[Fic] Living Wrong
Title: Living Wrong
Fandom: Codex Alera
Characters: Gaius Sextus and Gaius Septimus
Recipient: c15page
Word Count: 1575-some
Rating: PG (for references to blood and violence)
Spoilers: What, you haven't read everything available yet?
Prompt: A Story between Septimus and Sextus
Summary: I'm not dead yet!
Disclaimer: All assorted characters and most of the concepts originate with Jim Butcher, so shhh! don't tell him!
Beta-Who-Cannot-Be-Thanked-Enough: terioncalling, I believe, but all mistakes, strange usage of verbs, and sudden addition of a whole lot of words are my own fault.
"You're doing it wrong," the First Lord growled.
Septimus ignored him, stretching for the lunge. The scar across his side was still a noticable quality, something both good and bad at the same time. It made him a tad more cautious, as if it still had not healed completely. "It's just in your head," he told himself. Of course, that was the thing, wasn't it? Something watercrafting could never really fix once broken, like a lack of self-confidence.
He caught himself twisting against his right knee rather than leading with the opposite foot. He cursed, flipping the blade from right hand to left; it worked, but it would have been weak in battle. He hated the idea he was proving his father correct.
Septimus' only warning was the faintest hint of furies gathering, and his sword was almost a half-beat too slow in catching the brunt of Sextus' swing. He jerked as the sheer force of the blow numbed his hand - another thing crafting couldn't touch.
Of course, the furies were only one tool, and honed themselves against the force of will. "More stubborn than gargants," his mother would say of them, her patient face holding the merest hint of a smile. Either stubborn or willful, the words fit why he held on, turning the momentary pain into more strength. He could feel them both drawing lightly from the earth beneath their feet to hold the blow.
"What is it? I could be the enemy, boy. Are you afraid to strike me?" The low, teasing tone accentuated the tension as they held the stance, neither wavering, blades hardened against each other. They remained motionless, and Septimus was not sure which was testing the other.
The absurdity of it suddenly struck. His father the source of his problems? Septimus laughed, and it sounded loud in the small arena. "Do you want me to?"
The laughter broke the tension, and Sextus relented, sliding his blade back in a flash of heat, light, and the thin light squeal of agitated metal. It ground against Septimus' sword and in some way exacerbated the headache that watercrafting only partially alleviated.
"If I was the enemy, yes," Sextus granted.
Septimus feinted the slightest little movements as if he was about to rain a flurry of blows, but Sextus took the gamble with a sigh and a shake of his head, stepping back. Was it possible to use the drawing up of crafting, the feeling of the talent moving, the rush of power as a mere feint? Septimus suspected it disrespectful to the furies. He knew the fashion had never been to think of them as having personality, let alone opinions of their own, but he always suspected the greater the fury, the more independence it had. Perhaps the person they were bound to put something of that into them?
Or perhaps they drew knowledge from the events that shaped their birthplace? It was foolish, perhaps, to think that furies had hearts and minds, was it not?
He mused, drawing farther from where his father watched. He continued the twisting and stretching, fighting in a duelist's configuration rather than a legion form. Contrarily, thinking relieved his headache more than aggravated it.
"If you are well enough to play games, it's time. I am sending you off," the older man said.
"Shieldwall?" Septimus asked, trying not to sound too boyish with the note of hope in his voice. He could be useful there.
Sextus shook his head. "It isn't a game, Septimus. I need you to survive. Calderon."
"A hotbed of intrigue, especially if you love sheep." Septimus snarled the last bit and stomped an angry foot, turning away. A few more beats of the sword against the imaginary opponent. Survival. Survival didn't get you ahead. Survival was a thing that reeked of desperation. Survival of the self. Survival of the furycrafting gifts. Survival of Alera. All of the things that his father insisted important, whether or not they were right. "I do not need coddling."
"You need a place where you can heal."
"Riva won't give me that." No, he'd drive Septimus straight to the crows with requests and potential political gains. A stretch out at Garrison wouldn't be much better with hot-headed Knights ready for any plausible opportunity to try themselves for their Princeps.
"A place to heal and let me put people in place. The city is not yet safe for you."
Septimus stopped, hearing the edge in Sextus' voice. That was a father talking to his son, not a Captain talking to his First Spear.
"You believe me, then." It wasn't a question.
"We will find who is behind it. It wasn't an accident."
Septimus turned back and looked into his father's eyes. "Of course it was. They moved too quickly, seeing an opportunity, and we survived it through luck. An accident for both our Houses." The furies sang with his mood, ready to dance across his sword as he slipped it through his opponent's defense. Once, twice, reflections from the blade darted against the walls even in the fading afternoon light. "We have to give them a smarter opportunity. Have Magnus or Killian set it up. One of your Cursors."
"Not Fidelias?"
"I am being beset by hounds. I need a fox, not a snake."
"Oh, he's a wolf, but you're right, either's fangs would scare the sheep." Sextus sighed. He adjusted his belt idly for the burden of the sheathed weapon. "Will you listen to my concern?"
"In Calderon? There are some wild furies up there, but I have a good feeling about it." A warm one, actually. A fleeting brush of joy. Hints of good dreams.
"Impetuous youth."
"Tedious old man." Septimus grinned. He tilted his head, struck by a thought.
"What is it?"
"When you do what it is you do, who do you really do it for?"
Sextus shook his head. "I'm a tedious old man. Break it down for me."
"You let me forge ahead, find my own path, and then fight you tooth and nail if need be. You want me strong, to survive. I want to live. Both of us are fighting for a future. Do you think my sons will be more like me or more like you?"
"Perish the thought. It takes a woman to make a son, remember?"
"The old argument raises its head like some sort of forgotten hydra. So, Calderon Valley. How soon before I can take my leave?"
"Will you learn the lesson?" and this time it was a shout.
"I survived. What more do you want from me?"
"I hope you never find what it is like to hold your son together, his blood a hot lake around your wrists." It was a hiss, a slash in the air of words rather than blades. "I hope you never have to walk from that stained dark bed to a room of crow-begotten lords, and smile, not knowing which one has the knife that did this to you at his belt." Sextus did not look at his son, and his voice was as cold as the ramparts of Shieldwall.
"If they're successful, I never will." Septimus had fire in his voice to break against the chill. "I told you. I won't father sons on a woman who has a warmer caress for the hilt of that knife than for me."
"A man can turn that knife against his enemies."
A man, meaning his father's son. The son his father wanted him to be. "The woman in my future will not need a knife," Septimus argued.
"Of course, as you will be there to protect her," Sextus sighed. "Or will she be a strong furycrafter? Do any of the High Ladies turn your head?"
"A woman who knows when and how to do the right thing needs only that regular kind of fury behind her. She will be a partner, not just another tool employed for survival." He managed to make the last word sound exaggerated.
"I thought you a grown man, not a dreaming boy," accused Sextus, growing angry.
"Dreams are what we work for, Father." Septimus rarely used the title, and now he gave it a twist of sarcasm. "Without dreams how would we ever make a better world?"
"There is no dreamcraft, no Knights Phantasia." The older man took a step towards Septimus. "Do you know what I dream? In my dreams I bathe this world, this city, in blood, earth, and flame for the sake of my only son." Sextus had bite in his words.
"We don't have to fight like this," Septimus reminded Sextus, mildly. He said it with restraint, as if to keep his father's temper similarly reined.
"But we have to survive," Gaius Sextus settled back into his role of First Lord as he continued. "Make sure you bring your singulares. I will not say I regret the decision." He hesitated at the threshold, as if wanting to say something more.
"You're doing it wrong," Septimus said, smiling.
"Doing what wrong?" Gaius Sextus snapped, looking back at his son.
"There's something much more important than merely surviving," Septimus glanced at his father.
The First Lord waited patiently.
"We have to live."
The elder turned back and stepped through the archway without even a grunt of dismissal. Septimus acknowledged his imaginary opponent with a practiced thump to his chest, but he stared after his father. He didn't know if he had won the battle, but he was determined to survive the war.
Fandom: Codex Alera
Characters: Gaius Sextus and Gaius Septimus
Recipient: c15page
Word Count: 1575-some
Rating: PG (for references to blood and violence)
Spoilers: What, you haven't read everything available yet?
Prompt: A Story between Septimus and Sextus
Summary: I'm not dead yet!
Disclaimer: All assorted characters and most of the concepts originate with Jim Butcher, so shhh! don't tell him!
Beta-Who-Cannot-Be-Thanked-Enough: terioncalling, I believe, but all mistakes, strange usage of verbs, and sudden addition of a whole lot of words are my own fault.
"You're doing it wrong," the First Lord growled.
Septimus ignored him, stretching for the lunge. The scar across his side was still a noticable quality, something both good and bad at the same time. It made him a tad more cautious, as if it still had not healed completely. "It's just in your head," he told himself. Of course, that was the thing, wasn't it? Something watercrafting could never really fix once broken, like a lack of self-confidence.
He caught himself twisting against his right knee rather than leading with the opposite foot. He cursed, flipping the blade from right hand to left; it worked, but it would have been weak in battle. He hated the idea he was proving his father correct.
Septimus' only warning was the faintest hint of furies gathering, and his sword was almost a half-beat too slow in catching the brunt of Sextus' swing. He jerked as the sheer force of the blow numbed his hand - another thing crafting couldn't touch.
Of course, the furies were only one tool, and honed themselves against the force of will. "More stubborn than gargants," his mother would say of them, her patient face holding the merest hint of a smile. Either stubborn or willful, the words fit why he held on, turning the momentary pain into more strength. He could feel them both drawing lightly from the earth beneath their feet to hold the blow.
"What is it? I could be the enemy, boy. Are you afraid to strike me?" The low, teasing tone accentuated the tension as they held the stance, neither wavering, blades hardened against each other. They remained motionless, and Septimus was not sure which was testing the other.
The absurdity of it suddenly struck. His father the source of his problems? Septimus laughed, and it sounded loud in the small arena. "Do you want me to?"
The laughter broke the tension, and Sextus relented, sliding his blade back in a flash of heat, light, and the thin light squeal of agitated metal. It ground against Septimus' sword and in some way exacerbated the headache that watercrafting only partially alleviated.
"If I was the enemy, yes," Sextus granted.
Septimus feinted the slightest little movements as if he was about to rain a flurry of blows, but Sextus took the gamble with a sigh and a shake of his head, stepping back. Was it possible to use the drawing up of crafting, the feeling of the talent moving, the rush of power as a mere feint? Septimus suspected it disrespectful to the furies. He knew the fashion had never been to think of them as having personality, let alone opinions of their own, but he always suspected the greater the fury, the more independence it had. Perhaps the person they were bound to put something of that into them?
Or perhaps they drew knowledge from the events that shaped their birthplace? It was foolish, perhaps, to think that furies had hearts and minds, was it not?
He mused, drawing farther from where his father watched. He continued the twisting and stretching, fighting in a duelist's configuration rather than a legion form. Contrarily, thinking relieved his headache more than aggravated it.
"If you are well enough to play games, it's time. I am sending you off," the older man said.
"Shieldwall?" Septimus asked, trying not to sound too boyish with the note of hope in his voice. He could be useful there.
Sextus shook his head. "It isn't a game, Septimus. I need you to survive. Calderon."
"A hotbed of intrigue, especially if you love sheep." Septimus snarled the last bit and stomped an angry foot, turning away. A few more beats of the sword against the imaginary opponent. Survival. Survival didn't get you ahead. Survival was a thing that reeked of desperation. Survival of the self. Survival of the furycrafting gifts. Survival of Alera. All of the things that his father insisted important, whether or not they were right. "I do not need coddling."
"You need a place where you can heal."
"Riva won't give me that." No, he'd drive Septimus straight to the crows with requests and potential political gains. A stretch out at Garrison wouldn't be much better with hot-headed Knights ready for any plausible opportunity to try themselves for their Princeps.
"A place to heal and let me put people in place. The city is not yet safe for you."
Septimus stopped, hearing the edge in Sextus' voice. That was a father talking to his son, not a Captain talking to his First Spear.
"You believe me, then." It wasn't a question.
"We will find who is behind it. It wasn't an accident."
Septimus turned back and looked into his father's eyes. "Of course it was. They moved too quickly, seeing an opportunity, and we survived it through luck. An accident for both our Houses." The furies sang with his mood, ready to dance across his sword as he slipped it through his opponent's defense. Once, twice, reflections from the blade darted against the walls even in the fading afternoon light. "We have to give them a smarter opportunity. Have Magnus or Killian set it up. One of your Cursors."
"Not Fidelias?"
"I am being beset by hounds. I need a fox, not a snake."
"Oh, he's a wolf, but you're right, either's fangs would scare the sheep." Sextus sighed. He adjusted his belt idly for the burden of the sheathed weapon. "Will you listen to my concern?"
"In Calderon? There are some wild furies up there, but I have a good feeling about it." A warm one, actually. A fleeting brush of joy. Hints of good dreams.
"Impetuous youth."
"Tedious old man." Septimus grinned. He tilted his head, struck by a thought.
"What is it?"
"When you do what it is you do, who do you really do it for?"
Sextus shook his head. "I'm a tedious old man. Break it down for me."
"You let me forge ahead, find my own path, and then fight you tooth and nail if need be. You want me strong, to survive. I want to live. Both of us are fighting for a future. Do you think my sons will be more like me or more like you?"
"Perish the thought. It takes a woman to make a son, remember?"
"The old argument raises its head like some sort of forgotten hydra. So, Calderon Valley. How soon before I can take my leave?"
"Will you learn the lesson?" and this time it was a shout.
"I survived. What more do you want from me?"
"I hope you never find what it is like to hold your son together, his blood a hot lake around your wrists." It was a hiss, a slash in the air of words rather than blades. "I hope you never have to walk from that stained dark bed to a room of crow-begotten lords, and smile, not knowing which one has the knife that did this to you at his belt." Sextus did not look at his son, and his voice was as cold as the ramparts of Shieldwall.
"If they're successful, I never will." Septimus had fire in his voice to break against the chill. "I told you. I won't father sons on a woman who has a warmer caress for the hilt of that knife than for me."
"A man can turn that knife against his enemies."
A man, meaning his father's son. The son his father wanted him to be. "The woman in my future will not need a knife," Septimus argued.
"Of course, as you will be there to protect her," Sextus sighed. "Or will she be a strong furycrafter? Do any of the High Ladies turn your head?"
"A woman who knows when and how to do the right thing needs only that regular kind of fury behind her. She will be a partner, not just another tool employed for survival." He managed to make the last word sound exaggerated.
"I thought you a grown man, not a dreaming boy," accused Sextus, growing angry.
"Dreams are what we work for, Father." Septimus rarely used the title, and now he gave it a twist of sarcasm. "Without dreams how would we ever make a better world?"
"There is no dreamcraft, no Knights Phantasia." The older man took a step towards Septimus. "Do you know what I dream? In my dreams I bathe this world, this city, in blood, earth, and flame for the sake of my only son." Sextus had bite in his words.
"We don't have to fight like this," Septimus reminded Sextus, mildly. He said it with restraint, as if to keep his father's temper similarly reined.
"But we have to survive," Gaius Sextus settled back into his role of First Lord as he continued. "Make sure you bring your singulares. I will not say I regret the decision." He hesitated at the threshold, as if wanting to say something more.
"You're doing it wrong," Septimus said, smiling.
"Doing what wrong?" Gaius Sextus snapped, looking back at his son.
"There's something much more important than merely surviving," Septimus glanced at his father.
The First Lord waited patiently.
"We have to live."
The elder turned back and stepped through the archway without even a grunt of dismissal. Septimus acknowledged his imaginary opponent with a practiced thump to his chest, but he stared after his father. He didn't know if he had won the battle, but he was determined to survive the war.