milliways_bar | (no subject)

Athelstan appears at some point and settles cross-legged in the grass to watch him dance.

It's not a dance precisely but it does seem to involve some form of complex rhythm that has Sinric concentrating hard enough not to notice he's being watched.

That's all right. Athelstan would hate to interrupt him before he's finished, and it's something worth watching.

Sinric gets to a point and-

Stops.

With a stomp of his foot he storms over to where a small book is laying on top of his cloak. He opens to a page, his lips moving as he corrects himself. Only then does he notice Athelstan.

He smiles and gestures for permission to join him.

"Of course", he says with a smile. "And you can tell me what you're practising."

Sinric flood down next to him, exaggeratedly graceless. "My Lord is hosting a dinner for the Syrian Prince, hoping to recruit him as an ally in the war to come. He asked me to pick out a piece of heroic poetry to perform at the reception and I found what I thought was ideal but it's proving very hard to memorize."

"Is it long?" Athelstan asks. "Or is the problem the language?"

"Both but in truth its the rhythm and meter of it I'm struggling with. It seems to change several times within the piece." He holds the book open to Athelstan. On one side is Syrian script, flowing and beautiful, the other is the Greek translation.

"It likely does." He reads down the Greek side, his Arabic being poor at best. "Would it help if I read it out to you, so you can learn the timing?"

"Please? That would be very helpful." He gets to his feet again, returning to the first position of the pattern, the silver bells at his ankle ringing softly.

Athelstan lifts the book and starts to read in fluent Greek.

Sinric repeats the poem in the Arabic, moving fluidly from station to station, presenting the piece to a massive room of people, pausing on the dramatic moments.

Athelstan glances up from time to time at natural breaks in the poem, watching Sinric move.

Sinric seems to be following some patterin at his feet, something in the room he will present in.

They get to the end together and Sinric sweeps a deep bow, going down the one knee in the deep grass.

Athelstan sets the book down in his lap to applaud, smiling slightly.

...what, there should be applause.

Sinric turns his bow to Athelstan and rises gracefully to return to his side. He takes back his book, clucking his tongue over the closing passage, needing to get the inflections just so.

He rests his head on Athelstan's shoulder. "I will get this right!"

"You will", Athelstan says with confidence, leaning his cheek against the top of Sinric's head. "And you can take as much time as you like here to perfect it."

He hums an affirmative, taking one of Athelstan's hands in his own. "Yes, that is true. And no-one at home will see how hard I had to work at it."

He grins.

"They'll think it was all natural talent."

Sinric chuckles and shifts to rest his head in Athelstan's lap. "But then they will expect me to do it as easily next time."

Athelstan strokes his hair.

"Well, with the help of Milliways, you can."

If there is a next time, he doesn't say, before Bulgaria.

Sinric thinks that too but pushed the thought away. All that he has known will end soon. His world of comfort where the worst thing to worry about was remembering the lines of a poem. (And his Lord's son.)

He turns to his his face in Athelstan's tunic, trying to focus on the warm sun and the feeling of Athelstan's hand in his hair. "I hope I will always have Milliways. I might be lost without it."

"You're strong, my Sinric", Athelstan says softly. "No less because you needed people in your darkest hour."

He doesn't speak for a moment, and when he does, it's soft and a little broken. "I was desperate and lonely after only a week without him. How will I survive a lifetime?"

"Because", is the quiet answer, "in that week, you knew he was somewhere waiting for your return. But over your lifetime, he'll never leave you."