It's hard to look at Paul, now--and Kim, too. Seeing what all their knowledge and power has given them, seeing the toll it takes to bear up under such a heavy, heavy weight, it makes him feel small and petty, a petulant child whining that he is not the center of attention.
Such feelings, he knows very well, are unworthy of him, and unworthy of the friendship that is so easily offered to him.
But Kevin has never been very good at being patient, at being not in control, of being the one who can do nothing more than the majority of men. It is--it is uniquely frustrating, and of late there is not even time to attempt to find solace in a willing woman.
And again, that is something that matters not at all, now: now and for a great many nights to come.
He almost sighs, once, before his attention is caught by a light in the farmhouse window, bright despite the lateness of the hour.
"Kevin," Paul calls, coming to a sudden decision, and pulls his horse to a halt.
He doesn't have to tell him. But Kevin, as much as any of them, deserves to know.
He looks at him for a moment, and then says, "I should have told you before. Jennifer's child is down there. He's the young one we saw earlier. It was his older brother . . . so to speak . . . whom we just watched go with the Hunt."
Some of Kevin's resolve not to resent his friends crumbles at this, but he struggles to keep his voice level, to not react to his position as the one who doesn't know.
"Very little. He's growing very fast. Obviously," Paul says, wearily, and then, remembering that it might not after all be obvious to Kevin, "All the andain do, Jaelle says. No sign yet of any . . . tendencies."
Paul draws a breath and lets it out - thinking of Finn, Finn's description of his brother.
"A bright child. And a trusting one," he adds, and there's no joy in his voice, at the description.
"Finn, the older one, was watching over him, and so were the priestesses, through a girl who was mind-linked to Finn. Now he's gone, and there is only the mother, and it'll be a bad night down there."
Comments 14
Such feelings, he knows very well, are unworthy of him, and unworthy of the friendship that is so easily offered to him.
But Kevin has never been very good at being patient, at being not in control, of being the one who can do nothing more than the majority of men. It is--it is uniquely frustrating, and of late there is not even time to attempt to find solace in a willing woman.
And again, that is something that matters not at all, now: now and for a great many nights to come.
He almost sighs, once, before his attention is caught by a light in the farmhouse window, bright despite the lateness of the hour.
And then, of course, he hears Paul call his name.
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He doesn't have to tell him. But Kevin, as much as any of them, deserves to know.
He looks at him for a moment, and then says, "I should have told you before. Jennifer's child is down there. He's the young one we saw earlier. It was his older brother . . . so to speak . . . whom we just watched go with the Hunt."
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But oh, it hurts.
"What do we know about the child?"
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Paul draws a breath and lets it out - thinking of Finn, Finn's description of his brother.
"A bright child. And a trusting one," he adds, and there's no joy in his voice, at the description.
"Finn, the older one, was watching over him, and so were the priestesses, through a girl who was mind-linked to Finn. Now he's gone, and there is only the mother, and it'll be a bad night down there."
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