cw for death and some gore
A SNIPPET OF NIKOLAS BACKSTORY, written as usual by ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
softariel ♥ (ftr Nikolas has just turned 10 in this memory, since I don't think it's mentioned in the text)
The Quertis Ward was a tall man -- taller than even Nikolas's father, broad-shouldered and stern-faced. There was a lean coiled strength to him that was far more obvious than any of the assorted Avis uncles and cousins: this was a man who had absolutely no need to posture, because he had established himself so thoroughly that he couldn't be shaken from his own sense of self. His hair was the color of straw, three shades darker yellow than the gray-eyed woman who stood next to him, whose head only came up just past his shoulder.
Despite the heat -- it was only mid-morning, but the air was already soup-warm when he breathed in -- she was dressed as if for some official function, with a long blue frock-coat over her gray and white clothes. The Quertis Oak was embroidered down both sleeves. She met Nikolas's eyes as he climbed down from the carriage, and it was a bit of an immediate shock -- it was the first time in so long anyone has actually looked at him, looked at him, that he faltered for a moment before Amalia's hand settled on his back, giving him a small push forward.
"I was given to understand that the Great Avis would be coming," the woman said. She crossed her arms, looking at Nikolas steadily for a moment, then past him, to Amalia. "Wouldn't he want to be the one to fetch his son home?"
"My lord is a bit indisposed at the moment," Amalia said. Her voice was flat and hard, the way Nikolas had learned to recognize meant she was trying very hard not to simply snap. She used it with Reynold most of the time, he knew, though occasionally with his father as well -- and some part of him admired her audacity, to push back when the old man was at his worst. "Please accept his humble apologies and his great sorrow that he could not see to this duty himself."
Celeste Arial al'Erth Quertis, the Great Quertis, frowned. "What do you mean, indisposed?" she asked, and her voice rose sharply at that. "This is his son, and here he's sent his other one, who's not even -- what is the meaning of this?"
"Um," Nikolas said, and immediately wished he hadn't: starting with a stammer was such a basic mistake, and one he knew he would be scolded for, if it ever got back to his tutors -- it was important to start his statements boldly, to hold to them as if they were decisive things -- but he faltered again when Celeste turned back to him. "I don't mind, really. I'm. I'm helping Father. Because I am going to be ..."
His voice cut off before he could make himself finish it. Because I am going to be the Heir, now.
Celeste's frown deepened, but before she could say anything more, her Ward touched her arm and leaned down, murmuring something. Her eyes narrowed, but she drew herself up with a sigh. "Very well; Ward Avis, if you would come this way--"
"No," Nikolas said. That sounded much better, much more assertive, and he drew himself up as tall as he could. He was still the smallest among his cousins, though he'd been assured that with time, he would certainly grow into a respectable height -- his father was tall, after all, and Reynold ...
"No, I'm supposed to fetch him. So I'll do it."
Celeste stared at him for a long, long moment. "I don't know if that's wise," she said. "It's really not a very -- it's rather--"
"I can handle it, Nikolas," Amalia said. "You've done your part, you can just--"
"No," he said again, sharper this time. "I promised Father I would, that's why I am even here, so ... so I'll do it. Great Quertis." And he turned back to her, lifting his chin further. "Please take me to my brother."
She pursed her lips, staring at him for so long that he almost recoiled, almost apologized and took it back -- but the memory of his father's face (bloodshot eyes, curled lip, a barely-leashed simmering anger that seemed to fill the whole room, thicker and more choking than the summer heat) stiffened his spine, and he nodded.
At last, though, she nodded and turned as well. "This way, then. If you would."
She led them inside, and turned to a side hallway, and Nikolas had only a few moments to contemplate how envious he was, that it was cooler inside of the Quertis estate than it was within Avis -- and then he heard the sound of a door opening and looked up.
It might have been a guest room at one point; it might have been some small side study, a coat room, any number of things. Now it was empty except for a single table, and the man lying on it.
He was still in his coat, deep Avis red, dusty at the hem and stained--
Stained--
They'd cleaned his face, at least, Nikolas thought distantly; most of the blood had been wiped away, but that only showed more of the shattered forehead, where the skin had been shredded and pulped, and the bone had been shattered. It hardly looked like Reynold any more, that was the thing: it had his sharp nose and his smiling generous mouth (flat now, flat and torn), and it had one of his eyes, but the rest ...
Nikolas curled his hands until he could dig his fingernails into his palm. The back of his throat tasted sour and sharp, like he'd swallowed broken glass. Part of him wanted to turn to Amalia now, to maybe take her hand as he had done when he'd been much younger and much smaller
(when his mother had been there as well, to take his other hand, smiling at him with her soft dark eyes)
and he wanted to ask: Where did my brother go?
"Ah," he said.
softariel ♥ (ftr Nikolas has just turned 10 in this memory, since I don't think it's mentioned in the text)The Quertis Ward was a tall man -- taller than even Nikolas's father, broad-shouldered and stern-faced. There was a lean coiled strength to him that was far more obvious than any of the assorted Avis uncles and cousins: this was a man who had absolutely no need to posture, because he had established himself so thoroughly that he couldn't be shaken from his own sense of self. His hair was the color of straw, three shades darker yellow than the gray-eyed woman who stood next to him, whose head only came up just past his shoulder.
Despite the heat -- it was only mid-morning, but the air was already soup-warm when he breathed in -- she was dressed as if for some official function, with a long blue frock-coat over her gray and white clothes. The Quertis Oak was embroidered down both sleeves. She met Nikolas's eyes as he climbed down from the carriage, and it was a bit of an immediate shock -- it was the first time in so long anyone has actually looked at him, looked at him, that he faltered for a moment before Amalia's hand settled on his back, giving him a small push forward.
"I was given to understand that the Great Avis would be coming," the woman said. She crossed her arms, looking at Nikolas steadily for a moment, then past him, to Amalia. "Wouldn't he want to be the one to fetch his son home?"
"My lord is a bit indisposed at the moment," Amalia said. Her voice was flat and hard, the way Nikolas had learned to recognize meant she was trying very hard not to simply snap. She used it with Reynold most of the time, he knew, though occasionally with his father as well -- and some part of him admired her audacity, to push back when the old man was at his worst. "Please accept his humble apologies and his great sorrow that he could not see to this duty himself."
Celeste Arial al'Erth Quertis, the Great Quertis, frowned. "What do you mean, indisposed?" she asked, and her voice rose sharply at that. "This is his son, and here he's sent his other one, who's not even -- what is the meaning of this?"
"Um," Nikolas said, and immediately wished he hadn't: starting with a stammer was such a basic mistake, and one he knew he would be scolded for, if it ever got back to his tutors -- it was important to start his statements boldly, to hold to them as if they were decisive things -- but he faltered again when Celeste turned back to him. "I don't mind, really. I'm. I'm helping Father. Because I am going to be ..."
His voice cut off before he could make himself finish it. Because I am going to be the Heir, now.
Celeste's frown deepened, but before she could say anything more, her Ward touched her arm and leaned down, murmuring something. Her eyes narrowed, but she drew herself up with a sigh. "Very well; Ward Avis, if you would come this way--"
"No," Nikolas said. That sounded much better, much more assertive, and he drew himself up as tall as he could. He was still the smallest among his cousins, though he'd been assured that with time, he would certainly grow into a respectable height -- his father was tall, after all, and Reynold ...
"No, I'm supposed to fetch him. So I'll do it."
Celeste stared at him for a long, long moment. "I don't know if that's wise," she said. "It's really not a very -- it's rather--"
"I can handle it, Nikolas," Amalia said. "You've done your part, you can just--"
"No," he said again, sharper this time. "I promised Father I would, that's why I am even here, so ... so I'll do it. Great Quertis." And he turned back to her, lifting his chin further. "Please take me to my brother."
She pursed her lips, staring at him for so long that he almost recoiled, almost apologized and took it back -- but the memory of his father's face (bloodshot eyes, curled lip, a barely-leashed simmering anger that seemed to fill the whole room, thicker and more choking than the summer heat) stiffened his spine, and he nodded.
At last, though, she nodded and turned as well. "This way, then. If you would."
She led them inside, and turned to a side hallway, and Nikolas had only a few moments to contemplate how envious he was, that it was cooler inside of the Quertis estate than it was within Avis -- and then he heard the sound of a door opening and looked up.
It might have been a guest room at one point; it might have been some small side study, a coat room, any number of things. Now it was empty except for a single table, and the man lying on it.
He was still in his coat, deep Avis red, dusty at the hem and stained--
Stained--
They'd cleaned his face, at least, Nikolas thought distantly; most of the blood had been wiped away, but that only showed more of the shattered forehead, where the skin had been shredded and pulped, and the bone had been shattered. It hardly looked like Reynold any more, that was the thing: it had his sharp nose and his smiling generous mouth (flat now, flat and torn), and it had one of his eyes, but the rest ...
Nikolas curled his hands until he could dig his fingernails into his palm. The back of his throat tasted sour and sharp, like he'd swallowed broken glass. Part of him wanted to turn to Amalia now, to maybe take her hand as he had done when he'd been much younger and much smaller
(when his mother had been there as well, to take his other hand, smiling at him with her soft dark eyes)
and he wanted to ask: Where did my brother go?
"Ah," he said.