Word Vomit, day two
Nov. 2nd, 2011 11:35 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
notafirewithinIn the lands of Glence, family linage is determined through the mother’s line. What a strange and foreign way of thought, to the nobles of the wizard-lands, that someone would trust a thing as important as blood heritage to the meager bonds of the marriage bed. The wizards have only a passing interest in the institution to begin with, a particularly formal alliance between members of a royal house, but with none of the religious clout that more primitive lands adhere to. Nor such a silly thing as bed room morality.
Heritage is simple, if not self evident by the manifestations of one’s blood. A mother can know what lies with in her womb, a father can be fooled. Sometimes, mothers are tricked as well, but those are rarer, and so the standard rule applies among the high families. And should a wife violate the marriage contract, that is her prerogative, for a contract can be violated by either side, and each must deal with the repercussions of their own indulgences, if they have the power to get away with such acts. The child, however, will always be hers. The man should feel grateful to be included into a noble lineage, that the blood of his blood will mingle in the deep magics and pass on to future generations of rulers.
There is no shame in being borne out of wedlock, no tragedy or insult, though the husband would do well to be slighted at his exclusion from the blood pool and the father greatly honored that a wizard would chose to carry his seed to term and claim it as her own. After all, among the wizards of Glence, there is no such thing as an accidental birth. No, rather, among the highest borne, reproduction is a careful hobby, a dedicated plan, not to ensure for one’s self or one’s child a throne, but to promise it to one’s grand son or great grand daughter. It takes time and patience and careful lobbying and courting. And love, oh love, has nothing to do with any of it.
Ioann had the virtue of being born with his mother on the correct side of the equation, giving him a direct link to the linage of Larodan, and his magic proof enough of his Breliven heritage. Fyador, the grand-nephew of Pyotr, the High wizard of Beliven, had been wed with all due formality, and some affection, for all that mattered, to Polina, who was the daughter of Isabella, a cousin to the High wizard of Loradon, and thus of fine royal blood. Through their alliance, and the blood that runs warm in his veins, Ioann was born to bear the burden of blood from two royal lines.
Ioann, and his infant brother Mikhail, are the reslt of careful planning and breeding by the patriarch of the family. But Pyotr had made his will well known, several years before, when the young boy’s invitation to court was declined in favor of furthering his healing training. The life mage is pegged for the future role of Master Healer, which would deny him, once in place, from ever being in contention for the Heirship. What little Aleksandr had seen of that happy nine year old had filled him with familial pride. Would that things had stayed the same.
Politics shift quickly, even for those as long lived as the Brelivens, and Vanya, the decrepit old fool, longed for home more each passing day. Stepping down from the Heirship should have left the field open for Aleksandr, who had been raised at court in constant preparation for his place as Vanya’s due replacement. Who else from Breliven knew the place so well, had the proper conections, how could they dare to imagine that this mere slip of an untried boy, not yet even possessing a cloak, could ever be better suited. Does not the royal blood of two great houses flow through Aleksandr’s veins as well as Ioanns?
Aleksandr was not so luckily breed, for while his father s well known to be of Haitor, such a parentage was completed without the binding contract of a marriage alliance that would compel his father’s family to accept him as a member of their own. He is but one step in a grand plan, so that he might possess, and pass on, the blood of his father and the firey magic of his father’s blood. In the subtle ploys of the court, his mother was highly lauded for her clever tactic, but for a boy grown into a man, he was a part of a politic system from which he could barely hope to suffer any gain.
And yet, he had such hopes, for he learned from his mother to be shrewd and from the court to look out only for himself. Raised far from his homeland, he was free from the careful education that ensures the loyalty of the blood line. He has been exposed to the intrigue and court dramas, the plotting and planning and ploys, and the dark underside of the shimmering court, with all its eyes lurking for a mis-step and a sudden opportunity.
Beneath it all, in the place where he does not wish to look within his deepest heart, Aleksandr shies away from the profound truth that threatens his careful façade of indifference and desire for power. Should they ask, should they call for him, he would pack up and go home, tail between his legs, and scowl on his face. But his heart would rejoice. For, as all can attest, Aleksandr is a proper Breliven, and they are bound to their land by more than ingrained loyalty or family feeling. It calls to him, calls to his blood across all the distance and all the years. He might have been born at court and visited his homeland but a handful of time, but his soul can not forget that profound and earth sustaining feeling of rightness that filled him to the brim and over flowing when he set foot across the invisible line that casts Breliven apart from the rest of Glence.
He can almost justify his plotting as a favor to the naïve boy that they had dared to send as an interruption to his goals. Ioann doesn’t have to die, no, to be sent back in shame would be enough. He merely needs to be removed. Good and gone. Miserable and homesick, Ioann was unprepared for life at court, and Aleksandr feels no true compulsion to help him. Better to let him fail, or succeed and find the place to horrible to bear. Let him merely get his cloak and be gone. No Healer has ever won the high throne of Glence. No healer would ever want such a bloody and ruthless thing.
Heritage is simple, if not self evident by the manifestations of one’s blood. A mother can know what lies with in her womb, a father can be fooled. Sometimes, mothers are tricked as well, but those are rarer, and so the standard rule applies among the high families. And should a wife violate the marriage contract, that is her prerogative, for a contract can be violated by either side, and each must deal with the repercussions of their own indulgences, if they have the power to get away with such acts. The child, however, will always be hers. The man should feel grateful to be included into a noble lineage, that the blood of his blood will mingle in the deep magics and pass on to future generations of rulers.
There is no shame in being borne out of wedlock, no tragedy or insult, though the husband would do well to be slighted at his exclusion from the blood pool and the father greatly honored that a wizard would chose to carry his seed to term and claim it as her own. After all, among the wizards of Glence, there is no such thing as an accidental birth. No, rather, among the highest borne, reproduction is a careful hobby, a dedicated plan, not to ensure for one’s self or one’s child a throne, but to promise it to one’s grand son or great grand daughter. It takes time and patience and careful lobbying and courting. And love, oh love, has nothing to do with any of it.
Ioann had the virtue of being born with his mother on the correct side of the equation, giving him a direct link to the linage of Larodan, and his magic proof enough of his Breliven heritage. Fyador, the grand-nephew of Pyotr, the High wizard of Beliven, had been wed with all due formality, and some affection, for all that mattered, to Polina, who was the daughter of Isabella, a cousin to the High wizard of Loradon, and thus of fine royal blood. Through their alliance, and the blood that runs warm in his veins, Ioann was born to bear the burden of blood from two royal lines.
Ioann, and his infant brother Mikhail, are the reslt of careful planning and breeding by the patriarch of the family. But Pyotr had made his will well known, several years before, when the young boy’s invitation to court was declined in favor of furthering his healing training. The life mage is pegged for the future role of Master Healer, which would deny him, once in place, from ever being in contention for the Heirship. What little Aleksandr had seen of that happy nine year old had filled him with familial pride. Would that things had stayed the same.
Politics shift quickly, even for those as long lived as the Brelivens, and Vanya, the decrepit old fool, longed for home more each passing day. Stepping down from the Heirship should have left the field open for Aleksandr, who had been raised at court in constant preparation for his place as Vanya’s due replacement. Who else from Breliven knew the place so well, had the proper conections, how could they dare to imagine that this mere slip of an untried boy, not yet even possessing a cloak, could ever be better suited. Does not the royal blood of two great houses flow through Aleksandr’s veins as well as Ioanns?
Aleksandr was not so luckily breed, for while his father s well known to be of Haitor, such a parentage was completed without the binding contract of a marriage alliance that would compel his father’s family to accept him as a member of their own. He is but one step in a grand plan, so that he might possess, and pass on, the blood of his father and the firey magic of his father’s blood. In the subtle ploys of the court, his mother was highly lauded for her clever tactic, but for a boy grown into a man, he was a part of a politic system from which he could barely hope to suffer any gain.
And yet, he had such hopes, for he learned from his mother to be shrewd and from the court to look out only for himself. Raised far from his homeland, he was free from the careful education that ensures the loyalty of the blood line. He has been exposed to the intrigue and court dramas, the plotting and planning and ploys, and the dark underside of the shimmering court, with all its eyes lurking for a mis-step and a sudden opportunity.
Beneath it all, in the place where he does not wish to look within his deepest heart, Aleksandr shies away from the profound truth that threatens his careful façade of indifference and desire for power. Should they ask, should they call for him, he would pack up and go home, tail between his legs, and scowl on his face. But his heart would rejoice. For, as all can attest, Aleksandr is a proper Breliven, and they are bound to their land by more than ingrained loyalty or family feeling. It calls to him, calls to his blood across all the distance and all the years. He might have been born at court and visited his homeland but a handful of time, but his soul can not forget that profound and earth sustaining feeling of rightness that filled him to the brim and over flowing when he set foot across the invisible line that casts Breliven apart from the rest of Glence.
He can almost justify his plotting as a favor to the naïve boy that they had dared to send as an interruption to his goals. Ioann doesn’t have to die, no, to be sent back in shame would be enough. He merely needs to be removed. Good and gone. Miserable and homesick, Ioann was unprepared for life at court, and Aleksandr feels no true compulsion to help him. Better to let him fail, or succeed and find the place to horrible to bear. Let him merely get his cloak and be gone. No Healer has ever won the high throne of Glence. No healer would ever want such a bloody and ruthless thing.