For hawksandfeathers: Duke Hilam's Lover, PG-13
Feb 25, 2014 12:30:46 GMT 10
max and hawksandfeathers like this
Post by Elvensmith on Feb 25, 2014 12:30:46 GMT 10
Title: Duke Hilam’s Lover
Rating: PG-13
For: hawksandfeathers
Prompt: #4 Myles-centric fic!
Summary and Warnings: “What has you precious chivalry done for men like him?” Alexander of Tirragen wants to ask Myles about something he may have wanted to forget.
I hope you like this, although it came at the last minute. It was really fun exploring Myles and his past. xxx
“Before you hurry out of here, a gentle reminder that the thirty page reading from A Recent History of Tusaine is due for tomorrow. No cheating—I know where you live!” The classroom erupted in a mixture of grumbling, chuckling, and the movement of chairs as the students left to change for lunch. The day was warm and bright for mid-February, and Myles felt the urge to join his pupils for once.
“Sir Myles.”
He turned in surprise. Alexander of Tirragen still sat at his desk, fiddling with a pencil. He was a first year page that spent most of his time in the shadows behind the young Gareth of Naxen. Myles had always found him interesting—he was not the best writer in the class, but his ideas were challenging.
“Yes?” he asked, continuing with packing up his materials.
“I wanted to…” he paused. “To ask about Tusaine. About the Duke.”
“Duke Hilam.” The hair on the back of his neck prickled. His eyes flicked up to meet Alexander’s dark gaze. “What about him?”
“I heard something about him.” Alexander’s voice was suddenly cool as water. It tickled at the back of his thoughts, subtly, accidentally revelatory. It spoke to him of dusty evenings in Olau. Of playing war games in the ruins and his father’s hot whip thereafter. He glanced at the boy again—he saw in him some vague coruscation, some footprint of a faded cousin.
He cleared his throat. “Some rumor you’d like to confirm? I’m afraid I won’t be much help with that. You might do better consulting a palace maid.”
“My question isn’t about the story… or I guess it is.” He was stumbling over his words again. “I’d just heard about…” he caught himself growing nervous.
“Glass of wine?” If there was one thing Myles felt he had a responsibility toward, it was toward troubled students.
“I have classes, still,” Alexander replied roughly.
Myles felt criticized. “Well, if nothing else, please sit with me.” He pulled a chair out from behind the blackboard for the boy and heaved himself into his own armchair.
“Sir—“
“Myles.”
“Sir… I wanted to know about Duke Hilam’s lover.”
“Myles, I have something to tell you.”
“Joss?” he looked up from sharpening his sword. “You didn’t tell me you were coming to Olau! How are things in the Own? Still frolicking about in that white smock?”
“Still married to tactical maneuvers?” his cousin retorted.
Myles looked down at his work. There was something unsettling in his cousin's tone. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve something to tell you.”
They looked at each other for a long moment, noticing each other’s hardened gazes and new calluses, nicks and scars.
“I’ve fallen in love,” he took a steadying breath. It was the same breath he took before he took a killing shot. “With a man.”
Myles’ grip on his blade slipped. There was a sudden coldness in his stomach. “If you’re looking for room here for when you leave the Own, I’ve none. Perhaps the Players will take you.”
“Where’d you hear about that?”
Alexander met his gaze solidly but said nothing.
“I know very little.”
The boy shifted his arm.
“I was a different person then.”
“Sir Myles, your mother,” came the voice of his footman.
Quickly, he brushed crumbs under the carpet and hid wine and glasses behind a bust of his father. He picked up a quill and pulled out a scroll.
“It smells like disease in here,” his mother breathed.
“I’m very busy, mother.”
“With what? Ruining the fief?” A small intake of breath was her way of laughing.
He put down his quill and turned his chair to glare at his tall, graceful statue of a mother.
“Not that you could make it much worse. That puddle of a cousin you had was a spintry and has died for it. The duke in Tusaine, I should think. They’ve done some hackneyed job patching it up, but people talk.” If he hadn’t known her better, he would have thought her pale eyes were wet. Her frown deepened as though she’d tasted something sour. She nodded at the footman and he brought Myles a small letter as she picked up her skirts and turned to leave the room.
“Mother!” he called after her. “Mother—what?”
She paused at the door, her white fingers lingering on its frame. “Many a mother would slap a boy for such an rude tone,” she remarked. “I’m not sure I will forgive you for turning your back on him, however dirty a boy he was. For this, I must suffer—for although I never cared much for him, he was better than the incompetent turncoat you turned out to be. And only the Black God knows where your father is. I wish you to leave Olau.”
Myles felt as though his insides had been scraped clean. He struggled to grasp onto the moment. “I did as you would have wanted,” he begged. She closed the door gently.
“I want to know what your precious chivalry did for your cousin. Or what is does for men like him.”
To the associates of Joss of Farmer’s Grove,
We regret to inform you that the aforementioned soldier, an honorable member of the King’s Own, was shot by a stray arrow and passed away. His body was lost.
The Crown is deeply sorry for your loss.
“Precious little,” Myles chuckled. “Joss was a good man. He could have been a chivalrous man. No one would have bothered to know. But take comfort, lad… Tortall isn’t a quarter as bad when it comes to such things as Tusaine. And, I think, where chivalry fails, one may count on the enigmatic love of a mother.”
“Can one?” Alexander murmured. “It must be a weak code, if it can be so easily trumped by a mother’s love.”
“I wouldn’t deny it.”
“How do you care so little? Tusaine took your cousin like a pet and then killed him for the fun of it—isn’t that what it amounts to? And you let that happen. What kind of knight would let them get away with it?”
“One who must adhere to the exquisite code of politics. You should try it some time—it’s even more filled with garbage.”
Alexander of Tirragen smirked. “I have to go to lunch, sir.”
“I could do much worse, you know,” King Roald grumbled. “I thought you had a good head on your shoulders. You know the theory behind it all better than my best commanders. What made you think you could challenge a man like that?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Myles responded. “Isn’t that what we’re taught here? Justice? Responsibility to one’s brothers—“
“Intelligence, loyalty! I don’t want to talk about this, Myles, “he said, rubbing his eyes. “I never pegged you for an idealist.” He poured himself a glass of juice. “See me tomorrow with a clear head and a lesson plan.”
Rating: PG-13
For: hawksandfeathers
Prompt: #4 Myles-centric fic!
Summary and Warnings: “What has you precious chivalry done for men like him?” Alexander of Tirragen wants to ask Myles about something he may have wanted to forget.
I hope you like this, although it came at the last minute. It was really fun exploring Myles and his past. xxx
“Before you hurry out of here, a gentle reminder that the thirty page reading from A Recent History of Tusaine is due for tomorrow. No cheating—I know where you live!” The classroom erupted in a mixture of grumbling, chuckling, and the movement of chairs as the students left to change for lunch. The day was warm and bright for mid-February, and Myles felt the urge to join his pupils for once.
“Sir Myles.”
He turned in surprise. Alexander of Tirragen still sat at his desk, fiddling with a pencil. He was a first year page that spent most of his time in the shadows behind the young Gareth of Naxen. Myles had always found him interesting—he was not the best writer in the class, but his ideas were challenging.
“Yes?” he asked, continuing with packing up his materials.
“I wanted to…” he paused. “To ask about Tusaine. About the Duke.”
“Duke Hilam.” The hair on the back of his neck prickled. His eyes flicked up to meet Alexander’s dark gaze. “What about him?”
“I heard something about him.” Alexander’s voice was suddenly cool as water. It tickled at the back of his thoughts, subtly, accidentally revelatory. It spoke to him of dusty evenings in Olau. Of playing war games in the ruins and his father’s hot whip thereafter. He glanced at the boy again—he saw in him some vague coruscation, some footprint of a faded cousin.
He cleared his throat. “Some rumor you’d like to confirm? I’m afraid I won’t be much help with that. You might do better consulting a palace maid.”
“My question isn’t about the story… or I guess it is.” He was stumbling over his words again. “I’d just heard about…” he caught himself growing nervous.
“Glass of wine?” If there was one thing Myles felt he had a responsibility toward, it was toward troubled students.
“I have classes, still,” Alexander replied roughly.
Myles felt criticized. “Well, if nothing else, please sit with me.” He pulled a chair out from behind the blackboard for the boy and heaved himself into his own armchair.
“Sir—“
“Myles.”
“Sir… I wanted to know about Duke Hilam’s lover.”
“Myles, I have something to tell you.”
“Joss?” he looked up from sharpening his sword. “You didn’t tell me you were coming to Olau! How are things in the Own? Still frolicking about in that white smock?”
“Still married to tactical maneuvers?” his cousin retorted.
Myles looked down at his work. There was something unsettling in his cousin's tone. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve something to tell you.”
They looked at each other for a long moment, noticing each other’s hardened gazes and new calluses, nicks and scars.
“I’ve fallen in love,” he took a steadying breath. It was the same breath he took before he took a killing shot. “With a man.”
Myles’ grip on his blade slipped. There was a sudden coldness in his stomach. “If you’re looking for room here for when you leave the Own, I’ve none. Perhaps the Players will take you.”
“Where’d you hear about that?”
Alexander met his gaze solidly but said nothing.
“I know very little.”
The boy shifted his arm.
“I was a different person then.”
“Sir Myles, your mother,” came the voice of his footman.
Quickly, he brushed crumbs under the carpet and hid wine and glasses behind a bust of his father. He picked up a quill and pulled out a scroll.
“It smells like disease in here,” his mother breathed.
“I’m very busy, mother.”
“With what? Ruining the fief?” A small intake of breath was her way of laughing.
He put down his quill and turned his chair to glare at his tall, graceful statue of a mother.
“Not that you could make it much worse. That puddle of a cousin you had was a spintry and has died for it. The duke in Tusaine, I should think. They’ve done some hackneyed job patching it up, but people talk.” If he hadn’t known her better, he would have thought her pale eyes were wet. Her frown deepened as though she’d tasted something sour. She nodded at the footman and he brought Myles a small letter as she picked up her skirts and turned to leave the room.
“Mother!” he called after her. “Mother—what?”
She paused at the door, her white fingers lingering on its frame. “Many a mother would slap a boy for such an rude tone,” she remarked. “I’m not sure I will forgive you for turning your back on him, however dirty a boy he was. For this, I must suffer—for although I never cared much for him, he was better than the incompetent turncoat you turned out to be. And only the Black God knows where your father is. I wish you to leave Olau.”
Myles felt as though his insides had been scraped clean. He struggled to grasp onto the moment. “I did as you would have wanted,” he begged. She closed the door gently.
“I want to know what your precious chivalry did for your cousin. Or what is does for men like him.”
To the associates of Joss of Farmer’s Grove,
We regret to inform you that the aforementioned soldier, an honorable member of the King’s Own, was shot by a stray arrow and passed away. His body was lost.
The Crown is deeply sorry for your loss.
“Precious little,” Myles chuckled. “Joss was a good man. He could have been a chivalrous man. No one would have bothered to know. But take comfort, lad… Tortall isn’t a quarter as bad when it comes to such things as Tusaine. And, I think, where chivalry fails, one may count on the enigmatic love of a mother.”
“Can one?” Alexander murmured. “It must be a weak code, if it can be so easily trumped by a mother’s love.”
“I wouldn’t deny it.”
“How do you care so little? Tusaine took your cousin like a pet and then killed him for the fun of it—isn’t that what it amounts to? And you let that happen. What kind of knight would let them get away with it?”
“One who must adhere to the exquisite code of politics. You should try it some time—it’s even more filled with garbage.”
Alexander of Tirragen smirked. “I have to go to lunch, sir.”
“I could do much worse, you know,” King Roald grumbled. “I thought you had a good head on your shoulders. You know the theory behind it all better than my best commanders. What made you think you could challenge a man like that?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Myles responded. “Isn’t that what we’re taught here? Justice? Responsibility to one’s brothers—“
“Intelligence, loyalty! I don’t want to talk about this, Myles, “he said, rubbing his eyes. “I never pegged you for an idealist.” He poured himself a glass of juice. “See me tomorrow with a clear head and a lesson plan.”