4 Across: Pensively sad. (11)
Fiyero lay stretched out on his favourite couch in the library, one arm over his eyes. The warmth from the lit fireplace washed over him like a blanket. But it didn't soothe him.
The world was always different this time of year. Post-Lurlinemas, just a few days into the new year; and there was a sense of optimism in the air but also the feeling like the world was just waking up from a long nap. Usually Fiyero loved this time of year. He loved the holidays and he was a huge fan of naps. But this year, Fiyero wasn't ready to wake up yet.
The sound of footsteps interrupted the rhythm of the crackling flames, but it was only the clink of dishes and a waft of something delicious that made Fiyero move his arm and open one eye cautiously.
"Peaches made her famous Wiccasand Onion Soup," Kasmira said gently. "You missed lunch."
Fiyero slowly pushed himself up into a seating position, readjusting the pillows behind him, eyeing his mother warily for a moment as he picked up the bowl from the table and took the soup spoon she handed him. Kasmira looked perfectly calm as she settled herself onto the other end of the couch, no trace of the disappointment that had been on his parents' faces ever since his early return home from the last semester.
They'd done this dance before. Fiyero knew all the steps. But after six universities, his parents had reached the end of their patience, it seemed. Honestly, Fiyero couldn't blame them. He was tired too.
"Are you joining us this afternoon, Yero?" Ibrahim asked as he entered the library.
Fiyero shrugged one shoulder. "I guess," he said.
His parents had given up forcing him to join them for the Sunday crossword when he was seventeen, finally tired of his grumbling each week. And Fiyero had embraced that freedom full-heartedly.
Ibrahim's eyebrow quirked slightly in surprise as he took his place in his favourite armchair, copy of The Sunday Chronicle and pen in hand.
"Alright then," he said. "Let's see here. One across: 'announce,' Six letters."
Kasmira shook her head. "Too many options. Decree, Attest, Inform, Notify… no. Is there a one down?"
"One down," Ibrahim confirmed. "Seven letters. 'Supportive.'"
Kasmira tilted her head thoughtfully. "What about 'backing'? What would that make the first clue?"
Ibrahim frowned at the paper. "I don't know."
"Thoughts, Yero?" Kasmira asked.
Fiyero took another spoonful of soup. "Good soup."
He felt his parents exchange a glance, rather than saw it. And then his mother sighed ever so quietly, and his father moved on to the next clue. Fiyero just ate his soup, slumped down in his seat and letting his parents' voices echo distantly in his ear as he stared into the depths of the bowl.
"… author RW Woon's 1928 debut novel, 'BLANK' of the Dead'. Eight letters. Is Woon the one who has every title beginning with 'D'?"
"Yes. It's 'daughter' isn't it? 'Daughter of the Dead'?"
"It fits," Ibrahim nodded, jotting it down. "And that sounds right. It's been a long time since I've read that one."
Kasmira took a sip of her tea. "Woon went to Shiz, didn't he?"
And there it was.
"Cool," Fiyero muttered, putting his empty bowl on the end table. "I wondered how long until we circled back to my academic failures."
Kasmira placed a hand on his ankle soothingly. "Sweetheart, that's not what I was implying," she reassured him. "It was just a trivial note."
Ibrahim put the newspaper and pen down on the table beside his armchair. "Yero, we're worried," he said honestly.
"Because the heir to the throne is a screw up?" Fiyero guessed.
Kasmira squeezed his ankle, more warningly than comforting this time. "No," she said sharply. "Not at all."
Fiyero looked to her doubtfully and Kasmira's eyes were soft as she met his gaze.
"Since you've been home, you've been so…"
"Melancholic?" Ibrahim offered as Kasmira struggled for the right word.
"Yes," she agreed, smiling faintly. "And that's so unlike you. And with what happened when you left the CEC…"
'Left' was a very polite way of saying 'stopped handing in assignments.'.
Fiyero ran a hand through his hair, resisting the urge to squirm under his parents' gaze. When he'd first come home, his parents had been uninterested in his excuse of "I couldn't be bothered" when asked about his uncompleted schoolwork.
"We all know you're more capable than you pretend to be, Yero," Ibrahim said gently. "It's why we get frustrated when this keeps happening."
"I truly think Shiz is going to be the right place for you," Kasmira said confidently.
"Not least because we're running out of universities," Ibrahim joked. Kasmira shushed him, but Fiyero cracked a genuine smile for what felt like the first time in ages.
"I know it's going to be hard. You're already going to be starting the semester late, and you'll have to work hard if you want to keep up with your classmates…" Kasmira sighed. "But if there's something else that we need to know, that we can help you with…"
Fiyero shrugged a shoulder again and shook his head. "There's nothing, Mom."
He knew that she didn't believe him, but how could Fiyero explain it to his parents when he couldn't explain it to himself? All he knew was that he was tired. Because it was all the same, wasn't it? The same classes; the same types of kids, all trying to win his favour because of his title, but none of them really bothering to get to know him. And meanwhile his few old friends- real friends- were all moving on with their lives. Jobs, homes and relationships… families. All elements of a future Fiyero wasn't ready for and wasn't sure he wanted- not that he had any choice in the matter.
Here in the library with his parents right now, Fiyero had somehow never felt more connected to his parents yet more distant.
"Come on, Dad," he said lightly. "What's the next clue?"