Post by indifferentred on Jun 16, 2012 6:37:09 GMT 10
Series: Quiet Affections
Title: The Fruitfulness of Things
Rating: G
Event: Light-hearted Long Jump
Words: 785
Summary: Vivenne conveys some news to her husband...
Cavall in the autumn is beautiful. The trees in the orchard have taken on a mantle of warm colours - russets and golds and tantalising orange - and the sun is still just warm enough to hold off the wearing of cloaks. Vivenne, too, is beautiful; but her beauty is constant and familiar - the woman he married seven years ago has not changed, not in essentials. Her hair is still the same rich brown, heavy and just thick enough for a man to twine his fingers in; her eyes still glow with the same steady love and trust she calmed him with on their wedding day. And Mithros, Mynoss and Shakith, how he loves her.
And yet… He draws closer to her as they walk between the trees, the only sound the gentle swishing of Vivenne’s skirt on the ground. “You’ve been very quiet recently,” he murmurs. “I know Elasabenne isn’t the easiest of people to live with - “
She looks up at him, almost startled, and then relaxes. “Your sister is a teenage girl, Wyl,” she points out wryly. “None of them are easy to live with. When your aunt takes her to Corus, she’ll learn to be a little less… prickly.”
He chuckles. “Well, perhaps you’re right. I love Elasa dearly, but any man who marries her will have to be very brave indeed.”
There is a pause, as Vivenne tucks her arm into his with a smile, and adjusts the fold of his shirt sleeve. Once, he might have complained about her absent-minded rearranging of his person and life, but now he just accepts it as one of the hazards of marriage, and can even look upon it with fondness. “So,” he asks at last, “if it isn’t Elasa sniping at you, why have you been so quiet?”
She sighs, and looks down, avoiding his questing eyes. “I didn’t want to tell you until we’d got her off to Corus.”
His hand clenches anxiously around her arm and he swears his heart skips a beat. “Tell me what? Vivenne, you’re worrying me.”
She closes her eyes, facial muscles working furiously. “I’m pregnant.” Wyldon’s loud exhalation of breath startles her somewhat and she finally turns to face him. Her husband is slack-jawed and wide-eyed. He releases her arm and sinks down onto a thankfully-nearby bench. “Pregnant?” he breathes at last. “Again?”
She laughs, half-astonished, half-relieved. “It can happen more than once, you know!” she teases.
He rubs a hand over his eyes. “Yes, but it’s been nearly four years since Eiralys and I did wonder if you were… well, doing anything to, you know…” Wyl trails off, red-faced and his eyes implore her to understand. She sits down next to him, marvelling that she could have married a man at once so stern in public and so loving in private. “Without talking to you first? Darling, I love you, but you are very occasionally rather stupid.”
“Eiralys was hard on you,” he reminds her. An understatement. Twenty seven hours in labour, a breech birth, endless panicked screaming… He will never forget how pale and far away she looked when he first entered their rooms afterwards. “I wouldn’t have blamed you, you know,” he adds, suddenly fierce.
“I know,” she replies comfortably and rests her head on his shoulder. “Are you pleased?”
“Very.” Hesitantly he rests a gentle hand on her still flat stomach. “How far along are you?”
“Danah says four months,” she replies absently, naming the village midwife. “I should start to show soon.”
“Are you pleased, Vivenne?” he asks quietly, a sudden thought striking him. Goddess forbid that she does not want this child…
“Yes, of course.” She cranes her neck around to look at him, and her eyes are solemn when she murmurs shyly, “Perhaps it will be a boy this time.” She loves their daughter with all her heart, they both do, but for all her boldness and forward-thinking, he senses that their lack of a son is a daily, thorny, reminder that Elasabenne’s muttered aspersions are not solely the product of a vicious (and somewhat jealous) adolescent mind. Wyldon holds her closer. “It will be as the gods wish it, Vivenne, and neither you nor I have any power over that.”
She smiles, but her chin has set mulishly. Well, if there were any mortal who could command the gods, it would be my wife, Wyldon admits to himself.
He turns his head slightly so that his lips are pressed against her hair, and she feels his whisper vibrating warmly through her bones. “I love you, Vivenne of Cavall, and whether we have forty sons or none at all, that will never change.”
Title: The Fruitfulness of Things
Rating: G
Event: Light-hearted Long Jump
Words: 785
Summary: Vivenne conveys some news to her husband...
Cavall in the autumn is beautiful. The trees in the orchard have taken on a mantle of warm colours - russets and golds and tantalising orange - and the sun is still just warm enough to hold off the wearing of cloaks. Vivenne, too, is beautiful; but her beauty is constant and familiar - the woman he married seven years ago has not changed, not in essentials. Her hair is still the same rich brown, heavy and just thick enough for a man to twine his fingers in; her eyes still glow with the same steady love and trust she calmed him with on their wedding day. And Mithros, Mynoss and Shakith, how he loves her.
And yet… He draws closer to her as they walk between the trees, the only sound the gentle swishing of Vivenne’s skirt on the ground. “You’ve been very quiet recently,” he murmurs. “I know Elasabenne isn’t the easiest of people to live with - “
She looks up at him, almost startled, and then relaxes. “Your sister is a teenage girl, Wyl,” she points out wryly. “None of them are easy to live with. When your aunt takes her to Corus, she’ll learn to be a little less… prickly.”
He chuckles. “Well, perhaps you’re right. I love Elasa dearly, but any man who marries her will have to be very brave indeed.”
There is a pause, as Vivenne tucks her arm into his with a smile, and adjusts the fold of his shirt sleeve. Once, he might have complained about her absent-minded rearranging of his person and life, but now he just accepts it as one of the hazards of marriage, and can even look upon it with fondness. “So,” he asks at last, “if it isn’t Elasa sniping at you, why have you been so quiet?”
She sighs, and looks down, avoiding his questing eyes. “I didn’t want to tell you until we’d got her off to Corus.”
His hand clenches anxiously around her arm and he swears his heart skips a beat. “Tell me what? Vivenne, you’re worrying me.”
She closes her eyes, facial muscles working furiously. “I’m pregnant.” Wyldon’s loud exhalation of breath startles her somewhat and she finally turns to face him. Her husband is slack-jawed and wide-eyed. He releases her arm and sinks down onto a thankfully-nearby bench. “Pregnant?” he breathes at last. “Again?”
She laughs, half-astonished, half-relieved. “It can happen more than once, you know!” she teases.
He rubs a hand over his eyes. “Yes, but it’s been nearly four years since Eiralys and I did wonder if you were… well, doing anything to, you know…” Wyl trails off, red-faced and his eyes implore her to understand. She sits down next to him, marvelling that she could have married a man at once so stern in public and so loving in private. “Without talking to you first? Darling, I love you, but you are very occasionally rather stupid.”
“Eiralys was hard on you,” he reminds her. An understatement. Twenty seven hours in labour, a breech birth, endless panicked screaming… He will never forget how pale and far away she looked when he first entered their rooms afterwards. “I wouldn’t have blamed you, you know,” he adds, suddenly fierce.
“I know,” she replies comfortably and rests her head on his shoulder. “Are you pleased?”
“Very.” Hesitantly he rests a gentle hand on her still flat stomach. “How far along are you?”
“Danah says four months,” she replies absently, naming the village midwife. “I should start to show soon.”
“Are you pleased, Vivenne?” he asks quietly, a sudden thought striking him. Goddess forbid that she does not want this child…
“Yes, of course.” She cranes her neck around to look at him, and her eyes are solemn when she murmurs shyly, “Perhaps it will be a boy this time.” She loves their daughter with all her heart, they both do, but for all her boldness and forward-thinking, he senses that their lack of a son is a daily, thorny, reminder that Elasabenne’s muttered aspersions are not solely the product of a vicious (and somewhat jealous) adolescent mind. Wyldon holds her closer. “It will be as the gods wish it, Vivenne, and neither you nor I have any power over that.”
She smiles, but her chin has set mulishly. Well, if there were any mortal who could command the gods, it would be my wife, Wyldon admits to himself.
He turns his head slightly so that his lips are pressed against her hair, and she feels his whisper vibrating warmly through her bones. “I love you, Vivenne of Cavall, and whether we have forty sons or none at all, that will never change.”