alastair isn’t one to turn away compliments, but he hates when people praise his writing. he knows why they do it, he’s incredibly well spoken and writes flawlessly, beautiful script, highly advanced vocabulary, mastery of conveying tone while still retaining a sense of professionalism and eloquence, a perfected use of words to convey sarcasm and humour and other emotions while still remaining strongly worded, it’s a genuine pleasure to read his writing.
but all he can think of when he hears it complimented is the price he paid for it. the countless nights of studying after forcing his sister to bed, desperately trying to sound like a grown up in these letters to the clave that his father has been too drunk to even read these past few weeks let alone respond to. the panic of knowing something bad will happen if the important people realize the head of the house is incapable of adult functions, if they realize the person controlling all communication between the carstairs family and the clave is a child. he doesn’t know what the bad things are because god he’s so young, not even old enough to attend the academy, but he knows bad things will come. but he doesn’t want to bother his mother or worry his sister.
so he practices and he studies and he researches until he can pass for an adult in writing around the age of 11-12. countless sleepless nights, tear covered paper as he can’t get it right, the script too childish, the vocabulary too basic, the piles of discarded drafts that build in the corner because he’s just a child but all he can think is why can’t i do anything right? its just another jagged edge that cut him as his childhood shattered to pieces around him, but hey he’s used to the pain at this point, at least he got a skill out of this one right?
