(200F): Past Imperfect, PG-13 (Two Steps Forward)
Apr 7, 2015 5:21:42 GMT 10
Seek, Kypriotha, and 1 more like this
Post by indifferentred on Apr 7, 2015 5:21:42 GMT 10
Series: Two Steps Forward (Yazmín/Vedris)
Title: Past Imperfect
Rating: PG-13
Event: 200 Freestyle
Competition: Decathlon
Words: 1,277
Summary: Vedris and Yazmín talk about past lives and past loves, and turn their attention to the present; warnings for minor character death, some implied violence and sexual suggestiveness.
“Will you tell me about your sons?”
He smiles quietly to himself at the question. They've been sharing each other's company (and, admittedly, each other's beds) for several months now, and they're slowly becoming comfortable at asking each other more personal questions. Indeed, he smiles every time she asks him a question, because it is yet another little reminder that she is interested in him, in… building something with him?
They are sitting on the terrace outside his library, enjoying the sunshine, and taking tea, as has become their custom. Sandrilene delights wholeheartedly in his taking these mid-afternoon breaks - has engineered more than one of them, he believes - and Erdo, while he has said nothing out loud, has shown his approval in the quiet way he manages to keep the Duke's schedule free whenever there is a prospect of a visit from Mistress Hebet. So they drink their tea and talk and laugh together, and Vedris feels for the first time in a very long time that his life contains something other than Sandry and his duty.
In any case - “Troublemakers, all of them,” he answers dryly after a moment.
Yazmín's half-indignant laugh rings out across the terrace. “They can’t be that bad, surely?”
He ticks them off on his fingers. “Franzen, my eldest, spends most of his time praying for my early demise. Don’t get Sandrilene started on the subject of his wife, either.” Yazmín inflates her cheeks and lets out a low whistle of surprise. He shoots her a grim smile. “He’s still under the mistaken impression that he’ll inherit once I’m gone.”
She nods, quietly. Anyone who knows him well can easily guess that Lady Sandrilene would be his preferred heir. Now, at least, she understands why.
He returns his attention to his list. “Gospard, my middle son - an admiral in the navy, but entirely too fond of fast women and strong drink.”
“He is a sailor,” Yazmín points out wryly over the rim of her teacup, privately thinking that His Grace's son has perhaps inherited his taste for 'fast women' from his father.
“Yes, well…” His face takes on a faraway look of wistful sadness. “And then there’s Colederran, my youngest.”
Yazmín nods thoughtfully. “That’s a good, strong name. I don’t think I’ve ever heard mention of him before.”
Vedris rubs his hand over his shorn scalp, almost wearily. “No, you wouldn’t have. I… disowned him, nearly ten years ago, now.”
“Why?” She doesn’t sound shocked, for which he is glad - the only note of emotion he can detect in her voice is one of curiosity.
“He… he was the cleverest one of the lot,” he murmurs at last. It’s been so very long since he has spoken of Cole to anyone that he hardly knows how or where to begin. Yazmín’s gentle hand of sympathy on his arm gives him the courage to continue. “His mother’s world rose and fell with him. One summer, when Cole was seventeen, I received word of a pirate attack down the coast. I ordered Cole to remain behind, to ensure that Summersea was protected from any second attack… but he ignored my instructions. He took a troop of soldiers along to engage them… Twenty soldiers and they ran straight into a fully-fledged fleet of pirate ships. He just managed to escape with his life, but the rest of the party… What a stupid waste of life!” He shakes his head. “I had to break the news to every single one of their mothers, and after I had, I came back to the Citadel and told Cole to take himself off,” he finishes ruefully, with a shrug.
“You were angry,” Yazmín murmurs after a moment. “It was an understandable reaction.”
“Was it?” he asks. “It didn’t solve anything.” It’s an argument he’s been having with himself for nigh on a decade now, and his answers change every time.
Yazmín chooses not to offer an opinion. Instead, she asks, “Do you know where he is?”
“Working as a caravan guard somewhere up in the north,” he tells her sheepishly. “I… sent spies out after him, when he left. They… keep me informed. Do you think me ridiculous?”
“No.” The syllable escapes her as a hiss of exasperated sympathy. “You were a father who didn’t want to give up on his son. There’s nothing ridiculous in that.” She shakes her head wearily. “If… if my father had cared for me as you do for Cole, then I would have considered myself well blessed.”
“I don’t believe Ysabela ever forgave me for it,” he admits quietly. “Sometimes… I think it contributed to her death. He was always her favourite.”
In most of their conversations thus far, they have steered clear of the topic of his late wife; Vedris doesn’t want to embarrass her, and Yazmín is afraid of dredging up his grief. But, she decides, this is perhaps something they have danced around for too long. Mila’s hair, she likes Vedris; she can see herself as his friend - yes, and his lover too - for many years to come. Sooner or later, this bridge is going to be crossed. Better to cross it now and get it over with.
“How did she die?” she asks.
The grief crosses his face, as she had known it would, but it is not so deep or painful to watch as she had expected. “A sudden fever, a year or so after Cole left. She hadn’t been taking proper care of herself, and I was too deeply buried in my paperwork to realise it until… it was too late.”
“I’m sorry.” It is inadequate, but his smile of gratitude reassures her that it is has been enough.
“No. It’s… not often that I feel at liberty to speak of such things. Thank you for listening and… understanding.”
“Were you very much in love with her?” Usually when such a question is asked by a man’s lover, the reason is because the lover wishes to hear that she has replaced the wife in his affections. Vedris knows this, but he senses that it is not the reason for which Yazmín has asked. No, he realises, somewhat surprised - she has asked because she wishes to understand this part of his life. To understand… and to help make it better, in some small way.
“We were both… very quiet people,” he explains at last. “Quiet in our lives and in our loves.”
Yazmín’s eyes are filled with a wisdom beyond her years as she tells him, “That doesn’t mean you didn’t care for her, very deeply.”
He lifts her hand to his lips and kisses her fingertips. "Bless you for that, my dear." He hesitates. "And… you?"
She gives a fluid shrug. “No children, obviously. A series of lovers - some more badly chosen than others.” Her lips quirk up ironically. “Nobody permanent. Some, I decided, were better as friends. Others…" - her voice hardens slighty - "…less so. I’ve had lots of fun, and remarkably little heartbreak, and I’m grateful for it.”
Vedris turns this over in his mind for some time, and then asks, "And… now?"
Her expression broadens into a true smile and she refills their tea cups. “And now… I’ve met a very kind, very sweet man whose company I enjoy immensely.”
Sandry, hovering behind a curtain at the doors, has to suppress a squeal of delight. She turns back to where Baron Erdogun waits at His Grace's desk. "Erdo… can we put off the Goldsmiths' Guild until tomorrow, do you think?"
Baron Erdogun bows deeply. "I believe that can be arranged, Lady Sandrilene." He pauses. "Anything for the sake of His Grace's health."
Title: Past Imperfect
Rating: PG-13
Event: 200 Freestyle
Competition: Decathlon
Words: 1,277
Summary: Vedris and Yazmín talk about past lives and past loves, and turn their attention to the present; warnings for minor character death, some implied violence and sexual suggestiveness.
“Will you tell me about your sons?”
He smiles quietly to himself at the question. They've been sharing each other's company (and, admittedly, each other's beds) for several months now, and they're slowly becoming comfortable at asking each other more personal questions. Indeed, he smiles every time she asks him a question, because it is yet another little reminder that she is interested in him, in… building something with him?
They are sitting on the terrace outside his library, enjoying the sunshine, and taking tea, as has become their custom. Sandrilene delights wholeheartedly in his taking these mid-afternoon breaks - has engineered more than one of them, he believes - and Erdo, while he has said nothing out loud, has shown his approval in the quiet way he manages to keep the Duke's schedule free whenever there is a prospect of a visit from Mistress Hebet. So they drink their tea and talk and laugh together, and Vedris feels for the first time in a very long time that his life contains something other than Sandry and his duty.
In any case - “Troublemakers, all of them,” he answers dryly after a moment.
Yazmín's half-indignant laugh rings out across the terrace. “They can’t be that bad, surely?”
He ticks them off on his fingers. “Franzen, my eldest, spends most of his time praying for my early demise. Don’t get Sandrilene started on the subject of his wife, either.” Yazmín inflates her cheeks and lets out a low whistle of surprise. He shoots her a grim smile. “He’s still under the mistaken impression that he’ll inherit once I’m gone.”
She nods, quietly. Anyone who knows him well can easily guess that Lady Sandrilene would be his preferred heir. Now, at least, she understands why.
He returns his attention to his list. “Gospard, my middle son - an admiral in the navy, but entirely too fond of fast women and strong drink.”
“He is a sailor,” Yazmín points out wryly over the rim of her teacup, privately thinking that His Grace's son has perhaps inherited his taste for 'fast women' from his father.
“Yes, well…” His face takes on a faraway look of wistful sadness. “And then there’s Colederran, my youngest.”
Yazmín nods thoughtfully. “That’s a good, strong name. I don’t think I’ve ever heard mention of him before.”
Vedris rubs his hand over his shorn scalp, almost wearily. “No, you wouldn’t have. I… disowned him, nearly ten years ago, now.”
“Why?” She doesn’t sound shocked, for which he is glad - the only note of emotion he can detect in her voice is one of curiosity.
“He… he was the cleverest one of the lot,” he murmurs at last. It’s been so very long since he has spoken of Cole to anyone that he hardly knows how or where to begin. Yazmín’s gentle hand of sympathy on his arm gives him the courage to continue. “His mother’s world rose and fell with him. One summer, when Cole was seventeen, I received word of a pirate attack down the coast. I ordered Cole to remain behind, to ensure that Summersea was protected from any second attack… but he ignored my instructions. He took a troop of soldiers along to engage them… Twenty soldiers and they ran straight into a fully-fledged fleet of pirate ships. He just managed to escape with his life, but the rest of the party… What a stupid waste of life!” He shakes his head. “I had to break the news to every single one of their mothers, and after I had, I came back to the Citadel and told Cole to take himself off,” he finishes ruefully, with a shrug.
“You were angry,” Yazmín murmurs after a moment. “It was an understandable reaction.”
“Was it?” he asks. “It didn’t solve anything.” It’s an argument he’s been having with himself for nigh on a decade now, and his answers change every time.
Yazmín chooses not to offer an opinion. Instead, she asks, “Do you know where he is?”
“Working as a caravan guard somewhere up in the north,” he tells her sheepishly. “I… sent spies out after him, when he left. They… keep me informed. Do you think me ridiculous?”
“No.” The syllable escapes her as a hiss of exasperated sympathy. “You were a father who didn’t want to give up on his son. There’s nothing ridiculous in that.” She shakes her head wearily. “If… if my father had cared for me as you do for Cole, then I would have considered myself well blessed.”
“I don’t believe Ysabela ever forgave me for it,” he admits quietly. “Sometimes… I think it contributed to her death. He was always her favourite.”
In most of their conversations thus far, they have steered clear of the topic of his late wife; Vedris doesn’t want to embarrass her, and Yazmín is afraid of dredging up his grief. But, she decides, this is perhaps something they have danced around for too long. Mila’s hair, she likes Vedris; she can see herself as his friend - yes, and his lover too - for many years to come. Sooner or later, this bridge is going to be crossed. Better to cross it now and get it over with.
“How did she die?” she asks.
The grief crosses his face, as she had known it would, but it is not so deep or painful to watch as she had expected. “A sudden fever, a year or so after Cole left. She hadn’t been taking proper care of herself, and I was too deeply buried in my paperwork to realise it until… it was too late.”
“I’m sorry.” It is inadequate, but his smile of gratitude reassures her that it is has been enough.
“No. It’s… not often that I feel at liberty to speak of such things. Thank you for listening and… understanding.”
“Were you very much in love with her?” Usually when such a question is asked by a man’s lover, the reason is because the lover wishes to hear that she has replaced the wife in his affections. Vedris knows this, but he senses that it is not the reason for which Yazmín has asked. No, he realises, somewhat surprised - she has asked because she wishes to understand this part of his life. To understand… and to help make it better, in some small way.
“We were both… very quiet people,” he explains at last. “Quiet in our lives and in our loves.”
Yazmín’s eyes are filled with a wisdom beyond her years as she tells him, “That doesn’t mean you didn’t care for her, very deeply.”
He lifts her hand to his lips and kisses her fingertips. "Bless you for that, my dear." He hesitates. "And… you?"
She gives a fluid shrug. “No children, obviously. A series of lovers - some more badly chosen than others.” Her lips quirk up ironically. “Nobody permanent. Some, I decided, were better as friends. Others…" - her voice hardens slighty - "…less so. I’ve had lots of fun, and remarkably little heartbreak, and I’m grateful for it.”
Vedris turns this over in his mind for some time, and then asks, "And… now?"
Her expression broadens into a true smile and she refills their tea cups. “And now… I’ve met a very kind, very sweet man whose company I enjoy immensely.”
Sandry, hovering behind a curtain at the doors, has to suppress a squeal of delight. She turns back to where Baron Erdogun waits at His Grace's desk. "Erdo… can we put off the Goldsmiths' Guild until tomorrow, do you think?"
Baron Erdogun bows deeply. "I believe that can be arranged, Lady Sandrilene." He pauses. "Anything for the sake of His Grace's health."
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!