Lora's Birthday 2019: Brutus & Eibhlin
ATTENTION: I am hiking on my birthday so I'm posting at midnight! Enjoy!
penfold wanted Brutus & Eibhlin at the bookstore!
It hurts a little, stepping inside.
Nah, not hurts, that’s too fresh, too sharp. Makes it sound like the pain is new. Though it does startle a bit, surprise him into sucking in a short breath, but it’s more like bumping into a corner of the desk and finding it already tender from an old bruise rather than stepping on a nail.
It aches, then, that’s the word for it. Be proud, Odin, look at him, paying attention to words. Like an old wound made tender by moving the wrong way, bringing the injury to mind. Brutus might not be poetic, but he knows recovery, the different ways ancient pains make themselves felt. He also knows how to avoid sticking a finger in an old sore.
But Eibhlin wanted books, and what was Brutus supposed to say? Sorry, bug, no can do, going to the bookstore makes me sad because my mentor used to like it. Not Games-damned likely. Eibhlin survived torture and separation from her mentor and the death of two of her fellow Victors and had managed to claw her way back to sanity and security a second time in the ashes of war and a strange district full of killers. Brutus could damn well put his big-boy pants on.
You’d never know any of that to look at her now. Her hair’s grown in and she wears one of Claudius’ stolen jackets like a statement, the kind of pointed ‘I don’t give a shit’ attitude toward fashion that comes from rebelling against years of being primped and dressed for cameras and sponsors and buyers but now, in her complete disregard, looks to outsiders like stylish liberation from current trends. There are articles about it now, talking about post-war Victor normcore sartorial trends, free from the shackles of conformity, when it’s all just exhausted, traumatized people in jeans and oversized sweaters who no longer have to wax every inch of their bodies and wear shirts with slits open to the navel or risk finding their loved ones murdered in their beds. It would be funny if it weren’t so fucking exhausting.
But Eibhlin is outside, damn it, in public, and she looks like a normal, happy, healthy twenty-something, and Brutus will pull his maudlin head out of his ass and enjoy the moment. He shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels, studying her as she stops inside the bookstore’s entrance and takes it all in.
“I’m sure it can’t compare to whatever you had back in Three,” Brutus says, suddenly compelled to apologize before he hears all about it, “but there’s not as much call for it out here.”
Eibhlin frowns. “You are performing a kindness for me,” she says, in the kind of voice that makes it sound like Brutus just said something very stupid. “Pointing out deficiencies in the favour you are performing me would be the height of rudeness. Besides, at first glance this facility appears more than adequate.”
“Oh.” He rolls his weight back, forward onto his toes, then back again. “All right then.”
“Besides, any books in Three on animal husbandry would be chiefly theoretical,” Eibhlin reminds him as she takes off again, short legs moving at an impressive clip. Little lady can move when she wants to. “The homegrown districts are much better for that sort of thing.”
“Just a reminder that most people did not actually have goats in their yards when I was growing up,” Brutus says wearily, but he lost this battle and there’s no point kicking it back up again. Once Eibhlin found out that, while large-scale agriculture was mostly restricted to the outer districts, some families in Two were known to keep a pair of goats, there was no stopping her. Brutus had talked her down from chickens (noisy, smelly, too much damn ruckus, would never survive the winter and Beetee would murder the entire Village before he allowed them in his house) and sheep (needed too large an area, no way to keep only one or two since they were pack animals, never mind all that shearing nonsense), but he couldn’t get her off the goats. Then Ronan said he might not be a terrible idea, and Misha thought the whole thing sounded hilarious, and by then the damn thing had legs.
“If we restricted ourselves to replicating our own childhood experiences, adulthood would be a paucity indeed,” Eibhlin says. and Brutus sighs.
After rejecting three books for having too large a section on butchery, Eibhlin finally selects an armful of volumes (or maybe tomes, that’s a nice Odin word for it, they’re all the size of her Games-damned arms) on goat-raising. Brutus insists on carrying them for her, fielding acerbic remarks about outmoded concepts of chivalry by pointing out that no, it has nothing to do with gender and everything to do with not letting her drop the huge pile while he’s right there with arms the size of her head.
“Is there anything you would like?” she asks, looking up at Brutus, eyes bright behind her glasses.
“Uh.” Brutus runs a hand over his head. “Not really. Reading’s never been my thing.”
“Nonsense!” Eibhlin’s gaze sharpens, and oh boy, what’s he done now. “Reading is for everyone! Reading even promotes stronger analytical thinking skills and improved focus and concentration, which in turn translates into increased proficiency in swordplay.”
Brutus fixes her with a stern look. “You made that up just now.”
Eibhlin’s eyes shift to the left, just barely, but otherwise her expression stays prim and haughty. “I extrapolated, but the benefits themselves are tried and tested. Even those with difficulty can profit from regular exposure to the written word. I read to Claudius every night before bed. Oh, I should pick him up a new compilation of myths and folklore, we’re running through Odin’s collection at quite a clip …” She tilts her head, giving Brutus a studying look. “I could read to you, if you would like. I hear the social bonding is unparalleled.”
Brutus sighs. It could be worse, he reminds himself: it could be bears. “Yeah, all right. Find me something you think I’d like.”
Eibhlin’s face lights up, and she curls a hand around his forearm and steers him toward a tall stack of shelves. “Since you’re so proficient with the sword, perhaps you would be interested in the history of the craft itself. Why don’t we purchase some books on weaponsmithing? I’m sure the process is fascinating, and your district’s reluctance to automate the manufacture of its hand-to-hand weapons has elevated it into an art form…”
He lets her drag him, content to let her chatter away, and okays the selection of a couple books that look like they might not be completely bullshit. One more detour to the folklore section to pick up Claudius’ mythology books and then they’re out to the truck with a pair of shopping bags heavy enough Brutus could use them for a half-decent overhand workout.
And it’s funny, but stepping outside into the sunlight, extra-bright after the artificial fluorescents of the bookstore, Brutus knows nothing’s changed since they entered, but he feels different. Lighter, somehow. He doesn’t say anything to Eibhlin, doesn’t expect it to come up, but they’re in the truck and halfway up the road when she speaks up, looking out the window instead of at him. “The last time I went to a bookstore was with Lumina,” she says. Brutus’ hands freeze on the steering wheel but he knows better than to react. Too many years of mentoring for that. “I kept thinking about it the entire time we were driving here: the last time I stepped foot in a bookstore, Lumina and Wiress were alive.” She lets out a breath, a short, hard exhale. Her hands twist together in her lap. “And now, the last time I went to a bookstore will be with you. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
Brutus glances at her, startled, then relaxes. That’s what they’re doing, isn’t it, writing over old experiences and associations day by day, replacing them with new ones that don’t hurt so much. He could cling to the old, try to grab every last scrap of the dead wherever he goes, or he can learn to let them go, one gentle memory at a time. “Yeah,” he says, and reaches over to fold her hand in his. “Yeah, bug, I was just thinking the same thing.”
penfold wanted Brutus & Eibhlin at the bookstore!
It hurts a little, stepping inside.
Nah, not hurts, that’s too fresh, too sharp. Makes it sound like the pain is new. Though it does startle a bit, surprise him into sucking in a short breath, but it’s more like bumping into a corner of the desk and finding it already tender from an old bruise rather than stepping on a nail.
It aches, then, that’s the word for it. Be proud, Odin, look at him, paying attention to words. Like an old wound made tender by moving the wrong way, bringing the injury to mind. Brutus might not be poetic, but he knows recovery, the different ways ancient pains make themselves felt. He also knows how to avoid sticking a finger in an old sore.
But Eibhlin wanted books, and what was Brutus supposed to say? Sorry, bug, no can do, going to the bookstore makes me sad because my mentor used to like it. Not Games-damned likely. Eibhlin survived torture and separation from her mentor and the death of two of her fellow Victors and had managed to claw her way back to sanity and security a second time in the ashes of war and a strange district full of killers. Brutus could damn well put his big-boy pants on.
You’d never know any of that to look at her now. Her hair’s grown in and she wears one of Claudius’ stolen jackets like a statement, the kind of pointed ‘I don’t give a shit’ attitude toward fashion that comes from rebelling against years of being primped and dressed for cameras and sponsors and buyers but now, in her complete disregard, looks to outsiders like stylish liberation from current trends. There are articles about it now, talking about post-war Victor normcore sartorial trends, free from the shackles of conformity, when it’s all just exhausted, traumatized people in jeans and oversized sweaters who no longer have to wax every inch of their bodies and wear shirts with slits open to the navel or risk finding their loved ones murdered in their beds. It would be funny if it weren’t so fucking exhausting.
But Eibhlin is outside, damn it, in public, and she looks like a normal, happy, healthy twenty-something, and Brutus will pull his maudlin head out of his ass and enjoy the moment. He shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels, studying her as she stops inside the bookstore’s entrance and takes it all in.
“I’m sure it can’t compare to whatever you had back in Three,” Brutus says, suddenly compelled to apologize before he hears all about it, “but there’s not as much call for it out here.”
Eibhlin frowns. “You are performing a kindness for me,” she says, in the kind of voice that makes it sound like Brutus just said something very stupid. “Pointing out deficiencies in the favour you are performing me would be the height of rudeness. Besides, at first glance this facility appears more than adequate.”
“Oh.” He rolls his weight back, forward onto his toes, then back again. “All right then.”
“Besides, any books in Three on animal husbandry would be chiefly theoretical,” Eibhlin reminds him as she takes off again, short legs moving at an impressive clip. Little lady can move when she wants to. “The homegrown districts are much better for that sort of thing.”
“Just a reminder that most people did not actually have goats in their yards when I was growing up,” Brutus says wearily, but he lost this battle and there’s no point kicking it back up again. Once Eibhlin found out that, while large-scale agriculture was mostly restricted to the outer districts, some families in Two were known to keep a pair of goats, there was no stopping her. Brutus had talked her down from chickens (noisy, smelly, too much damn ruckus, would never survive the winter and Beetee would murder the entire Village before he allowed them in his house) and sheep (needed too large an area, no way to keep only one or two since they were pack animals, never mind all that shearing nonsense), but he couldn’t get her off the goats. Then Ronan said he might not be a terrible idea, and Misha thought the whole thing sounded hilarious, and by then the damn thing had legs.
“If we restricted ourselves to replicating our own childhood experiences, adulthood would be a paucity indeed,” Eibhlin says. and Brutus sighs.
After rejecting three books for having too large a section on butchery, Eibhlin finally selects an armful of volumes (or maybe tomes, that’s a nice Odin word for it, they’re all the size of her Games-damned arms) on goat-raising. Brutus insists on carrying them for her, fielding acerbic remarks about outmoded concepts of chivalry by pointing out that no, it has nothing to do with gender and everything to do with not letting her drop the huge pile while he’s right there with arms the size of her head.
“Is there anything you would like?” she asks, looking up at Brutus, eyes bright behind her glasses.
“Uh.” Brutus runs a hand over his head. “Not really. Reading’s never been my thing.”
“Nonsense!” Eibhlin’s gaze sharpens, and oh boy, what’s he done now. “Reading is for everyone! Reading even promotes stronger analytical thinking skills and improved focus and concentration, which in turn translates into increased proficiency in swordplay.”
Brutus fixes her with a stern look. “You made that up just now.”
Eibhlin’s eyes shift to the left, just barely, but otherwise her expression stays prim and haughty. “I extrapolated, but the benefits themselves are tried and tested. Even those with difficulty can profit from regular exposure to the written word. I read to Claudius every night before bed. Oh, I should pick him up a new compilation of myths and folklore, we’re running through Odin’s collection at quite a clip …” She tilts her head, giving Brutus a studying look. “I could read to you, if you would like. I hear the social bonding is unparalleled.”
Brutus sighs. It could be worse, he reminds himself: it could be bears. “Yeah, all right. Find me something you think I’d like.”
Eibhlin’s face lights up, and she curls a hand around his forearm and steers him toward a tall stack of shelves. “Since you’re so proficient with the sword, perhaps you would be interested in the history of the craft itself. Why don’t we purchase some books on weaponsmithing? I’m sure the process is fascinating, and your district’s reluctance to automate the manufacture of its hand-to-hand weapons has elevated it into an art form…”
He lets her drag him, content to let her chatter away, and okays the selection of a couple books that look like they might not be completely bullshit. One more detour to the folklore section to pick up Claudius’ mythology books and then they’re out to the truck with a pair of shopping bags heavy enough Brutus could use them for a half-decent overhand workout.
And it’s funny, but stepping outside into the sunlight, extra-bright after the artificial fluorescents of the bookstore, Brutus knows nothing’s changed since they entered, but he feels different. Lighter, somehow. He doesn’t say anything to Eibhlin, doesn’t expect it to come up, but they’re in the truck and halfway up the road when she speaks up, looking out the window instead of at him. “The last time I went to a bookstore was with Lumina,” she says. Brutus’ hands freeze on the steering wheel but he knows better than to react. Too many years of mentoring for that. “I kept thinking about it the entire time we were driving here: the last time I stepped foot in a bookstore, Lumina and Wiress were alive.” She lets out a breath, a short, hard exhale. Her hands twist together in her lap. “And now, the last time I went to a bookstore will be with you. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
Brutus glances at her, startled, then relaxes. That’s what they’re doing, isn’t it, writing over old experiences and associations day by day, replacing them with new ones that don’t hurt so much. He could cling to the old, try to grab every last scrap of the dead wherever he goes, or he can learn to let them go, one gentle memory at a time. “Yeah,” he says, and reaches over to fold her hand in his. “Yeah, bug, I was just thinking the same thing.”