Author's Notes: I figured that, since I haven't gotten any reviews, no one should notice if I changed the title. XD For a chapter, this was called 'penned', which is... well. A play on word. Not words, just word; it's only one word, after all.

Please comment on the writing style if you can. Every work of mine is an experiment, so if there's something stylistically that you really like or really dislike, tell me.

Also, please don't get annoyed by the profusion of 'o my family member' in this chapter. They're all there for a reason, that being southern ceremony. I can understand how the usage would get repetitive, but it's the culture.

Nothing else from me, far as I know. On to your scheduled story!

for granted

II

“a fast heart skips beats.”

- southern proverb

When he awoke there was a hand on his shoulder giving him reason to, and he rolled over so that he could get a good look: Helen, her hair expertly pulled up as always. He smiled his tiny invisible smile, admiring the fact that she looked professional and put-together despite showing signs of exhaustion - the tell-tale bags and redness of the eyes, the robe wrinkled just so to show she’d been sitting a certain way, little flyaways starting to poke out from where her hair was tucked into its combs and bands. Admittedly not the prettiest girl, she was still a warm, welcoming sight, especially after a day mostly spent alone.

“It’s evening now, o my brother” she said in their native language, soft so as not to shock her brother too much out of the post-sleep haze, perched straight-backed on the edge of the beautifully-covered bed. “The sun’s down and dinner’s up soon, if you’re hungry.”

There was a little hollow in his stomach where the bread had been. Nothing to complain about, really, he considered, but if the opportunity is there for you to eat, you take it. A nod, and with it came stray bits of hair, all wisps a-curl about his face.

Helen had to laugh a little at that expression, and reached over to tuck a bit of hair behind Lucien’s ear. There was something like mirth in her look, intermixed with a sort of wistful, nostalgic sadness, like she was looking on a child who was growing up too fast - but I’m not a child, not anymore, not fourteen and about to be a sword-carrier. “You should straighten yourself out, baby brother. You’ve got the look about you that you went to bed in your clothes and with your hair up - which you did.”

She was up in an instant, small-stepping toward his luggage, kneeling before it so that she could look through. Lucien sat up and watched her open one box, hollow thump as the top hit the wall behind it; stared at the clothing inside for a long time, running her hand over the silk and the cotton, pulling up one garment to look at the one underneath. Here and there she’d pause to pick one up, considering it closely, paying close attention to the fine embroideries and stitchings, dropping it into her lap.

“I remember the year I gave you this,” she would say, wistful, almost sad, with a cherishing smile on her wide mouth. “You were so happy to receive it, and you wore it everywhere.”

“And this one, you saw the silks and liked them so much, but you didn’t have the heart to ask Father or Mother. Was it Allen who bought this one, or me?” she asked, semi-rhetorically, breathing the question halfway to herself.

“Allen did,” Lucien said gently, from where he sat on the bed.

A laugh quirked the smile on her face and Helen bobbed with it, hunched over the pale-green branch-embroidered robe like she was reading a book.

She went through a few others and gasped delightedly when she landed on a snow-white robe delicately embroidered with a barely-tinted-with-lavender snow scene. “I remember when Mother got this one custom - you like white so much, don’t you?” Helen looked back at him here and got a nod. She smiled, shaking her head. “I love the effect of this silk - white on white, with just the finest contrasting details - oh, Lucien, this one is perfect. Would you wear it tonight?”

He hadn’t been planning on dressing up, and gaped fishlike, unsure of how to respond.

“For me, Lucien?” she asked, eyes wide, as though she was asking him for a dog.

What other answer was there to that face but to agree? Helen beamed almost in relief and put the robe delicately in her lap, fishing through the rest of her brother’s clothes for an under-robe (“lavender matches this so beautifully, doesn’t it?”) and the sash to match the set.

He got up from the bed, which answered him with a creak, and took the clothes from Helen’s arms, moving behind a dressing-screen to change. Once he’d stripped down and started picking up pieces of the new outfit, he took a long moment to look at each one, appreciating the incredible craftsmanship of the individual pieces of silk. The texture and feeling against his skin gave him goosebumps, the cloth as cold as it was.

He came out from behind the screen to ask Helen to tie the sash for him, not because he didn’t know, but because it was too unwieldy to fasten the thing on his own, it was so long.

“Would you let me do your hair, baby brother?” she asked as she was doing it, no option, no fuss. Her doting puzzled him; he frowned.

“Helen, is something bothering you? You’re being terribly affectionate.” This kind of physically-involved care wasn’t really their family’s way; mostly they loved each other from across tables, through writing or discussion. Even Helen, the relative to whom Lucien felt closest, didn’t press him to do his hair, although she did try spending time with her distant brother whenever she could.

“Something’s bothering me, yes, but,” and here she pulled the sash tight, startling Lucien a little, “you don’t need to know what the something is right now.” She put her hands on his shoulders for a moment before reaching up to pull his hair down. “Right now, you should be looking your finest.”

Without shaking his head, Lucien disagreed: “If I am to look my finest, so must you. You should get yourself ready now, Helen, or you won’t have time to later.”

A tug, and the tie was free. Lucien’s paper-straight hair dropped down over his shoulders, shiny and black as the ocean at night. Helen’s fingers were quick to pick it up again, pulling it back from his face with dextrous scrapes of her fingernails. “Are you trying to get out of spending a little time with me?” she asked, a little mockingly, with a tone of seriousness to accompany it. “We all should appreciate more the fact that we’ve got family,” she murmured, not angrily, just thoughtfully.

Lucien couldn’t say a word.

They’d finished (rather, Helen had finished) in no time, the process taking a half hour at the most, and she turned him around to face her, that she might get a better look.

“You’ve grown so much. You’re so beautiful,” she said, quietly, her face changing as though she’d just been stricken with a sad revelation, like she’d never realized this before and was horrified only to realize it now. She reached out a thin hand to smooth over Lucien’s hair, then to the shoulder of his robe; then she looked him in the face and tried to smile. “You’re a good brother, too. Don’t stop being good, Lucien; the world needs more of that.”

And she, awkwardly, moved forward to catch his shoulders in a gentle hug.

He’d not been hugged much in his life, not for lack of love, but for lack of contact with people, and rationalized that it was again a by-product of their family dynamic (always professional). This was something special, for all its oddness, for all the times he and his sister had treated each other with the same seasoned, demanded coolness he expected them to treat everyone in their environment with. As though to seal some unseen contract or promise, he reached his hands up to her shoulders and touched them lightly, smoothing his palms down over them after a moment.

“You are a good sister,” he said. “You deserve the best anyone can give you.”

They pulled away. “I’ve got to get ready, also,” said Helen, “but Mother and Allen said they wanted to see you before dinnertime.”

“I’ll visit Allen, then.” They moved to the door together; Helen seemed to be clinging to him. Lucien couldn’t interpret her at all.

Once out in the hallway they turned down the hall, Helen going to the next door, Lucien going past that to the farthest one, torchlight casting the odd orange flicker over the stone walls - I’m never going to get used to this. She waved at him before he knocked, as though to say him a goodbye. Lucien had the mental presence to push that away and think of other things - flickering torchlight, flickering torchlight, a gust and it’s all gone, and even now it’s fleeting. Flicker, fire, destructive and - temporary - and - delicate -

Knock knock, he rapped. The door opened, and there was Allen, straight-backed and tall, looking down at him evenly.

“Come in, o my brother,” he said, in the quiet, gentle voice that had come to be characteristic of all three siblings, using the o-my-brother as greeting. They moved back into the room, the tall young man closing the door behind them. He looked more tired, more ruffled than Helen; his robe wasn’t in disarray, but it was obvious in the way he held his shoulders - straight-backed as he was, the tiniest slouch was a sign of something unusual.

“You wanted to see me, o my brother?” asked Lucien, folding his hands together, watching his brother pace quickly across the room to find something.

“Yes. Sit.” He waved a hand absently at the one chair in the room, kneeling near his luggage to push things aside, pull things toward him, unwrap things and shake his head at whatever wasn’t necessary.

Lucien was obedient, and sat, watching his brother, the confusion apparent in him. Just as he was about to ask what Allen wanted, the tall man turned toward him and stood, carrying something long and cloth-wrapped in his hands.

What... is this? Lucien wondered, his heart skipping a beat, then another, his breathing going quick. The telltale shape was something he hadn’t expected to see until at least - well, at least the springtime, and -

Oh. Oh, I hope it is what it is.

Hop-thump. Ba-hop-thump.

Lucien gulped as his brother put the bundle down on the desk and untied the strings holding the red cloth down. He pushed the cloth aside, revealing a long, black box.

“Now, Father told me to bring this here because he wanted me to have the honour of giving it to you if this situation were to... um. He thought you should have it even without ceremony, because, you know, you’re a man, now, and you’ve merited it.”

He steadied his breathing, keeping his face constant and even and his gaze guarded, staring at the box as his brother lifted the lid and revealed the treasure inside.

Lucien sighed inwardly at the sight of the sheathed sword he could only describe as ‘lovely’; it was different from his brother’s, which brought to mind ‘swiftness’, from his father’s, which said ‘power’, and from his uncle’s, which said ‘holiness’. This one spoke of ‘beauty’, which knocked air from Lucien’s lungs.

“We talked about it; and everyone was involved, in the family, you know, it being tradition. Your soul speaks of Beauty. You are your father’s beautiful son. If I am the sun and our sister, the stars, you are the moon. Everything you do becomes art.” Allen paused to look at his brother’s face which, although even, was quivering slightly. “So. This is what came of it. You're a man, now, o my brother.”

Although Allen was short-spoken, what he said meant enough to Lucien that he could hardly bring himself to reach out and take the sword. There was a long silence as he contemplated the weight of it, unsheathed it a few inches to admire the bluish veins of the perfect, laminated metal, stared at and traced his fingers over the design of the sheath and pommel - simple, like all things of Lucien’s, but perfect, balanced, evocative, beauteous.

“No ceremony?” asked Lucien eventually, furrowing his eyebrows. “How am I supposed to receive it properly without the ceremony?”

“Consider it received,” said Allen. “We’re sorry we couldn’t do the ceremony. Father said he’s proud of you.”

Silence.

“I don’t understand,” whispered Lucien, his voice cracking a little, something it hadn’t done in a year. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

Allen’s features shifted. His hands had come out in front of him, the fingers wringing together just enough to give off the anxiety that his eyes were careful to disguise. “It will, soon. Mother and Father wanted to be the ones to tell you, so it wasn’t exactly my position to give anything away.”

Then, suddenly, he stepped forward, up close, bent, tilted Lucien’s chin up and kissed his forehead awkwardly, halfway-affectionately, halfway-respectfully.

Lucien’s head spun. What was all this? He frowned, willing the confusion away and confronting it with frustration. Being uninformed was far from a comfortable state, especially for someone who needed knowledge to be satisfied. The boy - no, not a boy, I'm now aman, says the sword -had no idea what to do.

“I’d like to talk to them now,” Lucien said, quietly, almost childishly, gathering his hands in front of him to wring them in turn. He felt like he’d gone back to being a little boy, robes pooling around his feet, staring wide-eyed into the parliamentary chambers. He felt lost.

Ba-hop-thump ba-thump. The nervous, skippy heartbeat in his ears was obvious in the silence as his brother stepped away - can he hear it too? He hadn’t been so uncertain about a situation in years, and it frightened him that he didn’t feel like his feet were on solid ground.

“O my son,” said his mother, the words spoken quietly but almost exceedingly loud in Lucien’s ears. She lifted her arms - the robes came up with them, and Lucien admired the fullness of the silk sleeves - and beckoned him come close. “Sit here with me. I want to look at you.”

“This situation is getting very unusual, o my mother,” he said as he approached her, eyes trained on hers, head bowed in respect and reservation. Ten small, shuffling steps to cross the strange room, all decorated in reds and golds and superfluous furniture, too much, to the chair, odd and ornate and thronelike. He stood before her because a fine-boned hand at his arm told him not to kneel, and he stared at it as she looked over him.

This is what she saw:

A paradoxically sweet, though hard-faced teenager, tall for his age among his own, skin of a dark bronze, shiny black hair gathered up on his head, thin (although she knew he had muscle), limbs awkwardly long enough for him to look teenaged. Sharp jaw, sharp chin, sharp cheekbones, large eyes (lavender under the lids). The white of his robe was perfect on him, especially with the lavender - he was girlish, she noted with a resigned sigh, even if he was more of a stoic and more sharp than his older brother. It was in the way his nose curved into his browbone, the slim crane’s throat, the way his downturned mouth had a certain soft pinkness to it, the glow of his skin, the collarbone that rose into the broad shoulders that into the slim waist, the long-fingered hands. Yet he too was a man in age: it was in his stature, the way he held his chin straight, met eyes sharply, in the graceful certainty of the motions, the depth of the voice, the muscle in the shoulders.

The perpetual sickness had oddly little effect on him, less on him than the doctors always said: “He should not be so healthy.” Her hand on his wrist was not calming; she could tell by the way his heart beat: ba-thump ba-hop-thump, skipping beats, pausing in between.

“Breathe, my son,” she murmured as she looked from her hand to lavender eyes. “Deeply, now.” She guided him as she had before bed when he was a child and she had the time: “In... out. In... out.”

A minute of this, deep breaths in slowing sequence, and finally he was calm enough that she could let go. “Much better. I was worried your heart would come out your wrist, your pulse was going so, o my son.”

“O my mother,” Lucien murmured, kneeling now, more to sit than out of respect for Her Imperial Majesty (out of instinct, she put her hand on his head, caressing him gently, comfortable in their aloneness), “please explain this to me.” He didn’t have to say what this was; it was fairly evident.

Her hand was reassuring - Lucien always thought it odd that he always found so much comfort in a woman known for her coolness and harshness, but he supposed that was because of the parent-child dynamic, and that any other child would receive this kind of treatment. (He was wrong. Lucien was Her Imperial Majesty’s favourite child, although he did not know it.)

(She was calming her own breathing now.)

“My son,” she whispered, looking at him - just a boy, part of her thought, fighting against the fact that he was a man: only fourteen - and frowning to control herself. “I fight with myself to make this sound easier than it is. Really, what I must say to you is simple, but it may be difficult for you to understand.”

“O my mother,” Lucien whispered, questioning.

“They have demanded you as a hostage in return for our delegation’s safe passage from this place,” she murmured, smoothing his already-smooth hair, delighting in the sensation, in the warmth. “And in return for a six-month preparatory amnesty from battle.”

Should I feel bitter? Angry? Like this is injust? Should I take it as duty or as curse? Should there be joy to serve my family?

I think I understand, however I should feel.

Lucien was slow in responding, but he nodded his head under his mother’s hand. “O my mother, the choice is wise.”

A shuffle of feet, and both looked up, Her Imperial Majesty not removing her hand from her son’s hair. The two bowed in tandem, the mother with a simple nod of her head, the son pressing his forehead and palms to the floor before him.

There were more motions of feet, and a warm hand on his head again, softly resting there like a kiss to rice paper. Then it moved, gently touching his ear and his jaw, and lifted: a meeting of eyes, lavender to lavender.

“O my father,” murmured Lucien, flicking his eyes toward his knees, respectful, wanting to tell him I’m sorry this couldn’t have lasted longer. He straightened his back, folded his hands properly as he sat up, only wanting to show the best to His Imperial Majesty, the man who had provided him so much, given him allowances - the sword.

“O my beautiful son,” whispered the father, kneeling to be on the boy’s level. Lucien was surprised to note that they were about the same height sitting, something he’d never noticed: one wouldn’t notice if their father always seemed to sit on thresholds above their head.

His Imperial Majesty reached forward, touched his son’s cheek gently and frowned slightly, regretfully, sadly. “I apologize for tradition. It has kept us apart for your entire life, and now will continue to do so.” He exhaled, his eyes flickering down to Lucien’s hands, a display of resignation he’d never seen. “Were I to have it otherwise, we would not be separated now. For a father to lose his son to death is sad, but there is honour in a prince’s death: for a father to have to give him away is worse.”

The Emperor reached out, gathered fine, young hands in their own, and lifted them to his mouth to kiss them gently. Lucien’s insides stirred at this: a child craves affection his entire young life, learns to live without it, and now, to receive it all at once?

He was overwhelmed. He couldn’t remember ever having touched his father, and had to look down at his stomach to keep from showing him the shame of the tears pricking at his eyes.

(Ba-hop-thump, ba-hop-thump, went the skipping heartbeat.)

“O my son,” said Her Imperial Majesty, reaching down to touch her son’s hair again, to rub down the back of the neck and meet white-lavender silk, “we are honoured to be your parents. We are both sorry that it must be our son to go.”

You take it for granted: should it be the son of another, the sensation of loss is not so great. When it is your own son, the feeling of injustice knocks you over and sends you into the weakness of emotion.

Lucien sniffled pitifully, catching his breath. Together his parents helped him to calm his heartbeat as his mother had, perhaps five minutes before, and when that was done he raised his head and nodded.

“And I am honoured to do this service to you, o my parents, for I am not your only child: many other children shall be saved by your decision.” He bowed his head again, respectfully, and regained calmness, his face even, like polished wood, like the perfect edge of a blade.

His Imperial Majesty kissed his son on the forehead; Her Imperial Majesty followed suit, and both actions were done with great delicacy. Lucien was almost overwhelmed a second time at the abundance of love, but knew it would not be wise to stall his parents further.

They all got up, together, swords at their hips, hair in perfect order, faces even and cool. They would face this with composure and dignity, for that - and that above all things - was what they had to maintain.

Dinner involved a lot of silence and fumbling with still-unfamiliar utensils, stabbing pieces of food, sawing at them, ripping them with teeth, not being allowed to drink straight from the bowl. Occasionally one among the opposing royal family would try to strike up a conversation with his parents, which ultimately failed.

A boy across the table from Lucien caught his eye, however. He’d learned thanks to the announcers that had cried the various nobles’ names as they entered the hall that his name was Alexander and that he was His Majesty the King’s first son, crown prince.

The reason for his catching Lucien’s eye was due to a combination of his ridiculous garb (all jeweled and embroidered densely, all gold and detail, tightly-packed enough that the patterns became impossible to appreciate, just a jumble of stitches all in the same colour ending up gaudy), his age (he was at most a year older than Lucien was, although his face was round and his voice high still with youth), and his lustrous blonde hair, golden in the candlelight.

Lucien had to fight with his otherwise extreme politeness not to stare, because he’d never seen anyone so blonde in his life, and was mesmerized by the colour.

“My son is a swordsman, himself,” said a deep male voice, not his father’s, but a king’s nonetheless. His Majesty was speaking of Alexander, as he jerked his chin at the boy as he spoke. “Quite talented, if I may say, remarkable in single combat. We should get the boys dueling sometime, test their skills, ay?” he said, with a sporting grin and a bit of a laugh.

(The joke being, of course, that Lucien was now theirs, and would not have much of a choice in the matter.)

Alexander’s embarassment was obvious on his pale cheeks and Lucien thanked the gods for the dark skin tone that never belied his own shame.

“I’m not that good in comparison, to be fair,” said Alexander, flicking his gaze from his father to Their Imperial Majesties, then to Lucien. He shrugged his (overstuffed) shoulders slightly and put his soup spoon in his bowl, forgetting his food in favour of conversation. “I’ve read much about the talent and prowess of southern swordsmen, and of the intense training that goes into raising one. The process is astounding. Of course, it would be best to ask those who have gone through it themselves,” he said, respectfully, nodding his head at the southern delegation.

There was more talk of the rigour of training, of the quality-versus-quantity attitude the southern people were known for. Lucien stared into his soup. Battle talk was not turning out to be the most appetizing of dinner subjects.

“Lucien,” said a voice, and he realized it was Alexander, and that another course had passed by without him thinking about what he was eating. He looked up, meeting ruddy brown eyes and a smile with the cool expressionless quality of his own gaze. “Your mother says you enjoy music?”

“My son’s not an artistic person,” said Her Majesty. “He tends to be very appreciative of those who are.” Lucien found her annoying: every time he met her, she spoke loudly, spacing out the words, speaking loudly as though he could not understand.

He tightened his gut, wondering whether he might have a more solid grasp of her grammar than she might, and looked back to Alexander. “I do enjoy music, Your Highness,” he murmured, nodding, “as well as many others among the arts.”

“My son is extremely talented in those fields,” said Her Imperial Majesty, back straight, voice even. This is almost competitive. “He has composed many pieces of music and is a gifted calligrapher.”

“How lovely,” said Alexander breathlessly. “I have seen many works of southern calligraphy. They never cease to amaze me.” He grinned at Lucien. “Would you teach me, sometime?”

Lucien stared at his - chicken? He could hardly tell. “I would be glad of such an interested student, Your Highness,” he said.

Alexander grinned, although let the smile fail slightly when Lucien’s attention wasn’t caught by it. “Wonderful,” he answered.

At some point they stopped eating, and Lucien felt ready to burst. He hadn’t felt hungry to begin with - just numb, really, all full of odd feelings, thoughts, bread from the earlier evening, the water he couldn’t stop drinking - and the sheer size of the portions made him ill.

“Would you play us a song, Lucien?” asked Her Majesty, who had just been treated to a great many stories of his prowess as a musician.

“Um,” was all he wanted to say, but knowing it would be rude to refuse such a simple request, he nodded.

They moved into a living room, of sorts, smaller, with enough room only for the two families: no one else entered except the servants standing at either side of the door.

Miraculously, there was a zither waiting for him, tuned and ready to go, and all he could do was play, letting himself go into a piece he’d learned the year before, being more concerned with correctness of playing than with complexity. He was not preoccupied with impressing these people, as he knew the differences in their music made too big a gap between the two cultures that there was no pleasing them entirely anyway.

When he’d finished there was some light applause from the host family, who seemed at a loss for what to say - “how... nice” was what Her Majesty managed to say. The only one who really was impressed with what Lucien had played was, of course, the overeager crown prince, whom he was having trouble assessing: sycophantic or genuine? It was hard to tell.

“That was lovely,” the blonde boy said to Lucien, sitting down on the couch next to him once their parents had moved away to talk and finalize. “I really wish I had the grace to do that. I’m all thumbs.” He laughed a little, eyes bright. Lucien found him to be intimidating and let his side hug the arm of the sofa more closely. Get farther away.

“I know you’re probably pretty uncomfortable with what’s going on,” said Alexander after a moment, “but I hope we can be friends in the end. Might as well make the best of the situation.”

Lucien turned his head to look at Alexander. “We shall certainly learn from each other, at least,” he said, calmly, his heartbeat quick under layers of white and lavender:

Ba-thump, ba-hop-thump.

end chapter 2