There's nothing left but the ice now, Vanyel thought, hard-eyed as he watched clippings of his hair fall to the floor. He held very still against the straight razor scraping against his head, though he wasn't sure why he didn't lean back into the blade.
Because the monk doing this has clipped too many novices' hair, he decided, finally. Because leaning back would just get him injured, just earn him a scar. Because if he accepted the ice, he could live like this.
He could live with his father's scorn ("If I get good reports about your obedience there, I might call you back"). He could live with the monastery's rules (Awake at dawn, work for three hours, silent contemplation, work for two hours, mealtime, work for three, contemplation, prayer time and study, dinner, personal time until lights out at nightfall). He could live with not understanding why it had come to this, with the dull ache in his arm that never healed right, with lack of family and lack of love and lack of companionship. He'd guarantee the last. If the ice was the only way to live, he wouldn't let anyone close, and wouldn't ever be hurt again.
He wasn't sure what he'd be living for, but he could live.
Days passed, weeks passed, months passed. The first time his birthday came and went, he thought distantly that if he wanted to, he could leave in a year. That nothing could force him to stay in this place after a year, if his father didn't recall him sooner.
As that next year passed, he stopped caring about even that. What did he have to go back to? There was nothing for him at Forst Reach. He couldn't run away and become a minstrel now even if he could before; his stiff arm and lack of practice spoke to that. He disliked women anyway, so he'd never find love.
There was nothing for him in the world.
When his next birthday came and went, he didn't note it. There was nothing for him but this.
And when, shortly after that, a stranger arrived, when Father Bravec told him that the stranger must share his room, he refused to care. It didn't matter. If anything, he was angry. Angry that his single room had to fit another, angry that he was the one who had to make room for something else, angry that some beautiful, smiling stranger could intrude on what little time he had to himself.
He wouldn't show it. He wouldn't show anything but the ice.
But somewhere deep beneath it, he seethed.
***
:Gala, is everything okay there?:
Her mental voice was tinged with a tired amusement. :Fine, love, fine. Better off than you are right now. The stables are warm and I'm not injured.:
As if in answer to her thought, his leg throbbed harder, and he made a face. :It'll heal. At least the monastery wasn't too far.:
Negotiations were in progress to, perhaps, marry his cousin to one of the Lesharas. The idea infuriated him, but over the years of butting heads with Savil about it, the anger had faded to a dull, constant ache, a sense of twisted sickness in the back of his head that wouldn't go away but which he couldn't express. He was a Herald. He couldn't pick sides. As family, he'd been sent to get her thoughts on it, to discuss with her—a maiden in her thirties, devoted as a nun in cloisters as she had been since she was a child—her thoughts on this match. If she refused it, that would be the end of that.
With the external pressures of resolving the feud, he doubted she'd resist it. Still. At this point, things had gone so far that nothing was left but permissions. He hoped that, without actively going against his role as Herald and trying to dissuade her, he could present the situation so fairly that she would see the risks to herself in it all, and perhaps refuse. Otherwise, he wasn't sure what would happen. Even if she agreed, if Staven refused to move from his position as Lord Holder—as was more than his right, Tylendel thought angrily—something would have to give.
He'd expected a lot of problems out of this trip, but somehow hadn't anticipated being attacked by bandits. He and Gala had fought them off, but he'd taken an arrow to the thigh in the initial skirmish. They'd bound it for him at the nunnery before his initial meeting with his cousin Jeanni—just introductions for now—and then he'd gone on his way to the nearby monastery to beg a place to stay and recover. With Gala settled into their stables, he felt a little more secure, but as the cold outside wore off, his injury seemed only to throb the worse. He'd need a change of bandage soon, he thought, and hoped he wouldn't be too much trouble to the clerics here. It was bad enough having to stay with them, given his own inclinations and their religion's view on it.
"Vanyel." The monk who had introduced himself as Father Brevec was addressing one of the novices, who had been sweeping away excess ashes from the fire and adding more fuel. "A moment of your time, son."
The novice turned to look at them, and Tylendel almost felt his heart stop.
He was beautiful, for all that his coarse novice wear and shaven head drew away from it. Strong brows lead down into delicate, heavy-lashed grey eyes above high cheekbones, plump lips, a sharp jawline. He was around 'Lendel's age, maybe a year younger, and radiated a coolness. Tylendel's empathy was never at the best when he focused on it, but he had a general impression of the boy as withdrawn and repressed, some cold, icy wall between him and the rest of the world.
"Yes, Father Brevec?"
"As you know, we're lacking in room at the moment, but Herald Tylendel needs a place to stay. We've given you your space out of deference to your family, but you'll let him take the spare bunk during his time visiting with us."
No, Tylendel thought in horror. Don't put me with His Loveliness!
Despite being considerably shorter, Vanyel somehow managed to look down his nose at Tylendel as he rose. "Yes, Father Brevec," he said, the tone clipped.
"It seems he's taken an injury as well. Please make sure that you're helping him with his bandages."
Disgust poured off Vanyel in a tangible wave. "Yes, Father Brevec."
Inside his head, Gala laughed. :And it had to be on your thigh.:
:Please, Gala, if I'd known I'd have a handsome monk as a roommate, I'd have told them to aim for the heart.:
:Oh? Do you think he could help with that?:
He didn't have time to retort; Vanyel had swept himself around stiffly and was proceeding down the hall. Out of deference to his injury—or, more likely, to the watchful eye of the Father—he at least went slowly enough that Tylendel could keep up.
"So, your name's Vanyel?" he panted, hobbling along behind.
"Yes, Herald."
Tylendel was starting to wonder if Vanyel's vocabulary was in some way limited, or if he was that disinterested in carrying on anything resembling a conversation. "Have you been here long? You seem young—what made you decide to become a monk?"
Vanyel whirled on him, stopping abruptly in the hallway and staring at him with hard, cold eyes. Tylendel could practically feel the temperature dropping.
"This is the room you will be staying in," Vanyel said, instead of responding, tense, thin lips pulling off his teeth as he opened a door. "My bed is on the left. Yours, the right. It has been unused so you may wish to air it out. Or, I suppose, I should do that for you, as you're currently indisposed." He looked down at 'Lendel's visibly bleeding injury as if he hoped it hurt badly. "I'll do that, then. I will change your bandage first, as the Father has requested it, and permit you this room, as the Father has demanded it, but I will not converse with you, nor will I be showing you any kindness that is not demanded of me by the Father."
Wow. Tylendel couldn't quite keep his brows from rising. "Understood."
Vanyel's sharp-edged tongue at least kept things from getting awkward as those delicate, beautiful fingers perfunctorily changed his bandages, even with his trousers off. His poor whites, he thought sadly. He had a spare pair in his pack, but there wasn't much point in switching to those until he'd stopped leaking through the bindings.
That task done, Vanyel rose stiffly from in front of the chair he'd put Tylendel in, went over to the spare bed, and shook the blankets out. He turned back. "Yours," he said, with a tone like he was consenting to something disgusting, and went to his own bed. "Now, if you do not mind, it is study time from now until dinner, and I do not wish to be disturbed."
At least he'd brought along a chronicle that Savil had suggested he read. "Of course," he said.
But as Vanyel sank down onto his bedroll and pulled out a book and a journal he was clearly taking some notes in, Tylendel had the impression that something was wrong—something much worse than just a stuck-up monk he had to share space with.
For a second, as he had turned away from Tylendel, he'd picked up a sense of despair from Vanyel; a sick, deep, thorough gulf in him as if he felt like he was losing something. As if, he thought, Vanyel's personal space was the only thing he thought he had, and he'd lost that as well.
It hadn't lasted long; as soon as Tylendel had started to focus on it, he'd felt nothing but that cold blankness from Vanyel.
:Gala, thoughts?:
She was sleepy and warm, had just been fed. :He's not very happy, is he?:
:In a word... maybe I'll ask around about him.:
:Don't get yourself in trouble, darling.:
As if he would.
***
It wasn't fair, but Vanyel tried not to let himself dwell on that. Nothing was fair. Life wasn't fair. If he began down that path, he'd be in trouble. There were feelings down there.
But it didn't make sense, no matter how he looked at it. Fairness was one thing, but it still needed to be logical.
This visiting Herald shouldn't be sharing a room with him.
When it first had been requested, he'd thought it made sense. It was true that because of his family line, he'd been given a single room. It was true, too, that the monastery was surprisingly full. But even so, a guest should be given a room alone. Visitors had been treated that way enough times that the slow dawning realization felt uncomfortable, strange, because he couldn't find a reason for it.
He should have been forced to move out of his room, share an overcrowded room with two other novices until the Herald was gone. He wasn't displeased with the fact he didn't have to, but that didn't make it less strange that it hadn't happened.
So why?
Vanyel didn't have an answer. He found himself picking at it throughout the next day—bitter, yes, that the time that Tylendel was out doing his Herald business was also the time Vanyel had to be out and about working, so he couldn't even enjoy the privacy. But picking at it nevertheless.
There had to be a reason. He just hadn't seen it yet.
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FILL: Tylendel/Vanyel - Orders - 1/?
Date: 2015-08-21 05:34 am (UTC)Because the monk doing this has clipped too many novices' hair, he decided, finally. Because leaning back would just get him injured, just earn him a scar. Because if he accepted the ice, he could live like this.
He could live with his father's scorn ("If I get good reports about your obedience there, I might call you back"). He could live with the monastery's rules (Awake at dawn, work for three hours, silent contemplation, work for two hours, mealtime, work for three, contemplation, prayer time and study, dinner, personal time until lights out at nightfall). He could live with not understanding why it had come to this, with the dull ache in his arm that never healed right, with lack of family and lack of love and lack of companionship. He'd guarantee the last. If the ice was the only way to live, he wouldn't let anyone close, and wouldn't ever be hurt again.
He wasn't sure what he'd be living for, but he could live.
Days passed, weeks passed, months passed. The first time his birthday came and went, he thought distantly that if he wanted to, he could leave in a year. That nothing could force him to stay in this place after a year, if his father didn't recall him sooner.
As that next year passed, he stopped caring about even that. What did he have to go back to? There was nothing for him at Forst Reach. He couldn't run away and become a minstrel now even if he could before; his stiff arm and lack of practice spoke to that. He disliked women anyway, so he'd never find love.
There was nothing for him in the world.
When his next birthday came and went, he didn't note it. There was nothing for him but this.
And when, shortly after that, a stranger arrived, when Father Bravec told him that the stranger must share his room, he refused to care. It didn't matter. If anything, he was angry. Angry that his single room had to fit another, angry that he was the one who had to make room for something else, angry that some beautiful, smiling stranger could intrude on what little time he had to himself.
He wouldn't show it. He wouldn't show anything but the ice.
But somewhere deep beneath it, he seethed.
***
:Gala, is everything okay there?:
Her mental voice was tinged with a tired amusement. :Fine, love, fine. Better off than you are right now. The stables are warm and I'm not injured.:
As if in answer to her thought, his leg throbbed harder, and he made a face. :It'll heal. At least the monastery wasn't too far.:
Negotiations were in progress to, perhaps, marry his cousin to one of the Lesharas. The idea infuriated him, but over the years of butting heads with Savil about it, the anger had faded to a dull, constant ache, a sense of twisted sickness in the back of his head that wouldn't go away but which he couldn't express. He was a Herald. He couldn't pick sides. As family, he'd been sent to get her thoughts on it, to discuss with her—a maiden in her thirties, devoted as a nun in cloisters as she had been since she was a child—her thoughts on this match. If she refused it, that would be the end of that.
With the external pressures of resolving the feud, he doubted she'd resist it. Still. At this point, things had gone so far that nothing was left but permissions. He hoped that, without actively going against his role as Herald and trying to dissuade her, he could present the situation so fairly that she would see the risks to herself in it all, and perhaps refuse. Otherwise, he wasn't sure what would happen. Even if she agreed, if Staven refused to move from his position as Lord Holder—as was more than his right, Tylendel thought angrily—something would have to give.
He'd expected a lot of problems out of this trip, but somehow hadn't anticipated being attacked by bandits. He and Gala had fought them off, but he'd taken an arrow to the thigh in the initial skirmish. They'd bound it for him at the nunnery before his initial meeting with his cousin Jeanni—just introductions for now—and then he'd gone on his way to the nearby monastery to beg a place to stay and recover. With Gala settled into their stables, he felt a little more secure, but as the cold outside wore off, his injury seemed only to throb the worse. He'd need a change of bandage soon, he thought, and hoped he wouldn't be too much trouble to the clerics here. It was bad enough having to stay with them, given his own inclinations and their religion's view on it.
"Vanyel." The monk who had introduced himself as Father Brevec was addressing one of the novices, who had been sweeping away excess ashes from the fire and adding more fuel. "A moment of your time, son."
The novice turned to look at them, and Tylendel almost felt his heart stop.
He was beautiful, for all that his coarse novice wear and shaven head drew away from it. Strong brows lead down into delicate, heavy-lashed grey eyes above high cheekbones, plump lips, a sharp jawline. He was around 'Lendel's age, maybe a year younger, and radiated a coolness. Tylendel's empathy was never at the best when he focused on it, but he had a general impression of the boy as withdrawn and repressed, some cold, icy wall between him and the rest of the world.
"Yes, Father Brevec?"
"As you know, we're lacking in room at the moment, but Herald Tylendel needs a place to stay. We've given you your space out of deference to your family, but you'll let him take the spare bunk during his time visiting with us."
No, Tylendel thought in horror. Don't put me with His Loveliness!
Despite being considerably shorter, Vanyel somehow managed to look down his nose at Tylendel as he rose. "Yes, Father Brevec," he said, the tone clipped.
"It seems he's taken an injury as well. Please make sure that you're helping him with his bandages."
Disgust poured off Vanyel in a tangible wave. "Yes, Father Brevec."
Inside his head, Gala laughed. :And it had to be on your thigh.:
:Please, Gala, if I'd known I'd have a handsome monk as a roommate, I'd have told them to aim for the heart.:
:Oh? Do you think he could help with that?:
He didn't have time to retort; Vanyel had swept himself around stiffly and was proceeding down the hall. Out of deference to his injury—or, more likely, to the watchful eye of the Father—he at least went slowly enough that Tylendel could keep up.
"So, your name's Vanyel?" he panted, hobbling along behind.
"Yes, Herald."
Tylendel was starting to wonder if Vanyel's vocabulary was in some way limited, or if he was that disinterested in carrying on anything resembling a conversation. "Have you been here long? You seem young—what made you decide to become a monk?"
Vanyel whirled on him, stopping abruptly in the hallway and staring at him with hard, cold eyes. Tylendel could practically feel the temperature dropping.
"This is the room you will be staying in," Vanyel said, instead of responding, tense, thin lips pulling off his teeth as he opened a door. "My bed is on the left. Yours, the right. It has been unused so you may wish to air it out. Or, I suppose, I should do that for you, as you're currently indisposed." He looked down at 'Lendel's visibly bleeding injury as if he hoped it hurt badly. "I'll do that, then. I will change your bandage first, as the Father has requested it, and permit you this room, as the Father has demanded it, but I will not converse with you, nor will I be showing you any kindness that is not demanded of me by the Father."
Wow. Tylendel couldn't quite keep his brows from rising. "Understood."
Vanyel's sharp-edged tongue at least kept things from getting awkward as those delicate, beautiful fingers perfunctorily changed his bandages, even with his trousers off. His poor whites, he thought sadly. He had a spare pair in his pack, but there wasn't much point in switching to those until he'd stopped leaking through the bindings.
That task done, Vanyel rose stiffly from in front of the chair he'd put Tylendel in, went over to the spare bed, and shook the blankets out. He turned back. "Yours," he said, with a tone like he was consenting to something disgusting, and went to his own bed. "Now, if you do not mind, it is study time from now until dinner, and I do not wish to be disturbed."
At least he'd brought along a chronicle that Savil had suggested he read. "Of course," he said.
But as Vanyel sank down onto his bedroll and pulled out a book and a journal he was clearly taking some notes in, Tylendel had the impression that something was wrong—something much worse than just a stuck-up monk he had to share space with.
For a second, as he had turned away from Tylendel, he'd picked up a sense of despair from Vanyel; a sick, deep, thorough gulf in him as if he felt like he was losing something. As if, he thought, Vanyel's personal space was the only thing he thought he had, and he'd lost that as well.
It hadn't lasted long; as soon as Tylendel had started to focus on it, he'd felt nothing but that cold blankness from Vanyel.
:Gala, thoughts?:
She was sleepy and warm, had just been fed. :He's not very happy, is he?:
:In a word... maybe I'll ask around about him.:
:Don't get yourself in trouble, darling.:
As if he would.
***
It wasn't fair, but Vanyel tried not to let himself dwell on that. Nothing was fair. Life wasn't fair. If he began down that path, he'd be in trouble. There were feelings down there.
But it didn't make sense, no matter how he looked at it. Fairness was one thing, but it still needed to be logical.
This visiting Herald shouldn't be sharing a room with him.
When it first had been requested, he'd thought it made sense. It was true that because of his family line, he'd been given a single room. It was true, too, that the monastery was surprisingly full. But even so, a guest should be given a room alone. Visitors had been treated that way enough times that the slow dawning realization felt uncomfortable, strange, because he couldn't find a reason for it.
He should have been forced to move out of his room, share an overcrowded room with two other novices until the Herald was gone. He wasn't displeased with the fact he didn't have to, but that didn't make it less strange that it hadn't happened.
So why?
Vanyel didn't have an answer. He found himself picking at it throughout the next day—bitter, yes, that the time that Tylendel was out doing his Herald business was also the time Vanyel had to be out and about working, so he couldn't even enjoy the privacy. But picking at it nevertheless.
There had to be a reason. He just hadn't seen it yet.