For devilinthedetails: Kairos, PG
Dec 4, 2021 16:54:09 GMT 10
mistrali and devilinthedetails like this
Post by wordy on Dec 4, 2021 16:54:09 GMT 10
Title: Kairos
Rating: PG
For: devilinthedetails
Prompt: 2. A fic about Neal and Duke Baird.
Summary: Kairos - a propitious moment for decision or action. Page Nealan goes to his father for advice.
Notes and Warnings: Happy wishing tree! I don’t think I’ve ever written from Baird’s POV before, so this was an interesting and new experience, and I found that I quite enjoyed looking deeper into their relationship. Though I haven't known you long, your contribution to this forum in both fic and discussions is so genuine and enthusiastic, which I really appreciate.
452 HE
“—ten years old and thinks she’s invincible, roaming the corridors like she’s the second coming of Ilya of Muromets. She’s going to get herself killed, is what.” He stops pacing and plants his hands on his hips, breathing heavily from his tirade. A curl of hair has come down upon his forehead and in the dim light he looks so much like Graeme—Black God grant him peace—that Baird’s chest aches at the sight.
“Have you taken your concerns to Lord Wyldon?” Baird asks after a moment’s pause.
Neal shakes his head. “The Stu—Cavall,” he corrects himself, for they’ve had that conversation before, “wants her gone as much as anyone.”
Page training is wearing him down, Baird thinks, taking in his son’s spare figure and the bitter line of his mouth. He had insisted on pursuing his knighthood; that was something that he and Wilina had been proud of, even as the three of them had struggled to navigate their grief. Yet there are moments, such as this one, when Baird wonders if he should not have dissuaded Nealan from this duty.
That is not to say that the university would have been the easier path: Neal had been excelling at his studies, it was true, but as the years went on the difficulty level would have increased exponentially, and Neal’s temperament sometimes tends towards what Wilina would fondly call highly-strung when too many stressors coalesce.
Baird has seen too many young men—and, increasingly, young women as well—drawn taut as a bowstring due to the demands of Tortall’s continued peace and prosperity. Some of them snap; others survive, though none of them are ever unchanged.
He looks down at the open pages of the text he had been reading, noticing that his finger has smudged the lettering where he has been keeping his place. The infirmary is quiet this evening; he had been taking the rare opportunity to catch up on some current research. But the palace is anything but quiet, particularly with his being in such close proximity to the pages’ wing and their numerous scrapes and tumbles.
Being in such close proximity to his own son is a blessing that not many fathers receive. With every passing day, Baird is all too aware of Neal’s approaching knighthood and the inevitable separation that duty will likely demand. He can feel their time together slipping away, like grains of sand through an hourglass.
When he looks up, Neal is thumbing the corner of the desk, evidently having talked himself out for one evening. He looks incredibly young, suddenly: just a boy feeling the weight of the world bear down upon his shoulders.
“What do you think I should do?” Neal asks finally.
Baird leans back in his chair, letting the book fall closed. “Whatever you think is right.”
Neal sighs and rubs a hand across his face. It would be kinder to offer suggestions, to tell his son what he wants to hear—but there is a time to cut the apron strings, as Wilina’s mother used to say, and allow a boy to make the decisions that will shape him into a man. Page training prepares these children for knighthood in more ways than one. Baird watches Neal from above his spectacles, sees the healer in him, the youngest boy of three, who had always looked up to his older brothers and now is, perhaps, facing the reality of needing something else to direct his inner compass.
Raking his hair back from his face, Neal sighs again, but the sound seems to be less fraught now. He walks around the side of the desk, leans down to press a chaste kiss against his father’s temple.
“Thank you, father,” he says.
Baird watches him leave. The room slowly settles back into a comfortable silence, the flickering candlelight making trembling shadows upon the walls and the bookshelves, though Baird feels less at ease than he had prior to his son’s visit. He can only hope that he is doing the right thing, that these conversations will help, rather than hinder; it has long been his personal belief that one of the first rules of being a loving father should be to do no harm.
Only time will tell.
Rating: PG
For: devilinthedetails
Prompt: 2. A fic about Neal and Duke Baird.
Summary: Kairos - a propitious moment for decision or action. Page Nealan goes to his father for advice.
Notes and Warnings: Happy wishing tree! I don’t think I’ve ever written from Baird’s POV before, so this was an interesting and new experience, and I found that I quite enjoyed looking deeper into their relationship. Though I haven't known you long, your contribution to this forum in both fic and discussions is so genuine and enthusiastic, which I really appreciate.
452 HE
“Have you taken your concerns to Lord Wyldon?” Baird asks after a moment’s pause.
Neal shakes his head. “The Stu—Cavall,” he corrects himself, for they’ve had that conversation before, “wants her gone as much as anyone.”
Page training is wearing him down, Baird thinks, taking in his son’s spare figure and the bitter line of his mouth. He had insisted on pursuing his knighthood; that was something that he and Wilina had been proud of, even as the three of them had struggled to navigate their grief. Yet there are moments, such as this one, when Baird wonders if he should not have dissuaded Nealan from this duty.
That is not to say that the university would have been the easier path: Neal had been excelling at his studies, it was true, but as the years went on the difficulty level would have increased exponentially, and Neal’s temperament sometimes tends towards what Wilina would fondly call highly-strung when too many stressors coalesce.
Baird has seen too many young men—and, increasingly, young women as well—drawn taut as a bowstring due to the demands of Tortall’s continued peace and prosperity. Some of them snap; others survive, though none of them are ever unchanged.
He looks down at the open pages of the text he had been reading, noticing that his finger has smudged the lettering where he has been keeping his place. The infirmary is quiet this evening; he had been taking the rare opportunity to catch up on some current research. But the palace is anything but quiet, particularly with his being in such close proximity to the pages’ wing and their numerous scrapes and tumbles.
Being in such close proximity to his own son is a blessing that not many fathers receive. With every passing day, Baird is all too aware of Neal’s approaching knighthood and the inevitable separation that duty will likely demand. He can feel their time together slipping away, like grains of sand through an hourglass.
When he looks up, Neal is thumbing the corner of the desk, evidently having talked himself out for one evening. He looks incredibly young, suddenly: just a boy feeling the weight of the world bear down upon his shoulders.
“What do you think I should do?” Neal asks finally.
Baird leans back in his chair, letting the book fall closed. “Whatever you think is right.”
Neal sighs and rubs a hand across his face. It would be kinder to offer suggestions, to tell his son what he wants to hear—but there is a time to cut the apron strings, as Wilina’s mother used to say, and allow a boy to make the decisions that will shape him into a man. Page training prepares these children for knighthood in more ways than one. Baird watches Neal from above his spectacles, sees the healer in him, the youngest boy of three, who had always looked up to his older brothers and now is, perhaps, facing the reality of needing something else to direct his inner compass.
Raking his hair back from his face, Neal sighs again, but the sound seems to be less fraught now. He walks around the side of the desk, leans down to press a chaste kiss against his father’s temple.
“Thank you, father,” he says.
Baird watches him leave. The room slowly settles back into a comfortable silence, the flickering candlelight making trembling shadows upon the walls and the bookshelves, though Baird feels less at ease than he had prior to his son’s visit. He can only hope that he is doing the right thing, that these conversations will help, rather than hinder; it has long been his personal belief that one of the first rules of being a loving father should be to do no harm.
Only time will tell.