21 Days of Disney!

His visits to Jeanni over the next few days were not particularly productive. Lendel considered it as he rode back to the monastery, trying not to wince under Gala's gentle, careful gait.

Jeanni had listened intently as, with all the neutrality he could muster, he'd explained the issue, the risks, and what he feared would become of her. He emphasized the possible impact on the settlement if she refused, of course, though he hated every moment of having to do so. But he also took her hands and told her earnestly that despite that, it wasn't her problem to deal with, and she had to take her own health, happiness, and future under consideration as well. If this was something she was content with, she could accept the suggestion, he'd said, trying not to let on how horrible he found the idea. If it was not, she could refuse it. Nobody would hold it against her, and her life was her own to live. Certainly, Staven had the stronger blood tie to the Frelennye household, but the queen would overrule that if she took the offer. He was not here, he told her, to convince her one way or another. He was only here to talk to her as one person to another and encourage her to consider her options—all of her options.

She'd remained silent a long time, gaze modestly downcast. Then, "I just want to do what's right," she murmured. "I'm sorry. I'll need some time. Please come back again."

What could he do? He couldn't push it, not and live out the Herald's ideals, no matter how much he wanted to take her by the shoulders and yell that if she were so unsure, she had to refuse. If it wasn't something she could easily make a decision on, that'd bleed into her political marriage; a Leshara would walk all over her. Instead, he bowed his head, smiled, and said, "I'll do so."

It was discouraging however, and as he headed back, even Gala's gentle teasing couldn't quite pick up his mood. Returning to the room he'd been sharing with the novice Vanyel didn't help much either. Vanyel was sitting with a book, his back ramrod stiff as he did his best to ignore Tylendel who, himself, had very little left to do and was feeling fairly oppressed by the situation.

"It's so quiet," he muttered aloud at one point, and caught Vanyel glancing at him in return. "...Don't you think? Maybe I'm just too used to Haven."

"I wouldn't know."

"What about where you came from?" Tylendel pressed. "It can't have been this quiet there. I'm not sure the grave is this quiet normally."

Vanyel's lips twitched into a smile, and then he scowled hard, as if annoyed at his own amusement. "I doubt the grave is a place to joke about."

"I mean no disrespect," Tylendel said offhandedly. He and his brother had developed little nods to their own comfort when both parents had died in one year, back when they were younger, but not everyone shared the sentiment. "Regardless. Was there chatter? Did you have a large family?"

"It doesn't matter. This is where I am now."

Something was off again, in a way that Tylendel still couldn't quite put a finger on. He pursued it almost helplessly; this person needed help, he knew that much by now. "Do you prefer the quiet, then?"

"I..."

"I miss music already," Tylendel sighed. "I don't have any skill for it myself, but back at Haven, the Bards—"

Vanyel slammed his book closed. "I don't give a damn about the Bards," he hissed, but although he seemed bitterly cruel in expression and tone, it didn't match with what Tylendel was Feeling from him. It felt almost like grief, in the brief moment before Vanyel managed, it seemed, to push it down again.

"Alright," Tylendel said. "Sorry."

But Vanyel was already rising. "I see I can't do anything in private here. If you'll excuse me, I'll be in the library." Without waiting for an answer, he stormed out.

Tylendel flopped back on the hard bedroll and sighed. :Gala, love, I'm getting worried.:

:He does seem more than a little troubled. Maybe the celibacy?:

:You're not helping!:

Vanyel didn't come down for dinner that night; 'Lendel could only assume that he'd either grabbed something on his way to the library or was going to sneak food later. He doubted that even Vanyel would skip meals to avoid him. Tylendel had made his schedule perfectly clear, that he'd be there just over a week for his work, and may need to extend his stay if the injury were particularly troublesome. It had been healing well, but nobody would think to go meal-less that long.

Still, Vanyel's absence had its advantages. He sat himself down among the novices as he had become accustomed to doing, and picked slowly at the meager meal. "Tervan," he said, to the young pug-nosed man he recognized on his right. "I was wondering if you knew anything about Vanyel? I was put in his room, but I seem incapable of doing anything but offending him."

"Oh, that's normal for Vanyel," Tervan said, with a visible eye-roll. "Nobody likes him—he's always like that. I'm not surprised he's just as bad to a visiting Herald as he is to any of us! You can't do much with him, Herald Tylendel. He's a mean and bitter human being, and something inside him has just gone wrong. I don't think I've ever seen him show any positive human emotion, not since he arrived here! Perhaps that's why his father sent him here."

Tylendel pretended to be taking a long time to cut through his vegetables. "His father...? Someone important? He does act a bit like a nobleman..."

"That's what I heard. Couldn't say who, though..." Tervan shrugged. "I've never actually heard his family name. Well, that's how it is with that type. Father Brevec doesn't pass their full names on, and forbids them to say it. Teaches them humility. There are plenty of fathers out there who need to send their sons away as punishment, to teach them a thing or two. Everyone says that's why he acts so awful. The only people he listens to are the Fathers; everyone else he treats like dirt."

If anything, Tylendel felt more troubled than before. He remembered that as soon as they'd met, he'd asked Vanyel what had made him decide to take holy orders. If he was being forced to...

Well, no wonder he'd reacted badly.

Managing to force a smile, Tylendel said, "Well, I'm glad it's not just me he treats that way."

Encouraged, Tervan smiled back. "Not at all! Well, he does okay for himself, even if he's a right prat. A lot of the others that were sent out here were too soft, and those vanished."

That wasn't right. "Vanished?" Tylendel asked, trying to keep it casual.

Tervan glanced down at his meal. "Well, they run away," he said. "People who can't hack it but aren't old enough to leave legally, they take matters into their own hands."

:Gala, thoughts?: he asked silently as he chewed.

:It's a little suspicious,: she admitted. :But you're a lord's son too. If he'd gone ahead with his threats and outcast you, if he'd tried to have you shipped away somewhere, what would you have done?:

He knows what he'd do; had tried to do it a few times before Gala had come for him, in those two solid years where his gifts were driving him mad and he'd felt like there was no escape. He still had the faint scars to show for it. Being glad he'd survived to be with her didn't mean that he'd been any less a danger to himself. But that had been because of his gifts; he didn't think he could run from those. If it were something else, if he could have just walked away from his problems...

:True enough,: he allowed.

***

Despite Vanyel's best attempts to avoid and ignore the Herald, he just wasn't leaving, and in the hours that he couldn't be out of his room, Vanyel found himself hyper-aware of his presence. It was like a physical pressure against him: Tylendel's bouncing golden curls and their tendency to fall over one of those enormous brown eyes which seemed to never miss anything. The sound of the Herald's breathing even when he was completely silent otherwise like a touch making Vanyel's skin crawl. Worse, he was friendly and kind even when Vanyel snapped at him, something none of the others were in this gods-forsaken place. He caught himself wanting to start to reach out to that, wanting to start to talk to him, to hear about the wide world that Tylendel had seen.

What will I do if I get used to him? I can't let my guard down.

Vanyel refused to let himself do so. He stayed in silence when he had to be in the room with the Herald. Although he'd tried to stay away as much as possible in the few days since Tylendel had dared ask him about music, in some ways that only made it worse. Rather than it getting easier to ignore him through overexposure, Vanyel had to consciously recall the old cold numbness whenever he had to go back and face Tylendel being there in his space. It was like the crackling sharp-edged burning of the crust on top of fresh snow; he wasn't warm, he wasn't anything but ice, but something kept shoving through, breaking up the evenness.

Tonight, Tylendel was writing something in a journal. Vanyel couldn't seem to tune out the scratch of his pen no matter how hard he tried, despite years of ignoring his fellow novices doing likewise.

"Maybe Savil's right," Tylendel muttered under his breath about whatever he was writing.

It took a moment for Vanyel to understand what he'd just heard, for it to sink in. The name's familiarity bounced around his head like echoes off a mountainside, Savil, Savil, until suddenly he placed it.

It felt like he was dredging it out of a dream, pulling it from a life not his. He vaguely formed a face not unlike his father's, then tightened it to more severe, feminine lines. Savil; that was Savil. He had vaguely met her once, he was fairly sure, sometime when he was much younger, but he couldn't recall what they talked about. He remembered her disapproval, though, her dislike of him as he'd tried to stare her down.

It was strange, another misshapen piece of this illogical puzzle. He felt the urge to panic and couldn't bring himself to do so. There was no reason for this, to be sharing a room with someone connected to his family.

...It didn't matter. It didn't change anything. He refused to say anything, tightened his teeth together with a soft click only he could hear.

But two nights later, as he snuck down late to dinner to eat the remaining scraps of food, he caught the tail end of a conversation between two novices.

"—talked to me today. Asking around about lords' sons. You know, the thing Brevec does by making sure the heirs shape up or get out of the way of the other sons. I didn't tell him anything, but he wouldn't go away."

"Hah! Careful, Lewyss. Maybe he's interested in you."

"Please. He's a Herald. Even a sinning Herald wouldn't approach a man of the cloth."

Something about the scornful, smug way they were talking froze the already-cold blood in Vanyel's veins and he drew closer to listen.

"I've heard a fey man has no limits. Man of the cloth aside, you could be a child and he probably would."

"Do you think so?" Lewyss was asking mildly. "Poor Vanyel, then, having to share a room with him. I'd think he'd be in greater danger than myself or any boys."

He'd been spotted. Lewyss turned Provine's attention to him that simply, clearly eager to no longer be the subject of scrutiny. "Poor Vanyel indeed," Provine said, none too displeased at the sight of Vanyel looking discomfited; he schooled his expression more firmly. "Has he done anything to you, lad?"

"Done anything?" Vanyel tried to snap it, but couldn't keep it as firm as he wanted. Not and get answers.

Vanyel was aware of how blankly he was looking at them; they seemed to recognize it as well. "Hadn't you heard? That Herald Tylendel's supposed to be fey," Provine said, more bluntly.

He shook his head, was unable to do anything but. The other two clearly thought it was explanation enough but the words meant nothing to him; it was obviously supposed to be some kind of slur, some kind of insult to the Herald's character, but the specifics were a complete blank.

"Lord and Lady, he doesn't know." Lewyss said, then touched two fingers to his forehead in apology for the casual blasphemy. "You were meant for the cloistered life, Vanyel."

"It means he'd rather sin with boys than with ladies, if you take my meaning," Provine said, with a distinctly unapologetic grin. "No draw to womenfolk but to his own kind. Crime against nature as it is. That's why he looks so much like a woman himself, I reckon, with those pretty eyes. Gives me the chills."

Lewyss rolled his eyes, getting more visibly impatient. "Don't scare the lad. And I don't think that Herald looks much like a woman at all. You're the one getting your head turned by his eyelashes and giving yourself an excuse for your reaction, it seems to me—"

Vanyel's head was swimming, and he hardly could take in the rest of their words. Rather do that... with boys? That was possible? There were men who weren't drawn to women, who didn't want to bed them, but men? That people thought these urges made them like women themselves—

Suddenly, everything clicked into place. His father's disgust with him for as long as he could remember. Constantly trying to make him more manly, to stop him from hanging around his mother's ladies as if he were 'one' of them. Throwing serving girls at him, encouraging to bed them. His own attempts to do so; managing, but finding himself stepping back from his own body, skin crawling, the whole thing more mechanical than it had ever been with his hand. His father's fury over his desire to play music instead of training to manage the hold, over his desire to avoid beatings and use his mind to get himself out of trouble. Always, always insulting his masculinity, and ultimately sending him here to toughen him up, to make him more obedient—

His father thought he was 'fey', and Vanyel knew, chillingly, that he was right.

But that wasn't all that Vanyel realized.