Post by wordy on Aug 10, 2012 11:29:21 GMT 10
Title: You and I
Rating: G
Team: PotS/DL
Prompt: mistaken relationships
Word count: 836
Summary: Another year, another season. He feels, for the first time, that he is getting old.
Ha Minch brings the pages when the trees around the lake are beginning to bud. Douglass watches them ride in, and cannot help but feel the weight of the castle, cold and heavy above him. He still carries his sword, though it has been scores of years since he has had a need to use it.
Another year, another season. He feels, for the first time, that he is getting old.
Maura is there to welcome her guests, and he stands at her shoulder, listening distractedly to the pleasantries. Paidrag ha Minch is quite the reverse of Cavall, but his eyes are sharp and all the boys remain attentive and well-behaved under his wing.
Of the pages, one stands out: bright red hair and eyes like his father. He looks so like Alan—Alanna—yet not, and the effect is slightly disturbing. Douglass finds that he cannot drag his gaze away from the lad.
“You were quiet today,” Maura remarks, later that night. The training master and his charges have been shown their quarters and the room is still, utterly calm. Her hair falls about her face and shoulders, dark and shining, the brilliant red of her dressing gown’s collar peeking through. “I’d have thought the two of you would have so much to talk about. Things have changed in Corus.”
Douglass lets his head sink back against the headrest of his armchair. “Perhaps they’ve changed too much. Ha Minch knows what he’s about, or so it seems, and all the people I knew once have lives of their own.”
There is a pause, and though he doesn’t look at her, he can sense that Maura wants to say something to that, but chooses to keep her silence instead.
When they are not being given lessons on the castle, the pages are left to explore Dunlath, either on foot or on horseback. They break away in packs, the urgency of sudden freedom going straight to their heads. Douglass shakes his own head and leaves them to it; he plans to spend the day quietly, while he has the chance.
The day seems to grow sluggish around midday. Some of the pages have returned, others remain away; the lakeside is dotted with young boys, and in his sweep of the view Douglass catches a glimpse of a familiar green. He wonders who she is with. There are bundles upon bundles of letters in her study, he knows, from all her correspondences in Corus and abroad. That she might know one of the pages already is likely.
After that, his quiet day seems too quiet. He wanders the halls until ha Minch returns, and his mind is filled again.
Maura doesn’t mention his quietness again, but there is hardly a need, since she is happy to fill the silence herself with a long explanation of her day, and how young and knobby-kneed the pages seem.
“They seem to get younger every year,” she tells him.
“Or perhaps you are getting older.”
She looks at him, somehow communicating how amused and not-amused she is at once.
“The Trebond lad,” Douglass says, before he can keep the words in. “He’s older than the others.”
Maura darts a quick look at him before returning her gaze to the embroidery in her lap. Embroidery or sewing or some other womanly hobby: Douglass was never taught about such things. There’s no sign that his comment affected her, but she was never one for blushing. Voice light, she answers, “Pirate’s Swoop, I think you mean. And yes, he started later than most.”
Douglass nods to himself. The Swoop; of course. “About your age, then.”
“About that. Though I’m four, five years older.” She raises an eyebrow, as if daring him to comment on that. He laughs shortly.
She smiles at him and carries on with her recount of the day’s events.
The pages leave a few days later, riding out in straight columns, horses’ tails swishing merrily as they depart.
The two of them stand under the archway to the stables. There’s a tug in Douglass’s chest, watching them leave; his own time in page-training at the palace is nothing more than a bright memory. He breathes out heavily and makes to turn back to the castle, but Maura’s hand tucks itself in the crook of his elbow.
Her brown eyes are unusually solemn, and it’s surprising to find that she is almost a height with him. “You could have had a son of your own by now. A page,” she says, looking up at him. “A family of your own.”
The tug in his chest twists into something else. His mouth dry, he manages a smile of sorts. “What need for a son do I have, when I have you—”
“For a daughter?” She smiles at him, her small hand clenching tighter on his arm. “No. Never that.”
She leans her head against his shoulder, and after a moment he raises his own hand and presses it softly on top of hers.
Rating: G
Team: PotS/DL
Prompt: mistaken relationships
Word count: 836
Summary: Another year, another season. He feels, for the first time, that he is getting old.
Ha Minch brings the pages when the trees around the lake are beginning to bud. Douglass watches them ride in, and cannot help but feel the weight of the castle, cold and heavy above him. He still carries his sword, though it has been scores of years since he has had a need to use it.
Another year, another season. He feels, for the first time, that he is getting old.
Maura is there to welcome her guests, and he stands at her shoulder, listening distractedly to the pleasantries. Paidrag ha Minch is quite the reverse of Cavall, but his eyes are sharp and all the boys remain attentive and well-behaved under his wing.
Of the pages, one stands out: bright red hair and eyes like his father. He looks so like Alan—Alanna—yet not, and the effect is slightly disturbing. Douglass finds that he cannot drag his gaze away from the lad.
“You were quiet today,” Maura remarks, later that night. The training master and his charges have been shown their quarters and the room is still, utterly calm. Her hair falls about her face and shoulders, dark and shining, the brilliant red of her dressing gown’s collar peeking through. “I’d have thought the two of you would have so much to talk about. Things have changed in Corus.”
Douglass lets his head sink back against the headrest of his armchair. “Perhaps they’ve changed too much. Ha Minch knows what he’s about, or so it seems, and all the people I knew once have lives of their own.”
There is a pause, and though he doesn’t look at her, he can sense that Maura wants to say something to that, but chooses to keep her silence instead.
When they are not being given lessons on the castle, the pages are left to explore Dunlath, either on foot or on horseback. They break away in packs, the urgency of sudden freedom going straight to their heads. Douglass shakes his own head and leaves them to it; he plans to spend the day quietly, while he has the chance.
The day seems to grow sluggish around midday. Some of the pages have returned, others remain away; the lakeside is dotted with young boys, and in his sweep of the view Douglass catches a glimpse of a familiar green. He wonders who she is with. There are bundles upon bundles of letters in her study, he knows, from all her correspondences in Corus and abroad. That she might know one of the pages already is likely.
After that, his quiet day seems too quiet. He wanders the halls until ha Minch returns, and his mind is filled again.
Maura doesn’t mention his quietness again, but there is hardly a need, since she is happy to fill the silence herself with a long explanation of her day, and how young and knobby-kneed the pages seem.
“They seem to get younger every year,” she tells him.
“Or perhaps you are getting older.”
She looks at him, somehow communicating how amused and not-amused she is at once.
“The Trebond lad,” Douglass says, before he can keep the words in. “He’s older than the others.”
Maura darts a quick look at him before returning her gaze to the embroidery in her lap. Embroidery or sewing or some other womanly hobby: Douglass was never taught about such things. There’s no sign that his comment affected her, but she was never one for blushing. Voice light, she answers, “Pirate’s Swoop, I think you mean. And yes, he started later than most.”
Douglass nods to himself. The Swoop; of course. “About your age, then.”
“About that. Though I’m four, five years older.” She raises an eyebrow, as if daring him to comment on that. He laughs shortly.
She smiles at him and carries on with her recount of the day’s events.
The pages leave a few days later, riding out in straight columns, horses’ tails swishing merrily as they depart.
The two of them stand under the archway to the stables. There’s a tug in Douglass’s chest, watching them leave; his own time in page-training at the palace is nothing more than a bright memory. He breathes out heavily and makes to turn back to the castle, but Maura’s hand tucks itself in the crook of his elbow.
Her brown eyes are unusually solemn, and it’s surprising to find that she is almost a height with him. “You could have had a son of your own by now. A page,” she says, looking up at him. “A family of your own.”
The tug in his chest twists into something else. His mouth dry, he manages a smile of sorts. “What need for a son do I have, when I have you—”
“For a daughter?” She smiles at him, her small hand clenching tighter on his arm. “No. Never that.”
She leans her head against his shoulder, and after a moment he raises his own hand and presses it softly on top of hers.