[Wild Roses] the first war
Title: gift. sorta.
'Verse/characters: Wild Roses; Fintain, Duncan, Hazel
Prompt: 37A "excuses"
Word Count: 685
Notes: follows decision made. This and the one previous were not written today (shocking, I'm sure). However, this concludes the wars requests. If you want more, ask.
He felt eyes on his back before a boyish voice called him, title and name, like the speaker couldn't quite believe it.
He turned to face the voice, blinked once because the boy was holding a toddler in his arms, the child gnawing contentedly on a scrap of leather, then offered a smile.
"I am Fintain, yes," he replied, calculating far back in his head. The boy--young man, really, wearing a coat a little too big and a little too armored to have been his long--was half-familiar, the way everyone was familiar if one could live long enough, uncles and cousins and fathers echoed in new generations, new voices drowning out the voices of their grandfa--oh, no.
He looked again, trying to disprove it, but actually saw the curve of a Sabaey-touched Sandoval jawline, the slightly ridiculous ears of a lover, looked at the redheaded child in the boy's arms, and knew. Knew that profile, in the boy's face, beneath the baby fat of the girl.
They hadn't gotten along, the last time he saw this boy, him too old and unimpressed by a boy's half hackles at someone not his father paying court to his mother--whether or not his father minded.
Taller now, thinner, older in a way seen too many times, at home and out in his brother's woods. Standing with a child in his arms, staring at Fintain with a silent question in his eyes.
"Her mother?" Fintain asked, gentle as he could around the ugly knot in his gut. He should have left a way to call for help.
"Gone," the boy replied, too calm, the calm that meant he was crying, somewhere back in his head and his heart. "As is the man who would have raised her as his own. And I--I'm no father."
Confession, that, even more than the knowing that a friend was dead, too. He knew it was coming, even before the tight, wry smile split the boy's face, and he was holding out his arms for the child as "The piper's calling, m'lord--how will you pay?" cut across his ear.
She came with the coat she'd been bundled in, crowed delightedly when he lifted her to bump noses, friendly as he could manage, then went back to her scrap. He settled her, a little awkwardly, in the crook of his arm, then looked back up at her brother.
No matter what his detractors might claim, behind his back or in front of his face, he wasn't stupid. And didn't push as the boy closed his eyes briefly, his face blanking in a way young men tried, one that only showed how thin they were spread, to someone old.
"Hazel," the boy said softly, reaching out and running a gentle hand over his sister's distracted head, then looked up at Fintain.
"She would have worn Kintarl--" It was so odd to hear a new name, to know that the wood was breeding under his brother's angry banner "--I think she's entitled to Sabaey." It wasn't really a question, for all the polite phrasing.
The wood was giving up its claim on the girl, in the form of her brother, and winter. The kid had no idea what he was giving his sister to, not really. A man he'd disliked, once. An idea of a prince, and a place, and a name.
A chance to grow up.
It was written plain on the boy's face, and Fintain couldn't force himself to ask how his friend and his lover had died, how many others had, to let a child like this want his baby sister out.
He hitched the girl--Hazel, he had to remember to use her name--up his arm, leaning against his shoulder, winced when she bit him. Definitely his daughter.
"As you would, nephew," he said softly.
The boy blinked once, startled, then shrugged, obviously taking the word for a politer version of 'lover's son by another', and nodded to Hazel. "Take care of her." Again, not a question.
There was a terrible faith in the boy's eyes, one that Fintain had no way to deny.
'Verse/characters: Wild Roses; Fintain, Duncan, Hazel
Prompt: 37A "excuses"
Word Count: 685
Notes: follows decision made. This and the one previous were not written today (shocking, I'm sure). However, this concludes the wars requests. If you want more, ask.
He felt eyes on his back before a boyish voice called him, title and name, like the speaker couldn't quite believe it.
He turned to face the voice, blinked once because the boy was holding a toddler in his arms, the child gnawing contentedly on a scrap of leather, then offered a smile.
"I am Fintain, yes," he replied, calculating far back in his head. The boy--young man, really, wearing a coat a little too big and a little too armored to have been his long--was half-familiar, the way everyone was familiar if one could live long enough, uncles and cousins and fathers echoed in new generations, new voices drowning out the voices of their grandfa--oh, no.
He looked again, trying to disprove it, but actually saw the curve of a Sabaey-touched Sandoval jawline, the slightly ridiculous ears of a lover, looked at the redheaded child in the boy's arms, and knew. Knew that profile, in the boy's face, beneath the baby fat of the girl.
They hadn't gotten along, the last time he saw this boy, him too old and unimpressed by a boy's half hackles at someone not his father paying court to his mother--whether or not his father minded.
Taller now, thinner, older in a way seen too many times, at home and out in his brother's woods. Standing with a child in his arms, staring at Fintain with a silent question in his eyes.
"Her mother?" Fintain asked, gentle as he could around the ugly knot in his gut. He should have left a way to call for help.
"Gone," the boy replied, too calm, the calm that meant he was crying, somewhere back in his head and his heart. "As is the man who would have raised her as his own. And I--I'm no father."
Confession, that, even more than the knowing that a friend was dead, too. He knew it was coming, even before the tight, wry smile split the boy's face, and he was holding out his arms for the child as "The piper's calling, m'lord--how will you pay?" cut across his ear.
She came with the coat she'd been bundled in, crowed delightedly when he lifted her to bump noses, friendly as he could manage, then went back to her scrap. He settled her, a little awkwardly, in the crook of his arm, then looked back up at her brother.
No matter what his detractors might claim, behind his back or in front of his face, he wasn't stupid. And didn't push as the boy closed his eyes briefly, his face blanking in a way young men tried, one that only showed how thin they were spread, to someone old.
"Hazel," the boy said softly, reaching out and running a gentle hand over his sister's distracted head, then looked up at Fintain.
"She would have worn Kintarl--" It was so odd to hear a new name, to know that the wood was breeding under his brother's angry banner "--I think she's entitled to Sabaey." It wasn't really a question, for all the polite phrasing.
The wood was giving up its claim on the girl, in the form of her brother, and winter. The kid had no idea what he was giving his sister to, not really. A man he'd disliked, once. An idea of a prince, and a place, and a name.
A chance to grow up.
It was written plain on the boy's face, and Fintain couldn't force himself to ask how his friend and his lover had died, how many others had, to let a child like this want his baby sister out.
He hitched the girl--Hazel, he had to remember to use her name--up his arm, leaning against his shoulder, winced when she bit him. Definitely his daughter.
"As you would, nephew," he said softly.
The boy blinked once, startled, then shrugged, obviously taking the word for a politer version of 'lover's son by another', and nodded to Hazel. "Take care of her." Again, not a question.
There was a terrible faith in the boy's eyes, one that Fintain had no way to deny.