Spare the Lightning Rod (Vanilla, RHC, sub-FOTW)
‘Verse: Natural Forces
Challenges/Toppings/Extras: Vanilla #2 (the sniffles), Red Hot Cinnamon #11 (embers/coals), Substitute-FotW: Sour Cherry #26 (my brother’s keeper) + Whipped Cream
Rating: PG (itty bitty word)
Title: Spare the Lightning Rod
Summary: Alain the prodigy and Bran the… “brother.”
Notes: Circa 2250 CE, about 200 years after the Awakening. Contains no actual magic, but I have plans for these two, never fear.
Do hope he actually sounds kiddish, idk what I'm doing.
Bran pressed close to the bathroom door, willing his ear to meld to the wood if it meant he would hear better.
“Mages can heal most any wound but they can’t cure this damn-” Alain’s voice cut off and was replaced by frenzied sneezing. It sounded painful; Bran counted six sneezes before he remembered what he was really listening for.
“Language, young man,” Mother said over the strangled achoo’s. Oh, she sounded angry.
Alain finally stopped sneezing, and when he spoke again he sounded like that crazy old lady with the great stories, voice all hoarse and croaky. Bran loved that old lady, though all the adults - and Alain himself - told him to stay away. She was so nice, even though she was a bit batty - okay, really batty. The things she described were impossible without magic. But she insisted there had been a time with no magic at all. Bran didn’t believe her, of course. She was always alone with no one but him to talk to; no wonder she was crazy, but it seemed to make her happy to tell the stories. It was annoying that no one thought he could distinguish make-believe from real life, though.
“-cold,” Alain said.
“Yes, well, it is what it is. If mages cured everything, there would be no more sick days from school, hmm? Maybe when you’re older you can try to cure the common cold with your magic. Or not.”
“What? No… I meant I’m cold. Freezing. Did you put out the fire?”
Mother sighed so loudly Bran could hear her even through the bathroom door. “No, Alain. It was cast by your mother, remember? If you can’t grasp the concept of sustaining remotely,” - and Bran was so busy trying to sound out the unfamiliar words that he very nearly did not hear Mother continue - “then you’ll make for a poor Life mage, young man. Here, pull the blankets up. I’ll have to get the tinderbox. There’s not even embers left.” Her shoes went tap-tap on the floor, a door opened and shut, and Mother’s footsteps got quieter and quieter until Bran couldn’t hear them anymore.
There was a pause. Bran slowly pulled back from the door.
“Hey, you still in there?” Alain’s voice was playful; he knew just as well as Bran that there was nowhere else to go once the younger boy hid in the bathroom. The one window was too small for Bran to fit through now.
Bran opened the door a crack. “Yeah.” He nudged it further along, slipped through - leaving it open for another quick escape from Mother when she came back - and went over to Alain’s bedside. Alain smiled at him crookedly, and poked his hand out from under the blankets for Bran to grab. He was all sweaty. Bran yanked his hand away, screwing up his face and trying to shake it off.
“Ha. Got you, little brother.” Alain’s mouth slackened again. “Ugh. Hurts.” He closed his eyes, but kept his face turned to Bran. “Hey. Why you still here, huh? Aren’t you afraid of getting sick too? I tell ya, it’s not fun.”
“I have to protect you from Mother.”
He had meant it in all seriousness, but Alain’s eyes snapped open. His head rose off the pillow for a second and he chuckled, before he collapsed again. “What? She’s no biggie. She can’t hurt me. She’s not that bad, anyway. And why’d you call her that?” He cracked open an eye.
“Well, she is.” He knew not to say he had learned it from the old lady’s stories.
“You’re so serious all the time. Hey. You really want me to get better? Yeah? Then let me rest, little bro. Go and play or something. It’ll be good for you. Then you can… tell me all about it.”
Little brother. Bran calling his mother his mother wasn’t anywhere near as strange as how Alain called him something he wasn’t. No, he was just the governess’ kid, a little magic-less “runt” (he didn’t know quite what that meant but he knew it was bad) who wasn’t supposed to play with his mother’s charge, the up-and-coming master of Life magic. But Alain was brave - not only did he not push Bran away, he said he had always wanted a little brother and so that was was Bran became. That didn’t mean his mother would approve of him being anywhere near Alain, whether he was sick or not.
Alain looked asleep, so Bran stood on tiptoe to pull the blankets up to his chin, and slipped out before his mother could come back and discover his little rebellion.
Challenges/Toppings/Extras: Vanilla #2 (the sniffles), Red Hot Cinnamon #11 (embers/coals), Substitute-FotW: Sour Cherry #26 (my brother’s keeper) + Whipped Cream
Rating: PG (itty bitty word)
Title: Spare the Lightning Rod
Summary: Alain the prodigy and Bran the… “brother.”
Notes: Circa 2250 CE, about 200 years after the Awakening. Contains no actual magic, but I have plans for these two, never fear.
Do hope he actually sounds kiddish, idk what I'm doing.
Bran pressed close to the bathroom door, willing his ear to meld to the wood if it meant he would hear better.
“Mages can heal most any wound but they can’t cure this damn-” Alain’s voice cut off and was replaced by frenzied sneezing. It sounded painful; Bran counted six sneezes before he remembered what he was really listening for.
“Language, young man,” Mother said over the strangled achoo’s. Oh, she sounded angry.
Alain finally stopped sneezing, and when he spoke again he sounded like that crazy old lady with the great stories, voice all hoarse and croaky. Bran loved that old lady, though all the adults - and Alain himself - told him to stay away. She was so nice, even though she was a bit batty - okay, really batty. The things she described were impossible without magic. But she insisted there had been a time with no magic at all. Bran didn’t believe her, of course. She was always alone with no one but him to talk to; no wonder she was crazy, but it seemed to make her happy to tell the stories. It was annoying that no one thought he could distinguish make-believe from real life, though.
“-cold,” Alain said.
“Yes, well, it is what it is. If mages cured everything, there would be no more sick days from school, hmm? Maybe when you’re older you can try to cure the common cold with your magic. Or not.”
“What? No… I meant I’m cold. Freezing. Did you put out the fire?”
Mother sighed so loudly Bran could hear her even through the bathroom door. “No, Alain. It was cast by your mother, remember? If you can’t grasp the concept of sustaining remotely,” - and Bran was so busy trying to sound out the unfamiliar words that he very nearly did not hear Mother continue - “then you’ll make for a poor Life mage, young man. Here, pull the blankets up. I’ll have to get the tinderbox. There’s not even embers left.” Her shoes went tap-tap on the floor, a door opened and shut, and Mother’s footsteps got quieter and quieter until Bran couldn’t hear them anymore.
There was a pause. Bran slowly pulled back from the door.
“Hey, you still in there?” Alain’s voice was playful; he knew just as well as Bran that there was nowhere else to go once the younger boy hid in the bathroom. The one window was too small for Bran to fit through now.
Bran opened the door a crack. “Yeah.” He nudged it further along, slipped through - leaving it open for another quick escape from Mother when she came back - and went over to Alain’s bedside. Alain smiled at him crookedly, and poked his hand out from under the blankets for Bran to grab. He was all sweaty. Bran yanked his hand away, screwing up his face and trying to shake it off.
“Ha. Got you, little brother.” Alain’s mouth slackened again. “Ugh. Hurts.” He closed his eyes, but kept his face turned to Bran. “Hey. Why you still here, huh? Aren’t you afraid of getting sick too? I tell ya, it’s not fun.”
“I have to protect you from Mother.”
He had meant it in all seriousness, but Alain’s eyes snapped open. His head rose off the pillow for a second and he chuckled, before he collapsed again. “What? She’s no biggie. She can’t hurt me. She’s not that bad, anyway. And why’d you call her that?” He cracked open an eye.
“Well, she is.” He knew not to say he had learned it from the old lady’s stories.
“You’re so serious all the time. Hey. You really want me to get better? Yeah? Then let me rest, little bro. Go and play or something. It’ll be good for you. Then you can… tell me all about it.”
Little brother. Bran calling his mother his mother wasn’t anywhere near as strange as how Alain called him something he wasn’t. No, he was just the governess’ kid, a little magic-less “runt” (he didn’t know quite what that meant but he knew it was bad) who wasn’t supposed to play with his mother’s charge, the up-and-coming master of Life magic. But Alain was brave - not only did he not push Bran away, he said he had always wanted a little brother and so that was was Bran became. That didn’t mean his mother would approve of him being anywhere near Alain, whether he was sick or not.
Alain looked asleep, so Bran stood on tiptoe to pull the blankets up to his chin, and slipped out before his mother could come back and discover his little rebellion.