Post by figgsthepirate on Aug 30, 2011 5:19:55 GMT 10
Title: As Natural as Breathing
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,003
Card: Summer
Bingo: sun + discussions + summer + friends + riding
Summary: After his father’s untimely death, Wyldon finds strength and wisdom from his stable-hand friend.
Wyldon couldn’t remember why he’d decided to go riding. It hadn’t been hot earlier in the morning, when he’d rolled out of bed after yet another sleepless night. At least he didn’t think so. Everything was muddled, like a long line of arithmetic that had slid off its parchment onto the desk in a meaningless pile. Looking ahead through the trees, he could see the back of the palace, flanked by stables and practice yards and barracks. Cursing the heat under his breath, he scrubbed his damp hair with his sleeve and urged Starfire out of the relative cover of the Royal Forest’s spreading eaves. It wasn’t fair to ask her to trot in this unbearable heat, but the thirst for a brush of air against his face was so strong it hurt.
The sun scalded him, trickles of sweat sliding down his back like rivulets of snowmelt. It was like a giant stove had been placed on the saddle behind him, breathing its inner fire directly onto his skin. Not a breath of wind stirred as he lifted an arm and wiped his slick forehead, and he huddled miserably in the saddle until the shadow of the stables finally fell across his face. With stiff motions – he’d been riding for almost four hours straight – he dismounted and led Starfire into the stifling dimness.
“He’s dead, you know,” he murmured aloud, talking to his mare as he untacked her. His fingers moved numbly, mechanically over the buckles, stripping off cinch, saddle, blanket, bridle. “He’s dead, and I’ll be the Lord when I turn eighteen.”
It was why he was here, at the palace, lying awake at nights and riding endlessly during the day. Duke Gareth had summoned him to his office two days before he was to take the pages on their annual summer camping trip.
“Page Wyldon.” The even, slightly nasally voice was unusually tender. “I’ve received a letter from your mother.” He extended the missive, and Wyldon took it in trembling hands. He knew what was coming. They’d all known, since last fall when he left for page training. The healers called it cancer, but Wyldon knew it was just another name for the Black God.
“You’ll be excused from your summer duties,” the Duke said kindly. The condolences hiding behind his words felt wooden in Wyldon’s chest. “You are welcome to go home, or live here for the summer as you choose.”
“Your Grace.” Wyldon bowed, and escaped, choking back emotion. A knight did not cry.
Wyldon wished he’d been allowed to go with Duke Gareth and the others. It would have given him something to do, at least, something to take his mind off the ache that gnawed inside him. It was bad enough that he couldn’t go home. The funeral had been conducted quickly, and being back at the manor house even for a day had been unbearable. His mother, stiff-mouthed and empty-eyed, his sister endlessly weeping, the servants grim and silent – it was a mourning house, and his father seemed to haunt the old, musty halls with his fading memory. Here at the palace, at least, he had a few friends, he had his horse; and he could pretend, at least for a little while, that it had never happened, that his father was alive and well, still managing the fief from his circular office that faced south toward the rolling hill-country.
Wyldon turned to fetch a curry-comb from the bucket hanging on the stall, and jerked his hand away reflexively. Someone else was holding it out to him. Slowly, feeling sullen, he looked up at the other boy leaning over the partition.
“I heard,” the boy said, his sandpaper-and-straw voice an amalgam of adolescence and adulthood.
“I’m sure you did,” Wyldon snapped, snatching the curry-comb and stumping around to the other side of the horse. “So what?”
The other boy rolled his eyes, somehow managing to look superior in spite of the unruly thatch of straw-like hair and the twig of hay dangling from his lips. “You’ve been ridin’ since five bells, Wyl-boy. I may be common, but I ain’t stupid.”
He ground his teeth together, keeping his head low as he moved the comb in vicious, tight circles over Starfire’s soaked hide. The mare leaned into his efforts, enjoying the extra attention. “It’s none of your business, Stefan, so butt out.”
Stefan waited patiently until his friend had worked his way around to Starfire’s near side; then, with the languid ease of a barn cat, he hopped over the partition and grabbed Wyldon by the shoulders. “You’re a damn fool, Wyldon of Cavall,” he informed the younger boy calmly in his city drawl. “You cain’t be an unfeelin’ lump of wood forever.”
Wyldon stood stiffly, his plain face mulish as he stared into the taller boy’s protuberant blue eyes. “Knight’s don’t cry,” he told Stefan, voice shaking slightly.
Stefan cracked a grin, though the stalk of wheat never fell from his mouth. “Shore they do, lad. I seen it, alla time. His Grace done cried, when his horse broke its legs and had to be put down. M’lord of Haryse, too, when ’is mare died givin’ birth two years gone, and I even saw t’ King cry when Queen Lianne lost ’er bairn.” He poked Wyldon in his narrow chest, the smile falling away. “All men cry, Wyl-boy, if they ain’t too tom-fool stubborn to admit they grieve. ’S natural as breathin’.”
Stefan just barely kept from sighing with relief when Wyldon’s head fell forward and his shoulders began to shake. His young friend was stubborn and prideful, even more than some nobles he’d known in his fourteen years, but the young hostler knew that it was all a show. Wyldon’s emotions ran deep, and suppressing them wasn’t healthy. So while quiet sobs wracked the page’s body, Stefan wrapped his arms around Wyldon’s shoulders and held him tightly in the privacy of the stall, while outside the sun blazed down unforgiving and unrelenting on the hard-packed earth.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,003
Card: Summer
Bingo: sun + discussions + summer + friends + riding
Summary: After his father’s untimely death, Wyldon finds strength and wisdom from his stable-hand friend.
Wyldon couldn’t remember why he’d decided to go riding. It hadn’t been hot earlier in the morning, when he’d rolled out of bed after yet another sleepless night. At least he didn’t think so. Everything was muddled, like a long line of arithmetic that had slid off its parchment onto the desk in a meaningless pile. Looking ahead through the trees, he could see the back of the palace, flanked by stables and practice yards and barracks. Cursing the heat under his breath, he scrubbed his damp hair with his sleeve and urged Starfire out of the relative cover of the Royal Forest’s spreading eaves. It wasn’t fair to ask her to trot in this unbearable heat, but the thirst for a brush of air against his face was so strong it hurt.
The sun scalded him, trickles of sweat sliding down his back like rivulets of snowmelt. It was like a giant stove had been placed on the saddle behind him, breathing its inner fire directly onto his skin. Not a breath of wind stirred as he lifted an arm and wiped his slick forehead, and he huddled miserably in the saddle until the shadow of the stables finally fell across his face. With stiff motions – he’d been riding for almost four hours straight – he dismounted and led Starfire into the stifling dimness.
“He’s dead, you know,” he murmured aloud, talking to his mare as he untacked her. His fingers moved numbly, mechanically over the buckles, stripping off cinch, saddle, blanket, bridle. “He’s dead, and I’ll be the Lord when I turn eighteen.”
It was why he was here, at the palace, lying awake at nights and riding endlessly during the day. Duke Gareth had summoned him to his office two days before he was to take the pages on their annual summer camping trip.
“Page Wyldon.” The even, slightly nasally voice was unusually tender. “I’ve received a letter from your mother.” He extended the missive, and Wyldon took it in trembling hands. He knew what was coming. They’d all known, since last fall when he left for page training. The healers called it cancer, but Wyldon knew it was just another name for the Black God.
“You’ll be excused from your summer duties,” the Duke said kindly. The condolences hiding behind his words felt wooden in Wyldon’s chest. “You are welcome to go home, or live here for the summer as you choose.”
“Your Grace.” Wyldon bowed, and escaped, choking back emotion. A knight did not cry.
Wyldon wished he’d been allowed to go with Duke Gareth and the others. It would have given him something to do, at least, something to take his mind off the ache that gnawed inside him. It was bad enough that he couldn’t go home. The funeral had been conducted quickly, and being back at the manor house even for a day had been unbearable. His mother, stiff-mouthed and empty-eyed, his sister endlessly weeping, the servants grim and silent – it was a mourning house, and his father seemed to haunt the old, musty halls with his fading memory. Here at the palace, at least, he had a few friends, he had his horse; and he could pretend, at least for a little while, that it had never happened, that his father was alive and well, still managing the fief from his circular office that faced south toward the rolling hill-country.
Wyldon turned to fetch a curry-comb from the bucket hanging on the stall, and jerked his hand away reflexively. Someone else was holding it out to him. Slowly, feeling sullen, he looked up at the other boy leaning over the partition.
“I heard,” the boy said, his sandpaper-and-straw voice an amalgam of adolescence and adulthood.
“I’m sure you did,” Wyldon snapped, snatching the curry-comb and stumping around to the other side of the horse. “So what?”
The other boy rolled his eyes, somehow managing to look superior in spite of the unruly thatch of straw-like hair and the twig of hay dangling from his lips. “You’ve been ridin’ since five bells, Wyl-boy. I may be common, but I ain’t stupid.”
He ground his teeth together, keeping his head low as he moved the comb in vicious, tight circles over Starfire’s soaked hide. The mare leaned into his efforts, enjoying the extra attention. “It’s none of your business, Stefan, so butt out.”
Stefan waited patiently until his friend had worked his way around to Starfire’s near side; then, with the languid ease of a barn cat, he hopped over the partition and grabbed Wyldon by the shoulders. “You’re a damn fool, Wyldon of Cavall,” he informed the younger boy calmly in his city drawl. “You cain’t be an unfeelin’ lump of wood forever.”
Wyldon stood stiffly, his plain face mulish as he stared into the taller boy’s protuberant blue eyes. “Knight’s don’t cry,” he told Stefan, voice shaking slightly.
Stefan cracked a grin, though the stalk of wheat never fell from his mouth. “Shore they do, lad. I seen it, alla time. His Grace done cried, when his horse broke its legs and had to be put down. M’lord of Haryse, too, when ’is mare died givin’ birth two years gone, and I even saw t’ King cry when Queen Lianne lost ’er bairn.” He poked Wyldon in his narrow chest, the smile falling away. “All men cry, Wyl-boy, if they ain’t too tom-fool stubborn to admit they grieve. ’S natural as breathin’.”
Stefan just barely kept from sighing with relief when Wyldon’s head fell forward and his shoulders began to shake. His young friend was stubborn and prideful, even more than some nobles he’d known in his fourteen years, but the young hostler knew that it was all a show. Wyldon’s emotions ran deep, and suppressing them wasn’t healthy. So while quiet sobs wracked the page’s body, Stefan wrapped his arms around Wyldon’s shoulders and held him tightly in the privacy of the stall, while outside the sun blazed down unforgiving and unrelenting on the hard-packed earth.