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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Feuilly's lips do thin a little at that. "And your strengths?"

"Why, he trusted to them in battle, did he not?"

"That's true." Except, apparently, at the very end. (The thought isn't one he welcomes, and he doesn't voice it.)

Feuilly shrugs a little. "I didn't train many people in the workshop, but--still--when someone is starting to get good, it's a mistake to knock them down in, in their confidence, too hard?" Eh. It's just--a thought. "But still, I guess your father trusted you wouldn't break."

Which is a kind of trust.

"And right he was in thinking so," Harry says with a stubborn lift of his chin. "And well it served the both of us."

"Oh, yes. And he had every reason for pride." He's sincere enough here, entirely sincere: whatever he may think of Father Northumberland, he had a hand in raising a truly excellent son.

Harry runs a hand through his hair.

"Well." He didn't quite say pride, and isn't sure if he would. "Shall we to it again?"

Feuilly is pretty sure Northumberland should have been proud of his son. He frowns, just a little, but nods. "All right. --I won't get too cocky this time, eh?"

"Nay, I did not--" Oh, a joke. Right. "I think thou hast room enough for a touch more pride, ere it become a sin in thee."

That gets a laugh from him. "And room for a touch more skill, too, I think. Come on, let's go."

A little easier this time, too--at least from Feuilly's end.

And Harry's, too-- all precise, deliberate, leaving no room to slip out of control.

Hm. He'd hoped to steer them towards something looser, more comfortable: but sometimes there's a comfort in hard precise work. Feuilly falls silent, keeping pace, minding his form, careful and grave.

Harry seems to be finding some comfort in it, anyway. It's something to concentrate on, to direct his mind towards, instead of letting it drift to other things. And he has every appearance of being willing to keep at it all ay.

Maybe Harry can keep this up forever, but Feuilly can't. After a while he's sweating and breathing a little bit hard; a while after that he's making tired mistakes; and a while after that he finally steps back and lowers the point of his practice sword. "Time for a break?" Yes?

Harry's tiring by that point, too, though that is usually when he doubles down in order to pretend that he isn't. But he steps back, too, and nods. "Ay, let us."

He wipes his forehead, letting himself catch his breath. And says, somewhat abruptly, "We still have some of those Western movies out from the library. We could take some dinner up from the bar, watch something?" Something new, something they've seen before, it doesn't matter: just something, maybe, where the honorable brave heroes win.

Edited 2016-01-12 02:17 (UTC)

Harry nods. "Ay." That sounds just right.

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