faces, but Vivenne imagined what the girl would look like: her face would be stern, like Wyldon’s – she wouldn’t smile in nervous anticipation, like most silly young knights. Her eyes would be locked ahead of her, as if staring across an ocean, unfocused and focused at the same time.
She tried to recall what Ilane of Mindelan had said about her youngest daughter when she first showed interest in page training. Her friend had been against it from the start, but her awareness of Keladry’s calm demeanor and insistence upon justice helped convince her that she was suited to a life of duty to the crown in any form – it may as well be the form the chit wanted. Vivenne had read the letter many times before thinking to discuss it with her husband, amused at how much this girl sounded like a young Wyldon.
“Mithros guide her,” Vivenne murmured under her breath.
“She’ll need it,” Dermid said with a laugh.
She said nothing. The field monitors let the joust begin, and Vivenne studied it carefully. There were certain things she looked for – the girl’s grip on her lance, her posture in the saddle, how she controlled her mount. She went down the checklist in her mind, making cool observations.
It was over more quickly than the last, with the young squire on the muddy ground; she shook out her lance hand before speaking to Wyldon. Their conversation was brief, and Vivenne could tell by his demeanor that he was instructing her. The fans’ reactions were mixed – the girl was popular with this crowd, but Wyldon was well known amongst those who loved a joust.
“That should teach her,” one woman said coldly.
“Teach her that my husband is the best tilter in Tortall?” Vivenne asked mildly. “I’m sure the girl already knows that.”
“And maybe she’ll give up this madness of trying to become a knight,” Elasabenne said snidely.
Vivenne turned to her sister-in-law and smiled – the frosty smile she learned from years with Wyldon. “I think any girl who could remain on the saddle for two passes with him deserves accolades. Let the Chamber of the Ordeal determine if she’s worthy or not.” Very carefully, so as not to lose her balance, she stood and slid past nobles who were looking at her with surprise and disappointment. “If Wyldon can change his mind about something,” she added, upon reaching the stairs, “I think we all can consider it.”
She turned on her heel and climbed down the stairs, making her way to the stables. Wyldon would insist upon taking care of Heart himself, and he would be interested in the observations she had made from the stands. She went over the checklist in her mind again: grip, posture, horsemanship – all the things Wyldon had asked her to look out for. Certainly he would be pleased with the girl’s development, though he’d told Vivenne the night before that he would’ve never let a squire enter the lists until their third year. Getting her husband to admit that Lord Raoul was right might be harder even than talking him into suggesting a probationary period rather than turning the girl away or resigning.
*squees* This is a fabulous fic though, I adore Vivenne's interaction with Elasabenne, and that Vivenne wants to keep her girls with her. 
