Post by devilinthedetails on Feb 21, 2023 1:54:42 GMT 10
Title: A Camp on the Banks of the Vassa
Summary: Wyldon and Owen talk as they camp on the banks of the Vassa. Or Wyldon has fatherly feelings and doesn't know what to do with them. Set immediately after Lady Knight.
Rating: PG-13
Author's Note: Somewhat of a companion piece to "A Breakfast Conversation at Mastiff" and "A Knightmaster's Prayer" but can be read and understood independently as well.
A Camp on the Banks of the Vassa
The breeze off the Vassa was cold. Even in summer. It was a relief to step out of it. Into the tent he would be sharing with his squire for the night before they began their journey back to Fort Mastiff at dawn. Still a relief to see his squire. To know that the impetuous boy hadn’t gotten himself killed in Scanra.
Maybe not so much of a boy any longer. Perhaps more of a young man. There hadn’t been much of the boy in Owen of Jesslaw when he met Wyldon’s frostiest tone with an unwavering gray gaze and a long list of explanations why Wyldon couldn’t yell at Mindelan. More of a sense that a battle line had been drawn and wouldn’t be surrendered.
So, Wyldon had given in himself. Ended the impasse. Admitted that he had no intention of yelling at Mindelan. An acknowledgement, in a way, that he was dealing with a man, not a boy.
Though still a head-shakingly impetuous young man. Owen of Jesslaw would never be anything other than impetuous whether he was a boy or a man. Wyldon was quite certain of that. The fact made him proud as much as it exasperated him. A knightmaster could be proud and exasperated at the same time, couldn’t he?
Owen was silent when Wyldon entered the tent. Probably a deferment to the quiet Wyldon preferred. So quiet that Wyldon could hear the chirping of night insects outside the canvas tent. Night insects that would die when summer ended. When autumn came. That weren’t made for winter.
Wyldon sighed. He had missed–not that he would ever confess this aloud to anyone–the sound of Owen’s incessant chatter. The indefatigable optimistic eagerness that always seemed to radiate from him.
“Owen, we need to talk.” Wyldon had a lot to say. Had no idea how to say any of it. So started with that.
Owen glanced up at the sound of his name. Gray eyes dim in the candlelight. Not fearless as they had been when he told Wyldon he couldn’t yell at Mindelan.
That incident must have been on Owen’s mind as well. For he asked with the manner of a man resigned to a bloody fate that might make drawing and quartering seem a mercy, “About my telling you that you couldn’t yell at Kel, my lord?”
“No.” Wyldon’s lips thinned. “I consider that matter closed between us. Though it was rather bold of you. Presuming to tell your knightmaster what he couldn’t do.”
“I’m always bold, sir.” With most other boys and men, that would have been hollow bravado. Empty boasting. With Owen, it was merely the unvarnished truth. If Owen didn’t deserve the adjective bold, few in the Eastern Lands did.
“You were quite bold when you followed Mindelan to Scanra too.” Wyldon grasped Owen’s shoulder firmly. Shook it roughly. “Don’t ever scare me like that again or I’ll slap some sense into you, son.”
When Wyldon had discovered Owen’s disappearance, he had longed to slap some sense into the hellion. It only seemed fair to give his squire stern warning about that. Wyldon was nothing if not fair.
Owen ignored the stern warning. As heedless of danger as ever. Fixated on something else.
“Son?” Owen’s head tilted like a puppy’s begging for bacon strips. His eyes shining like gray stars with hope.
Some commanders were in the habit of referring to younger men and boys under their authority as “son.” Wyldon was not such a commander. He believed that it confused relationships that should not have been complicated. Blurred lines that should be straightforward. Conflated and clouded the clear military hierarchy with the familial.
Wyldon had never regretted fathering only daughters. Never reproached Vivenne for bearing no sons. Praised the Goddess for the birth of his four beautiful and healthy daughters who had each stolen parts of his heart from him when he first held them in his arms. Humbly thanked the Goddess after each birth for Vivenne’s survival and safe delivery. Made generous donations to the Goddess’s temples after each girl–a gift from the Goddess–was born.
Had never yearned for any sort of surrogate son. Had always brushed off any sympathy expressed by conservative friends that a brave hero of the realm such as him had no sons to carry on his name. Had curtly rejected any hints made by other conservative nobles that he might like to adopt one of their second or third sons. Such adoptions were not unheard of among the nobility. Ways to preserve families. Prevent lineages from dying. Wyldon had always balked from them, however. Resented the implication that four daughters weren’t enough for a father to love. To protect. That sons were somehow required for a man to feel fulfilled in his family. Content in his home.
“I know you have a father.” Wyldon kept his opinion that the Lord of Jesslaw was a drunkard who had severely neglected the education of his son and heir to himself as he always did. Refrained from commenting on how he had been left with the grim task of teaching Owen some semblance of courtesy. Hammering a million manners into Owen’s head that should’ve been learned prior to page training. It was just blind luck–purest chance–that Owen had been born with a brave heart that valued honesty and loyalty as much as courage. Most boys would have rotted under that drunken neglect. “I won’t disrespect him or seek to usurp his position in your life.”
“There’s not much to usurp, sir.” Owen was blunt as ever. “Meaning no disrespect to him, but, well, he’s drunk all the time. I always thought of you as more of a father to me.”
“Then don’t scare me again as you did when you ran off to Scanra.” Wyldon gave Owen’s shoulder a sharp shake. Hoping to jolt them both out of a too-emotional conversation.
“I didn’t think you would be scared.” Owen hung his head. Unusually abashed. “I thought you’d be angry and disappointed. I was afraid you’d be angry and disappointed. But I didn’t think you’d be scared.”
Owen had been more afraid of Wyldon’s disappointment than his anger. Wyldon could sense that.
“I wasn’t disappointed.” Wyldon cleared his throat. Touched, against his will, by Owen’s earnestness and his own pride in the squire who had unexpectedly become like a son to him. “I was proud, angry, and worried about you.”
As befuddling a tangle of emotions as Wyldon had ever experienced. To mask that bewildering depth of feeling, he asked more gruffly, “Would it have made a difference if you’d known I would be scared?”
“I don’t know.” Owen bit his lip. “I wouldn’t want to worry you, my lord, but I also wouldn’t want to abandon Kel. Not when she was trying to rescue her people.”
“Then best not to tear yourself up about it.” Wyldon squeezed Owen’s shoulder. Then released it. Pressed his palms together in a pose of prayer. Shot his squire a meaningful look as he went on, “We ought to thank Mithros that you returned from Scanra alive. We would not want him to think we were ungrateful for his blessings.”
Owen obediently folded his hands. Ducked his head as Wyldon offered a prayer of thanks for Owen’s survival. For the survival of all who had returned from Scanra. Murmured with uncharacteristic solemnity an appeal to the sun god to speak on behalf of all the soldiers who had died in the Black God’s court where they would face their final judgment.
“So mote it be.” Wyldon sketched the Sign against Evil on his chest.
Owen mimicked the gesture. Asked, “Sir, do you think our prayers do any good for the living or the dead?”
“We can’t know this side of the Realms of the Dead.” Wyldon’s shoulders lifted and lowered in a shrug. “We can only know they don’t do any harm for us or those we pray for. That our prayers might be some comfort to those we pray for or to us. There are powers in this world greater than we can understand. Best to be humble before those powers.”
Owen nodded, but a spark of mischief was kindling in his eyes. It being impossible for him to remain serious for very long. “You thanked Mithros for the safe return of everyone who came back from Scanra. Does that mean you are grateful Kel survived?”
“Yes.” Wyldon gave a terse jerk of his head. Hoping his squire had the sense not to pursue the matter further.
His squire had no such sense. The spark of mischief in Owen’s gaze had blazed into a full-fledged fire. “And Neal? Are you grateful he survived?”
“We must not question the ineffable wisdom of Mithros.” Wyldon’s way of saying yes without ever admitting it outright. Without ever confessing that he didn’t want to lose a healer of Queenscove’s caliber even if the healing came with a tongue Wyldon had often itched to tie into a thousand knots. That he had no desire to see Duke Baird, whom he had always respected, mourn the loss of another son in the realm’s service.
Shooting Owen a repressive glare designed to quell further questioning, he added, “You are a saucy, spoiled squire, and I am too indulgent a knightmaster.”
The repressive glare was not as effective as it had been before Owen’s excursion to Scanra.
“Not indulgent enough by half,” Owen muttered. The eternal complaint of his squires that he was too exacting a taskmaster. That he didn’t allow enough levity in their lives. That he was too grim and glowering.
“That–” Wyldon snorted– “is exactly what a saucy, spoiled squire would say.”
Summary: Wyldon and Owen talk as they camp on the banks of the Vassa. Or Wyldon has fatherly feelings and doesn't know what to do with them. Set immediately after Lady Knight.
Rating: PG-13
Author's Note: Somewhat of a companion piece to "A Breakfast Conversation at Mastiff" and "A Knightmaster's Prayer" but can be read and understood independently as well.
A Camp on the Banks of the Vassa
The breeze off the Vassa was cold. Even in summer. It was a relief to step out of it. Into the tent he would be sharing with his squire for the night before they began their journey back to Fort Mastiff at dawn. Still a relief to see his squire. To know that the impetuous boy hadn’t gotten himself killed in Scanra.
Maybe not so much of a boy any longer. Perhaps more of a young man. There hadn’t been much of the boy in Owen of Jesslaw when he met Wyldon’s frostiest tone with an unwavering gray gaze and a long list of explanations why Wyldon couldn’t yell at Mindelan. More of a sense that a battle line had been drawn and wouldn’t be surrendered.
So, Wyldon had given in himself. Ended the impasse. Admitted that he had no intention of yelling at Mindelan. An acknowledgement, in a way, that he was dealing with a man, not a boy.
Though still a head-shakingly impetuous young man. Owen of Jesslaw would never be anything other than impetuous whether he was a boy or a man. Wyldon was quite certain of that. The fact made him proud as much as it exasperated him. A knightmaster could be proud and exasperated at the same time, couldn’t he?
Owen was silent when Wyldon entered the tent. Probably a deferment to the quiet Wyldon preferred. So quiet that Wyldon could hear the chirping of night insects outside the canvas tent. Night insects that would die when summer ended. When autumn came. That weren’t made for winter.
Wyldon sighed. He had missed–not that he would ever confess this aloud to anyone–the sound of Owen’s incessant chatter. The indefatigable optimistic eagerness that always seemed to radiate from him.
“Owen, we need to talk.” Wyldon had a lot to say. Had no idea how to say any of it. So started with that.
Owen glanced up at the sound of his name. Gray eyes dim in the candlelight. Not fearless as they had been when he told Wyldon he couldn’t yell at Mindelan.
That incident must have been on Owen’s mind as well. For he asked with the manner of a man resigned to a bloody fate that might make drawing and quartering seem a mercy, “About my telling you that you couldn’t yell at Kel, my lord?”
“No.” Wyldon’s lips thinned. “I consider that matter closed between us. Though it was rather bold of you. Presuming to tell your knightmaster what he couldn’t do.”
“I’m always bold, sir.” With most other boys and men, that would have been hollow bravado. Empty boasting. With Owen, it was merely the unvarnished truth. If Owen didn’t deserve the adjective bold, few in the Eastern Lands did.
“You were quite bold when you followed Mindelan to Scanra too.” Wyldon grasped Owen’s shoulder firmly. Shook it roughly. “Don’t ever scare me like that again or I’ll slap some sense into you, son.”
When Wyldon had discovered Owen’s disappearance, he had longed to slap some sense into the hellion. It only seemed fair to give his squire stern warning about that. Wyldon was nothing if not fair.
Owen ignored the stern warning. As heedless of danger as ever. Fixated on something else.
“Son?” Owen’s head tilted like a puppy’s begging for bacon strips. His eyes shining like gray stars with hope.
Some commanders were in the habit of referring to younger men and boys under their authority as “son.” Wyldon was not such a commander. He believed that it confused relationships that should not have been complicated. Blurred lines that should be straightforward. Conflated and clouded the clear military hierarchy with the familial.
Wyldon had never regretted fathering only daughters. Never reproached Vivenne for bearing no sons. Praised the Goddess for the birth of his four beautiful and healthy daughters who had each stolen parts of his heart from him when he first held them in his arms. Humbly thanked the Goddess after each birth for Vivenne’s survival and safe delivery. Made generous donations to the Goddess’s temples after each girl–a gift from the Goddess–was born.
Had never yearned for any sort of surrogate son. Had always brushed off any sympathy expressed by conservative friends that a brave hero of the realm such as him had no sons to carry on his name. Had curtly rejected any hints made by other conservative nobles that he might like to adopt one of their second or third sons. Such adoptions were not unheard of among the nobility. Ways to preserve families. Prevent lineages from dying. Wyldon had always balked from them, however. Resented the implication that four daughters weren’t enough for a father to love. To protect. That sons were somehow required for a man to feel fulfilled in his family. Content in his home.
“I know you have a father.” Wyldon kept his opinion that the Lord of Jesslaw was a drunkard who had severely neglected the education of his son and heir to himself as he always did. Refrained from commenting on how he had been left with the grim task of teaching Owen some semblance of courtesy. Hammering a million manners into Owen’s head that should’ve been learned prior to page training. It was just blind luck–purest chance–that Owen had been born with a brave heart that valued honesty and loyalty as much as courage. Most boys would have rotted under that drunken neglect. “I won’t disrespect him or seek to usurp his position in your life.”
“There’s not much to usurp, sir.” Owen was blunt as ever. “Meaning no disrespect to him, but, well, he’s drunk all the time. I always thought of you as more of a father to me.”
“Then don’t scare me again as you did when you ran off to Scanra.” Wyldon gave Owen’s shoulder a sharp shake. Hoping to jolt them both out of a too-emotional conversation.
“I didn’t think you would be scared.” Owen hung his head. Unusually abashed. “I thought you’d be angry and disappointed. I was afraid you’d be angry and disappointed. But I didn’t think you’d be scared.”
Owen had been more afraid of Wyldon’s disappointment than his anger. Wyldon could sense that.
“I wasn’t disappointed.” Wyldon cleared his throat. Touched, against his will, by Owen’s earnestness and his own pride in the squire who had unexpectedly become like a son to him. “I was proud, angry, and worried about you.”
As befuddling a tangle of emotions as Wyldon had ever experienced. To mask that bewildering depth of feeling, he asked more gruffly, “Would it have made a difference if you’d known I would be scared?”
“I don’t know.” Owen bit his lip. “I wouldn’t want to worry you, my lord, but I also wouldn’t want to abandon Kel. Not when she was trying to rescue her people.”
“Then best not to tear yourself up about it.” Wyldon squeezed Owen’s shoulder. Then released it. Pressed his palms together in a pose of prayer. Shot his squire a meaningful look as he went on, “We ought to thank Mithros that you returned from Scanra alive. We would not want him to think we were ungrateful for his blessings.”
Owen obediently folded his hands. Ducked his head as Wyldon offered a prayer of thanks for Owen’s survival. For the survival of all who had returned from Scanra. Murmured with uncharacteristic solemnity an appeal to the sun god to speak on behalf of all the soldiers who had died in the Black God’s court where they would face their final judgment.
“So mote it be.” Wyldon sketched the Sign against Evil on his chest.
Owen mimicked the gesture. Asked, “Sir, do you think our prayers do any good for the living or the dead?”
“We can’t know this side of the Realms of the Dead.” Wyldon’s shoulders lifted and lowered in a shrug. “We can only know they don’t do any harm for us or those we pray for. That our prayers might be some comfort to those we pray for or to us. There are powers in this world greater than we can understand. Best to be humble before those powers.”
Owen nodded, but a spark of mischief was kindling in his eyes. It being impossible for him to remain serious for very long. “You thanked Mithros for the safe return of everyone who came back from Scanra. Does that mean you are grateful Kel survived?”
“Yes.” Wyldon gave a terse jerk of his head. Hoping his squire had the sense not to pursue the matter further.
His squire had no such sense. The spark of mischief in Owen’s gaze had blazed into a full-fledged fire. “And Neal? Are you grateful he survived?”
“We must not question the ineffable wisdom of Mithros.” Wyldon’s way of saying yes without ever admitting it outright. Without ever confessing that he didn’t want to lose a healer of Queenscove’s caliber even if the healing came with a tongue Wyldon had often itched to tie into a thousand knots. That he had no desire to see Duke Baird, whom he had always respected, mourn the loss of another son in the realm’s service.
Shooting Owen a repressive glare designed to quell further questioning, he added, “You are a saucy, spoiled squire, and I am too indulgent a knightmaster.”
The repressive glare was not as effective as it had been before Owen’s excursion to Scanra.
“Not indulgent enough by half,” Owen muttered. The eternal complaint of his squires that he was too exacting a taskmaster. That he didn’t allow enough levity in their lives. That he was too grim and glowering.
“That–” Wyldon snorted– “is exactly what a saucy, spoiled squire would say.”
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!