Ice Island 6
Title: Ice Island 6
Rating: PG
Words: 1,505
Arthur's small fingers fumbled around his buttons as he struggled to pull on his coat in the cold air. Around him the huge Knights in their silver armor clanked as their esquires helped them prepare. The barge stood at the ready at the docks for its passengers, its green lantern rocking from the mouth of the long prow in the cool night breeze. Soon they would be away to join the supply barges from their lands off island and then to the main fleet where the rest of Her Majesty's army awaited.
He could feel the eyes of his brothers on him, standing with the rest of the the House servants, filled with dull anger and lingering dread. He would be beyond their reach soon, leaving the island for the first time in his very short life. He would have his space to grow into his own and become the Fae that was to lead the House.
You have run out of chances to end me, Arthur spoke to them without words, catching the twins' eyes with his own green ones. There was a sense of victory in that, even in the whirling pool of dread and anticipation that roiled his stomach. It is too late for you to do anything.
Yet he could not even get his shaking fingers to pull the buttons through their slots. It made him feel so small, even if the sheer height of the warring party did not remind him. Doubt and insecurity plagued him constantly since his mother's proclamation. He could feel the eyes of all the Knights upon him, full of disbelief and resentment, or worse, pity. What was he supposed to do on a battlefield? How could he hope to survive in the sea of swords when he was too small to swim?
Arthur looked over at Crow, who was being outfitted with his own silver armor by his esquires. He spoke easily with his fellows, face flushed with excitement to prove himself. No one talked to Arthur like that. They would not dare, for one. He was the heir to the House of Down. He was so far above their station that it nearly made him laugh at how tiny he was in comparison to them. Or cry. But he was not allowed to cry.
Damn these buttons! How was he supposed to fight Seelie if he couldn't even do this small thing!
"Arthur," his lady mother hissed, coming up behind him, chilling the air with her very presence. "What is taking you so long? Hurry up!"
Arthur swallowed, unable to look up into her gaze his green eyes fixed on the gray wood of the dock underneath his feet. "I..." he started in that small pathetic infantile voice, "I forgot something... In the House." Without asking for her leave, he fled, brushing past the House servants and onto the grounds. He ignored his brothers' twin smirks, though they pierced into him like harpoon points. The crowd dwindled as the black walls rushed up to meet him. The warmth of the castle was stifling as he entered into the main hall and flew up to his room.
The small chamber looked barely recognizable. All his belongings had been shrunken and packed up into a single trunk, waiting for him on his barge. All that was left was a bare bed and desk in a stone room with no windows. It looked like a dungeon cell, but without the iron bars to weaken and burn him. Nonetheless, Arthur threw himself on the bed and buried his face in his arms, willing himself not to cry. From the hot tears streaming down his cheeks, he was failing. Alone he cried without anyone to judge him as weak as he knew he was. His shoulders shook and he heaved for breath in between his sobs, his eyes burning as painfully as though they had been gouged.
Crow was right. He made a horrible mistake. He should have just kept his mouth shut and everything would have been fine. His pride would have been damaged beyond repair, but at least he would be safe. He could have just stayed in his small windowless room and kept to his studies and evaded his brothers' meager attempts on his life. It would have been a peaceful life for maybe a few decades more, or a century. What was he doing going off to war? It was a cruel jape, to send a little faeling no taller than the Knight's knees to go into the heat of battle and likely die.
A hand rested on his back, startling him out of his tears. He spun, small hand fisted to defend himself. Then he saw the familiar white cloak and knew it to be his father. He looked up to see his father's eyes fixed upon the cloak still loose around his shoulders.
"Honestly," he muttered, ignoring the tracks of tears on his sireling's chubby cheeks. "Sit up now."
Arthur obeyed without question, wiping away the traces of his tears with his sleeve. His father knelt down and pulled the cloak tight about him and buttoned him in slowly, with a gentleness that Arthur had never before seen in him. It was so foreign to him that the feelings of doubt and dread could not help but wash away in place of his mute shock.
"You will need to learn to dress yourself from now on," his father said in a voice so soft that it did not seem like his own. "No one will do it for you." He finished his work, but his fingers rested on the last button, preserving the strange spell of the moment. He kept his gaze downcast, resting on his son's small hands that clutched at the hem of the cloak.
"Be sure to obey your lady mother in all things. Continue your studies as best you can. Make sure you... you eat enough meat and blood so you can grow..." His father's voice trailed off slowly as he seemed to struggle for words. They lingered there, air pregnant with words unspoken.
Arthur's throat was tight, as though his voice could not break through the wall of silence. There were so many things that he wanted to tell his father now that he had broken his silence, so many things to ask. But most of all he just wanted to call him Papa and ask to hug him.
However, his father's fingers left his cloak and with a sudden sense of loss, Arthur knew the moment had passed. Ice returned to his father's gaze as he stiffly stood, his white cloak sliding over his shoulders. "Come along," he said, roughly taking the faeling by the forearm and wrenching him towards the door. "Your Lady Mother is waiting. You must not keep her."
The small faeling nodded and resigned to the fact that his father's singular moment of gentleness was something he would never again witness. However, his father stopped before they reached the door. Arthur looked up, but the older faeling's gaze was distant as though he were looking out past the doors and walls and across the vastness of the Endless Lake. "Arthur," he said softly, but there was no comforting gentleness to it, only the intimacy of conspiracy, "above all else, trust no one. Not the Knights, not Baird... not even your mother. Trust only yourself."
Arthur nodded slowly, though the very idea that his father could coo over his lady mother and yet not trust her... "What about you?" he asked quietly.
His father's eyes slid down, not quite meeting his, simply resting on the heir's brow. He stayed silent for a moment to consider his answer. After what seemed a mud-person lifetime, the young father answered, "I will not matter for very much longer."
Before Arthur could decipher the meaning behind those cryptic words, his father tugged him out of his old room and back towards the dock and into the public eye. His hand pulled away as they approached and he stilled at the edge of the dock whilst Arthur's small feet carried him onwards.
The small faeling climbed up the gangplank with little further ado, taking a place along the side to look on at the gathered crowd. He heard a yell from the dock hands and the rope was thrown onto the barge. A drum beat behind him, it's reverberations thrumming the very wood underneath his feet. With a sudden lurch, the barge pulled away from the dock of its own power.
Arthur looked up, trying to find his father in the crowd. It was easy to spot the sheer white cloak and all pale features. His green eyes caught his father's, holding them steady. There was a strange look in them, something he had never before seen in any expression before. He kept hold of it until his father, the crowd and the castle faded into the mist.
Arthur would never see that look in his father's eyes again.
Rating: PG
Words: 1,505
Arthur's small fingers fumbled around his buttons as he struggled to pull on his coat in the cold air. Around him the huge Knights in their silver armor clanked as their esquires helped them prepare. The barge stood at the ready at the docks for its passengers, its green lantern rocking from the mouth of the long prow in the cool night breeze. Soon they would be away to join the supply barges from their lands off island and then to the main fleet where the rest of Her Majesty's army awaited.
He could feel the eyes of his brothers on him, standing with the rest of the the House servants, filled with dull anger and lingering dread. He would be beyond their reach soon, leaving the island for the first time in his very short life. He would have his space to grow into his own and become the Fae that was to lead the House.
You have run out of chances to end me, Arthur spoke to them without words, catching the twins' eyes with his own green ones. There was a sense of victory in that, even in the whirling pool of dread and anticipation that roiled his stomach. It is too late for you to do anything.
Yet he could not even get his shaking fingers to pull the buttons through their slots. It made him feel so small, even if the sheer height of the warring party did not remind him. Doubt and insecurity plagued him constantly since his mother's proclamation. He could feel the eyes of all the Knights upon him, full of disbelief and resentment, or worse, pity. What was he supposed to do on a battlefield? How could he hope to survive in the sea of swords when he was too small to swim?
Arthur looked over at Crow, who was being outfitted with his own silver armor by his esquires. He spoke easily with his fellows, face flushed with excitement to prove himself. No one talked to Arthur like that. They would not dare, for one. He was the heir to the House of Down. He was so far above their station that it nearly made him laugh at how tiny he was in comparison to them. Or cry. But he was not allowed to cry.
Damn these buttons! How was he supposed to fight Seelie if he couldn't even do this small thing!
"Arthur," his lady mother hissed, coming up behind him, chilling the air with her very presence. "What is taking you so long? Hurry up!"
Arthur swallowed, unable to look up into her gaze his green eyes fixed on the gray wood of the dock underneath his feet. "I..." he started in that small pathetic infantile voice, "I forgot something... In the House." Without asking for her leave, he fled, brushing past the House servants and onto the grounds. He ignored his brothers' twin smirks, though they pierced into him like harpoon points. The crowd dwindled as the black walls rushed up to meet him. The warmth of the castle was stifling as he entered into the main hall and flew up to his room.
The small chamber looked barely recognizable. All his belongings had been shrunken and packed up into a single trunk, waiting for him on his barge. All that was left was a bare bed and desk in a stone room with no windows. It looked like a dungeon cell, but without the iron bars to weaken and burn him. Nonetheless, Arthur threw himself on the bed and buried his face in his arms, willing himself not to cry. From the hot tears streaming down his cheeks, he was failing. Alone he cried without anyone to judge him as weak as he knew he was. His shoulders shook and he heaved for breath in between his sobs, his eyes burning as painfully as though they had been gouged.
Crow was right. He made a horrible mistake. He should have just kept his mouth shut and everything would have been fine. His pride would have been damaged beyond repair, but at least he would be safe. He could have just stayed in his small windowless room and kept to his studies and evaded his brothers' meager attempts on his life. It would have been a peaceful life for maybe a few decades more, or a century. What was he doing going off to war? It was a cruel jape, to send a little faeling no taller than the Knight's knees to go into the heat of battle and likely die.
A hand rested on his back, startling him out of his tears. He spun, small hand fisted to defend himself. Then he saw the familiar white cloak and knew it to be his father. He looked up to see his father's eyes fixed upon the cloak still loose around his shoulders.
"Honestly," he muttered, ignoring the tracks of tears on his sireling's chubby cheeks. "Sit up now."
Arthur obeyed without question, wiping away the traces of his tears with his sleeve. His father knelt down and pulled the cloak tight about him and buttoned him in slowly, with a gentleness that Arthur had never before seen in him. It was so foreign to him that the feelings of doubt and dread could not help but wash away in place of his mute shock.
"You will need to learn to dress yourself from now on," his father said in a voice so soft that it did not seem like his own. "No one will do it for you." He finished his work, but his fingers rested on the last button, preserving the strange spell of the moment. He kept his gaze downcast, resting on his son's small hands that clutched at the hem of the cloak.
"Be sure to obey your lady mother in all things. Continue your studies as best you can. Make sure you... you eat enough meat and blood so you can grow..." His father's voice trailed off slowly as he seemed to struggle for words. They lingered there, air pregnant with words unspoken.
Arthur's throat was tight, as though his voice could not break through the wall of silence. There were so many things that he wanted to tell his father now that he had broken his silence, so many things to ask. But most of all he just wanted to call him Papa and ask to hug him.
However, his father's fingers left his cloak and with a sudden sense of loss, Arthur knew the moment had passed. Ice returned to his father's gaze as he stiffly stood, his white cloak sliding over his shoulders. "Come along," he said, roughly taking the faeling by the forearm and wrenching him towards the door. "Your Lady Mother is waiting. You must not keep her."
The small faeling nodded and resigned to the fact that his father's singular moment of gentleness was something he would never again witness. However, his father stopped before they reached the door. Arthur looked up, but the older faeling's gaze was distant as though he were looking out past the doors and walls and across the vastness of the Endless Lake. "Arthur," he said softly, but there was no comforting gentleness to it, only the intimacy of conspiracy, "above all else, trust no one. Not the Knights, not Baird... not even your mother. Trust only yourself."
Arthur nodded slowly, though the very idea that his father could coo over his lady mother and yet not trust her... "What about you?" he asked quietly.
His father's eyes slid down, not quite meeting his, simply resting on the heir's brow. He stayed silent for a moment to consider his answer. After what seemed a mud-person lifetime, the young father answered, "I will not matter for very much longer."
Before Arthur could decipher the meaning behind those cryptic words, his father tugged him out of his old room and back towards the dock and into the public eye. His hand pulled away as they approached and he stilled at the edge of the dock whilst Arthur's small feet carried him onwards.
The small faeling climbed up the gangplank with little further ado, taking a place along the side to look on at the gathered crowd. He heard a yell from the dock hands and the rope was thrown onto the barge. A drum beat behind him, it's reverberations thrumming the very wood underneath his feet. With a sudden lurch, the barge pulled away from the dock of its own power.
Arthur looked up, trying to find his father in the crowd. It was easy to spot the sheer white cloak and all pale features. His green eyes caught his father's, holding them steady. There was a strange look in them, something he had never before seen in any expression before. He kept hold of it until his father, the crowd and the castle faded into the mist.
Arthur would never see that look in his father's eyes again.