Marcus smoothed Esca’s flight feathers. Esca dry-swallowed. The new-grown feathers were still tender: if Marcus cut them too short, they would bleed. “Have you ever clipped – ” Esca started, and stopped himself, because his voice was near to shaking.
“Yes,” Marcus replied. Esca hated the gentleness of his voice. He was going to clip Esca’s wings: he did not get to be kind about it.
The shears snicked. Esca clenched his eyes shut so he didn’t have to see his wingtips flutter onto the fallen leaves. “When?” he asked.
Snick. Another feather. Marcus did not reply, and Esca suddenly did not want to know: he did not want to learn that Marcus’s legion had defeated thus-and-such tribe, and clipped such of them as had wings, and sold them into slavery.
Esca doesn’t want to like Marcus, but he’s so lonely that he also doesn’t want to hate him. That’s why he finds Marcus’s attempt to be gentle so hard to bear: he’s so lonely that it’s tempting to accept it as true kindness.
But at length Marcus said, “My uncle – my other uncle, who I lived with in Rome – had a winged slave.”
Marcus’s hesitation has nothing to do with Esca. He got caught up in a memory of his uncle’s house, and perhaps his mother and her death..
They were silent after that. The shears rasped through another feather. It brushed against Esca’s ankle as it fell. Esca gagged.
I’m glad you picked this fic for the commentary! I put an unusual amount of thought into both the symbolism of the wings and the worldbuilding..
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Date: 2013-06-15 04:41 pm (UTC)“Yes,” Marcus replied. Esca hated the gentleness of his voice. He was going to clip Esca’s wings: he did not get to be kind about it.
The shears snicked. Esca clenched his eyes shut so he didn’t have to see his wingtips flutter onto the fallen leaves. “When?” he asked.
Snick. Another feather. Marcus did not reply, and Esca suddenly did not want to know: he did not want to learn that Marcus’s legion had defeated thus-and-such tribe, and clipped such of them as had wings, and sold them into slavery.
Esca doesn’t want to like Marcus, but he’s so lonely that he also doesn’t want to hate him. That’s why he finds Marcus’s attempt to be gentle so hard to bear: he’s so lonely that it’s tempting to accept it as true kindness.
But at length Marcus said, “My uncle – my other uncle, who I lived with in Rome – had a winged slave.”
Marcus’s hesitation has nothing to do with Esca. He got caught up in a memory of his uncle’s house, and perhaps his mother and her death..
They were silent after that. The shears rasped through another feather. It brushed against Esca’s ankle as it fell. Esca gagged.
I’m glad you picked this fic for the commentary! I put an unusual amount of thought into both the symbolism of the wings and the worldbuilding..