Fitzroy Bell (crossbill) wrote in top_shelf, @ 2014-08-25 22:56:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | book: his majesty's dragon, player: christa |
Who: Fitzroy Bell
What: Bad news.
When: May 1807.
Where: Sleeping quarters.
Warnings: A dash of (probably warranted) moping.
If Fitz had known that he would not see the same shape returning, a black relief growing larger against the setting of the sun over the waves, he may have watched the departure with more interest. As it had happened, from his window he followed the shape of Prisca’s broad wingspan, distinct even as it receded into the gray morning, for only a few moments before returning to his books. Though not bed-ridden any more, he was still having a difficult time making more than short, purposeful journeys to the grass immediately outside.
The fall could have been much worse. In addition, it was his own fault. This was something that nearly everyone had seemed to relish reminding him of at least once apiece, whether with blatant smugness or understated disapproval. Regardless of just how deserved it was, it stood to be enough to ground Fitz until the start of the next month. This was what he’d been told, any road. Last week he’d at first refused to believe it, and then settled into a sort of broody acceptance, the same kind he’d have reserved as a child for discipline he knew he’d earned.
Yet what had at first felt like punishment was now some sort of twisted, perverse blessing. Which was the best thing he could make of the present situation: his father was lost in battle, somewhere over the sea, and with him the dragon that should have been left to Fitz in the event of the former thing.
Innately, Fitz was prepared for this day all his life. Duty wasn’t a question. The actuality of it took him unprepared nonetheless, a violent shake to the consciousness of someone who never entertained the worst actually happening. In his mind his father would one day be gone, but there would still be the Reaper. Someone to grieve with and to recover with. They would have held one another up and put the darkness of it into becoming as good a team as the one before, one Captain Bell for another. Maybe Fitz’s own son would do the same one day—Prisca wasn’t so old. Hadn’t been.
That night he found himself staring out the window again, waiting beyond hope for anything to rise against the moon. Tomorrow he would need to venture out, though a summons would no doubt precede his will to do so. To be grounded on a temporary basis felt suddenly like nothing at all, and he wished he’d been more grateful for it then. The arrival of those who remained saw that it rang of greater permanence.