Bertram
Random neither here nor there cuteness between wars in shadow.
Hrafnkel's Suite -- Royal Palace
A long, narrow, poorly lit room stretches to a single exterior wall dominated by large, latticed windows and a balcony door, with a sizable marble fireplace halfway along its length. One side of the half-timbered walls is decorated in a broad collection of stringed musical instruments; the other one of swords. Glossily lacquered black walnut and supple oxblood brown leather furnish in the form of a large desk and comfy, form swallowing couches set before the fire, with only some rugs, and furs to break the hardwood floors’ smoothness. Though gloomily lit and sparsely furnished, the room features room to fence in comfortably and interesting acoustics.
Doors open into other areas, including bookshelf ringed study with another desk, a bedroom where a canopied bed is surrounded with armoires and bureaus of deep cherry wood, and a spacious bathroom. Aside from the balcony, the only exit opens to the Palace Fourth Floor.
"Now remember, don't swing for the surface... aim these cuts for the center line. Thing of it as a ray... remember when I explained the math thing? A ray and a point?" Hrafnkel waits for the blond haired boy's dutiful nod up at him before continuing. "Good! Now don't swing the edge of your blade, but aim with it's center on the target's center... yesssss... good..." He paces around the child, arms folded, looking very serious, save for the grin of delight on his face. The child he is training uses an actual smallsword which looks quite properly scaled to his eight year old form. And the practice pel he performs the series of cuts upon is actually a broom, shoved into a vase full of potting soil. "Good... I know it's boring, right now, but the key is consistency. A carpenter needs a square frame before a house can be given walls and a roof!"
Bianca enters in a flitting stride kindred to a finch mid-flight and is quite swiftly brought to a halt. Flaxen lashes exude a series of rapid blinks, settling high above wondrously wide cerulean blue eyes. The vase of soil is gutted by the child whose face is set with extreme determination, "I dropped my wrist," Bertram catches his own mistake, sounding less frustrated, rather making an observation. Immediately the boy regroups and tries again, this time remembering to breath.
Hrafnkel croons an encouraging murmur of approval. "Good! Here’s much to remember. A swing starts with the balls of the feet, and then the ankles... good... then the knees. Go slow, now, don't rush. Teach your limbs to move properly and the speed will come..." He still hasn't noticed Bianca's quiet entrance, his eye peeled on the child with both doting fondness and keen attentive precision. "You know, I was your age, when my uncle Benedict started training me..." he adds, warmly.
"KING Benedict?!" Bertram was doing rather well, until the revelation of tutelage has him awestruck. The boy turns to look at Hrafnkel instead of his target, the weight of the shortsword threatening to cleave along the novice child's shins. "Sweet stars in sunny skies!" Bianca shrieks, lunging forth in a protective gust that leave no hope for her to remedy the child's clumsiness!
"Yes, Ki...whoah!" Fortunately, one could visit a hundred fencing halls in a hundred worlds and not find as quick and precise a movement as Hraf's. Fortunately, he /has/ to be, as in an eye blink he has to get one hand to the lad's hand to halt his blade harmlessly, and the other to halt Bianca's flight, the latter of which he hadn't even realized was here, before she accidentally impales herself on the child's blade. "Easy, now," he chuckles, with a glance between the lad and Bianca. "First rule of swordsmanship is not cutting yourself." Bianca is fixed with a sheepish grin. "Hello, love! I got your note," he croons to her, having handled the sudden danger relatively coolly.
Bianca exhales a relieved breath as the danger of Bertram losing his feet is so deftly averted, "Colette will box your ears!" The pint-sized woman informs the Commander quite seriously and much to the amusement of the small child who dares a jovial cackle. Bertram receives the unflinching fury of Bianca's eyes, "And you young man were supposed to be back at the shop two hours ago!" All this is spoken in a no-nonsense-spoon-full-of-sugar tone that does a poor job at feigning genuine wrath.
Hrafnkel's look is suitably abashed as Bianca scolds him. He takes it with proper martial demeanor, not arguing the points in front of the child, or evading... or even, possibly most mystifying, for Hraf, he doesn't even give a sarcastic or smart-alec reply. If one didn't know better, they might guess he took the role-model thing seriously. "The fault is mine. I kept the lad, here," he replies, with solemn accountability, not arguing the message he'd sent. Then he looks to Bertram and holds his hand out for the blade. "Give aunt Bianca a hug and tell her we're sorry for worrying her, like a proper officer and gentleman, Bertram."
Hesitantly Bertram passes the blade, hilt first, to the Commander. The boy's wiry arms shake, yet he executes a stoic and crisp bow to his mentor and then Bianca - eyeing the woman with one hazel orb significantly larger than the other, "I can't hug her, sir." The boy is deadly serious, "You're going to marry her. It wouldn't be proper."
Bianca stifles a telltale laugh at this irrefutable logic, a fan of pallid fingers pressed tight to quivering lips assaulted by suppressed laughter.
There is only one person who has ever won the present look of disarmed adoration from Hraf, and that is Bianca. Not a force in the universe could keep him from tussling the lad's downy hair as his wide eyes move to Bianca from beneath his raised brows. It's almost like an appeal to her to help him cope with the overload of cuteness. But then he looks down to Bertram again, and sounding as serious as he can, he says, "Bertram. You make me very proud. That's a very good lad. And because you impress me so much, I give you permission to give Bianca a hug, if she will give her permission, too."
The apples of Bertram's cheeks shine lustrous crimson! The boy is unable to contain his glee NOT at the permission to embrace the pint-sized woman, but at the praise received from the Commander /himself/! The boy's face wracks through several expressions - confusion and something akin to constipation that is likely meant as stoicism vying for dominance. "Yes sir, sir!" He clicks his heels, saluting, before her latches onto Bianca with a grip less than tender and totally mechanical. Eyes sealed shut and face wincing, the young man is quite clearly performing a duty he refuses to enjoy.
Bianca smiles, blond, immaculately groomed head stirring in a gesture of gentle negation as she resists the urge to rake slim fingers through the lad's hair, indulging him with a stalwart pat-pat-pat upon a shoulder already almost the same breadth as hers!
Hrafnkel's features look almost pained at the boy's performance of his duty as well as Bianca's reaction. The look he shoots Bianca, for her restraint, is one of admiration. He sighs and shakes his head. "Alright. If you get done the math and reading lessons I gave you, and your mother's permission, more training tomorrow, after your chores. Make sure to ask one of the gate guards to escourt you across the way to your mother." As he speaks he moves over to them, slipping one arm about Bianca's hips above where the small arms wrap her.
Bianca opens her mouth to ask what promises to be a poignant question, judging by the single tilt of her sandy brow and that widening of coral lips into a flawless 'Ah'. No sound sputters forth. Instead the woman grinds a pearlescent row of perfect teeth into the tender flesh of her lower lip and rests her waxen palms over the knuckles of the large hands that embrace her. Temperance is a virtue and this Bianca exercises aplenty.
Bertram's zeal lights his eyes, "Yes sir! I will, sir. Sir?..." The child pauses mid way to the door, "Did you mean what you said about Miss Bianca's pony? That...uh...you would teach me how to ride it?"
Bianca cranes her skinny neck to eye Hraf with much the same suspicion the aforementioned 'pony' might.
Behind Hraf's eyes, some internal debate on how to explain the proper importance of hugs to Bertram is being played out as he watches the child. "Well, I'll teach you to ride, of course. We have to make a proper gentleman of you. But you'll need Aunt Bianca's permission to ride Mr. Bells." With a bemused smirk shot to her, as he censors her horse's name. His smile is that sort that would be a grin, would it not make the child self conscious to be grinned at, so. Gently he gives Bianca a squeeze. "I told him all this was only if he mastered his other studies, as well, of course. We're going to start music theory, as well, but I told him you could teach him to sing and dance properly, far better than I ever could."
"I will think about it, Bertram. Now, you are late for dinner and you know your mother frets so! I realize the Commander is a wonderfully enchanting and generous man," Bianca speaks, glancing from the child to the man who seems to have found himself a cherished playmate, "But it is time for lord Hrafnkel to eat as well. Thank you for delivering my message. Now off with you and don't hitch on the trader carts! It's not safe!"
The child sulks, albeit for a moment, "Hell's" he whispers to Hrafnkel from across the room as though the proprietress were deaf, "It's Hell's Bells and she says she named it after your father!" With that relish of a secret revealed the boy trots off, saluting the hounds outside the door who chuckle at the kid, ready to escort Bertram out of the palace.