Aden has serious abandonment issues. They're somewhat justified. A little bit of insight into why he is the way he is.
![[Image: tumblr_nzosx0UbEK1v0ltaqo2_r2_1280.png]](https://40.media.tumblr.com/ad3bee96533553de4327d8fcd1defd67/tumblr_nzosx0UbEK1v0ltaqo2_r2_1280.png)
He wakes from a nightmare of being chased, of snapping jaws and a sound like all the water in the world is falling at once. His pillow is sodden, nose stuffy, and it’s cold. He’s kicked the blankets off in his haste to escape the phantom in his dreams. “Da,†he calls out, voice cracking.
After a long moment in the dark, everything still but his heart for fear of the beast pulling itself from his dreams and circling, hovering, finding him, he realizes he hears no noise but the wind outside the windows. “Da,†he risks, louder.
But no one comes. After an eternity he crawls to the head of the bed, burying himself behind the pillows.
He wonders if he should’ve questioned the day before. Da normally sends him to Gran’s when he must leave for a while, but yesterday–yesterday was different. Yesterday Da held him longer than usual, and cried when he said goodbye–which is not so strange, Aden thinks, because he cries all the time, why shouldn’t Da once in a while–and they went not to Gran’s. Instead Da sent him with Tav, a soldier like Da, and they walked for a very long time.
In the morning it’s Tav who comes, and he sees Aden huddled behind the pillows and sits down on the edge of the bed, just out of arm’s reach. He’s smiling, softly, trying to be comforting, but before he can speak Aden blurts out, “Where’s Da?â€
Tav’s smile falters, his jaw tensing, and he says nothing for far too long.
And suddenly Aden understands. He does not try to contain his tears.
Aden is seven before he’s certain Ma and Mam aren’t going to send him away. At least, he knows they won’t, in his head. It’s a different thing to learn in his heart, something he never rightly does.
He is eight and in the barn when he realizes a pitchfork might pass for a spear. Aden remembers the shining wonder of metal his father carried, remembers slipping on Da’s helmet and running through the house, ambushing his father at the writing desk and pushing the helmet up just long enough to deliver his ultimatum of, “No monsters in the city!â€
Da looked up, eyes wide, and then he rolled his head with a growl rolling under and between his words, “Oh, a valiant warrior! You shall make such a delicious,†he leaned forward, beginning to push his chair back, and smacked his lips, “snack. Come to my waiting jaws before I tear down your city walls!â€
“No!†And with a single thrust of his imaginary spear Aden slays the beast. His father crumples to the floor dramatically, with a convincing, terrifying roar before he goes still. Laughing delightedly, Aden jumps in celebration of his victory. But his father remains still, and after a moment Aden pushes the helmet up again. “Da?†His father does not so much as twitch, so Aden steps over and pokes him in the arm.
And suddenly Da is a flurry of motion, snatching Aden up and tickling him. The helmet falls off, and rolls to the side, but Aden has utterly forgotten it in his laughter.
In his mind the pitchfork is his father’s spear, which he somehow still clearly remembers, and Aden spends a good bell slaying hay bales before Nadine comes out to fetch him for dinner and grabs him by the arm, hard. She doesn’t hurt, though, she’s just strong. And upset, he can tell. “Where did you get the idea for this?â€
“Just stories, Ma.â€
She scowls, but doesn’t question it, and then her expression softens. “It’s dangerous. Don’t jump from so high with the pitchfork.â€
He is sixteen before he works up the courage to say anything, and it’s as he’s helping Arild with dishes.
“Mam, I think I want to be a lancer.â€
There’s a pause that he only catches because he’s grown up under her, a hesitation only a heartbeat long where the rag in her hand stills against a plate that says everything he needs to know. “Who would run the farm,†she asks, “when we’re too old?â€
“I could come back.â€
“You still have a couple of years, I think, before you’re ready. I‘ll talk to Naddy about it.â€
Neither of them mention it again unless he does.
He is nineteen, sitting alone in his room at Lasalle’s and oiling the leather straps on his borrowed armor. It’s past midnight, so he works by lamplight, and he will be out again in only a handful of bells for training. He is sore, bruised and nicked from training and from sparring with anyone who will indulge him, and from his couple of bells spent shifting books around. Volume two is untouched on the desk near the door. And he is tired.
Yet he can’t stop himself from playing through the day again in his mind, from rerunning every detail of every fight or drill, recalling every criticism great and small. Is it enough?
Aden wonders how long he has before Flynt turns him out, too, and what he will do when he must finally admit defeat in chasing his father’s ghost.
Unfading Memory
He wakes from a nightmare of being chased, of snapping jaws and a sound like all the water in the world is falling at once. His pillow is sodden, nose stuffy, and it’s cold. He’s kicked the blankets off in his haste to escape the phantom in his dreams. “Da,†he calls out, voice cracking.
After a long moment in the dark, everything still but his heart for fear of the beast pulling itself from his dreams and circling, hovering, finding him, he realizes he hears no noise but the wind outside the windows. “Da,†he risks, louder.
But no one comes. After an eternity he crawls to the head of the bed, burying himself behind the pillows.
He wonders if he should’ve questioned the day before. Da normally sends him to Gran’s when he must leave for a while, but yesterday–yesterday was different. Yesterday Da held him longer than usual, and cried when he said goodbye–which is not so strange, Aden thinks, because he cries all the time, why shouldn’t Da once in a while–and they went not to Gran’s. Instead Da sent him with Tav, a soldier like Da, and they walked for a very long time.
In the morning it’s Tav who comes, and he sees Aden huddled behind the pillows and sits down on the edge of the bed, just out of arm’s reach. He’s smiling, softly, trying to be comforting, but before he can speak Aden blurts out, “Where’s Da?â€
Tav’s smile falters, his jaw tensing, and he says nothing for far too long.
And suddenly Aden understands. He does not try to contain his tears.
Aden is seven before he’s certain Ma and Mam aren’t going to send him away. At least, he knows they won’t, in his head. It’s a different thing to learn in his heart, something he never rightly does.
He is eight and in the barn when he realizes a pitchfork might pass for a spear. Aden remembers the shining wonder of metal his father carried, remembers slipping on Da’s helmet and running through the house, ambushing his father at the writing desk and pushing the helmet up just long enough to deliver his ultimatum of, “No monsters in the city!â€
Da looked up, eyes wide, and then he rolled his head with a growl rolling under and between his words, “Oh, a valiant warrior! You shall make such a delicious,†he leaned forward, beginning to push his chair back, and smacked his lips, “snack. Come to my waiting jaws before I tear down your city walls!â€
“No!†And with a single thrust of his imaginary spear Aden slays the beast. His father crumples to the floor dramatically, with a convincing, terrifying roar before he goes still. Laughing delightedly, Aden jumps in celebration of his victory. But his father remains still, and after a moment Aden pushes the helmet up again. “Da?†His father does not so much as twitch, so Aden steps over and pokes him in the arm.
And suddenly Da is a flurry of motion, snatching Aden up and tickling him. The helmet falls off, and rolls to the side, but Aden has utterly forgotten it in his laughter.
In his mind the pitchfork is his father’s spear, which he somehow still clearly remembers, and Aden spends a good bell slaying hay bales before Nadine comes out to fetch him for dinner and grabs him by the arm, hard. She doesn’t hurt, though, she’s just strong. And upset, he can tell. “Where did you get the idea for this?â€
“Just stories, Ma.â€
She scowls, but doesn’t question it, and then her expression softens. “It’s dangerous. Don’t jump from so high with the pitchfork.â€
He is sixteen before he works up the courage to say anything, and it’s as he’s helping Arild with dishes.
“Mam, I think I want to be a lancer.â€
There’s a pause that he only catches because he’s grown up under her, a hesitation only a heartbeat long where the rag in her hand stills against a plate that says everything he needs to know. “Who would run the farm,†she asks, “when we’re too old?â€
“I could come back.â€
“You still have a couple of years, I think, before you’re ready. I‘ll talk to Naddy about it.â€
Neither of them mention it again unless he does.
He is nineteen, sitting alone in his room at Lasalle’s and oiling the leather straps on his borrowed armor. It’s past midnight, so he works by lamplight, and he will be out again in only a handful of bells for training. He is sore, bruised and nicked from training and from sparring with anyone who will indulge him, and from his couple of bells spent shifting books around. Volume two is untouched on the desk near the door. And he is tired.
Yet he can’t stop himself from playing through the day again in his mind, from rerunning every detail of every fight or drill, recalling every criticism great and small. Is it enough?
Aden wonders how long he has before Flynt turns him out, too, and what he will do when he must finally admit defeat in chasing his father’s ghost.
