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In which Gen prompts me to write DWJ ficlets
These were technically supposed to not revolve around Milliways, but all three (and cameos) are Milliways pups so PLEASE FORGIVE ANY VOICE SLAUGHTERING. Also, I'd forgotten too much of Elda's canon so I stole IRL and Milliways and made a fic of it! :D!
-
In the years Elda’s visited Milliways the interest in studying the varying methods of magical use across the universes has increased exponentially. So she’s preening herself, silly and proud, when, well—when this happens:
Elda comes careening through the door, breathless. “Guys! Guys!”
Henry Wellard, back from his most recent adventure—in - oh, who knows, these days?—looks up and says, “Elda?” before getting encompassed in a great big feathery hug.
“They loved it! They said need to hire young brains like mine!” Elda squawks, pleased beyond belief. “The university actually said that!”
“Congratulations, Elda,” said Cordelia Vorkosigan, sitting close by—because, well, Wellard was quickly being smothered so it’s not like he could say the same thing. “What was your research on again?”
“The effects of differing grammar systems on the efficiency of spells,” Elda informs her, letting Wellard go.
Well, Cordelia is friends with Moiraine is friends with Nita who, as the Landlord would have it, had one of the speakers in her annual conference drop out at the last minute.
So she’s preening her feathers. Because Elda’s going to present, and she’s going to look her best.
-
Joris is hungry a lot, when he’s small. He doesn’t think of it that way, though—he doesn’t know how to think of it that way, really. When you have a sort of pit in your stomach all the time complaining you get to ignoring it.
He doesn’t have a lot of people to play with, either, because all of his mom’s sisters’ kids and his mom and dad and his mom’s mom and his mom’s dad and his mom’s sisters and his mom’s sisters’ husbands, they all work and make money to keep the family on its feet which is hard, he knows. He doesn’t know what it means, really, but he knows it’s hard. But you’ve got to do it, got to keep the family on its feet, and he’s going to when he’s ten and he can. That’s what the big men in red say. Can’t work until you’re ten. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be ten. That’s twice how old he is.
So he plays games with the boys across the street, mostly, or plays make-believe games in one of the cramped rooms the family shares.
There’s a drought when he’s seven. He’s not sure what a drought is, or what the crops that are dying are—he’s a city boy, really, but he can tell that the shelves are empty in the markets and the prices for what are there have gone way, way up. And he ends up helping keep the family on its feet, when his mom’s mom sells him to the short, dark man. He doesn’t speak Kathayack very well, and he’s very nice, but Joris doesn’t figure what’s going on (he’s free-born, so he can’t be a slave, can he? He’s not a street orphan with no clan to protect him) until he’s they’re a ways from home, his grandmother and the man—the demon hunter-- and he just starts crying, until he stops because he’s so scared of the look his grandmother is giving him.
Joris isn’t hungry anymore, in Konstam’s house. It’s startling, when you’re full, to suddenly realize you used to be hungry always. It’s sort of uncomfortable, too, feeling packed up and almost sick.
He has people to play with. Kind of. Everyone’s nice, but they’re all free-born and look strange and none of them speak Kathayack, and some of the younger Khan boys laugh at his attempts to learn English and his Cardsburg twang.
He thinks he likes it, most times, he has friends—like young Elsa—and he knows Konstam is Good like very few people are ever Good. He likes his studies, too. And no one treats him like a slave. Not really.
But every so often he’ll catch sight of himself in the long expensive mirrors after having a bath, thin and pale and small, and see the angry red of the healing brand mark against his skin, and he starts crying again. He’s free-born. He isn’t free.
Things accumulate when you’ve lived a long time. Pictures, clothes, scars and memories. Theoretically the longer you live the more things accumulate. That’s true. Sort of.
When Mitt’s ten he’s got nothing. Two sets of clothes, a roof over his head to keep off the rain (sometimes), shoes falling to pieces, hands raw and three jobs and a plan.
When Mitt’s thirteen he’s got even less. But hell, he has two people fool enough to call themselves his friends.
When Mitt’s fifteen he’s got a country tipping into the bloodiest war in its history, and a crown that says he’s the one leading it there. He’s got an army, and a council, even a flaming bard. He’s starting to learn the meaning of heartache, too.
When Mitt’s twenty he has a wife and a kid, the start of a palace and a country pulling itself up to its feet.
Plus three kids, minus two kids, plus a city and an economic infrastructure and a constitutional monarchy, minus the magic and the mythology and the bard and the wife (and the crown).
Mitt’s ninety seven. He’s got two sets of clothes, a sturdy pair of boots, and a train card.
There’s not much to pack in the morning.
When Mitt’s ten he’s got nothing. Two sets of clothes, a roof over his head to keep off the rain (sometimes), shoes falling to pieces, hands raw and three jobs and a plan.
When Mitt’s thirteen he’s got even less. But hell, he has two people fool enough to call themselves his friends.
When Mitt’s fifteen he’s got a country tipping into the bloodiest war in its history, and a crown that says he’s the one leading it there. He’s got an army, and a council, even a flaming bard. He’s starting to learn the meaning of heartache, too.
When Mitt’s twenty he has a wife and a kid, the start of a palace and a country pulling itself up to its feet.
Plus three kids, minus two kids, plus a city and an economic infrastructure and a constitutional monarchy, minus the magic and the mythology and the bard and the wife (and the crown).
Mitt’s ninety seven. He’s got two sets of clothes, a sturdy pair of boots, and a train card.
There’s not much to pack in the morning.
-
In the years Elda’s visited Milliways the interest in studying the varying methods of magical use across the universes has increased exponentially. So she’s preening herself, silly and proud, when, well—when this happens:
Elda comes careening through the door, breathless. “Guys! Guys!”
Henry Wellard, back from his most recent adventure—in - oh, who knows, these days?—looks up and says, “Elda?” before getting encompassed in a great big feathery hug.
“They loved it! They said need to hire young brains like mine!” Elda squawks, pleased beyond belief. “The university actually said that!”
“Congratulations, Elda,” said Cordelia Vorkosigan, sitting close by—because, well, Wellard was quickly being smothered so it’s not like he could say the same thing. “What was your research on again?”
“The effects of differing grammar systems on the efficiency of spells,” Elda informs her, letting Wellard go.
Well, Cordelia is friends with Moiraine is friends with Nita who, as the Landlord would have it, had one of the speakers in her annual conference drop out at the last minute.
So she’s preening her feathers. Because Elda’s going to present, and she’s going to look her best.
-
Joris is hungry a lot, when he’s small. He doesn’t think of it that way, though—he doesn’t know how to think of it that way, really. When you have a sort of pit in your stomach all the time complaining you get to ignoring it.
He doesn’t have a lot of people to play with, either, because all of his mom’s sisters’ kids and his mom and dad and his mom’s mom and his mom’s dad and his mom’s sisters and his mom’s sisters’ husbands, they all work and make money to keep the family on its feet which is hard, he knows. He doesn’t know what it means, really, but he knows it’s hard. But you’ve got to do it, got to keep the family on its feet, and he’s going to when he’s ten and he can. That’s what the big men in red say. Can’t work until you’re ten. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be ten. That’s twice how old he is.
So he plays games with the boys across the street, mostly, or plays make-believe games in one of the cramped rooms the family shares.
There’s a drought when he’s seven. He’s not sure what a drought is, or what the crops that are dying are—he’s a city boy, really, but he can tell that the shelves are empty in the markets and the prices for what are there have gone way, way up. And he ends up helping keep the family on its feet, when his mom’s mom sells him to the short, dark man. He doesn’t speak Kathayack very well, and he’s very nice, but Joris doesn’t figure what’s going on (he’s free-born, so he can’t be a slave, can he? He’s not a street orphan with no clan to protect him) until he’s they’re a ways from home, his grandmother and the man—the demon hunter-- and he just starts crying, until he stops because he’s so scared of the look his grandmother is giving him.
Joris isn’t hungry anymore, in Konstam’s house. It’s startling, when you’re full, to suddenly realize you used to be hungry always. It’s sort of uncomfortable, too, feeling packed up and almost sick.
He has people to play with. Kind of. Everyone’s nice, but they’re all free-born and look strange and none of them speak Kathayack, and some of the younger Khan boys laugh at his attempts to learn English and his Cardsburg twang.
He thinks he likes it, most times, he has friends—like young Elsa—and he knows Konstam is Good like very few people are ever Good. He likes his studies, too. And no one treats him like a slave. Not really.
But every so often he’ll catch sight of himself in the long expensive mirrors after having a bath, thin and pale and small, and see the angry red of the healing brand mark against his skin, and he starts crying again. He’s free-born. He isn’t free.