Your mother, unsurprisingly, doesn’t excuse you from lessons for any more than the barest minimum of time to send off your brother.
Then again, he isn’t excused, either; the servants pack his bags with what he’ll need at the temple while he he finishes the last of his work. As far as she’s concerned, you’re both doing your duty, and there’s little special about today.
All of you meet at the gates; you’re still wiping sweat from your forehead, practice sword stuck under your arm. Your brother, meanwhile, barely looks at you while your mother holds a brief discussion with the servants tasked with seeing him to his new home, looking too-small in his new robe.
You scuff one of your feet against the path, not sure what to say. “Bitty, I—“
“Don’t call me that,” he says, reflexively, but continues on: “You and I both know she’s sending away the wrong one of us. You’ll never be what she wants. And I could have been, but she’d never let me.”
“It doesn’t excuse either of us from trying, though, does it,” you say, quietly.
“No,” he says, and for a moment the bitterness in his young features relaxes into simple weariness. “If you don’t work extra hard to make up for your complete lack of talent you can fuck right off.”
“Where’d you learn that word?”
“I’ve been working harder than you. If I’m consigned to this I’ll at least make something of myself.” A rare tremor of emotion sneaks into his voice, though he doubles down on his aggressive tone to hide it—you wouldn’t know except you know what to look for. “This is my home.”
“Sorry,” you say. “Sorry,” and that’s all you can say before the servants bustle him off to the waiting horses to deliver him to the Immaculate Temple as its newest monk-in-training, and your mother’s hand is firm on your shoulder.
“Back to work,” she says, firmly, and soon it’s gone from your mind.
Notable:
Shrike is dark-haired, tan-skinned, and maybe fifteen in this memory; her brother looks like he might be about twelve.
"Bitty" seems to be short for his actual name.
An Immaculate priest also appeared in Memory 5 ("Ascendant Crane")
memory 015
Then again, he isn’t excused, either; the servants pack his bags with what he’ll need at the temple while he he finishes the last of his work. As far as she’s concerned, you’re both doing your duty, and there’s little special about today.
All of you meet at the gates; you’re still wiping sweat from your forehead, practice sword stuck under your arm. Your brother, meanwhile, barely looks at you while your mother holds a brief discussion with the servants tasked with seeing him to his new home, looking too-small in his new robe.
You scuff one of your feet against the path, not sure what to say. “Bitty, I—“
“Don’t call me that,” he says, reflexively, but continues on: “You and I both know she’s sending away the wrong one of us. You’ll never be what she wants. And I could have been, but she’d never let me.”
“It doesn’t excuse either of us from trying, though, does it,” you say, quietly.
“No,” he says, and for a moment the bitterness in his young features relaxes into simple weariness. “If you don’t work extra hard to make up for your complete lack of talent you can fuck right off.”
“Where’d you learn that word?”
“I’ve been working harder than you. If I’m consigned to this I’ll at least make something of myself.” A rare tremor of emotion sneaks into his voice, though he doubles down on his aggressive tone to hide it—you wouldn’t know except you know what to look for. “This is my home.”
“Sorry,” you say. “Sorry,” and that’s all you can say before the servants bustle him off to the waiting horses to deliver him to the Immaculate Temple as its newest monk-in-training, and your mother’s hand is firm on your shoulder.
“Back to work,” she says, firmly, and soon it’s gone from your mind.
Notable: