βΒ do not speak to me of when you are gone.Β β as it is, they had come far too close to that very scenario becoming a reality he would have been forced to inhabit, had the strength of his uncle's arm proved truer. and valarr, perhaps foolishly, had found himself entirely unprepared for the possibility, regardless of whatever readiness he had imagined himself to possess. it is one thing, to contemplate a life without one's father, many years from now, long since touched by age and the wisdom it imbues β it is another entirely to have one's father abruptly, violently, ripped from your hands. tongue loosened by fear, his words are a blade, cutting cleanly through the air stretched taut between them. so sharply, in fact, he nearly expects to see the lacerations on his father's skin as they find their mark, and they burn with a cold that steals the breath from even valarr himself. the heel of his palm digs harshly into his sternum, as though the pressure will coax his lungs into filling once more.
his mother had been the first to discover his tendency to become short of breath when overwhelmed by strong feeling, a creeping sense of dread stealing across his skin and leaving tremors in its wake. jena had found him curled up beneath his bed, that first time, eventually coaxing him out with soft voice and gentle hands β he wants nothing more than to be safely ensconced now. he wants his mother. he wants to sink into his father's arms and allow himself to be comforted, reassured, as he hasn't been since he was small. but valarr is used, by now, to denying himself that comfort; there is no place for weakness in a prince of the blood. on that much, at least, he can agree with his cousin. the bite of his nails sinking into the flesh of his palms as he curls his hands into fists, the ache of the strain in his knuckles, it is all a grounding pain, which brings the world back into sharp relief β he hadn't realised his vision had begun to soften and blur at the edges. there is a loathsomely breathless quality to his voice, when he finds it again, indignation having loosened its hold on his words at last. βΒ what it says is that my uncle is either unwilling or unable to take a firm hand with aerion, and certainly incapable of curbing his worst, most contemptible impulses.Β β
aerion's exile, as much as it can be called such when aerion is being sent across the narrow sea to indulge himself in a veritable nest of iniquity, will last a laughably brief amount of time, undoubtedly, before he's quietly ushered back to summerhall, where maekar can bluster and make a grand show of discipline. and nothing will change. valarr wonders, for a moment, if aerion has ever felt the burn of shame that he feels as his father scolds him for his thoughtless sentiment, his careless words. somehow, he doubts he has. doubts that his cousin's shoulders have ever bowed under the weight of his father's disappointment, as valarr's do now. his earlier outburst had been unforgivable, but his conduct in these last moments has been utterly reprehensible. he stumbles, on his next pass of the room, and his breath heaves out of him as he sinks into a chair, heavily and without grace. βΒ ...i understand, why you felt you must take ser duncan's side. to be seen to take ser duncan's side. but one hedge knight's life is not equal to the life of the crown prince, father, you must know this, and his cause almost cost it.Β β