In the Kingdom... strike that...Queendom of the Flowering Tree, two twin princes play host to a recently abdicated brother, his spouse, and his youngest son, their nephew. Nevermind that they're just a few months old and their nephew is just turned thirteen. As winter begins to settle in, truly and well and fast and quite whitely, the two hosting princes nap in the grand family tradition started by their father who, as it turns out, is also napping.
     In the living room of his father's old suites, Anierin busily sketches, not on paper but on a large, wireless smart pad. He is bundled up in one of his father's charcoal sweaters, which still goes to his knees no matter how tall he's grown, paired with corduroy trousers, a far more crushable dove grey. His shoes are formidable Doc Martens, the laces purposely left untied and unkempt. But he is tidy, clean, and his straight, black hair is combed. With puberty it has started to ever so slightly wave.
     His large blue eyes are fixed and focused, darting here and there to follow the lines of his schematics as they compile. Beside him is a serving of tea and cider, both heated, the scented fog still hovering around him.
     The cookies and cakes have, of course, been obliterated...

     Tiernan is lying on the couch, napping. He's youthful in visage but old in spirit; he has a secret which he is keeping to himself. He knows it is coming. And he treasures every moment which he has left...
     There is a sound which makes him wake, and he yawns, stretching, sitting up. He smiles at his son lovingly, rising to his feet and rubbing one eye. "Ani. Are you having success with your design? ...Where's your father?"

     Ani looks up from the chair where he sits, close to tea, close to the remains of the cookies and cakes he has decimated, and close to the fire. He looks back to his pad and types something out. With big blue eyes (the eyes, now, of a teenager), your son looks to you and then turns the pad around: He's with Nainie, I think.
     And perhaps you notice now, in your slumbering wakefulness, the appearance of a woolen scarf around your son's neck. He clears his throat a little as he turns the pad around and types something else: I am taking a vow of silence. I lost my voice this morning.
     In fact, he hasn't said a word in hours. Come to think of it, has he said a word all day?

     He raises an eyebrow, then smiles a little, shaking his head. Ah, adolescence. "A vow of silence, over losing your voice?" Tiernan asks gently. He goes over to you, putting an arm around your shoulder. "And have you lost your mental voice as well, then, that you are suddenly typing things?"
     He doesn't laugh. Laughter is fatal to a teenager, and he remembers it well. But he does give you a little squeeze, then ruffles your hair. "You want to tell me what's really going on?" Prince Tiernan asks gently. "I am here for you, Ani, you know."

     He blushes a bit, then smirks. It's half your smile -- and have your husband's. Oh yeah. I could do this, couldn't I. Anierin hands you the e-pad, displaying the schematics for a series of war chariots and battleships.
     "I am sending them to Balthazar," he says. And you know, instantly, that he isn't sick (though he thinks he is). His voice is a muddle of pitches and tones, hoarse, and light, then deep, then soft and high as it has been, then deep again. It is the sound of an instrument in the process of being tuned, strings that sound as if they will surely pop and burst with the strain of finding their key.
     I sound like violins being played by monkeys, papa. I've been drinking cider, but it doesn't seem to help, really. I don't feel sick, though.

     Ahh. Tiernan smiles gently, fondly, and a little bit wistfully. He remembers only yesterday, it seems, when you were a chubby toddler...
     But time marches onwards. He will not keep you in suspense. "Your voice is breaking, Ani. It's natural; all men go through this." He settles his arm around your shoulders again, looking at the pad and then setting it aside, looking at you with a gentle smile. "Think on what your brothers' voices sounded like - do you not remember when Balto was a boy soprano? And now, he most certainly is not. This will come and go for a while, until your body finishes tuning you to manhood. You won't be done growing then, not quite, but your voice will be done with these changes."
     He ruffles your hair. When should I tell them? There will be no good time. But I cannot hide it from them forever. Not now that I know. Still ... not yet...

     I don't remember it changing. Did he have a small voice? Well, as long as it gets fixed. I should like to use my outside voice and not sound like a mating call for alley cats. He pauses. I wonder what it will sound like when it stops squeaking and dragging.
     Anierin looks at you as you put your arm around his shoulders. So I'm officially a man, now? That's a bit frightening. I've only been thirteen for a couple of days. He looks a bit wide-eyed at the thought. "Does becoming a man make your shoulders hurt as well?" Highs and lows, sweetness and hoarseness, breaks and smooth corners -- his voice is less like violins screeching and more like wind instruments with reeds blaring. Now and then there are a few perfectly tuned notes: his future voice. Reminiscent of Balthazar's mellifluence, it has a somewhat softer quality. It is a blend of Gruffydd's serenity and Balthazar's warmth.
     He makes a face and rolls his shoulders in your hold. I feel like I'm coming down with a cold. A bit achy. I thought I was getting sick. It's probably just the weather change. And the fact I'm becoming a man.

     He chuckles at that, and he shakes his head. "You're still a youth. A young man, but yes, not a little boy anymore." His eyes are misty now. "Yes, it can have growing pains - physical and otherwise, there are many adjustments going on."
     For me as well; and the adjustments will be going on for a very long time, I fear. Ah, my son... I will miss you...
     "Life is always a series of adjustments, though," Tiernan continues, bending to kiss the back of your head. "Easiest borne with love, but even with love, it can be very difficult. Just remember that when it comes down to it, we are all on the same side, yes? And this too will pass."
     He chuckles again, clapping your shoulder gently. "How are you feeling, son? You still have a bit of growing to do. But you are a young man, now." He emphasizes 'young'.

     Anierin smiles. He likes making you laugh. "No, not little. But if you miss having babies, you can always hold uncle Wren and uncle Robin. Or whatever Maria ends up having, I mean, boy or girl. It'll be a baby, naturally."
     Sitting back, he leans against you, enjoying your solidity. He's always liked feeling you nearby. A bit itchy and achy. Kind of around my neck and my back. I don't remember pulling anything or getting stung but it feels a bit like that. Sore muscles. At least that means I have muscles.
     Oceanic blue, those eyes turn to you. "At first, it was a bit scary, I admit, leaving one thing to become another. My body didn't really behave. And now my voice, but," he pauses the pitchy intonations. It's not scary, really, becoming a young man. I'm not ready to leave your office yet, though, papa. I like being your apprentice.

     "Hot baths," Tiernan prescribes. He almost suggests massages, but he's not up for giving you ideas. You'll be getting those ideas soon enough. "It will help ease some of the aches and pains, though some you'll just have to endure, I fear."
     He hugs you gently. You are not ready to be without me. But soon... soon you will have to face the world without me right there, although I will always be watching. He sighs, and he smiles, and he hugs you again. "Not yet," Tiernan agrees with a small smile. "Although you've come close to learning all I can offer, son. Now... are you hungry? Shall we go find your papa?"

     Your son winds his arms around you. "There will never be enough time for lessons," he counters. "I will always want to know more. And you will always know more than I know." He smiles at you a little, relieved at the quick assurance that soon is not imminent.
     Food! You know the look, passed on now from generations of Llywelyns. Though the crumbs have but barely rested upon the plate, evidence to the slaughter of a snack, Anierin rises, "I am hungry. I can't seem to get enough to eat..." And when he rises, it's etched there again: you and your spouse's legacy. Another tall and fair-faced son.

     He smiles, and he hides his sadness behind his joy at your growth, your ascension. He hides from you what he knows - that soon he will be leaving, and not for a little while, but for good. Tiernan ruffles your hair, and he moves to follow you, hand to your shoulder.
     Soon. There is work to be done. Soon, but not yet.
     "Let's go find something to eat, then, and let's find your papa," is all that Tiernan says. And he smiles. Always remember that you are loved, my son...

Posted by rowan at August 07, 2010 06:49 PM