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Entry tags:
when the bough breaks
Characters: Varis yae Galvus; Solus zos Galvus
Warnings: Intimations of child abuse; child endangerment; discussions of canon-typical violence
Summary:
“There he is,” says Grandfather. He says it through a little smile--a thin one, like the surface of a pond in late spring, thinner than it looks. It’s the kind of tenuity that could shock you to death if you make a wrong move and it cracks. “Dazed, are we? You took a spill.”
Varis did make a wrong move. He was climbing in one of the palace courtyards, and he was foolish, and he slipped. He fell hard. He remembers that it did hurt badly, before there was nothing between then and now. He had fallen into the snow--he remembers that, too. The pain, but also the cold. Grandfather would feel warm in comparison. Would. Varis thinks it while he blinks slowly up at his grandfather’s face: everything would be warmer, even Grandfather, if only Father were here. Even Grandfather’s embrace would be like summer.
“I did,” says Varis quietly. He notices the shape of his own hands: they’re grasping at his grandfather’s coat. Quickly, he lets go. “I fell, I--” He shuts his mouth.
Grandfather smooths his thumb over Varis’ brow. “Your face is still quite white. Your blood is precious to this land, my boy, and so much of it now is a spectacle across the snow outside.”
Men do lose their color when they bleed too much, but Varis know what he feels in his own cheeks, and he knows what he looks like when he is afraid. He rests just as still as he can in his grandfather’s arms. He tries not to move. He tries hard to keep from doing or being much of anything. His grandfather’s eyes look tarnished, like gold gone bad. He and Varis stare at each other as if they’re two animals in a wood. “I just slipped,” says Varis. His voice is too small for his mouth, nearly lost inside it. Grandfather knows that he slipped. They stare at each other now as if they are two animals. Earlier, just before Varis fell, they stared at each other as if they were a god and a savage. Varis has only read descriptions of prayer in books, but it felt like prayer in the moment before his tumble. He looked up from where he was climbing and he saw Grandfather standing at a window. Grandfather was watching him through the pane, and it made Varis’ heart lose its balance. It had been so long--ever since Father has been gone--Varis used to love the feeling of being appraised and then approved of by his grandfather. Now his grandfather’s eyes deny him the gold of his birthright. Varis can hardly earn a glance.
So when he saw Grandfather in the window, Varis raised one of his hands as high as it would go and waved it around. He wanted it to be like a parade, full of love. And he slipped. And he saw Grandfather watch him fall. He saw how still Grandfather remained, until he hit the ground.
“You must be more careful,” Grandfather says. He sounds tender like stone fruit. The pit is in there somewhere.
“Yes,” says Varis.
“We only have the one of you, you know?”
“I know.”
Grandfather kisses the crown of his head, firm, foundational, finally the mountain. Varis lies in his grandfather’s arms, thinking ceaselessly of falling, of being watched through glass, of the lack of passion in his grandfather’s face. This is how he learns that his grandfather is made of stone.
Warnings: Intimations of child abuse; child endangerment; discussions of canon-typical violence
Summary:
“You must be more careful,” Grandfather says. He sounds tender like stone fruit. The pit is in there somewhere.
when the bough breaks
“There he is,” says Grandfather. He says it through a little smile--a thin one, like the surface of a pond in late spring, thinner than it looks. It’s the kind of tenuity that could shock you to death if you make a wrong move and it cracks. “Dazed, are we? You took a spill.”
Varis did make a wrong move. He was climbing in one of the palace courtyards, and he was foolish, and he slipped. He fell hard. He remembers that it did hurt badly, before there was nothing between then and now. He had fallen into the snow--he remembers that, too. The pain, but also the cold. Grandfather would feel warm in comparison. Would. Varis thinks it while he blinks slowly up at his grandfather’s face: everything would be warmer, even Grandfather, if only Father were here. Even Grandfather’s embrace would be like summer.
“I did,” says Varis quietly. He notices the shape of his own hands: they’re grasping at his grandfather’s coat. Quickly, he lets go. “I fell, I--” He shuts his mouth.
Grandfather smooths his thumb over Varis’ brow. “Your face is still quite white. Your blood is precious to this land, my boy, and so much of it now is a spectacle across the snow outside.”
Men do lose their color when they bleed too much, but Varis know what he feels in his own cheeks, and he knows what he looks like when he is afraid. He rests just as still as he can in his grandfather’s arms. He tries not to move. He tries hard to keep from doing or being much of anything. His grandfather’s eyes look tarnished, like gold gone bad. He and Varis stare at each other as if they’re two animals in a wood. “I just slipped,” says Varis. His voice is too small for his mouth, nearly lost inside it. Grandfather knows that he slipped. They stare at each other now as if they are two animals. Earlier, just before Varis fell, they stared at each other as if they were a god and a savage. Varis has only read descriptions of prayer in books, but it felt like prayer in the moment before his tumble. He looked up from where he was climbing and he saw Grandfather standing at a window. Grandfather was watching him through the pane, and it made Varis’ heart lose its balance. It had been so long--ever since Father has been gone--Varis used to love the feeling of being appraised and then approved of by his grandfather. Now his grandfather’s eyes deny him the gold of his birthright. Varis can hardly earn a glance.
So when he saw Grandfather in the window, Varis raised one of his hands as high as it would go and waved it around. He wanted it to be like a parade, full of love. And he slipped. And he saw Grandfather watch him fall. He saw how still Grandfather remained, until he hit the ground.
“You must be more careful,” Grandfather says. He sounds tender like stone fruit. The pit is in there somewhere.
“Yes,” says Varis.
“We only have the one of you, you know?”
“I know.”
Grandfather kisses the crown of his head, firm, foundational, finally the mountain. Varis lies in his grandfather’s arms, thinking ceaselessly of falling, of being watched through glass, of the lack of passion in his grandfather’s face. This is how he learns that his grandfather is made of stone.