tu_vas_triompher | (no subject)

(no subject)

Feuilly is--surprise, surprise--working in his room. It's proving harder than he expected--no, well, it's proving just as hard as he expected--to break down the language of 21st-century pedagogy into pieces that he understands well enough to build from by himself. But the effort is rewarding in itself. Just reading the first pages of an article on "the challenges of adult student persistence in library literacy programs" is an exercise in the foreign and the familiar. Students expressed two types of learning goals: specific 'instrumental' goals that must be reached in order to realize longer-term aspirations and broader 'transformational' goals that entail major life changes, such as taking on a new social or work role. Just that one sentence holds struggles that he recognizes intimately--and a way of thinking and writing that would turn away much of his Paris. Aspirations, transformations, new social roles?

So...work is going slowly.

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It seems wanted enough: Harry leans against him in return.

"I know not how long we spoke. He seems much changed. We talked of-- of England, of Scotland, of who keeps the border and who keeps at home. Who holds favor and who does not. --my family."

Now that he's come to it, he almost can't form the words, they seem so impossible and strange.

"--my wife did bear a son."

"What? Wh--?"

When, he'd been about to ask, but it's the sort of question that has Implications, and he'd just as soon hear what Harry wants to say about things first. "What did he say about it?"

"He said-- " What did he say? Suddenly, it seems like hardly anything at all. "He has granted him my father's title. An infant earl he is, and Henry Percy called."

"Oh." He's still leaning against Harry; now he leans a little harder. "That's--so, he's--he has Workworth, and, and the family's lands--?"

What do you ask about an unexpected, unmet, unmeetable son? "How is Kate?"

"She-- she is well, methinks." Another thing he should of asked. Why on earth did he let Hal go on about borders and favorites and armies and didn't think to ask after his family? Then again-- when had he ever?

"He hath lands and titles and all, though I doubt not his mother has the manage of them, until he comes of age."

"Yes, well, I, um. Wasn't imagining he'd be running Northumberland from the, the cradle."

What do earls do? ...What do babies do?

"I'm glad to hear he's, he's-- I'm glad your family is keeping its place." Well, all right, he isn't philosophically in favor of earls, but still. It's good that tiny Harry Percy is taken care of. "He-- your father, is he, um--"

Seriously, what do babies do?

"He is dead," Harry says flatly. And look, see? Harry doesn't care at all.

Feuilly has had a passing acquaintance with many babies--they were all over the place in his foster mother's house--but suddenly that seems quite unrelated to thinking about a dear friend's own particular baby. For once he hopes that baby earls are better protected against ills and dangers than baby foundlings.

--And, oh. Harry's father.

Oh.

Harry might wear no expression, but Feuilly is still going to rest his head on his shoulder.

That's alright. Harry is silent there for a moment or two.

Then he nudged his head against Feuilly's and says, "Come, shall we practice?"

He leans a little harder before straightening up and giving Hector's ears a ruffle. "Sure, let's. Outside? Or do you want to try the practice space indoors?"

"O, let us try it," Harry agrees. "Unless it please thee match the heat of practice with a chilling air."

Edited 2016-01-10 20:54 (UTC)

"Indoors," he says mildly. "I don't love the cold for its own sake. Come on, let's get our swords."

"--I would not do well in the keeping of a child," Harry says abruptly as he starts towards the door. It's plainly a thought that's been rattling around all the while. "Methinks it is better thus."

"Oh--" Feuilly stops in his tracks. "Oh, no, I think you would do just fine."

But it's not an option, is it. He tugs a hand through his hair. "You'd learn. But it sounds like he'll be all right."

Harry shrugs, unconvinced. He's never been a fast learner, after all, in anything that isn't to do with war.

"Kate shall manage passing well," he agrees. "Were she a man, the terror of England would she be-- belike her son shall be so, too."

He gives Harry's shoulder a little punch, at a loss for any useful words. Feuilly would argue that any father who didn't willingly walk out on his children would be a good father--but it's not a very helpful point, under the circumstances.

"--He'll be a little small Harry Percy," he says finally. "Probably a terror, sure."

Harry punches back, mock-offended. "Nay, a fine, quiet child I was."

"Mmhm." Punch. "That's what you're always telling me. What a, a quiet studious boy you were."

Harry grins. "But 'tis not all a lie! I made clamor enough, 'tis true, and yet spoke little. --as a child, I would say." Clearly that changed somewhere along the way.

"But thou--" A punch back. "Thou wast all study and sweetness, I am sure."

Well--yeah, all right, actually.

"I was terrible and wild. Remember? They called me Léon for my ferocity." He bites his lip; the next punch really just turns into resting a hand on Harry's chest.

"Ay." He traces his thumb down the back of Feuilly's hand. "I did forget. A very lion, Feuilly the fierce."

"Just so."

If it were someone else, he'd press to talk more about the father. But it's Harry. Hitting each other with practice swords is probably more effective at starting a conversation. So Feuilly rubs Harry's chest for a moment and then nods towards the door. "Practice?"

Edited 2016-01-11 01:04 (UTC)

Harry nods and claps Feuilly on the shoulder. "Ay, let us go. Thou canst display thy ferocity."

"Yes, beware."

They have to stop by Harry's room to get his sword anyway, so Feuilly takes Hector along to leave him with Lady for another strenuous round of napping. "I think he's getting even blinder," he says as they head down to the practice room. "Doesn't seem to bother him much, though."

"No, indeed," Harry agrees. "Think'st thou all the marvels of this place could not aid him?"