In Which Lorn Bids Farewell to His Boyhood

October 14, 1165

Cassada hadn't given Lorn any details. She'd woken him, then told him to get dressed and hurry to his mother's sitting room as quickly as he could. In any case, any idiot could've figured out that it was urgent, so he'd done as he was told; he had known his mother's maid his whole life, and even if he had been inclined to think people dishonest, he knew that she was an honorable woman who would not lie to him even if she thought it would benefit her.

Of course, she had not left him without questions; nevertheless, if an emergency great enough to require the immediate attention of the duke's eldest son had occurred, he would have to act like the duke's eldest son--not a frightened little child. He eased the door shut behind him and surveyed the room. Something was wrong.

The sitting room held three other occupants, namely his mother, Aldhein, and Lord Severin. His mother was beside herself, shaking as she cried into her hands, the occasional muffled sob reaching Lorn's ears. Lord Severin seemed to be trying to comfort her, but his efforts did not appear to merit any effect. Meanwhile, Aldhein stood at her other side, his posture just as straight and controlled as always and even more grim than usual.

"There... there wasn't anything we could do," he heard Lord Severin mutter. "It was all rather... bizarre. Celina, I'm so sorry."

She gave no coherent reply. From its place on her shoulder, his hand gently grasped her hair and pulled out it of her face as he planted a soft kiss on the other side of her head. He then looked up, his eyes briefly meeting Lorn's before turning away; Lorn was not standing near, but his sight was not his only perception of the man's apparent guilt. "My lord?"

Lord Severin looked up again for the most fleeting of seconds and shook his head. "Lorn..."

Whatever he had meant to say, the words never came, but somehow, Lorn knew anyway. His father was dead.

Lorn was ten years, one month, and twelve days old. He was not a sheltered youth, but there was still much about the world that was a mystery to him, and until that moment, death had been one such thing.

Never again would he see his father ride through the gates on his tall white horse. Never again would he leap into his arms, those strong arms that had never failed to make him feel so safe. It was funny how people said "I love you"--so automatic, so thoughtless. One always said "I love you" with the intention of saying it again, or at least the presumption that there would be another opportunity. Now, there never would be; if he had known that this morning was to be the last time he would ever say those three small words to his father, he might have aspired to do them their true justice.

His instinct was to do as his mother. He needed to cry. He needed to collapse onto the floor and sob until no more tears remained within him. His instinct was run to his mother and bury his face in her shoulder like he had when he'd been a boy of three and one of the old hunting dogs had died, but he couldn't. He would have to save his tears for his pillow. He could not cry in front of his mother, nor could he cry in front of his siblings in the morning. They needed him to be strong. He could not react like a five-year-old child--hell, he couldn't even react like a ten-year-old child. As of now, his boyhood had ended.

"Lorn?"

He looked up to see Aldhein standing in front of him; the steward must have approached while the shock was still setting in. "My lord, I... well, something happened today, and..."

He trailed off, leaving Lorn to stare up at him in constrained grief. Aldhein was not a particularly large man, but never before had Lorn felt so small, helpless, and utterly defeated. "My father's dead, isn't he?"

The steward bowed his head. "I'm so sorry."

The feelings Lorn had experienced upon first entering the room began to cycle, only more strongly. Now that it had actually been said, it was truly real. He blinked, trying to dam the moisture in his eyes with his lashes. Save it for your bed, he scolded himself as he struggled against the tears, You have to be strong for Mother. Father wouldn't want you to fall apart on her.

One stubborn drop welled in the corner of his eye. Determined to keep it where it belonged, Lorn tilted his head to the ceiling. "My lord?" Aldhein addressed him, concerned.

Lorn couldn't take it any more. He flung his arms around the steward's torso and rested his forehead against the man's shoulder. As a pair of arms engulfed him in an awkward embrace, he allowed a single teardrop to fall and watched as it soaked through the white cloth of Aldhein's tunic. It would be the first of many that night, but the rest would have to wait just a little while longer.

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