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last_herald_mage2013-06-17 09:35 pm
gildaurel) wrote in last_herald_mage2013-06-17 09:35 pm
Entry tags:
Van/Stef Fluff Fic
Something I wrote spur of the moment. Stef watches Van training. 2000 words. Let's get the fics going again :) !
“Are you really as good as all those songs say?” I hadn’t meant to speak the question, but I didn’t regret it. One thing I’d learned from these past few months with Vanyel was that if I didn’t ask, I'd never know.
He paused mid-buckle and looked at me. He opened his mouth, closed it, sighed, and finished buckling his practice armor. I suppose it wasn’t an easy question to answer without sounding either arrogant or falsely modest, but I was curious.
Once finished, he turned back to me with a half-smile. “You can come watch.”
Perhaps the invitation was what I’d been angling for all along. At any rate, it certainly wasn’t one I’d refuse. I’d been waiting half my life to see Herald-Mage Vanyel Ashkevron wield a sword.
“Really?” I tried not to jump out of the tangled sheets. He looked mildly amused.
“I wouldn’t have thought you’d be so eager to leave the room at this hour.”
I shrugged and threw my legs over the bedside. His gaze wandered down my naked form, almost imperceptibly, before he blushed and looked away.
I could never get over how much I loved his embarrassment, his absolute gentleman-ness, even after all the terribly immodest things we’d done the night before.
“Well, if you’re coming, get dressed,” Vanyel said finally, a hint of humor in his voice. “I hate to think what Tantras would think if I showed up in full practice gear and you stark naked.”
“He’d probably applaud,” I muttered, pulling on crumpled breeches and a cast-off tunic. I sometimes wondered how Tantras’ highly gossiped-about nocturnal activities escaped Vanyel’s ears; but then, I was ever-thankful for how relatively blind he was to my past exploits.
“Hm?” Vanyel said, hand on the door.
I shook my head and followed him out. We walked through the empty, still torch-lit corridors in silence for a few moments before he spoke.
“I’ve always found it strangest that I’ve become a legendary swordsman.” His tone held a hint of self-mockery on those last two words.
Unsure how to respond, I let him pick his words as we turned into the old wing of the Palace.
“My father sent me to Haven in the first place because I was an unsatisfactory fighter.” I was surprised at the residual hints of bitterness in his voice, despite his seemingly repaired relationship with Lord Withen. “He believed all men should fight in the same brutish, heavyweight style.” Pushing open the door to the salle, he looked at me with an uncertain gaze. “I hope you aren’t expecting to see that today.” Sensing my confusion, he gestured vaguely. “Traditional swordwork.”
“My best fighting skill is running away.” That drew a chuckle, albeit a weak one. I touched his shoulder gently and he paused in the dark front entryway. I could hear clinking from the main salle, undoubtedly Tantras sharpening his sword. “Van, I just want to watch you. I wouldn’t even know what to expect; all I know is I’ve never seen what you do, really, and I don’t want to miss a chance to find out.”
“This isn’t quite my everyday work,” he replied, but smiled anyways and walked into the early rays of sunlight. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I ran up the back stairs to the viewing gallery, a sort of balcony perched just above the main salle floor. I’d watched Medren and scores of others training from here at Armsmaster Koren’s request—I think he hoped I’d learn something from watching those who were actually proficient. Violence has never been my interest (make love, not war, I quoted with appropriate cheek at him once—only to have my shield arm beaten into next week by his unamused sword). Of course, I’d come to the viewing gallery other times, as well. We used to try to catch a glimpse of the great Herald Demonsbane, or if not him, the untouchably golden Heir Treven, whose swordwork was renown. I’d caught Treven once or twice with the girls from my class and we’d looked on appreciatively, but no one had ever seen Vanyel.
Because he trains at an hour when no sane person is awake. Clearing off dust and bits of unidentified armor, I watched him greet Tantras familiarly, then back off to the far corner of the salle. His armor was lighter than any I’d seen; I’d thought originally he kept additional pieces in the weapons room. Tantras was clad in a far more familiar uniform of head-to-toe heavy cover, and drew a weighty practice sword. Vanyel said something quietly. A bit of Tantras’ reply floated up.
“…easy on me, would you?”
Vanyel’s return laughter bounced off the walls, up my way, and then they were at it.
He’s not fighting. The thought came to me despite my best efforts to repress it, and my promise not to expect traditional swordwork. But Vanyel wasn’t returning any of Tantras’ well-aimed thrusts—some of the best I’d ever seen, truly—he was instead flitting away, almost as if he were… dancing. He’s dancing.
And then I saw it: the agility of the footwork, the delicate intricacy of it all. I’d never actually seen Vanyel dance; I was fairly certain nobody had. He always left Court events right after dinner and never attended parties, which I’d understood, if not copied. Yet now I ached for the imagined grace of what we’d never done.
Tantras was breathing heavily; he paused on his side of the salle to take off his helmet and gulp a few breaths. Vanyel barely looked winded, dancing from foot to foot in place.
When they took up again, it was obvious Vanyel would win the bout. He was on the attack now, darting in to claim bits of Tantras’ pride, as the larger man spun away too heavily each time. A particularly complex flurry of blows, and Vanyel somehow had Tantras’ sword in his hand. He doffed his helmet, returning the sword with an elaborate bow and a smile I could see from here.
Two more bouts and a shift in the sunlight passed before I realized it must have been an hour, and Tantras raised both hands in surrender a final time. Vanyel took their swords, heading toward the weapons rack, and I jogged back down the stairs.
Eyes still dazzled from the morning sunlight, I almost ran straight into Tantras walking out of the salle to the changing rooms down the left corridor. His eyebrows shot up and he looked back toward the main room. “Van, you did not tell me we had an audience!”
I hadn’t thought Tantras capable of such high-pitched tones. “I’m sorry,” I said, only half-successfully stifling a laugh.
Tantras looked more disgruntled than I’d ever seen him, even after three-hour long Council meetings. “I’m a bit out of form, you know,” he grumbled. “Being Seneschal’s Herald isn’t exactly high in exercise, as I’ve told Van numerous times.”
Striding back toward us, Vanyel looked at Tantras with barely-contained amusement. “Tran used to be the Weaponmaster’s second when I first got my Whites, the best trainee in years.”
“Then Vanyel showed up, back from the Outlands, and knocked me on my back a dozen times over. Felwen was positively thrilled, until he realized Van wouldn’t have a moment to spare for working with the Trainees.” Tantras shook his head at the memory, smiling. “But I couldn’t really be jealous of someone who was so obviously uncomfortable with power and attention. You should have seen his reaction to the girls who would flock to see him train!”
Vanyel blushed. “Hence the early-morning training hour.” He shot Tantras a surprisingly fond look. “Twice a week for almost twenty years now, no?”
“Close,” Tantras replied, grinning mischievously at Stefen. “Longer than you’ve been alive?”
“About two thousand and eighty times you’ve surrendered?” I countered, smiling sweetly. I’d always been top of my class in mathematics. Vanyel looked at me, duly impressed.
“Apparently in both sword and verbal battles, yes,” Tantras said, hands raised. “I’m off to change, then, lovebirds.” He winked at Vanyel. “I can cover for you at early Council if you want to rinse off in your own chambers.”
I gave him my most winning smile before Vanyel could answer. “Why thank you, Herald Tantras. I’ll do my best to clean him up for you.”
Tantras’ decidedly filthy laugh followed us out the hall.
Once we were a few paces away, I noticed that Vanyel was looking at me, smiling. “What is it, ashke?”
“You.” He raised an eyebrow. “So full of retorts and surprises.”
“I have to try to keep up with your repertoire of abilities.” We turned down the hallway of his (our?) rooms. “Apparently the songs are true.”
“Oh?” His lips curved imperceptibly.
I rolled my eyes. “You had me worried you were a tyro.”
He opened the door to our rooms and turned to me, face serious. “But I am a tyro with the kind of sword Tantras was holding.” We stepped inside and he unbuckled his light armor, hanging it meticulously on its rack. “For the first sixteen years of my life, I thought I was useless on the battlefield.” His sweaty shirt clung to him, defining muscles I knew I’d never have. “I was worried I’d never be a true man… in any sense of the word.” Looking at the window, he lifted an elegant shoulder. “All I wanted was to impress my father. So when I did my research, found a new fighting style, and practiced with my cousin, I thought he would finally be pleased with me. That I would finally be good at something that mattered. Not music, or wearing tasteful clothes.” The side of his mouth quirked in a sarcastic smile. “Not at something that was meant for ladies.”
“What happened?” I asked hesitatingly.
“I showed Jervis, who accused me of cheating, and shattered my arm. The damage to my fingers was permanent” He flexed his hand, a habit I’d long since noticed, but never understood. “My father believed Jervis and gave up on me. He sent me to Haven so that Savil could ‘make a man out of me.’ ” He looked out the window for a long moment before turning limpid silver eyes back my way. “I was devastated.”
“Gods. And you’ve forgiven them both.” It was a statement, not a question; Vanyel’s joy at Jervis’ marriage and his warm reconciliation with his father were well-known facts to me.
“Nothing they did mattered, in the end. I learned to play again, and I could never have been a Bard, regardless.” My eyebrows must have been in my hairline, for Vanyel looked at me with definite amusement. “Oh, yes, it was my teenage dream. Had I never told you?”
He certainly had not. I shook my head in mute surprise. I knew there were things that bothered him about being a Herald, but I still thought that was what everyone dreamed of becoming, especially everyone who did wind up actually becoming one. After all, it was a sort of validation of your basic goodness. Like hearing the voice of the Gods telling you that yes, you were indeed a worthwhile person; the most worthwhile, in fact.
“Well, it was. But all Father did was send me on the path to finding out who I really was. How can I blame him?” His eyes grew distant. “Part of me thinks he simply played his part in some vast pattern outside all of our understanding.”
“Hm.” I wasn’t convinced. People had to be held accountable in this world, or every murderer with a gift for words could argue his “part in the pattern.”
“I know your feelings about fatalism,” Vanyel said, smiling fondly at me. He peeled his sweaty shirt off and tossed it on the floor. “You think we make our own fates and our own choices.”
“I think it’s too easy for wrongdoers to make excuses,” I qualified. “You’re far too forgiving.”
“Ah! At long last, a criticism of my faultless persona.”
“Difficult when you’re half-naked.” The first time I saw Vanyel shirtless was on an ill-fated trip to a hot springs, and I’d barely been able to stop staring at his bare body. All that pale muscle threaded with thin lines of scar begged my hands to touch, and never stop touching. I slid up behind him, placing light hands on his back. “The great warrior Vanyel Ashkevron, at my mercy—“
“—not until I’ve bathed, O silver-tongued Bard.” He slipped out from my grasp and into the inner bathing chamber. “But I suppose you could join me,” he threw over his shoulder.
My clothes and I have never parted ways so quickly.
“Are you really as good as all those songs say?” I hadn’t meant to speak the question, but I didn’t regret it. One thing I’d learned from these past few months with Vanyel was that if I didn’t ask, I'd never know.
He paused mid-buckle and looked at me. He opened his mouth, closed it, sighed, and finished buckling his practice armor. I suppose it wasn’t an easy question to answer without sounding either arrogant or falsely modest, but I was curious.
Once finished, he turned back to me with a half-smile. “You can come watch.”
Perhaps the invitation was what I’d been angling for all along. At any rate, it certainly wasn’t one I’d refuse. I’d been waiting half my life to see Herald-Mage Vanyel Ashkevron wield a sword.
“Really?” I tried not to jump out of the tangled sheets. He looked mildly amused.
“I wouldn’t have thought you’d be so eager to leave the room at this hour.”
I shrugged and threw my legs over the bedside. His gaze wandered down my naked form, almost imperceptibly, before he blushed and looked away.
I could never get over how much I loved his embarrassment, his absolute gentleman-ness, even after all the terribly immodest things we’d done the night before.
“Well, if you’re coming, get dressed,” Vanyel said finally, a hint of humor in his voice. “I hate to think what Tantras would think if I showed up in full practice gear and you stark naked.”
“He’d probably applaud,” I muttered, pulling on crumpled breeches and a cast-off tunic. I sometimes wondered how Tantras’ highly gossiped-about nocturnal activities escaped Vanyel’s ears; but then, I was ever-thankful for how relatively blind he was to my past exploits.
“Hm?” Vanyel said, hand on the door.
I shook my head and followed him out. We walked through the empty, still torch-lit corridors in silence for a few moments before he spoke.
“I’ve always found it strangest that I’ve become a legendary swordsman.” His tone held a hint of self-mockery on those last two words.
Unsure how to respond, I let him pick his words as we turned into the old wing of the Palace.
“My father sent me to Haven in the first place because I was an unsatisfactory fighter.” I was surprised at the residual hints of bitterness in his voice, despite his seemingly repaired relationship with Lord Withen. “He believed all men should fight in the same brutish, heavyweight style.” Pushing open the door to the salle, he looked at me with an uncertain gaze. “I hope you aren’t expecting to see that today.” Sensing my confusion, he gestured vaguely. “Traditional swordwork.”
“My best fighting skill is running away.” That drew a chuckle, albeit a weak one. I touched his shoulder gently and he paused in the dark front entryway. I could hear clinking from the main salle, undoubtedly Tantras sharpening his sword. “Van, I just want to watch you. I wouldn’t even know what to expect; all I know is I’ve never seen what you do, really, and I don’t want to miss a chance to find out.”
“This isn’t quite my everyday work,” he replied, but smiled anyways and walked into the early rays of sunlight. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I ran up the back stairs to the viewing gallery, a sort of balcony perched just above the main salle floor. I’d watched Medren and scores of others training from here at Armsmaster Koren’s request—I think he hoped I’d learn something from watching those who were actually proficient. Violence has never been my interest (make love, not war, I quoted with appropriate cheek at him once—only to have my shield arm beaten into next week by his unamused sword). Of course, I’d come to the viewing gallery other times, as well. We used to try to catch a glimpse of the great Herald Demonsbane, or if not him, the untouchably golden Heir Treven, whose swordwork was renown. I’d caught Treven once or twice with the girls from my class and we’d looked on appreciatively, but no one had ever seen Vanyel.
Because he trains at an hour when no sane person is awake. Clearing off dust and bits of unidentified armor, I watched him greet Tantras familiarly, then back off to the far corner of the salle. His armor was lighter than any I’d seen; I’d thought originally he kept additional pieces in the weapons room. Tantras was clad in a far more familiar uniform of head-to-toe heavy cover, and drew a weighty practice sword. Vanyel said something quietly. A bit of Tantras’ reply floated up.
“…easy on me, would you?”
Vanyel’s return laughter bounced off the walls, up my way, and then they were at it.
He’s not fighting. The thought came to me despite my best efforts to repress it, and my promise not to expect traditional swordwork. But Vanyel wasn’t returning any of Tantras’ well-aimed thrusts—some of the best I’d ever seen, truly—he was instead flitting away, almost as if he were… dancing. He’s dancing.
And then I saw it: the agility of the footwork, the delicate intricacy of it all. I’d never actually seen Vanyel dance; I was fairly certain nobody had. He always left Court events right after dinner and never attended parties, which I’d understood, if not copied. Yet now I ached for the imagined grace of what we’d never done.
Tantras was breathing heavily; he paused on his side of the salle to take off his helmet and gulp a few breaths. Vanyel barely looked winded, dancing from foot to foot in place.
When they took up again, it was obvious Vanyel would win the bout. He was on the attack now, darting in to claim bits of Tantras’ pride, as the larger man spun away too heavily each time. A particularly complex flurry of blows, and Vanyel somehow had Tantras’ sword in his hand. He doffed his helmet, returning the sword with an elaborate bow and a smile I could see from here.
Two more bouts and a shift in the sunlight passed before I realized it must have been an hour, and Tantras raised both hands in surrender a final time. Vanyel took their swords, heading toward the weapons rack, and I jogged back down the stairs.
Eyes still dazzled from the morning sunlight, I almost ran straight into Tantras walking out of the salle to the changing rooms down the left corridor. His eyebrows shot up and he looked back toward the main room. “Van, you did not tell me we had an audience!”
I hadn’t thought Tantras capable of such high-pitched tones. “I’m sorry,” I said, only half-successfully stifling a laugh.
Tantras looked more disgruntled than I’d ever seen him, even after three-hour long Council meetings. “I’m a bit out of form, you know,” he grumbled. “Being Seneschal’s Herald isn’t exactly high in exercise, as I’ve told Van numerous times.”
Striding back toward us, Vanyel looked at Tantras with barely-contained amusement. “Tran used to be the Weaponmaster’s second when I first got my Whites, the best trainee in years.”
“Then Vanyel showed up, back from the Outlands, and knocked me on my back a dozen times over. Felwen was positively thrilled, until he realized Van wouldn’t have a moment to spare for working with the Trainees.” Tantras shook his head at the memory, smiling. “But I couldn’t really be jealous of someone who was so obviously uncomfortable with power and attention. You should have seen his reaction to the girls who would flock to see him train!”
Vanyel blushed. “Hence the early-morning training hour.” He shot Tantras a surprisingly fond look. “Twice a week for almost twenty years now, no?”
“Close,” Tantras replied, grinning mischievously at Stefen. “Longer than you’ve been alive?”
“About two thousand and eighty times you’ve surrendered?” I countered, smiling sweetly. I’d always been top of my class in mathematics. Vanyel looked at me, duly impressed.
“Apparently in both sword and verbal battles, yes,” Tantras said, hands raised. “I’m off to change, then, lovebirds.” He winked at Vanyel. “I can cover for you at early Council if you want to rinse off in your own chambers.”
I gave him my most winning smile before Vanyel could answer. “Why thank you, Herald Tantras. I’ll do my best to clean him up for you.”
Tantras’ decidedly filthy laugh followed us out the hall.
Once we were a few paces away, I noticed that Vanyel was looking at me, smiling. “What is it, ashke?”
“You.” He raised an eyebrow. “So full of retorts and surprises.”
“I have to try to keep up with your repertoire of abilities.” We turned down the hallway of his (our?) rooms. “Apparently the songs are true.”
“Oh?” His lips curved imperceptibly.
I rolled my eyes. “You had me worried you were a tyro.”
He opened the door to our rooms and turned to me, face serious. “But I am a tyro with the kind of sword Tantras was holding.” We stepped inside and he unbuckled his light armor, hanging it meticulously on its rack. “For the first sixteen years of my life, I thought I was useless on the battlefield.” His sweaty shirt clung to him, defining muscles I knew I’d never have. “I was worried I’d never be a true man… in any sense of the word.” Looking at the window, he lifted an elegant shoulder. “All I wanted was to impress my father. So when I did my research, found a new fighting style, and practiced with my cousin, I thought he would finally be pleased with me. That I would finally be good at something that mattered. Not music, or wearing tasteful clothes.” The side of his mouth quirked in a sarcastic smile. “Not at something that was meant for ladies.”
“What happened?” I asked hesitatingly.
“I showed Jervis, who accused me of cheating, and shattered my arm. The damage to my fingers was permanent” He flexed his hand, a habit I’d long since noticed, but never understood. “My father believed Jervis and gave up on me. He sent me to Haven so that Savil could ‘make a man out of me.’ ” He looked out the window for a long moment before turning limpid silver eyes back my way. “I was devastated.”
“Gods. And you’ve forgiven them both.” It was a statement, not a question; Vanyel’s joy at Jervis’ marriage and his warm reconciliation with his father were well-known facts to me.
“Nothing they did mattered, in the end. I learned to play again, and I could never have been a Bard, regardless.” My eyebrows must have been in my hairline, for Vanyel looked at me with definite amusement. “Oh, yes, it was my teenage dream. Had I never told you?”
He certainly had not. I shook my head in mute surprise. I knew there were things that bothered him about being a Herald, but I still thought that was what everyone dreamed of becoming, especially everyone who did wind up actually becoming one. After all, it was a sort of validation of your basic goodness. Like hearing the voice of the Gods telling you that yes, you were indeed a worthwhile person; the most worthwhile, in fact.
“Well, it was. But all Father did was send me on the path to finding out who I really was. How can I blame him?” His eyes grew distant. “Part of me thinks he simply played his part in some vast pattern outside all of our understanding.”
“Hm.” I wasn’t convinced. People had to be held accountable in this world, or every murderer with a gift for words could argue his “part in the pattern.”
“I know your feelings about fatalism,” Vanyel said, smiling fondly at me. He peeled his sweaty shirt off and tossed it on the floor. “You think we make our own fates and our own choices.”
“I think it’s too easy for wrongdoers to make excuses,” I qualified. “You’re far too forgiving.”
“Ah! At long last, a criticism of my faultless persona.”
“Difficult when you’re half-naked.” The first time I saw Vanyel shirtless was on an ill-fated trip to a hot springs, and I’d barely been able to stop staring at his bare body. All that pale muscle threaded with thin lines of scar begged my hands to touch, and never stop touching. I slid up behind him, placing light hands on his back. “The great warrior Vanyel Ashkevron, at my mercy—“
“—not until I’ve bathed, O silver-tongued Bard.” He slipped out from my grasp and into the inner bathing chamber. “But I suppose you could join me,” he threw over his shoulder.
My clothes and I have never parted ways so quickly.