![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
twenty years hard labor
Characters: Alberic Bale, Estinien Varlineau
Summary:
Of course the plan is to leave the lad off at an orphanage. It’s not even really a plan so much as the obvious action. Seven hells, where else could he go? He had kin enough to count on ten fingers. Now he is empty-handed. Every person Estinien of Ferndale ever knew, from babe to bodach, is dead and in the ground. Those who’ve not been buried yet will soon be, once a prisoner has gotten to digging their holes. The practice was enacted as a penance, good work done by bad men beneath the Fury’s judging gaze. A sentence of hard labor means the digging of mass graves, when they are needed. The archbishop who declared this law was celebrated for his grace and wisdom on the matter, but every Ishgardian lowborn knows what it means. When the periods of relative peace let up and people are dying in droves, petty infarctions will send a poor man to laboring rather than a few days in a cell. Swipe a bit of bread, and you’ll be digging graves.
Alberic has sat sleepless in the moonlight and thought about criminal strangers preparing the graves of his own fallen fellows. He thinks now of their hands readying the boy’s mother for rest. It’s well past dawn, and he’s thinking of that.
But the boy doesn’t seem to be. Or maybe he is. Alberic can never tell.
“Will you go on and get your things together,” he says to the boy, who stands—empty-handed, no kin nor kit to count—before him. “They’ll be expecting us by the next bell.”
“I have nothing,” says the boy, and if you heard his voice, you would believe his words.
Alberic believes them. Or, really, he knows them to be true. He knows the boy has nothing left, even as he says, “I’d given you that hat and pair of gloves, aye?”
Estinien stares at him, and Alberic is held fast by the impossible weight of his small face, his eyes like the first pale blue part of the morning. To be stared at with those eyes convinces Alberic that he is awaiting judgment. No priest would believe him if he plead for their intercession—lo, that the Fury has come to him in the shape of a young boy…
But Estinien leaves and returns with the gloves and the hat. He has not yet worn either.
The plan is to leave the lad off at the orphanage, so Alberic takes him there. It is the obvious action. Where else could he go?
—
In truth, Alberic will be glad to be rid of the boy. As it is, he cannot have one look at Estinien without also seeing what became of Ferndale, just bodies and buildings all ruined. As it is, he can hardly breathe for the weight of the Fury in Estinien’s little face, his early morning eyes. And mustn’t it be the same for the boy? Alberic had staggered more than walked when he took Estinien from Ferndale, but he managed to carry the child even so. It had felt like carrying a lamb. A stubborn lamb. Estinien would not stop looking over Alberic’s shoulder at the ruin as they left; Alberic had to force him to hide his face against Alberic’s neck. He held the back of Estinien’s head to keep him there, and he felt Estinien weeping. He felt Estinien panting and drooling like a dying dog.
But this is a boy, not a lamb nor a hound. Now he walks quietly, just behind Alberic and out of his periphery. There is no need to shield Estinien’s face, to keep him from looking back. Alberic knows there is nowhere left for the boy to look but where he’ll be walking next.
Yes, they’ll be glad to be rid of each other.
—
Sister Antionne of the Loving Hand is pious and pretty old. Alberic doesn’t know how old she is, but he knows she has been putting the fear of the Fury into orphans for nigh on sixty years. Rumor has it that, as a young woman, she was a beauty beyond compare, surpassingly elegant even among other Elezen women. But she spurned every hand who sought her in favor of devotion to Halone, and she claims the Fury urged her to nurture Ishgard’s children. After all, in Ishgard, each new generation must avenge the last.
Alberic is not surprised that it’s Sister Antionne who opens the door to the orphanage. He doesn’t doubt that her loving hand can still wallop as well as it did when he lived here.
She looks Alberic up and down. Then she does the same to Estinien. “Come in,” she says. She sounds like stale bread: nothing soft, no moisture. Just pain all the way down when you accept it for survival. Once she brings them inside, she waits a moment and then says to Estinien, “It is rude not to greet your elders when you accept an invitation.”
“Hullo, ma’am,” he says. He sounds as stale as she.
“Oh, I have seen his like before,” Antionne says to Alberic. “Many a time.” Then: “Have your good-byes. I shall return with the ledger that you might record his name and family line. Then I shall show the boy to his cot and you may leave.” She marches away, her stride like that of Halone’s trusted general.
Good. He’ll have a cot. He’ll be given a bowl to take to all his meals. An older boy will outgrow his trousers and Estinien will get to have them. He has the gifted hat and gloves—he’s holding them right now—and if another child steals them, Alberic will never have to know about it. He has tried to do right by this boy—this boy and the eyes he shared with Halone. He has tried to withstand Her judgment.
He looks down at the boy. The boy looks forward; he has no other direction.
“Before I leave,” Alberic asks, “can I do anything for you?” He means it to be paltry.
But Estinien nods. Of course he can’t be the sort of child who will shake his head, say that Alberic has already done so much, and leave it at that. He must, instead, blow away the veil to reveal Alberic’s impotence with every breath.
“What do you need, lad?” Alberic asks.
Estinien says, “I want you to tell me about every dragon you have ever killed.” He is the stale bread. It hurts all the way down. You accept it for your survival.
Alberic purses his lips. Sister Antionne would love to train up this one, wouldn’t she? He looks up toward the ceiling, searching for Halone. He sees nothing. Then he looks at Estinien’s face. Ah, Alberic thinks, there She is. “It will take time. I’ll tell you at home.” He lifts Estinien into his arms, again like a lamb. Estinien doesn’t protest. They leave before Sister Antionne returns. Alberic strides past another Sister without a word. They leave the orphanage. They go in another direction—but still forward.
“Have you stolen me?” Estinien finally asks.
Alberic glances down at him. He doesn’t yet set down Estinien to walk on his own: he carries Estinien, and Estinien allows it. He has even put his arms around Alberic’s neck.
Do you see? Alberic prays to Halone’s judging gaze. Hard labor. Good work from a bad man. He is begging the Fury in Estinien’s face to save him. “No,” says Alberic. “I hadn’t given you away yet. I am keeping you, that’s all. I’ll give you a cot, and your own bowl, like Sister Antionne.”
“She was going to give me a bowl?” Estinien says.
“She was.” Alberic walks quietly, then says, “Do you want me to take you back there?”
Estinien turns their journey into the journey away from Ferndale: he hides his face against Alberic’s neck. But this time, Alberic does not need to hold him in place. “No,” says Estinien.
The Fury would never cling to a man like this. She would never. But Alberic can’t be wrong about seeing the Fury in Estinien’s face, and She will never forgive him if he leaves Her behind.
“Then we’re going home,” says Alberic.
Summary:
Good. He’ll have a cot. He’ll be given a bowl to take to all his meals. An older boy will outgrow his trousers and Estinien will get to have them. He has the gifted hat and gloves—he’s holding them right now—and if another child steals them, Alberic will never have to know about it. He has tried to do right by this boy—this boy and the eyes he shared with Halone. He has tried to withstand Her judgment.
He looks down at the boy. The boy looks forward; he has no other direction.
twenty years hard labor
Of course the plan is to leave the lad off at an orphanage. It’s not even really a plan so much as the obvious action. Seven hells, where else could he go? He had kin enough to count on ten fingers. Now he is empty-handed. Every person Estinien of Ferndale ever knew, from babe to bodach, is dead and in the ground. Those who’ve not been buried yet will soon be, once a prisoner has gotten to digging their holes. The practice was enacted as a penance, good work done by bad men beneath the Fury’s judging gaze. A sentence of hard labor means the digging of mass graves, when they are needed. The archbishop who declared this law was celebrated for his grace and wisdom on the matter, but every Ishgardian lowborn knows what it means. When the periods of relative peace let up and people are dying in droves, petty infarctions will send a poor man to laboring rather than a few days in a cell. Swipe a bit of bread, and you’ll be digging graves.
Alberic has sat sleepless in the moonlight and thought about criminal strangers preparing the graves of his own fallen fellows. He thinks now of their hands readying the boy’s mother for rest. It’s well past dawn, and he’s thinking of that.
But the boy doesn’t seem to be. Or maybe he is. Alberic can never tell.
“Will you go on and get your things together,” he says to the boy, who stands—empty-handed, no kin nor kit to count—before him. “They’ll be expecting us by the next bell.”
“I have nothing,” says the boy, and if you heard his voice, you would believe his words.
Alberic believes them. Or, really, he knows them to be true. He knows the boy has nothing left, even as he says, “I’d given you that hat and pair of gloves, aye?”
Estinien stares at him, and Alberic is held fast by the impossible weight of his small face, his eyes like the first pale blue part of the morning. To be stared at with those eyes convinces Alberic that he is awaiting judgment. No priest would believe him if he plead for their intercession—lo, that the Fury has come to him in the shape of a young boy…
But Estinien leaves and returns with the gloves and the hat. He has not yet worn either.
The plan is to leave the lad off at the orphanage, so Alberic takes him there. It is the obvious action. Where else could he go?
—
In truth, Alberic will be glad to be rid of the boy. As it is, he cannot have one look at Estinien without also seeing what became of Ferndale, just bodies and buildings all ruined. As it is, he can hardly breathe for the weight of the Fury in Estinien’s little face, his early morning eyes. And mustn’t it be the same for the boy? Alberic had staggered more than walked when he took Estinien from Ferndale, but he managed to carry the child even so. It had felt like carrying a lamb. A stubborn lamb. Estinien would not stop looking over Alberic’s shoulder at the ruin as they left; Alberic had to force him to hide his face against Alberic’s neck. He held the back of Estinien’s head to keep him there, and he felt Estinien weeping. He felt Estinien panting and drooling like a dying dog.
But this is a boy, not a lamb nor a hound. Now he walks quietly, just behind Alberic and out of his periphery. There is no need to shield Estinien’s face, to keep him from looking back. Alberic knows there is nowhere left for the boy to look but where he’ll be walking next.
Yes, they’ll be glad to be rid of each other.
—
Sister Antionne of the Loving Hand is pious and pretty old. Alberic doesn’t know how old she is, but he knows she has been putting the fear of the Fury into orphans for nigh on sixty years. Rumor has it that, as a young woman, she was a beauty beyond compare, surpassingly elegant even among other Elezen women. But she spurned every hand who sought her in favor of devotion to Halone, and she claims the Fury urged her to nurture Ishgard’s children. After all, in Ishgard, each new generation must avenge the last.
Alberic is not surprised that it’s Sister Antionne who opens the door to the orphanage. He doesn’t doubt that her loving hand can still wallop as well as it did when he lived here.
She looks Alberic up and down. Then she does the same to Estinien. “Come in,” she says. She sounds like stale bread: nothing soft, no moisture. Just pain all the way down when you accept it for survival. Once she brings them inside, she waits a moment and then says to Estinien, “It is rude not to greet your elders when you accept an invitation.”
“Hullo, ma’am,” he says. He sounds as stale as she.
“Oh, I have seen his like before,” Antionne says to Alberic. “Many a time.” Then: “Have your good-byes. I shall return with the ledger that you might record his name and family line. Then I shall show the boy to his cot and you may leave.” She marches away, her stride like that of Halone’s trusted general.
Good. He’ll have a cot. He’ll be given a bowl to take to all his meals. An older boy will outgrow his trousers and Estinien will get to have them. He has the gifted hat and gloves—he’s holding them right now—and if another child steals them, Alberic will never have to know about it. He has tried to do right by this boy—this boy and the eyes he shared with Halone. He has tried to withstand Her judgment.
He looks down at the boy. The boy looks forward; he has no other direction.
“Before I leave,” Alberic asks, “can I do anything for you?” He means it to be paltry.
But Estinien nods. Of course he can’t be the sort of child who will shake his head, say that Alberic has already done so much, and leave it at that. He must, instead, blow away the veil to reveal Alberic’s impotence with every breath.
“What do you need, lad?” Alberic asks.
Estinien says, “I want you to tell me about every dragon you have ever killed.” He is the stale bread. It hurts all the way down. You accept it for your survival.
Alberic purses his lips. Sister Antionne would love to train up this one, wouldn’t she? He looks up toward the ceiling, searching for Halone. He sees nothing. Then he looks at Estinien’s face. Ah, Alberic thinks, there She is. “It will take time. I’ll tell you at home.” He lifts Estinien into his arms, again like a lamb. Estinien doesn’t protest. They leave before Sister Antionne returns. Alberic strides past another Sister without a word. They leave the orphanage. They go in another direction—but still forward.
“Have you stolen me?” Estinien finally asks.
Alberic glances down at him. He doesn’t yet set down Estinien to walk on his own: he carries Estinien, and Estinien allows it. He has even put his arms around Alberic’s neck.
Do you see? Alberic prays to Halone’s judging gaze. Hard labor. Good work from a bad man. He is begging the Fury in Estinien’s face to save him. “No,” says Alberic. “I hadn’t given you away yet. I am keeping you, that’s all. I’ll give you a cot, and your own bowl, like Sister Antionne.”
“She was going to give me a bowl?” Estinien says.
“She was.” Alberic walks quietly, then says, “Do you want me to take you back there?”
Estinien turns their journey into the journey away from Ferndale: he hides his face against Alberic’s neck. But this time, Alberic does not need to hold him in place. “No,” says Estinien.
The Fury would never cling to a man like this. She would never. But Alberic can’t be wrong about seeing the Fury in Estinien’s face, and She will never forgive him if he leaves Her behind.
“Then we’re going home,” says Alberic.