i'm not made of steel. Who: Cassandra Helmm-Deirgard and Antony Fitz (+ Conan!) What: A talk between mentor and mother. Where: The Deirgard residence. When: Recently. Rating: G. Status: Complete narrative.
Antony Fitz sits at the Deirgard family’s dinner table. His lower extremities are contorted to fit in the child-sized stool as he eyes the ornate design of the dining chair from which his mentee’s mother stares him down. From her vantage at the head of the table, where the late Sir Deirgard once sat, her eyes bear down into him with their piercing gaze.
“Sir Helmm,” he ventures tentatively, hoping to ease the conversation by with her professional name. The large man stands no chance against an enraged Cassandra; though twice her size, he dares not overstep in her own territory. The iron fists he wields over her son do not scare her, a seasoned knight and his senior.
“Get to the point, good knight. You’re here about Conan, of course. What did he do this time that sent him hiding? The boy’s grounded, but I’d like to know what I’m grounding him for.”
“Threw apples at some knights in the Bazaar.” The sentinel groans, exasperated, and observes her placid expression with hesitation. “Because,” he adds, “Conan told me, they were asking for it. He didn’t miss, but boy do I wish he did.” Mischief is something he’s good at as the adults both know.
“Faram’s sake.”
Fitz does not know whether her interjection regards her son or his own words. So with a gulp and gritted teeth, he moves the topic forward.
“I’ve tried to keep him under control but I can’t take this. He isn’t focused enough for his studies. I can’t make him care.”
“I know.” Scrambling for guild associate status after her husband’s passing, Cassandra Helmm returned with the same glittering reputation as she had in her days of glory years ago as a full-time knight and Fighter. Still neither of them can ignore the burden she shoulders with age, with motherhood. The lines around her eyes and mouth sag from loosened skin, yet the woman herself is spread thin, outstretching her arms to guide her children down the right path. “Trust, I try too. He’s just doesn’t take too well to this.”
She waves a hand, gesturing up and down at the sentinel before her, but Fitz knows she means the sentinel that has passed.
“Never asked for this either,” The younger fighter’s patience wears thin, eroded by his distaste for the boy’s antics.
“Stop waffling. I've heard it from all his other mentors. If it's my approval you want, you won’t have it, Fitz. Trust, I kn—,” Her own frustrated exhale interrupts the spiel.
“I know he’s a handful,” Cassandra begins again, slowly. She is standing now, palms down on her table, dark curls hanging down from her shaking head. He draws his knees closer to him, making himself smaller to her rising figure. Even so, when she speaks again, the tables have clearly turned. She strains to keep stern in her voice. The hesitation once evident in Fitz’s voice has transferred into her own. “Faram's sake, the solution isn’t to leave him.”
“Sir Helmm, no one has a hold on him.” Not even you. “We’ve tried. The Guild tries.”
“I’ll speak to him, Fitz,” she bargains. As if she doesn’t already, as if she hasn’t tried. “I’ll see what I can do but Conan doesn’t respond well t-to people leaving. Especially mentors.”
Fitz nods. “As you say, ma’am.” Cursory, flat.
Her mouth hangs open with the request so don’t give up on him yet, but she refrains from begging and turns away. Fitz understands the gesture and begins to see himself out.
“Will you be staying for dinner?” Though she does not meet his eye, the offer is genuine. Cassandra bites her pride, acknowledging their a common ground of dealing with the same rascal.
He hesitates, one hand on the knob, one foot out the door. (All of Conan’s mentors come to him with one foot out the door.) Then, with a resigned half-smile, “N-no thank you, ma’am. Think I ought to go.”
“Hope the rest of your evening goes well, Fitz.” She sighs, moving a hand to her hip. “Or, at least, better than this.”
“Aye, Helmm. Thank you,” he responds. “You too.”
With a stiff and awkward bow, Antony Fitz takes his leave.
Elsewhere, the subject of their conversation places a small stone in the leather pad of his slingshot with the same focused precision of an archer nocking an arrow. The squire hits his target, a bell outside a tailor’s shop, and scurries away before the shopkeeper realizes what has happened.
When he arrives home, the eldest Deirgard child puts aside his toy. These bright eyes have time only for a gleaming sword in Charles’ old office, for a pair of shoes he thinks he must fill. In the backyard, he practices with his dagger and stumbles over his own feet, his faltering confidence.
Above his head, a cloud casts its shadow over a flying dragon.