Without You

Disclaimer: All characters and locations herein are the property of Tamora Pierce. Plot and actual written words owned by me. in addition, the title for this story is taken from a song by the same name, property of Jonathan Larson. Written for Seanfhocal Circle Challenge 8.

Fourteen was such a terrible age, decided Vinson, pretending not to feel that stabby feeling in his chest. You hope and pray for something to be over, and once it is you just look back and wish you were there again. Getting off his bed, he stashed his little treasure back at the bottom of his chest, wrapped carefully in soft wool. He had one little memento from his page days. It did no harm if he looked at it, held it in his hand every now and then. What harm could it do, as long as no one knows?

Treading as softly as he could, Vinson quietly went down the stairs, looking for the kitchen. His knight-master's home was still unknown territory, for the most part -- he'd only been there for three weeks. Three long weeks. It was well enough that he had all the work in the world to keep him busy. There was no time to miss his friends. Well, Zahir had never really liked him, and Quinden was too young. Garvey was alright, he missed Garvey. But mostly he missed Joren.

He'd thought his training would be hard work, misery and boredom. Then Joren showed up, and decided that he would have a good time. Anyone who wanted could come along for the ride. Joren's crowd always found ways to entertain themselves, and never let work or weather get them down. Now Vinson was alone in this stupid castle, it was raining bitterly and he had to spend his days serving meals and polishing armor.

If Joren were here… the thought popped up before he could get rid of it. You're being stupid! he told himself sternly. Joren's not here, and you thinking about him all the time won't make things any better! Over-concentrating on his work, he served the knight and his lady supper, then cleared up after them. On his way back to his room, his thoughts caught up to him.

Rain was outside the window, and the light was gray. No riding tonight or tomorrow. The knight and his lady were not entertaining, and didn't seem inclined to go to Corus for the winter. I might be stuck in this place all winter, Vinson realized. He almost longed for his palace teachers – even lessons would be more interesting than this vile servant work.

This is a stupid way to earn your shield, decided Vinson. I'm a noble, not some common trash to do just anyone's bidding. He felt pitiful, laying out his master's clothes and making sure his boots were polished. Vinson hated feeling pitiful. What would Joren do?

What will you do without him, for four years? cried an anxious voice in his mind. He ignored it, as best he could. Tomorrow he would ride out to the village, rain or not. Eventually, his master would take him to Corus. Then they would stay at the palace, and everyone would be there. They'd go out to the city together, or even to Port Cainn, and have fun. Eventually we'll both be knights, he reminded himself. Then I can do as I like, and some pitiful squire will be polishing my boots.

Vinson sat down at his desk, head in hands. The rain pelted on outside his only window. He took out letter paper, his wax seal and a quill and decided to write a letter. Never mind he had nothing to tell. His master had barely sparred with him, there were no raiders or immortals, and the only girls were his master's young wife and a spiteful scullery maid that smacked Vinson the first time he tried talking to her.

Write about the boot-polishing, Joren will love that! The voice inside his mind was becoming more and more bitter. To shut it up, he put parchment and quill both to the flame of his lamp and watched them burn to black flakes. Then he went to his chest and took out his favorite memento, all wrapped up.

A small wooden tablet lay in his palm, face up. The carving on it showed two knights jousting each other in full armor. On the note that came with it was scrawled in a leisurely script, "Some day that will be us. I hope you can forgive me for beating you. I'd hate it if a tournament destroyed our friendship." Just like him, isn't it? thought the squire miserably. Always so sure he's the best, and for no other reason than it's the truth.

"I'm nothing without you, Joren," said the boy softly, his cheeks damp. "If I weren't such a damned coward, I would've told you as much before you left."