66th, Summer of 498
Nightfall brought a sweet refrain to the day's heat. Still pregnant with moist warmth, the Syliran air, the air of his home, stuck like a viscus syrup to his sun darkened skin. Many disliked the heat of such a humid summer, but Trente was beyond caring. With the age of a near young adult his mind still held little capacity for discomfort beyond his current focus. His awareness turned only on a world of fantasy, where the world held nothing but the light of the Syliran Knighthood, a beacon of kindness gleaming from immaculate armor, and in its shadow the deadly nefarious monsters that lay outside the city's walls. So dichotomized, and simple the boy's thoughts were back then, and with them the simplicity of body. He stood, in that time, on the cusp of his sexual awakening, still blissful and innocent to the world beyond himself, the world that existed in shadows even before his own eyes. He appeared, and in spirit, was a boy of no more than ten or eleven, an oddity granted to him through blood from his own mother, and sole caretaker. She would call it a blessing, as she considered it within herself, claiming that like for herself Trente would find grace within his gradual growth, and with it a steadied decline into his eldering years. Trente believed her, in all things, despite how his social life often faltered do to her well meaning wisdom. He had eyes only for her, the brightest of all within his mind, superior even to the goddesses that roam the land.
This night she giggled and churned promiscuously in the presence, and arms of a familiar yet unfatherly man. Trente knew, in an abstract way the antics of his mother, for all the discretion she showed in her works, she had a way of honest words when solely in the presence of her son. She was never explicit, but neither was she shrouded. She lay in bed with men, and they would take her in the way men do, and in response she would take from them what she wished. She was worth this much, and though in the public's eye she was no more than a house cleaner, she had the body and face fit for an elegant noblewomen. And, as uncharacteristic, and simply undefinable as her manner seemed, she presented herself as such, with words that proved no origin within reason, and Trente did not inquire either. His mother was a shadow to other men, a mystery, but Trente understood her perfectly. She was not a shrouded women, but a creature unto herself, she was his mother and there was no other to compare her against.
With her usual feigned playfulness she beckoned Trente closer to the two, as the hefty home owner pulled her closer to the bed. "Travel home, my trifling man." She commanded through her encouraging giggles to the man behind her, not a hint of severity or power in her voice. Again, a clever farce, which Trente knew better than test. Still, he took pleasure in how softly she spoke to him, a tone that no other could ever abstract from her. "Careful of the watch, curfew has fallen, and don't let your imagination take you away, no knighthood fantasies tonight. See yourself straight home, and to slumber. First thing in the morning go see miss Leffin's flat is clear, and don't be a sloth about it. I'll be back by mid day, and I know you will have it done, yes?" Though posed as a question, it was only to demand acknowledgment that Trente had listened, and consented to the commands.
"Surely, Mother. I'll see you tomorrow." He jested in his own way, for attention, and she gave it without protest.
"'I will,' my trifling man. Say 'I will.'" Never did she fail to correct his grammar, and as such Trente desired it.
"I will, mother. Have you a fair night. And you as well, sir." He gave a strictly polite and overly proper bow to the man, who as much frustrated by the drawn out affair took kindly in his half drunken state to the boy's peculiar training.
"Right, be on your way then, boy." He laughed, shook his head, and suddenly stole his attention back to Trente's mother. It churned Trente's stomach every time, though he said nothing and left. Every time. As was his mother's will.
Nightfall brought a sweet refrain to the day's heat. Still pregnant with moist warmth, the Syliran air, the air of his home, stuck like a viscus syrup to his sun darkened skin. Many disliked the heat of such a humid summer, but Trente was beyond caring. With the age of a near young adult his mind still held little capacity for discomfort beyond his current focus. His awareness turned only on a world of fantasy, where the world held nothing but the light of the Syliran Knighthood, a beacon of kindness gleaming from immaculate armor, and in its shadow the deadly nefarious monsters that lay outside the city's walls. So dichotomized, and simple the boy's thoughts were back then, and with them the simplicity of body. He stood, in that time, on the cusp of his sexual awakening, still blissful and innocent to the world beyond himself, the world that existed in shadows even before his own eyes. He appeared, and in spirit, was a boy of no more than ten or eleven, an oddity granted to him through blood from his own mother, and sole caretaker. She would call it a blessing, as she considered it within herself, claiming that like for herself Trente would find grace within his gradual growth, and with it a steadied decline into his eldering years. Trente believed her, in all things, despite how his social life often faltered do to her well meaning wisdom. He had eyes only for her, the brightest of all within his mind, superior even to the goddesses that roam the land.
This night she giggled and churned promiscuously in the presence, and arms of a familiar yet unfatherly man. Trente knew, in an abstract way the antics of his mother, for all the discretion she showed in her works, she had a way of honest words when solely in the presence of her son. She was never explicit, but neither was she shrouded. She lay in bed with men, and they would take her in the way men do, and in response she would take from them what she wished. She was worth this much, and though in the public's eye she was no more than a house cleaner, she had the body and face fit for an elegant noblewomen. And, as uncharacteristic, and simply undefinable as her manner seemed, she presented herself as such, with words that proved no origin within reason, and Trente did not inquire either. His mother was a shadow to other men, a mystery, but Trente understood her perfectly. She was not a shrouded women, but a creature unto herself, she was his mother and there was no other to compare her against.
With her usual feigned playfulness she beckoned Trente closer to the two, as the hefty home owner pulled her closer to the bed. "Travel home, my trifling man." She commanded through her encouraging giggles to the man behind her, not a hint of severity or power in her voice. Again, a clever farce, which Trente knew better than test. Still, he took pleasure in how softly she spoke to him, a tone that no other could ever abstract from her. "Careful of the watch, curfew has fallen, and don't let your imagination take you away, no knighthood fantasies tonight. See yourself straight home, and to slumber. First thing in the morning go see miss Leffin's flat is clear, and don't be a sloth about it. I'll be back by mid day, and I know you will have it done, yes?" Though posed as a question, it was only to demand acknowledgment that Trente had listened, and consented to the commands.
"Surely, Mother. I'll see you tomorrow." He jested in his own way, for attention, and she gave it without protest.
"'I will,' my trifling man. Say 'I will.'" Never did she fail to correct his grammar, and as such Trente desired it.
"I will, mother. Have you a fair night. And you as well, sir." He gave a strictly polite and overly proper bow to the man, who as much frustrated by the drawn out affair took kindly in his half drunken state to the boy's peculiar training.
"Right, be on your way then, boy." He laughed, shook his head, and suddenly stole his attention back to Trente's mother. It churned Trente's stomach every time, though he said nothing and left. Every time. As was his mother's will.
