Xavin in 1170 - a sequel
A followup to this, inspired by JK's addendum to his own version (only visible to people on JK's friends list, I believe.)
As before, this will make most sense to LT players who know some of Xavin's history. And have read the previous post.
October 25th, 1186 AF
Peace had descended over the household after yesterday’s celebrations. The guests had either departed or were still sleeping off hangovers in the spare bedrooms. There wasn’t much clearing up needed - despite the amount of alcohol that flowed. The bottles, barrels, drinking horns, and tankards had been cleared away by the grandchildren, and the abandoned musical instruments stacked neatly in the corner.
Out in the garden a young woman was engaging in weapon drill. It would be hard to say how old she was - technically yesterday had been her 16th birthday, but she looked as if she could be in her early twenties. Everyone in this family was, by now, used to fae children growing up at whatever rate they felt like - so had taken it in their stride. Her apparent belief that 5’2” was an entirely sufficient height did cause some consternation, particularly for her father, but her mother and great grandfather were both entirely unsurprised.
The old man watched her for a minute or two, a slight smile on his now wrinkled and liver-spotted face. She wielded the weapons with skill - a shortsword, decorated in blue and gold, and an odd-looking mace whose head appeared to be a cluster of blue gems - and he remembered the grin on her face when he’d presented them to her the previous night; “Ash wanted you to have these back,” he’d told her. His own gift had been equally well received - she had donned the blue and black armour that morning and gone out to practice with the weapons even before he’d had his first cup of tea, and was still there two hours later.
“She looks good.”
Xavin turned to see Jeynsa, setting down a tray of tea on the small table in front of a well-worn armchair.
“She always did,” he replied quietly, starting to walk slowly, with the aid of a stick, towards the chair. “I only wish Eleanor could have been here to see it.”
It had been nearly 4 years since his wife’s death. The first year had been the hardest; he’d nearly given up there and then, and it had only been the thought of what she would have said about that which stopped him. There was a limit to how much even a Lifemaster’s link could slow the aging process, and it was as if a dam had burst that year - he’d seemed to shrink, the last of the hair had gone, and he had been so very tired. It had been Hope that brought him out of it in the end - a bright spark of life who had gently drawn him back out of his shell and into something resembling his old self.
“Mother would have been very proud. And she’d also be telling you to stop overexerting yourself. Now, let me help you into that chair and then I’ll pour the tea. Stefan will be here in an hour - you two will behave, won’t you? Promise me - no arguing.”
Xavin nodded as he settled into the chair. “No arguing, I promise.” He could still remember the fight, clear as day, fourteen and a half years after the fact. The shouted exchange:
“For the love of St. John! I *know* you could cut it out, but it’s in his pattern! It will just grow back when you heal him!”
“He’s your friend - don’t you want to even try?”
“He’s an old man! He deserves to die with some dignity, not get sliced up on the table of a man who still hasn’t figured out that he can’t heal everyone!”
The slammed door. The silence. And, not long afterwards, Hadrian’s funeral.
It was possible that, just maybe, Stefan might have come around to his father’s way of thinking on the matter over the years. If so, he’d never admit it. The man had stubborn streak a mile wide. “And you know which of us he got that from, don’t you?” He could hear Eleanor’s voice in his mind.
Xavin smiled. “I’m still a little tired, love. I think I might have a nap. If I’m not awake when your brother gets here, can you tell him there’s some paperwork he should see? It’s in my desk - right-hand drawer.” He paused. “There’s some for you as well. But wait until he gets here.”
Jeynsa looked puzzled, and a little worried, but before she could say anything her father spoke again. “It’s alright. I just want to rest. But don’t let the tea go to waste - go see if Hope wants any.”
He closed his eyes and consciousness slipped away in moments. He didn’t hear Jeynsa leaving the room, nor her and Hope coming in a few minutes later. And he could not have heard them checking first his breathing, then his pattern - nor the sound of a young fae woman, trying to comfort her grandmother.
*****
It was warm and sunny when he opened his eyes and found himself lying on grass. Sitting up and looking around he could see it clearly wasn’t home - although it looked strangely familiar.
“Let me help you up.”
Xavin was startled; he could have sworn there was no-one around a moment ago, but now a tall dark-haired man - bearded, and clad in a simple white robe - was standing next to him and offering his hand. The voice was deep and calm, with odd but not displeasing harmonics - and Xavin found himself reaching out to grasp the stranger’s hand.
“Do I know you?” he asked. It was another moment before he noticed his own hand - decades younger than it had been when he fell asleep. And the aches and pains of old age were suddenly missing as the man pulled him to his feet.
“Oh yes!” The man’s laughter was almost musical. “I rather think you do. My name is John, and these are my lands. Personally I prefer the North, but I thought these would suit you better - at least for today.”
Xavin patted his head and looked down at himself. He had a full head of hair again - the long and unruly locks held in place with a leather headband, and his body appeared to have shed 7 or 8 decades.
“Follow.” John spoke again, and Xavin obeyed without thought. He was led up the gentle slope ahead and, as he crested the ridge, old memories flooded back. He found himself looking down upon the fortress of Maiden Castle, upon the shores of Finmere Lake - as they had been over 70 years ago. At the docks a river boat was moored, of the sort he had often used to ship goods and people up and down river between his old baronial seat and the port of Southampton - and on which he had left the fortress for the last time.
“Is that...?” he began.
“I have changed the weather, for the better I think, and removed a few... distractions. But yes, it is as it was on the day you left. Come, there is someone you should meet.” John took his hand again.
He could not recall the journey, but Xavin found himself standing on the dockside at the base of the gangplank to the boat. “What...” he started to ask, but John was nowhere to be seen.
He started to climb the gangplank. A figure appeared at the far end and he stopped, stunned. It was her. Eleanor. Just as she had been on that first day. For a moment he was back there, on the deck, drenched by the rain and crowded with refugees - led by a vision from the ancestors they had all said, a shining knightly figure who told them where to go to find the last boat going south - as he reached out to help a woman up the rain-slicked gang-plank...
“Can I welcome you aboard?”
Eleanor was reaching out and grinning.
“Wasn’t that *my* line?” He reached out to grasp her hand.
The embrace was long and fierce, but finally they released each other and Eleanor stepped back. “There is one more person you should meet,” she said. “He’s been waiting a long time, but I’ve taken care of him since I got here.” She turned and called, “You can come out now, your Father is here”.
The door to the deckhouse swung open and out stepped a boy, perhaps 4 years old and smiling shyly - a boy with a silver stripe across his eyes.
*****
As before, this will make most sense to LT players who know some of Xavin's history. And have read the previous post.
October 25th, 1186 AF
Peace had descended over the household after yesterday’s celebrations. The guests had either departed or were still sleeping off hangovers in the spare bedrooms. There wasn’t much clearing up needed - despite the amount of alcohol that flowed. The bottles, barrels, drinking horns, and tankards had been cleared away by the grandchildren, and the abandoned musical instruments stacked neatly in the corner.
Out in the garden a young woman was engaging in weapon drill. It would be hard to say how old she was - technically yesterday had been her 16th birthday, but she looked as if she could be in her early twenties. Everyone in this family was, by now, used to fae children growing up at whatever rate they felt like - so had taken it in their stride. Her apparent belief that 5’2” was an entirely sufficient height did cause some consternation, particularly for her father, but her mother and great grandfather were both entirely unsurprised.
The old man watched her for a minute or two, a slight smile on his now wrinkled and liver-spotted face. She wielded the weapons with skill - a shortsword, decorated in blue and gold, and an odd-looking mace whose head appeared to be a cluster of blue gems - and he remembered the grin on her face when he’d presented them to her the previous night; “Ash wanted you to have these back,” he’d told her. His own gift had been equally well received - she had donned the blue and black armour that morning and gone out to practice with the weapons even before he’d had his first cup of tea, and was still there two hours later.
“She looks good.”
Xavin turned to see Jeynsa, setting down a tray of tea on the small table in front of a well-worn armchair.
“She always did,” he replied quietly, starting to walk slowly, with the aid of a stick, towards the chair. “I only wish Eleanor could have been here to see it.”
It had been nearly 4 years since his wife’s death. The first year had been the hardest; he’d nearly given up there and then, and it had only been the thought of what she would have said about that which stopped him. There was a limit to how much even a Lifemaster’s link could slow the aging process, and it was as if a dam had burst that year - he’d seemed to shrink, the last of the hair had gone, and he had been so very tired. It had been Hope that brought him out of it in the end - a bright spark of life who had gently drawn him back out of his shell and into something resembling his old self.
“Mother would have been very proud. And she’d also be telling you to stop overexerting yourself. Now, let me help you into that chair and then I’ll pour the tea. Stefan will be here in an hour - you two will behave, won’t you? Promise me - no arguing.”
Xavin nodded as he settled into the chair. “No arguing, I promise.” He could still remember the fight, clear as day, fourteen and a half years after the fact. The shouted exchange:
“For the love of St. John! I *know* you could cut it out, but it’s in his pattern! It will just grow back when you heal him!”
“He’s your friend - don’t you want to even try?”
“He’s an old man! He deserves to die with some dignity, not get sliced up on the table of a man who still hasn’t figured out that he can’t heal everyone!”
The slammed door. The silence. And, not long afterwards, Hadrian’s funeral.
It was possible that, just maybe, Stefan might have come around to his father’s way of thinking on the matter over the years. If so, he’d never admit it. The man had stubborn streak a mile wide. “And you know which of us he got that from, don’t you?” He could hear Eleanor’s voice in his mind.
Xavin smiled. “I’m still a little tired, love. I think I might have a nap. If I’m not awake when your brother gets here, can you tell him there’s some paperwork he should see? It’s in my desk - right-hand drawer.” He paused. “There’s some for you as well. But wait until he gets here.”
Jeynsa looked puzzled, and a little worried, but before she could say anything her father spoke again. “It’s alright. I just want to rest. But don’t let the tea go to waste - go see if Hope wants any.”
He closed his eyes and consciousness slipped away in moments. He didn’t hear Jeynsa leaving the room, nor her and Hope coming in a few minutes later. And he could not have heard them checking first his breathing, then his pattern - nor the sound of a young fae woman, trying to comfort her grandmother.
*****
It was warm and sunny when he opened his eyes and found himself lying on grass. Sitting up and looking around he could see it clearly wasn’t home - although it looked strangely familiar.
“Let me help you up.”
Xavin was startled; he could have sworn there was no-one around a moment ago, but now a tall dark-haired man - bearded, and clad in a simple white robe - was standing next to him and offering his hand. The voice was deep and calm, with odd but not displeasing harmonics - and Xavin found himself reaching out to grasp the stranger’s hand.
“Do I know you?” he asked. It was another moment before he noticed his own hand - decades younger than it had been when he fell asleep. And the aches and pains of old age were suddenly missing as the man pulled him to his feet.
“Oh yes!” The man’s laughter was almost musical. “I rather think you do. My name is John, and these are my lands. Personally I prefer the North, but I thought these would suit you better - at least for today.”
Xavin patted his head and looked down at himself. He had a full head of hair again - the long and unruly locks held in place with a leather headband, and his body appeared to have shed 7 or 8 decades.
“Follow.” John spoke again, and Xavin obeyed without thought. He was led up the gentle slope ahead and, as he crested the ridge, old memories flooded back. He found himself looking down upon the fortress of Maiden Castle, upon the shores of Finmere Lake - as they had been over 70 years ago. At the docks a river boat was moored, of the sort he had often used to ship goods and people up and down river between his old baronial seat and the port of Southampton - and on which he had left the fortress for the last time.
“Is that...?” he began.
“I have changed the weather, for the better I think, and removed a few... distractions. But yes, it is as it was on the day you left. Come, there is someone you should meet.” John took his hand again.
He could not recall the journey, but Xavin found himself standing on the dockside at the base of the gangplank to the boat. “What...” he started to ask, but John was nowhere to be seen.
He started to climb the gangplank. A figure appeared at the far end and he stopped, stunned. It was her. Eleanor. Just as she had been on that first day. For a moment he was back there, on the deck, drenched by the rain and crowded with refugees - led by a vision from the ancestors they had all said, a shining knightly figure who told them where to go to find the last boat going south - as he reached out to help a woman up the rain-slicked gang-plank...
“Can I welcome you aboard?”
Eleanor was reaching out and grinning.
“Wasn’t that *my* line?” He reached out to grasp her hand.
The embrace was long and fierce, but finally they released each other and Eleanor stepped back. “There is one more person you should meet,” she said. “He’s been waiting a long time, but I’ve taken care of him since I got here.” She turned and called, “You can come out now, your Father is here”.
The door to the deckhouse swung open and out stepped a boy, perhaps 4 years old and smiling shyly - a boy with a silver stripe across his eyes.
*****