Disclaimer: I. Own. Nothing.
A/N: Just a little something that I wrote up whilst trying to restart chapter three of Devotion. All mistakes are mine, it's unbeta'd-and wroten in like...half an hour. This takes place sometime during the Novice.
Summary: He knew he was in trouble the third night.
Akkarin knew he was in trouble during the third night.
It was not an easy thing for a man such as himself to accept that he was indeed wrong-very much so at that-and that he had made a few mistakes-much more than a few-but he was sick and tired of trying to fight himself. He fought the world and others in it, those he needed to and knew-as any would-that he should not have to waste precious energy and effort fighting inter battles he was set to lose, with himself. It was ridiculous. He was being ridiculous.
Yet, the fact that he knew as such did nothing for the matter and once again he found himself awake in the late hours of the night, unclothed and resisting the urge to pace or better yet to get up and leave his rooms-to somewhere near yet so very out of reach-damn it!
It was the third night he had sat up, his covers pooled about his waist, sleep a mere memory, his thoughts twisting and twirling concerning matters he'd rather not acknowledge. But it was not the thoughts-or their content-that bothered him so very much-even though they did-but the fact that they were there in the first place and could penetrate his well hardened mental barriers. Like a parasitic disease.
Ridiculous.
He was not sick, just tired-third damn night!-of his minds inappropriate working hours.
He crossed his legs underneath the blankets. Crossed his arms and settled heavily into the pillows behind his back. He still was not content and fought the urge to sigh, to rise and pace. Over the years, since his return from slavery, he had developed a powerful, solid and strong mind frame that allowed him to settle into-what he deemed-normal behaviour. He stored all of his experiences, the pain and shame, regrets and all that fear and anger, into a hole so deep and dark in his mind that none would ever touch it-not without his say so-no matter how hard they tried, none would ever enter that iron barred pit of disgrace and shame.
When he had become High Lord, his life had vastly changed once more and he used that powerful strength of pushing his past and inner thoughts away to his advantage, he forced his emotions down and they faded to a dull flare and he faced his fellow Magicians with another, new, mind frame, a determined responsible one; he was young-oh how they spoke of him! How they watched like flesh eating animals for him to slip up-and he understood that he had to be a man many could lookup to, those older than him, those more knowledgeable than him-an entire city under his now-to-be watchful eye- and with a little time, as he customised himself with his darker robes and the awe-struck glances, he became a man the people of Kyralia needed-and in the process, he lost himself.
From somewhere-down the hall, a few strides from where he lay-a soft groan in sleep stirs the silence of the residence and his thoughts-they burn-and he knows it is not Takan; he hooks his feet tighter together. Pulls the covers closer to his chest-he it not getting up.
He is a smart man and he knows he is in trouble and that it's his own fault-for reasons unknown to him-but this acceptance does not make in any easy in dealing with the situation. This is something he has grown unused to-he cannot get any help or advice in this matter and that which he had received long ago is forgotten-he cannot go to anyone for help, not even Lorlen for a pat on the shoulder and a sympathetic smile and shrug; his former friend would most likely be appalled-most would, wouldn't they?
Thoughts of Lorlen, of the duties he had waiting for him in a matter of hours, of when the next spy would prowl the slums and of their victims and Master's, were all easily pushed behind his barrier along with all other issued he had to deal with, for him to sort through individually when he could afford to do so. Yet these thoughts-his other inexistent ones that did exist-slipped through like water and swam about his tired mind and clouded his heavy eyes, they would not dry up and fade away no matter how long and hard be belittled and lectured himself.
They were becoming a constant-ridiculous-problem that was threatening to interfere with his daily life-they were slowly crawling into his waking hours of solitude and he was growing wary of losing track of his thoughts.
Maybe he was ill after all.
A soft cough sounds down from his door, through wood and wall, and the sounds of one shifting from warm covers reaches his ears-what is she doing-and without noticing, he quiets his breathing so as the hear better.
It wasn't a physical illness, per se, more of a mental one. Yes, the High Lord entering the Healer's' Quarters complaining of mental issues would truly be advisable-he could see Lady Vinara's' face now-yet it was a far share better than him portraying his true problem.
Wasn't it?
Wasn't he avoiding these thoughts?
Groaning tiredly and rubbing the sleep from his heavy eyes he realises that he is once again the only one, fully at least, awake within the building and truly wishes he wasn't. It is still dark outside yet through the trees he can see the first shimmer of morning light brushing the horizon. He knows he may as well gave up his battle and rise for the day. He uncrosses his arms and legs, his foot having gone numb and stretches before sliding from the middle of the bed to dress.
Thinking on it, his little problem, his little tick-his parasite-he realises that it cannot be efficiently dealt with, it is just one of these things that simply were, at least for a time and then they became not and faded. Like childhood rivalry-Garrel had tired and failed to best him as a novice, going as far as challenging him to a duel, holding hatred that had now faded to arrogance only held from his defeat-it was something trivial and would pass if he simply encouraged ignorance-be the better man in many ways.
For three nights now he had sat, restless and tense with unappreciated and inappropriate thoughts stirring unbidden desires and dreams that did not become a man such as himself; they belonged to a man forgotten and buried, the self he lost long ago and he cannot-cannot-bear to let him rise from the ashes of the once-was and has-beens to things as trivial as could-be's and maybes-the not most likely's.
Pulling on and tying his robes, despite the tiredness and unease that can he willed away, he feels confident in his decision and plan of action.
Finished tying his robes, he moves to tie back his hair. That done, he turns and faces himself in the mirror just as the first light of day reaches through his windows to warm the now empty bed-why empty why no-No. Ignorance. He is the better man.
His reflection stares back at him, fine sharp features, pale Kyralian skin and dark hair, he looks respectable and noble as always-dark, cold eyes and a mouth that does not reflect his inner thoughts-he is a man who can rule-one who does with a iron fist-and one who seems to be born to do so. He is proud and pleased with the man he has made of himself-he is alone and cold and wishes he had more reason, more time, to smile and find things to made him do so, he wants and longs for something, something…for her, she has made him smile with her deviant glares and hidden glances guised with curiosity and anger, the curl of her lips as she reads within the library, her soft sighs of contentment as she is taken by a good book, would she sound as such if-No! No, no…none of that. No more thoughts on the matter-such parasitic thoughts grew and consumed him and teased him in ways he did not allow himself. He wasn't a man that could afford such things, especially with one such as her. That man was dead. Had left the Guild and never returned.
He is the High Lord, not some love-struck youth with a run-away mind trailing on visions of lust.
She was half his age and his novice, although she herself did not believe so, her well being was his concern and others knew this. If he was to be found lusting after her…
Lords…perhaps he was sick, after all.
Takan disturbs his thoughts with his daily morning-mind-call and he takes awhile to answer, but when he does, his thoughts are still and at peace once again barred behind walls of will.
He's fine. He now knows what to do with his silly fancy. He's being very ridiculous-of course.
He will force all thoughts of the younger woman from his mind and continue on as planned-as normal-and act accordingly. Soon, it will all be a memory that he will some day remember and laugh upon recalling.
There, that's reason enough to smile.
Healing away the heaviness of his muscles and the string of his eyes, he lifts a book from his nightstand as he makes his way from his bedroom. Within the hour of sun rise, his residence has stirred to life and he can hear the daily noises of morning life from his servants and novice. Turning, he chooses to pass her room to see if she has continued her routine of waking with the sun, as like he, and finds that he is correct has her door swings open to reveal her dark head of dark-tangled, morning ridden-hair.
She is still dressed in her night clothes-loose and flowing-and holds her washing products to her chest, intending on making her usual trip to the baths. His presence-as always-startles her and she gasps slightly, eyes wide before giving him a short bow.
"High Lord."
"Good morning, Sonea."
Both voices are rough with sleep and he wonders if she even notices, and if she would even care about such a thing. He finds that he doesn't. In fact the roughness adds a certain edge to her tongue that is extremely distracting at th-
They stand facing each other, he lost in nonexistent, banished, thoughts and she wondering if he'd consider it rude if she slammed the door in his face so she to bury her face back into her covers.
Finally he returns, face blank and bids his fair well and strides off down the stairs. She continues on as before, silently closing her door and following him down.
Passing the wine cabinet he resists the urge to down a bottle and wallow, he head is beginning to hurt and he's feeling slightly angry at his novice because it is all her fault.
Takan greets him at the table as he sits,
"We have another one, Master. Three dead."
Damn it all, perhaps he would just pay a visit to the Healers Quarters, if only for something to him to sleep at night.
He was so tired of being tired.
A/N: To those who are curious, I titled it 'Endless' because I see Akkarins thoughts starting like this, he would have continuously ended up back where he started with Sonea being around him so much. Alone, he would realise any romantic/sexual feelings towards Sonea and banish himself from such thoughts/feelings and deny himself. this would uphold for a time yet the more he saw of her and she of him, such thoughts would return and he would cast them away again..and again..always ending back where he started...endlessly. We all once had and still perhaps do have that someone who we think of in ways we shouldn't and we are only reminded of them when around said person.
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