Post by wordy on Oct 4, 2012 18:51:53 GMT 10
Title: Sick At Heart
Rating: G
Word Count: 603
Summary: A slow beginning.
He padded down the corridor in stockinged feet. The thick rug muffled the sound of his steps, for which he was grateful: he had learned quickly that the servants were light sleepers, and a little too eager to please.
The night hours had always been his time for thinking, even since before.
And that was why he had now taken to roaming the corridors. Once, he would have stayed in bed, held himself still and listened to the nocturnal breathings of the house around him, let his thoughts roam far beyond the walls that closed him in, and out to the sleeping countryside—
The memory made his heart shudder. For a moment, in the unlit corridor, he stopped and closed his eyes, reminded himself to breathe. The beat of life in his chest was loud and insistent. When he had calmed, he started down the corridor once more.
Only to stop again. He found himself frowning in the dark. Ahead, in the hazy black-grey of the rug and the walls and the side-tables and tapestries, a muffled brightness shone through. Like a candle held behind a piece of woven fabric.
Narrowing his eyes and squinting through the darkness, he realised that the light was not imagined. He crept forwards across the rug, feet soft and nimble.
Lamplight. The door around the corner was ajar, a yellow shaft spilling from it. He inched forward slowly, only to stumble and touch the door with an outflung hand: the door creaked achingly loud on its hinges. He winced, breath held tight.
“You may as well come in,” came a familiar voice from inside the room.
Letting out a huff of air, he slipped inside, flattening down his slept-on hair with one hand.
The Duchess looked up at him, a smile warming her pale face. In the unflattering lamplight and with her curls tucked up under a nightcap, she looked no less stately than if she was dressed in one of her usual gowns; tucked down the side of her armchair was a piece of cloth, which had no doubt been hastily thrust away as soon as she had heard him.
There was an unhappy mixture of gratitude and irritation swarming about in his stomach, even as she raised a hand and motioned him to sit.
“Vedris,” she said. “I know how difficult this must be for you.”
There was too much understanding in her face, too much patience, too much everything. He shrugged a shoulder, and set his gaze on the pattern of her brocade dressing gown. Unlike the citadel servants, who were unfailingly eager and constant in their attentions, the Duchess kept her distance. He knew it was deliberate, which somehow made the situation worse; by purposely giving him a sense of freedom and privacy and space, he felt even more trapped.
The way she looked at him now, considering what to say and what to hold back, it—it made his throat itch and his eyes prickle hotly. He was ungrateful, and he was a burden. He didn’t know how to be.
Instead of speaking, she smiled again, and shook her head to herself, or so it seemed to him. He watched as she took up her bit of cloth and needle, and set quietly to work.
The silence was heavy, but after a few seconds he found that he could relax into it. Drawing up his legs and curling his arms about them, he set his chin on his knees. The dawn, still some few hours away, dragged at his eyelids until he found his head nodding sleepily, and the lamplight faded away.
Rating: G
Word Count: 603
Summary: A slow beginning.
He padded down the corridor in stockinged feet. The thick rug muffled the sound of his steps, for which he was grateful: he had learned quickly that the servants were light sleepers, and a little too eager to please.
The night hours had always been his time for thinking, even since before.
And that was why he had now taken to roaming the corridors. Once, he would have stayed in bed, held himself still and listened to the nocturnal breathings of the house around him, let his thoughts roam far beyond the walls that closed him in, and out to the sleeping countryside—
The memory made his heart shudder. For a moment, in the unlit corridor, he stopped and closed his eyes, reminded himself to breathe. The beat of life in his chest was loud and insistent. When he had calmed, he started down the corridor once more.
Only to stop again. He found himself frowning in the dark. Ahead, in the hazy black-grey of the rug and the walls and the side-tables and tapestries, a muffled brightness shone through. Like a candle held behind a piece of woven fabric.
Narrowing his eyes and squinting through the darkness, he realised that the light was not imagined. He crept forwards across the rug, feet soft and nimble.
Lamplight. The door around the corner was ajar, a yellow shaft spilling from it. He inched forward slowly, only to stumble and touch the door with an outflung hand: the door creaked achingly loud on its hinges. He winced, breath held tight.
“You may as well come in,” came a familiar voice from inside the room.
Letting out a huff of air, he slipped inside, flattening down his slept-on hair with one hand.
The Duchess looked up at him, a smile warming her pale face. In the unflattering lamplight and with her curls tucked up under a nightcap, she looked no less stately than if she was dressed in one of her usual gowns; tucked down the side of her armchair was a piece of cloth, which had no doubt been hastily thrust away as soon as she had heard him.
There was an unhappy mixture of gratitude and irritation swarming about in his stomach, even as she raised a hand and motioned him to sit.
“Vedris,” she said. “I know how difficult this must be for you.”
There was too much understanding in her face, too much patience, too much everything. He shrugged a shoulder, and set his gaze on the pattern of her brocade dressing gown. Unlike the citadel servants, who were unfailingly eager and constant in their attentions, the Duchess kept her distance. He knew it was deliberate, which somehow made the situation worse; by purposely giving him a sense of freedom and privacy and space, he felt even more trapped.
The way she looked at him now, considering what to say and what to hold back, it—it made his throat itch and his eyes prickle hotly. He was ungrateful, and he was a burden. He didn’t know how to be.
Instead of speaking, she smiled again, and shook her head to herself, or so it seemed to him. He watched as she took up her bit of cloth and needle, and set quietly to work.
The silence was heavy, but after a few seconds he found that he could relax into it. Drawing up his legs and curling his arms about them, he set his chin on his knees. The dawn, still some few hours away, dragged at his eyelids until he found his head nodding sleepily, and the lamplight faded away.