TM Challenge 189
"Gaheris?"
His young, wary-eyed son halts on the stairs and looks at him. Lot is leaning on the wall, because he gets weak easily and he's too proud for a staff. He would teach his children that pride, too, but their mother has taught them everything they know, without his ever having a say in the matter, and he knows (if he ever thinks about it) that it's his fault--he's never had enough to do with them. They've learned nothing from him. They're fey ones, like their mother, small, pale boys with his dark red-gold hair, and one mad girl with eyes like a selkie.
"My lord?"
The boys never call him father. The girl calls him Lot.
He lays his hand upon the stone wall and considers. He hadn't meant to summon the boy, only identify him, and now he has the choice before him to decide whether he'll answer or bid his son go.
"How are you?" he asks, surprising himself. He doesn't much care for any of them. Only the eldest is going to grow up to be worth anything any way. The others will be knights, and likely not particularly good ones. It isn't something that will matter; they'll be forgotten, like other second and third and fourth sons before them.
The boy looks cornered. He's skittish. Lot can't decide how old--perhaps twelve? There's something moving behind his eyes, something strange and caught, like leaves tangled together on the branches when dark light and wind try to go through them.
"I'm well," he says. "My lord."
Lot nods. The boy hesitates, and then runs off down the stairs, making a small, small sound on the stone in his boots.
Words: 287
His young, wary-eyed son halts on the stairs and looks at him. Lot is leaning on the wall, because he gets weak easily and he's too proud for a staff. He would teach his children that pride, too, but their mother has taught them everything they know, without his ever having a say in the matter, and he knows (if he ever thinks about it) that it's his fault--he's never had enough to do with them. They've learned nothing from him. They're fey ones, like their mother, small, pale boys with his dark red-gold hair, and one mad girl with eyes like a selkie.
"My lord?"
The boys never call him father. The girl calls him Lot.
He lays his hand upon the stone wall and considers. He hadn't meant to summon the boy, only identify him, and now he has the choice before him to decide whether he'll answer or bid his son go.
"How are you?" he asks, surprising himself. He doesn't much care for any of them. Only the eldest is going to grow up to be worth anything any way. The others will be knights, and likely not particularly good ones. It isn't something that will matter; they'll be forgotten, like other second and third and fourth sons before them.
The boy looks cornered. He's skittish. Lot can't decide how old--perhaps twelve? There's something moving behind his eyes, something strange and caught, like leaves tangled together on the branches when dark light and wind try to go through them.
"I'm well," he says. "My lord."
Lot nods. The boy hesitates, and then runs off down the stairs, making a small, small sound on the stone in his boots.
Words: 287