Lyle Brightham ā Up and Attem!
There were a few fringe benefits to being a never-ending and spastic source of energy, chief among them the ability to rise before the sun and get a start on his day. Lyle had slept well, and sleep had washed away the misgivings of the prior evening. He was smiling as he crept about the room so as not to wake anyone, collecting his things and then heading to the washroom to take care of showering, brushing his teeth, and getting dressed in a pair of cargo shorts, a t-shirt with a monkey on it, and then of course his robes to top it all off. Heād of course forgotten his notepad, which was akin to forgetting his left arm, and scampered back up to the dorm to retrieve it. Thinking better of it, he scribbled off a note, which he left on Vinās nightstand.
Feeling better, thanks so much. Iāll see you at class! ā Lyle
As if the near-illegible hand-writing could have been anyone elseās. It was a wonder even he could read it, and it wasnāt at all by design, though people often remarked that he probably did it so that no one could make any sense of his notes and poach his stories.
He stopped by the ferret cage as well, peering into it. Skip was sleeping, but Scamp scurried up the felt-covered scaffolding. Lyle poked his nose into one of the gaps in the thin metal bars, grinning as the ferret nuzzled its own small wet nose against his. "Sorry buddy," he whispered. "But you've gotta stay put for now. I'll be back after lunch."
His stories. That was what had him bouncing down the stairs two and three at a time into the common room. He nearly plowed into a third year boy whose nose was all bandaged up. Just managing to pull up short of a collision, Lyle furrowed up his features in a strange combination of worry and fascination. āHey Tommy, what happened to you?ā The sleepy looking boy frowned, struggling to keep up with Lyleās rapid patter. āOh, I tripped on my way up the stairs before. Slept in the infirmary, need to get cleaned up before breakfast. But did you hear about that Demetrio guy?ā
Demetrius was a friend, but then, almost everyone was a friend in Lyleās mind. He really did like the Mexican wizard though, he was kind of solemn but intensely interesting. āNo, I didnāt hear anything at all, what happened? Is he okay?ā
Tommy shrugged his small shoulders. āDunno really, but, I heard the nurse say something about stupid little boys trying to wrestle with trolls, so, I guess it probably has to do with trolls. Anyway, nice to see you Lyle.ā The younger boy smiled tiredly and wandered off, leaving Lyle wild-eyed in anticipation. Trolls! Heād never actually seen one, only read about them or learned about them in class, and heād never heard about them being anywhere near the school. If Demetrio had encountered one, that would definitely be newsworthy. Oh, and his friend was hurt, and he should probably check in on him and wish him well. Yes, definitely!
Bolts of lightning would have been shamed by Lyleās exit from the Ferre student dorms. His sneaker-clad feet made a rapid pounding on the stone of the corridor floor as he zipped off at a dead run toward the infirmary. It was quite a sight, except that most people were still asleep, so no one saw itā¦ well, maybe someone did, but Lyle was far too intent on getting the scoop (and checking in on Demetrio!) to notice anyone, save for Old Wicks, whose shouted invective against running in the halls was only answered by a quickly piped, high-pitched āSorry!ā before Lyle rounded the corner and ran on.
He was quite disheveled and thoroughly out of breath when he finally made it to the infirmary. He puffed out a good-morning to the witch who was far more interested in her morning coffee than Lyleās unexpected appearance and then scurried on in search of Demetrio. When he found the other boyās bed, he heaved a bit of a sigh of relief, and then grabbed a chair and dragged it to his bedside as quietly as he couldā¦ which admittedly, in his mixture of exhaustion and excitement, was not nearly as quiet as it could be.
Brimming with anticipation as he was, he couldnāt bring himself to wake poor Demetrio up. Instead, he plunked himself down in the chair, got his notepad and quill out, and set to work on the beginnings of his House Elf Interview article. It was still in the very formative stages, so he was really just putting down ideas, shuffling them around, working out a really smashing title (because a smashing headline was key to the success of any news story, any junior journalist knew that). There heād be when Demetrio awoke, scrawling away and waiting for him to come to.
Vance Abernathy ā Arietem House
Vance awakened slowly. The laziness of Southern summer was still upon him; it would be a few days before his body adjusted to the very different routine of school. Even after the incident, which was how his family had taken to mentioning what had happened to Nevaeh, his mornings at home had been slow-moving and sun-dappled. He hadnāt been sleeping well, and so when he did finally achieve some fitful version of rest, it was late enough that he didnāt roll out of bed before ten oāclock in the morning. Heād take his coffee out onto the porch, letting the eastern sun bathe him as he the porch-swing rocked, and then heād perform his ablutions before joining his grandmother and possibly his mother for brunch, where heād still be waking up as he absorbed the latest gossip and helped himself to princely portions of the buttermilk pancakes, grits, sausage, and bacon that the house elves had painstakingly prepared.
Thankfully, heād managed to nod off early the night before. There was a discombobulated moment where he laid there in bed, snug and warm beneath the duvet, and wasnāt even sure how much of the prior evening had actually occurred. Bellonaās foolishness, Leeās impertinence, his grandfatherās machinations, so clumsy that he knew there had to be something more to them. Dimly he became aware that it had been reality rather than dream, and so it was that he wrestled his way out from under the covers with an undignified groan.
The chair heād rested against the door was undisturbed, and his wand was still beneath his pillow. He donned his glove, slipped into a changing robe (tucking his wand into the sash after he cinched it), and then set off for the shower. There were a pair of Quodpot players, theoretical friends of his, teammates and house-mates at the very least, who were apparently washing up after a crack-of-dawn practice session. Any other year, he would have commended them on their initiative and deigned to engage in some small talk about the coming season. Instead, he banished them with a few gruff words, and when they were gone he secured the door to the lavatories. While Vance did embrace modesty and was in the grips of some mild paranoia, neither of those motivations had anything to do with the privacy he required.
He started the shower spray and took care of his oral hygiene, studying his sleep-slackened features in the mirror as he did. It would take a moment for the water to hit the scalding level he preferred, hot enough that it was more like sanitization than simple cleanliness. He disrobed, and then, still watching himself, removed the glove as well.
The glimmering metal of his prosthesis caught the unflattering fluorescent lighting of the boyās bathroom, throwing a glare into the mirror, which had begun to fog up. Vance used his fleshly hand to wipe the steam away. There was one ritual heād developed that he couldnāt dispense with, not even here at school. Slowly, very slowly, he brought his left hand to the point where his elbow met the goblin-made arm. He settled his fingers in just the right places, swallowed, and then squeezed gently. He was rewarded with a click, and then the sound of clockwork. The clamps and mechanisms that held it on, that somehow transmitted his will into the device, began to release. When at last they all had, he pulled the thing away and placed it carefully in the sink basin.
It couldnāt be called anything but a stump. The curse Nevaeh had used on him had made a remarkably clean cut, and Vance had of course had the best medical care available with the discretion required. The stump was slightly rounded, magically regrown flesh settled around the ball-like joint in his elbow that had been spared. His eyes fixed on the reflection of it, studying it intently. He couldnāt help but grit his teeth, and turned his emerald eyes on his reflection as a whole.
His broad shoulders. His smooth, sculpted chest. His perfect, tapering abdomen. His features, aristocratic, noble. His hair, golden-blond with just the right amount of curl. And his stump. An unspeakable blemish, something he would allow no one to see, but that he had to see. He had to remind himself what had been taken from him, had to stoke the forge of his own fury.
This is what you are now, Vance Abernathy. You will never again be whole. You will never again be beautiful. And these are the people who will pay for your suffering and the suffering of your sisterā¦
It was a short list, but it would grow. His grandfather. A few other of his cohorts whom Vance had recognized either by voice or a glimpse beneath their cowls. He shuddered when the ache that wasnāt an ache at all came. How could there be pain where there was no arm? It was dull, seemingly radiating through empty air below the stump, but it was real. Phantom sensation. The healers had warned him about it, and it was easy to ignore with prosthetic on, but without it, the feeling turned his stomach.
He immersed himself in the painful heat of the shower, let the driving water sting his skin. His new arm was quite immune to water, but the stump still needed to be washed. It still sweated, and heād learned the hard way that the resulting smell could be incredibly unpleasant. Showering one handed had presented a few challenges at first, but he was an expert now, quick and methodical, brisk and efficient. He dried the stump first, so that he could reattach his arm and towel off more effectively. Then he re-gloved, re-robed, and returned to his room to get dressed for the day. Black slacks, a crisp white shirt, a matching vest and a brilliant silver tie. Navy and brown were out of the question now that everything needed to be matched to the dragon skin glove. His eyes found a mirror, and he smiled. To the rest of the world, he was still whole. There were two Vance Abernathyās now, and one of them only existed for a few moments while he showered.
The final touch was his school robes. He slipped his wand, his new wand, still somewhat mysterious and unknown, into the usual pocket and set out. He needed to deal with Lee before breakfast. Appearances needed to be normal, and they wouldnāt if the boy was still hoping for the kiss heād tried to ransom.
Vance wasnāt about to pimp himself for followers, heād decided. Kissing Lee would have meant as much to him as any other detestable form of affection, regardless of the gender involved. It would, however, set a dangerous precedent. What else would Lee imagine to ask of him? He was perfectly fine with the school knowing of Leeās affection for him, but for them to have confirmation of any reciprocation would be a disaster. Lee wouldnāt be able to keep his mouth shut, not about thatā¦ so he was in for an early morning dose of the truth.
His confident gait brought him to Leeās door, and with his real hand, he knocked hard upon it. If he didnāt get an answer, heād wait a slow count of five before doing it again. After that, Leeās sluggishness would forfeit his right to mannerly conduct, and Vance would simply enter.