Rook the Librarian (gisho) wrote,
Rook the Librarian

[Dragaera] Klava And Sympathy

(EDIT: As I am finally tagging things I realize this fic is a spectacular piece of crap and probably not worth mentioning. I tag it anyway for completeness.)

Paarfi tries to work things out and has a chat with the one woman he'd never try to seduce. We hope.

Uses my own utterly crackpot ideas about Paarfi and his origins, which are based on a lot of imnterpolation and unreasonable decutions and a single line in Chapter 8 of Viscount. Probably rather OOC, but I did my best.

A sequel to Speechless, by Limyaael.


Although we have previously confined our comments on the subject of love primarily to the topic of fraternal love - that is, to friendship - and occasionally to what is known as romantic love, a topic upon which - no, no, that wouldn't do. Leave romantic love out of it, because thoughts of romantic love lead too soon to thoughts of erotic love, and that was not a good topic to think on at the moment.

Most of any person's character can be attributed to the influences of their parents. The primary factor here is of course the genetic influence; however, even many learned scholars believe in the primacy of the genetic inheritance while ignoring entirely the effects of a person's upbringing on their eventual character. I speak here from personal experience, as well as observation.

That might do; it was true, and it avoided the idea of love entirely. Paarfi resolved to think on the matter later, however, and sipped thoughtfully at his mug of klava. He'd been silent entirely too long, but Mother would understand. She'd seen that he had a problem, and as she always did, she would be patient while he found the right words to tell her of it.

"I can't find the words," he finally said, abruptly.

She reached out her hand over the table to touch his. "Words for what, Paarfi?"

"Him. Anything." He let his head droop, his chin almsot touching his chest. "What I'm thinking. I - the words won't come anymore. At least, not for anything concerning Morrolan." There. He'd said it.

"Morrolan? Why? What happened between you?"

And that was the crux of it; he couldn't come up with the words to describe what had happened between them, and therefore, he couldn't describe anything at all - or at least, anything that might lead his thoughts back, however remotely, to Morrolan. "I can't find the words," he said miserably, and contented himself with a sip of klava. It was very good klava, at least. His mother knew how to make excellent klava, which was one of the reasons he made a point of visting her regularly.

She considered this for a moment. "Are you in love with him?" she finally asked thoughtfully.

Parrfi nearly spat klava through his nose. "NO! No, I'm not in love with him, except that I do have agreat deal of respect for him, of course, and, well ...." He realized that he wasn't getting anywhere, and started over. "No. My feeling toward Morrolan are soley those of any gentleman toward one whose prowess in battle and grand role in history he has cause to admire, and as well the affections of any historian toward his subjects."

His mother raised an eyebrow and sipped at her klava. "If that were all, then surely you would be both willing and able to continue in your usual vein of effusive prose dedicated to proclaiming his glory."

That was the difficult thing about his mother: she had a way of making him feel thirty again. "Maybe. I don't know. I slept with him, you know." There. Bald and blunt; that was not a good way of putting it at all, but she would understand, and it would have to do.

Even those amoung us most gifted with the talent of wordsmithing will, on occasion, discover a circumstance for which our talents are inadequate; sometimes this is beacue a circumstance is om momnumental import, but more often it is simply because the circumstance is outside of our expereinces and therefore our vocabularies have not expanded in the direction necessary to do it justice.

But no. It wasn't a question of vocaulary.

"And he left you wordless. My." His mother gave a small smile. Paarfi winced before that little knowing smirk. "Well, I'm sure it will pass."

A historian learns that all events were interconnected, and that things which at first seem to be distant and irrelevant to each other can, in the span of but a few weeks or pages, connect as smoothly as the lips of old lovers - no, perhaps that wasn't the right analogy - but it was, becuase lovers sometimes had children, and interconnected events had consequences, which grew up and had consequences of their own. Grand-consequences.

"Perhaps that's so, but until it does, I'm left in a rather untenable position. I'm fairly sure that writer's block isn't normally sexually transmitted, Mother."

"Give it time." His mother sighed and stood up. "There's no other cure."

A grand lot of help you are, he didn't say. "And until then?"

She tossed him a smile over her shoulder as she glided out the door. "Until then, my dear Paarfi, perhaps you should take a little more time to enjoy the present without trying to write about everything." And she was gone before he could formulate a snappy comeback.

Somehow this feels unfinshed, but it will do for the moment. I actually have a whole backstory for Paarfi's family in my head, but it will have to wait.
Tags: fic: dragaera

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