[Wild Roses] Phoebe & Ian
Title: admissions
’Verse/characters: Wild Roses; Phoebe, the Second Ian
Prompt: 75A "one more chance"
Word Count: 750
Rating: PG for weird family tangles.
Notes: same arc as this, a week or so later.
He was so young. Young in a way beyond the face he wore, because by rights of years they should both be silvered--most mages were of an age to do that if counted in mortal lifespans. That wasn't the real problem, not in the cold pale light of morning, with a bleary-eyed man slumped sleepily at her kitchen table over his tea. His face reminded her far more of boy-princes sitting in her chairs, not a mage her equal or better letting steam bead across his eyelashes because he wasn't yet awake enough to sip, or sketch evaporating patterns in the condensation on the table.
The rulers previous to the man she'd married and left hadn't been fools enough to forbid unions. She'd told that to a so-young man not, really, so very much older than the man at her table now. It'd been truth then, and was truth now. Intellectually, her business was hers, and hers alone. No one would presume to speak to her about the fact that she'd taken a man young enough--well past literally, her younger grandchild wasn't twenty years older than him, and her elder much, much elder--to be her grandson to her bed. They might not even look askance, the remains of her choices setting her apart.
"You did better than I did," the young man at her table said softly, not looking up from his tea.
She startled, near to the point of dropping her cup again, but caught herself. "What?"
He raised his head then, small wry smile on a half-stranger's face. "Your children. You did better by them than I did, with mine."
She blinked, half-stupidly, thoughts flitting across her mind and as quickly-discarded as they came, as for every 'Matilda was not the best of partners' there was a 'Aifiric was not the best of partners'. Settled, eventually, on "You started much earlier than I did."
He replied with an eloquent half-shrug, relic of the court they'd both grown up in, movement his face and form utterly did not fit. He should have been flicking a gold-embroidered sleeve off his wrist with the motion, not gesturing with a heavy tea-mug, bare armed and freckled from time in the sun. "I could have done more than I did." Small, sad, old smile. "As now we reap the consequences."
"We would have seen the end, without you, Tattersall," she told him, clicking her mug down on the table across from him and sitting down on air, not bothering to capture one of the chairs.
"We did see the end, Phoebe," he countered. "Or does the man you married wear gold I never saw?"
She flinched. " . . . Is that why you left?"
"It wasn't home anymore," he said softly, looking down at his tea, then slipping his fingers around the cup in old familiarity as steam started rising again. "No anchors, no roots, and a boy I failed the man on the throne. Are you surprised?"
"Why did you come back?" she asked, knowing her voice betrayed the scab. "Once gone, why return?"
"It wasn't entirely intentional," he admitted, leaning back in his chair, cup sliding across the wood of the table with the movement of his hands. "Might be best summated that I was named a bit too well."
'You're wearing the face of one of your great grand-children,' she thought, deliberately phrasing it in her mind so it didn't become 'I married your son because you left me,' as she tucked her feet up underneath her layered skirts, leaving the floor entirely. "Why here, Ian?" voice dropped to its lowest, smoothest register, the voice she'd used as Queen.
"A certain sense of selfishness," he said, corner of his mouth lifting briefly. "A certain wish for second chances."
"People will think I'm filling an empty nest," she retorted, voice lighter, the voice of the mage she'd been before the title, and the silver in her hair.
"When have you cared what people thought of you, as long as what was needed is done?" he retorted back. "I'm not your son, and I never will be. If you know that, and I know that," a faint note of not-quite-pleading creeping into his voice.
"I feel a bit like I'm nest-robbing," she admitted.
"I feel a bit like a body-snatcher," he admitted back, "and wearing my own face would put me right back where I left off. A relic-hero of the past, out of touch with the now because both of myself and how others would perceive me. I am Ian, and the Second Ian."
"And only I know the two are one and the same," she said, very softly, not quite a question.
’Verse/characters: Wild Roses; Phoebe, the Second Ian
Prompt: 75A "one more chance"
Word Count: 750
Rating: PG for weird family tangles.
Notes: same arc as this, a week or so later.
He was so young. Young in a way beyond the face he wore, because by rights of years they should both be silvered--most mages were of an age to do that if counted in mortal lifespans. That wasn't the real problem, not in the cold pale light of morning, with a bleary-eyed man slumped sleepily at her kitchen table over his tea. His face reminded her far more of boy-princes sitting in her chairs, not a mage her equal or better letting steam bead across his eyelashes because he wasn't yet awake enough to sip, or sketch evaporating patterns in the condensation on the table.
The rulers previous to the man she'd married and left hadn't been fools enough to forbid unions. She'd told that to a so-young man not, really, so very much older than the man at her table now. It'd been truth then, and was truth now. Intellectually, her business was hers, and hers alone. No one would presume to speak to her about the fact that she'd taken a man young enough--well past literally, her younger grandchild wasn't twenty years older than him, and her elder much, much elder--to be her grandson to her bed. They might not even look askance, the remains of her choices setting her apart.
"You did better than I did," the young man at her table said softly, not looking up from his tea.
She startled, near to the point of dropping her cup again, but caught herself. "What?"
He raised his head then, small wry smile on a half-stranger's face. "Your children. You did better by them than I did, with mine."
She blinked, half-stupidly, thoughts flitting across her mind and as quickly-discarded as they came, as for every 'Matilda was not the best of partners' there was a 'Aifiric was not the best of partners'. Settled, eventually, on "You started much earlier than I did."
He replied with an eloquent half-shrug, relic of the court they'd both grown up in, movement his face and form utterly did not fit. He should have been flicking a gold-embroidered sleeve off his wrist with the motion, not gesturing with a heavy tea-mug, bare armed and freckled from time in the sun. "I could have done more than I did." Small, sad, old smile. "As now we reap the consequences."
"We would have seen the end, without you, Tattersall," she told him, clicking her mug down on the table across from him and sitting down on air, not bothering to capture one of the chairs.
"We did see the end, Phoebe," he countered. "Or does the man you married wear gold I never saw?"
She flinched. " . . . Is that why you left?"
"It wasn't home anymore," he said softly, looking down at his tea, then slipping his fingers around the cup in old familiarity as steam started rising again. "No anchors, no roots, and a boy I failed the man on the throne. Are you surprised?"
"Why did you come back?" she asked, knowing her voice betrayed the scab. "Once gone, why return?"
"It wasn't entirely intentional," he admitted, leaning back in his chair, cup sliding across the wood of the table with the movement of his hands. "Might be best summated that I was named a bit too well."
'You're wearing the face of one of your great grand-children,' she thought, deliberately phrasing it in her mind so it didn't become 'I married your son because you left me,' as she tucked her feet up underneath her layered skirts, leaving the floor entirely. "Why here, Ian?" voice dropped to its lowest, smoothest register, the voice she'd used as Queen.
"A certain sense of selfishness," he said, corner of his mouth lifting briefly. "A certain wish for second chances."
"People will think I'm filling an empty nest," she retorted, voice lighter, the voice of the mage she'd been before the title, and the silver in her hair.
"When have you cared what people thought of you, as long as what was needed is done?" he retorted back. "I'm not your son, and I never will be. If you know that, and I know that," a faint note of not-quite-pleading creeping into his voice.
"I feel a bit like I'm nest-robbing," she admitted.
"I feel a bit like a body-snatcher," he admitted back, "and wearing my own face would put me right back where I left off. A relic-hero of the past, out of touch with the now because both of myself and how others would perceive me. I am Ian, and the Second Ian."
"And only I know the two are one and the same," she said, very softly, not quite a question.