Prompt 12: “Maybe this wasn’t worth it”
Taken from this prompt list by @leopard-prompts
Characters belong to myself
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Thinking your dad was a lord and then realizing he was a vassal didn’t much matter in the grand scheme of things. Really..there wasn’t much of a difference, was there? As a vassal, they still had land and a grand house and Columbkille had a room that was big and all his very own! His father told him that when he was comfortable enough, he could come and stay in it whenever he pleased.
Today...today it was enough to walk through their property, his father pointing out different orchards and Columbkille clinging to an edge of his cape and nodding and looking at all the sights.
“Hey....HEY!”
His father’s voice breaks the peace of their stroll, and soon father and son are rushing into a small field of sprouting green leaves to break up a struggle between two peasants. Columbkille drops back so his father can deal with the fight, which is soon ended when they recognize their vassal.
“What’s going on?” he snaps, gazing back and forth between the red-faced peasants. There’s no immediate answer, and he crosses his arms and offers a glare to both, waiting.
Columbkille stoops to brush the dirt off a few little leaflets. He gently prods a few crushed stems, trying to make them stand upward again.
“-..son, Byron.”
Columbkille glances up, at the men, who are all looking at him.
He shrinks a little into his cloak.
“..What about him? He’s no longer the informant, Jaron. I’m showing him my property...his as well, if you understand how blood relations work.”
The peasant, Jaron, scowls in Columbkille’s direction.
“He can’t hide under your emblem, Byron. We know him. The Informant. You know Raphael? His eldest son was ratted out by him and thrown in prison! They didn’t even know what he’d done!”
He jabs a finger toward the boy.
“Call his name and he doesn’t even know it, Byron. He’s not your son anymore, not as much as /I/ am.”
Byron moves to speak again, a low growl growing in his throat.
“It would be wise for you to hold your tongue, Jaron.”
Columbkille stands, then grunts and stumbles forward as a clod of wet earth smacks into the back of his head.
“Shama, Shama-!” a faint chorus of jeering voices shriek. A handful of rowdy boys, red-faced from working in the sun, darted back to the safety of the lemon orchard’s squat trees and thick branches.
“Colum-!” Byron knelt before his son, dusting the dirt out of his son’s reddish locks. Then he casts a look back at Jaron.
“I see your children were brought up to be much better than Renan’s slaves, Jaron. You can certainly gloat from your high pillar of moral perfection.”
He tucks Columbkille under his arm, the two of them moving back towards the house and Columbkille’s large room. There he can hide under the covers and toss about with the same torturous question: should he go back to the palace? Go back to his routine with the little room and never-ending cycle of tasks? Should he stay here and try again (and again and again and again and again) to find himself, what he had lost? To try wedging himself back into a society that no longer wanted him?
Maybe..
He dusts a few specks of dirt off one shoulder.
..Maybe this wasn’t worth it.
But he doesn’t say so aloud.
The return trip is blanketed in strained silence.
