Yet another character sketch
Title: Bedevere
Summary: "Shalott had named him after a knight caught between two worlds."
Fandom: Amaranth
Word Count: 573
Rating/Warnings: PG
Pairing: N/A
A/N: Yes, again. I don't quite know where this came from, but I like it. I need an Amaranth icon.
He still snuck off to the city sometimes. Logos told him that there was no need to steal away, that he could leave any time he felt like it. But he still hid it.
It was for his mother’s sake that he did it, or that was what he told himself. She’d been so heavily medicated for the last few years that it was hard to tell if she even knew anything anymore. The doctors told him that she was better when he was around, but he didn’t know if he could trust them anymore.
When he was young, very young, his mother would sit him down and read to him. All the stories unfurled before his eyes, sparkling and rare, all true as they could be. When she read to him, he could imagine no better life for himself than to read and to write, to make it sparkle for someone else. This was his quixotic, romantic reason for joining them, the story to swear by, the tale for propaganda.
But truth isn’t really that neat or that pretty. There was no lie in the story of his mother, but it was his father that had driven him away. Not directly; he could not hate his father no matter what he did. For, when he was young, he had worshipped his father just the same. He came home every evening, pristine in his never-rumpled suit, mysterious and expected and wonderful. He’d had no idea what it was his father did all day, but he wanted to be part of that, too.
The illness had crept in slowly, so slowly that no one had noticed. In quiet tones and soothing whispers, he heard the doctors tell his father that it was curable- or it would have been, if they had caught it in time. The only choice now was to stave it off, let her live as well as possible for as long as possible.
Her eyesight had gone first, her voice and her mobility following quickly. The disease moved far too fast. He read to her, trying to make her see. But it was no use. He could see her, touch her, sit with her, but she was gone. There was nothing left but a shapeless form in a hospital bed, like so many other shapeless forms, with the buzzing, impotent nurses floating around and the television always blaring down something bright and empty and soothing.
Slowly, very slowly, his father came to accept it. But he could not. The house seemed huge and empty without her. His father came home, and he started to see the stains on the pristine black suit. Stories of corporate life were nothing he’d imagined, boring people pushing around boring stacks of paper. His father would come home and have a drink and sit in front of the television, let it tell him something bright and empty and soothing.
So he’d left, because he couldn’t take it anymore. He went off to find rough edges and real people, and so he’d come upon them. Shalott had named him after a knight caught between two worlds. And it fit, for he had his home there in all its tumbledown glory, but he still couldn’t quite shake off the city. Some small part of him still wanted to be in his father’s world, to wear the black suit and listen to the television and let himself be soothed.
Summary: "Shalott had named him after a knight caught between two worlds."
Fandom: Amaranth
Word Count: 573
Rating/Warnings: PG
Pairing: N/A
A/N: Yes, again. I don't quite know where this came from, but I like it. I need an Amaranth icon.
He still snuck off to the city sometimes. Logos told him that there was no need to steal away, that he could leave any time he felt like it. But he still hid it.
It was for his mother’s sake that he did it, or that was what he told himself. She’d been so heavily medicated for the last few years that it was hard to tell if she even knew anything anymore. The doctors told him that she was better when he was around, but he didn’t know if he could trust them anymore.
When he was young, very young, his mother would sit him down and read to him. All the stories unfurled before his eyes, sparkling and rare, all true as they could be. When she read to him, he could imagine no better life for himself than to read and to write, to make it sparkle for someone else. This was his quixotic, romantic reason for joining them, the story to swear by, the tale for propaganda.
But truth isn’t really that neat or that pretty. There was no lie in the story of his mother, but it was his father that had driven him away. Not directly; he could not hate his father no matter what he did. For, when he was young, he had worshipped his father just the same. He came home every evening, pristine in his never-rumpled suit, mysterious and expected and wonderful. He’d had no idea what it was his father did all day, but he wanted to be part of that, too.
The illness had crept in slowly, so slowly that no one had noticed. In quiet tones and soothing whispers, he heard the doctors tell his father that it was curable- or it would have been, if they had caught it in time. The only choice now was to stave it off, let her live as well as possible for as long as possible.
Her eyesight had gone first, her voice and her mobility following quickly. The disease moved far too fast. He read to her, trying to make her see. But it was no use. He could see her, touch her, sit with her, but she was gone. There was nothing left but a shapeless form in a hospital bed, like so many other shapeless forms, with the buzzing, impotent nurses floating around and the television always blaring down something bright and empty and soothing.
Slowly, very slowly, his father came to accept it. But he could not. The house seemed huge and empty without her. His father came home, and he started to see the stains on the pristine black suit. Stories of corporate life were nothing he’d imagined, boring people pushing around boring stacks of paper. His father would come home and have a drink and sit in front of the television, let it tell him something bright and empty and soothing.
So he’d left, because he couldn’t take it anymore. He went off to find rough edges and real people, and so he’d come upon them. Shalott had named him after a knight caught between two worlds. And it fit, for he had his home there in all its tumbledown glory, but he still couldn’t quite shake off the city. Some small part of him still wanted to be in his father’s world, to wear the black suit and listen to the television and let himself be soothed.