Disclaimer: All characters and settings belong to Tamora Pierce.
Author's Note: I haven't written a Tamora Pierce fic since 2005, back in the good old days when all the series were merged into one section. Oh, the good old days. Neal is my favorite character and I find his teen years to be especially amusing, hence this little fic.
Something Borrowed
The first time he lent her a book he was all nerves, green eyes betraying an anxiousness she knew too well from meeting animals who wanted to please her but weren't sure how. "That one is a favorite of mine," he said, running an awkward hand through his hair as she looked at the cover. "I think you'll like it. I hope you'll like it."
He cast one lingering look upon her face and strolled off, hands stuffed into his breeches pockets.
Daine shook her head and smiled as she shut the door. Nealan of Queenscove was a nice enough boy with an intellect that could rival the Mithran priests if it wasn't so filled with sarcasm and ironic wit, but nice all the same. And she could do with a bit of reading to keep in touch with the most human aspects of her mind. She turned the book over in her hands, touching the title with her fingertips—A History of the Royal Stables, just the thing to satisfy her inner horse lover—and settled down in a comfortable chair to read.
All was well until she reached the second chapter, when something small and papery fell out of the book. At first Daine thought it was a bookmark that Neal had forgotten to remove, until she picked it up and realized it was a small piece of parchment bearing a message written in a careful, decorative hand:
Your delicate tresses curl upon your forehead
Like vines on a trellis
And your eyes, the color of the sea on a gentle cloudy day,
Look upon the world with all the sweetness of a dove
And the wiseness of an owl
Daine frowned at these verses, unsure of what to make of them. Perhaps a court lady had caught Neal's eye at a banquet, hence these rather absurd lines that he had left in the book by mistake, or perhaps... But of course it was a mistake. Daine would kindly return the book without mentioning the parchment to save him from embarrassment.
The second time he lent her a book he was more eager than before, wanting to know how she had enjoyed the first one. Daine chatted with him for a while about her favorite chapters and listened to him recite the history of the author, along with a summary of the author's other three books and critical arguments written by his fellow scholars.
Daine let him revel in this wealth of information, making no mention of vines on a trellis or gentle cloudy days.
His green eyes shone with something that worried her a bit as he gazed into her face, but she dismissed it and bid him farewell with a bit more firmness than she had intended. "Thank you for the book, Neal. I want to get started on it right away."
Which was a bit of a lie, really, since the book was titled Philosophical Disputes Concerning Wild Magic, a subject that was more suited to Numair's personal taste, but she was sure Neal had duties to attend to. He had just started out as a page, after all, and she didn't know Lord Wyldon well but she had heard enough of his methods to guess that Neal shouldn't linger too long at her door. Daine sat down and tried to absorb herself in the first ten pages of philosophical disputes, when another small piece of parchment fluttered out from between the pages.
Daine couldn't help but read it:
Alas! If only your tender soul did not belong to another
For you are far too wild and lovely to be fettered for long
Oh, fair lady of the gentle curls.
My heart aches to behold your sweet countenance
And yet it rejoices,
For to see you each day brings light to my dark.
The coincidence was too obvious to avoid Daine's suspicion. She highly doubted that Neal was that forgetful about keeping track of his poetry, and it was just as unlikely that he used such verses as bookmarks. As for her theory that he was writing about a court lady, well... that had just been wishful thinking, though she felt pity rather than annoyance. She wished that Neal was enamored by an unattainable court beauty, because it would save her from the guilt of throwing away his poetry.
But throw it away she must. Daine supposed it was a sweet gesture, quality of the verses aside, but it simply wouldn't do.
The third time he lent her a book his eyes shone with a hopeful green light. A light that Daine hated to extinguish, no matter how misguided it was, and she forced a smile when he handed her his copy of Carthaki Politics Through the Last Two Hundred Years. She had learned early on that Neal had a passion for subjects that would bore the average person, and he made the natural assumption that his friends would enjoy them too.
Still, her mother had always taught her to be polite, and Daine was never against learning something new.
Neal looked at her for a moment without speaking, which was a rare feat for somebody who could never stay silent. The air was so still she could hear him breathe, but most of all she could sense his nerves, just like she could sense what made an animal skittish. She was ashamed that Neal's nerves were brought on because of her.
His hand twitched, as if he longed to put it someplace it didn't belong, and at last he shuffled awkwardly from her doorway. "I'll see you around," he said, though he looked at the wall as he spoke those words.
Daine didn't even bother reading the book once Neal had left. Instead she flipped through the pages until she found what she was expecting; a piece of parchment just like the first two, bearing the same handwriting as before:
Daylight breaks because you walk this earth
A thousand glimpses of your face would melt a heart of stone
I cherish each word from you like it's the last one I'll hear
None can match your spirit, for it shines like warmth from a fire
Even the goddesses above would envy your beauty
Well, at least it confirmed who the poetry was for. Daine found herself blushing as she read these lines, then burned with frustration when she realized she was blushing, and at last she folded up the parchment and discarded it so she couldn't see those silly words. She supposed most young women would be delighted to read such praise of their virtues, but Daine had never been impressed with the theatricality that nobles used to win each other over.
Most of all, she wanted to keep thinking of Neal as a friend, for he was a friend, as long as she found some way to gently break him of his nonsense, which was easier said than done.
He lent her books for a fourth time and a fifth time, sneaking in bits of poetry where he knew she would find it. Daine longed to speak out and tell him that the two of them were just friends and always would be, but she couldn't find the words. How was she supposed to look Neal in the eye and tell him to stop giving her bad poetry without hurting him?
For the poetry was quite bad, though Daine was no judge and knew she couldn't write much better. Perhaps it would be easier to tell the truth if Neal made some mention of his messages hidden between the book covers, but he remained closed-mouthed on the matter, almost as if he was embarrassed.
Embarrassment didn't deter him from giving her the messages in the first place, though.
She returned the fifth book and borrowed a sixth, a sizable volume on a history of Tortall's famous philosophers, exactly the type of subject that Neal could spend hours talking about. If only he would spend more time writing about philosophy instead of composing loves notes that couldn't be answered. This latest book came with a particularly painful bit of verse:
The petals of a late summer rose
Glistening with pearls of morning dew
Cannot compete with thy radiant face,
Nor can the stars above
In all their glory
Shine as brightly as thine eyes,
For thou art a jewel among us low mortals
Daine bit her lip to hold back the guilty laugh that threatened to break forth, for she knew that Neal was sincere even if his poetry needed refinement, and decided that she would end the exchange at last.
She returned the book five days later, wishing that Neal could look at her with the eyes of a friend, and chose her words carefully. "I'm afraid I won't be able to borrow any more books for a while," she said. "Numair and I have gotten so busy."
He nodded in understanding, but she couldn't look into his eyes, for she suspected he didn't understand at all.
But sometimes ignorance was bliss.