[Memory, Closed] One of the Rotten Ones

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Field of Practical Application, Brunnhold Campus
Yaris 31, 2714 - Late Afternoon

Hot, that's what it was. Hot and muggy as all get-out. The heat crept down the back of Cerise Vauquelin's uniform where it became sweat that dripped all down her spine. She felt absolutely disgusting, which did nothing to improve her general outlook on the day so far. Bad enough that when practice time had come, they discovered there had been some miscommunication about the schedule; both Varsity and Junior Varsity Dueling League practices had been set for the same time. Of course the Varsity team got preference. Why wouldn't they? It wasn't as if they could be out later to begin with, having no curfew to speak of--oh wait. Cerise watched from her spot on the grass where she sat alone, just a little apart from the other Junior Varsity students. They seemed more content to wait, talking and laughing among themselves. A few had gotten out their homework. Homework, when they were supposed to be practicing.

Cerise tore sullenly at the grass beneath her hand. She should have taken up Marianna's offer to sit with her on the bench; the grass was going to stain her dress. The young politician's daughter just hadn't quite been sure of the other girl's motives--it had taken her too long to respond, and Marianna had shrugged and moved on before Cerise had made up her mind. She wouldn't offer again, Cerise knew. At least they were both green.

"Don't have one of your weird books with you today, Vauquelin?" The voice came from above her head. Cerise had to squint as she looked up, the Yaris sun getting directly in her eyes. Not that she need to look to know who it was--there was only one person who it could really be.

"Go crawl back under the rock you came from, Antoinette." Antoinette Roumanille was in the same year as Cerise, a soft-faced Anaxi girl with an unfortunate fondness for being irritating. Her father was a judge, or something like it--she had told Cerise once, when they had both joined Junior Varsity some years ago. Upon reflection, she thought the imperious way Antoinette had delivered this information to Cerise might have been an overture of friendship. It had not hit the mark; Cerise had not been particularly impressed and told Antoinette so. They had apparently become rivals, at least to Antoinette. Cerise found her mostly to be a nuisance.

Cerise looked away from Antoinette; the other girl took this as invitation to continue speaking. She always did, until she got tired of not getting a response and went away. On and on she prattled--all very cutting, Cerise was sure. She wasn't really listening, until something in Antoinette's grand monologue managed to catch her attention for once.

"What did you say?" Cerise's head snapped up, and she winced at the triumphant glee that spread across Antoinette's piggish little face. Gods but she did look over-warm. It made her already-red face even redder. Didn't seem healthy.

"I said," Antoinette repeated herself with obvious relish, each word enunciated for impact, "that I heard a very interesting story, that you aren't your father's daughter. I just wanted to know if it was true."

What a stupid, childish insult. Anyone who had ever seen Anatole Vauquelin anywhere near his oldest daughter could tell they were related. Mother always said she had her father's eyes. Cerise knew she had his smile, and she didn't like it. The insult needled at Cerise anyway, and Antoinette could see it. Her hands balled into fists in the grass. There was some snickering nearby--the conversation had quieted down around the pair of them.

"Did I strike a nerve?" She cooed. "I'm sorry. Don't tell me--is it true?" Antoinette made a great show of being regretful, then leaned in like she was going to tell Cerise a secret. "Of course, I also heard it's a miracle you aren't some kind of halfbreed--"

"Take that back," Cerise cut in sharply. She knew she shouldn't rise to the bait. It was weak, meaningless, with no basis in reality or even really rumor. Antoinette was just trying to be cruel. That was probably the most annoying part--that she was going out of her way to say such absurd things, just to find one that might land. Cerise raised her sharp chin and narrowed eyes the color of stormclouds at the other girl.

"Make me," Antoinette mocked, hands set on narrow hips.

So Cerise obliged.

It was a single burst of motion, the Incumbent's daughter not even bothering to come to a full stand. She flung herself from the ground and aimed her momentum at Antoinette's legs. Antoinette was taken by surprise and went toppling to the ground with a shriek. After that, Cerise lost track--it was just a flurry of shrieks and ill-practiced swings of her fists, while the other girl tried to throw her off.

[Nauleth Siordanti]

31st of Yaris, 2714
THE LAWN | LATE AFTERNOON

Godsdamn it all—it was so hot this afternoon! The sun beat down, glaring and bright, onto the scorched and scarred grass of the Lawn, clawing through the green wool of everyone's Brunnhold uniforms and searing itself against the back of every student's neck. Nauleth had already shrugged off his coat, quick to struggle out of the high-collared, stiff monstrosity of outerwear, only to toss it over his satchel. He'd rolled up his sleeves and was scandalously close to untucking his shirt, but those stupid suspenders kept him from doing so.

The Varsity League's dumbersed secretary hadn't properly checked the books for practice this week and here the whole team was, standing out in the baking Yaris heat attempting to quickly make their way through their circuits because the Junior Varsity team wasn't just waiting, they were watching. Memories of Junior League left a bad taste in Nauleth's mouth, and he could hardly bring himself to look at their faces even though he knew he'd be doing so every day come Intas next year, crammed in a classroom because he'd decided he was totally fit to teach just for the sake of being allowed to start his post-graduate research on electromagnetism—

Ugh.

—sweat was pooling in the small of his back against the thick dark wool hemline, right hand restless at the buttons of his collar, and the redheaded tenth year stood and questioned his life choices on the outside of the carefully drawn practice plot, toes of his shoes just beyond the wards he'd helped to burn into the brown, dead grass of this particular section of the Field of Practical Application. The Lawn, as it was affectionately known to the young man who'd spent so much of his time on it in the past, angry and volatile—gods, didn't that feel like a clocking lifetime ago, too?

"Have you heard back from the Physical Conversation chairs yet, Mister Siordanti?" Professor Anelda Reginald's shadow appeared next to Naul and her belike aura caprised his in a greeting not dissimilar to two opposing magnets held just out of each other's grasp, the flow of physical mona eager to pool together.

The tenth year inhaled hot air and glanced sideways, a bit of static rippling through his field as a response. She should know the answer to that question, so this was only making conversation, "I have not, Professor Reginald, but I should by the end of this week."

"Good. I did put in a word for you. I believe that Professor Dex will enjoy having you in his classroom again as an assistant." There was an edge of curiosity to the much older woman's voice, and yet compared to so many faculty members who'd spoken up against the eldest Siordanti with his tarnished social standing, his still-talked-about backlash, and his near-predatory dueling record, Professor Reginald had spoken in his favor.

Color him surprised.

"Thank yo—oh gods, not again."

His gold-rimmed gaze had been following the match in front of them, watching two of his peers sling their Static spells at each other, smoke curling off the now-smoldering grass, stinging his eyes, but motion caught the edge of his vision. What he'd dismissed as idle lower form chatter had turned into shrill anger and much to everyone's surprise, a dark-haired young woman—ah, he knew Cerise Vauquelin's name—tackled some sneering ginger like two banderwolves fighting for territory.

A few shouts went up from the surrounding Junior Varsity team—jeers and applause, giggles and gasps. The casters on the field suddenly stopped, thankfully not brailing, but that scent of sulfur churned Naul's stomach even as Anelda tsk'd in disapproval next to him,

"Well, Mister Siordanti, now is a great time to put those classroom skills you're going to need to good use."

"I—what—but—"

"Go on. I'll be right after you. You've mentioned more than once you wanted a chance to coach before you graduated. I've had Miss Vauquelin in mind for quite some time. I think a mirror might do you some good."

Oh, for clocks' sake.

Naul grit his teeth, gathering his field in a shift of bright orange frustration and surprise before he stalked toward the fighting girls. There was shrieking and swinging and so much laughing, but the circle of lower forms saw the tall redhead's approach and all looked up at him, backing away like the scattering of a school of fish. He could feel the gaze of his own peers against his back like the fiery heat of the Yaris sun baking through the light green wool of his shirt, and as tempting as it was to cast and break up the rolling flurry of immature, feminine flesh, he simply pulsed his superior field.

The gravity of it pressed into their personal spaces, thick and heavy and full of an electric buzz that set hairs on end. Gifted with the rich, deep voice of his father instead of the softness of his mother, he cleared his throat,

"That's enough! Hands off, both of you—you've nearly caused a brail out there on the field. There are older students practicing. Show some da—show some respect."

Ugh. He had no idea how to talk to young women his age, let alone a pair of angry girls. The handful of dates Mateo had so creatively attempted to shove him on had proved his ineptitude with the fairer sex. Bullying he knew, he supposed, and he made sure to bear down in well-practiced threat with his field instead,

"You there, Miss Roumanille. Sit there. And you, Miss Vauquelin, sit over there. What the clo—what on Vita is the problem?"

Besides the godsbedamned heat, anyway.

Welcome to Brunnhold. Now go home.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Field of Practical Application, Brunnhold Campus
Yaris 31, 2714 - Late Afternoon

All around her was the sound of the rest of the Junior Varsity team. She couldn't tell which one of the pair the team wanted to win. A few were likely for Roumanille; somehow, despite her general unpleasantness, Antoinette had more friends than Cerise. The rest? Well, they probably weren't rooting for her. Probably just a general enthusiasm for violence.

Cerise didn't care about them though, their shouts and laughter fading into the background. The whole of Cerise Vauquelin's world had narrowed to the ends of her fists and where they did their level best to connect with Antoinette's squealing face.

"Get off of me, you freak!" Antoinette shoved at Cerise's chest, but she'd clamped her knees in around Antoinette's bony hips and she wasn't about to get dislodged now. There was a heady rush of adrenaline in punching Antoinette Roumanille. For a moment, Cerise felt invincible. It didn't matter that she wasn't a particularly good brawler--all she had to do was be better than Antoinette. She'd knock that smug, sneering look right out of her face!

Cerise had been trying to punch Antoinette in her piggish little nose when she felt the flex of an irritated field press into her. She was startled enough that her swing missed and she hit Antoinette in the eye instead. Antoinette squealed and finally managed to throw Cerise off of her while she was distracted; the dark-haired girl went tumbling to the dead grass.

She looked up, expecting to see a professor--Cerise knew that Professor Reginald was overseeing the Varsity team while they ran through their circuits--and instead she saw a tall ginger upperclassman. Cerise glared at him and lifted her sharp chin while Antoinette scrambled to put some distance between them. She had felt his field flex, and she felt it still, but she wasn't about to be put in her place by--Cerise narrowed her eyes. She knew that face; that was Siordanti. Everyone on the Junior Varsity team knew that face. She couldn't help it--she met his field with a flex of her own, physical to physical, even though she knew she was wildly outclassed.

"It's not my fault they can't concentrate," Cerise muttered darkly. Loud enough that he could hear her; quiet enough that he could ignore it if he didn't want to indulge her mood. Dried grass stuck to her skirt and stockings, making the heat somehow worse. At least he could take off his jacket, she thought bitterly. Boys had it so much easier.

"She needs to be locked up!" Antoinette screeched. Evidently she had gotten a far enough distance away that she felt safe. Cerise rolled her eyes. "T-t-that girl is... is... She's a wild animal! I hadn't done anything, and she just attacked me like a--"

"Oh please!" Cerise snapped. Acting all innocent, like she hadn't started it! Cerise looked around at the somewhat scattered crowd of Junior Varsity students. They'd all seen it--or at least some of them had. Antoinette had approached her, not the other way around. Surely one of them would back her up on it. As she looked at those sweaty faces, some of them looking away rather than meeting her eyes, some of them just frowning at her in disgust, she had the sinking feeling that none of them would. She was on her own.

Well. Well that was fine! She didn't need them. Let them give her a demerit, or detention even. Whatever it was, it was worth it. Cerise had no regrets.

"Miss Roumanille started it," she declared, a flash in her grey eyes. Daring him to argue with her. Practically begging him to. She wasn't above fighting an upperclassman, even if she would almost certainly lose.

Besides, it wasn't like anyone would believe her anyway.

[Nauleth Siordanti]

31st of Yaris, 2714
THE LAWN | LATE AFTERNOON

Oh. It was that Vauquelin girl. The troublesome sister. He'd heard of her. He'd heard of her father, too, from Hadrian's lips the last time he was home—however long ago that'd been. At least two winter breaks. Maybe three now. Incumbent blather, all of it. It wasn't as though he ever listened.

Nauleth's scowl deepened when she glared at him, the left side of his face noticeably not as threatening as the right. He didn't balk at the flex of her belike field, lip curling as if he considered simply devouring it for himself the way his astronomy professor had said that sometimes stars swallowed each other out there in the dark of the sky beyond the current reach of galdorkind,

"It sure as clo—" The eldest Siordanti stopped himself just in time, not wanting toss profanity around in front of the entire Junior Varsity team while Professor Reginald was watching, even if everyone knew the exact shape of his tongue when he was on the field of play. It was difficult to be a good example when he wasn't one, but if he wanted to prove at all that he'd changed, that he'd learned something from nearly dying, that theHe corrected himself, snapping sharply, "—it would definitely become your fault if you interrupted casting with your foolishness. You're both old enough to have memorized rules of conduct—on and off the field of play. Get up, both of you—"

Gold-rimmed eyes flicked to Antoinette, attempting to decipher her screeching into recognizable words, jaw clenching when Cerise shouted back at her. He raised his hand between them as if he was about to drop a penalty flag, quite used to this sort of mess back when his family actually wanted to spend holidays with him, back when they all spoke to him, back when his younger siblings were prone to the same stupid bickering.

Gods, Norellie would be Cerise's age by now—

He blinked, frown having softened. It was too hot to argue. It was too hot for practice. It was just too clocking hot. They should've been out here, not the junior team.

"—stand right there while I consider your shared consequences."

Students were staring now, fields all abuzz with anticipation and accusation, and Naul was quite aware that some of his peers were ready to find fault in his actions, eager to mock the damaged once-bully while facing down one of his kind,

"Listen, it doesn't matter who started it." He huffed, dismissing both of their attempts to place the blame on the other, "What matters is that there are penalties for unsportsmanlike behavior here on campus, Miss Vauquelin and Miss Roumanille. You will both be staying afterward to clean up the Lawn once we are all through and you will both be starting last during rounds next time—"

"—oh, Mister Siordanti, are you offering to stay after practice with them? You've shown excellent potential at Proctoring." Professor Anelda Reginald hummed, playing upon the assumptions that had been made of his magical abilities post-backlash, even though it had been a few years. No one believed Nauleth to be capable of ever making it into professional league, and while he'd proven himself back in proper standing with the mona, he'd yet to establish himself in any particular standing with his peers. Now, he was often pushed to assist the Judges as a Proctor, shoved into a safer corner so that no one needed to worry about the magical risk plenty still deemed him to be no matter how hard-earned his recovery had been.

His peers weren't worth his while anyway, that much he could empathize with, but he balked at the older galdor, "Classroom skills. Proctoring skills. Anything else you'd like me to train for today since you've not let me actually cast, Professor?" Still a student, still incapable of entirely behaving, the tall redhead huffed, running fingers through his hair as if there was any way to mitigate this heat, "I will stay to make sure these young ladies are reminded of how important respect on the field is, whether or not they're participating."

"You heard Mister Siordanti here, Miss Vauquelin, Miss Roumanille. You two can both stand right here on the sidelines—with your mouths shut, mind you, and your hands to yourselves—and after we're all done here, carry all of our equipment to the Gyre. Then, and only then, can you two wash up and head to dinner. This kind of behavior is ridiculous. Need I remind you, Miss Vauquelin, of your tenuous position in Junior League, regardless of your level of skill."

Nauleth's expression was one of thinly-veiled annoyance, sweat trailing down the side of his freckled face. He'd heard those words before, spoken far too many times to himself, but he'd never punched anyone, not like Cerise. He'd sent plenty of the students to the infirmary, bleeding, burned, but not bruised by a quick fist. It was a strange feeling that churned in his gut, like when he'd first stared in the mirror at his face after waking up in the Infirmary, damaged nerves once so severely injured that his eyelid drooped and his lips were lopsided. Staring at something like himself, but certainly unable to believe it was actually him.

"Besides, if I clocking miss dinner because of either of you, I'll bring you back out here on the Lawn myself. Without any of these rules." His threat was idle, delivered with false-malice and a flex of his field for emphasis.

A few ogling students sniggered. Someone was whispering. He ignored them. It had been a difficult skill to learn.

"Language, sir." Professor Reginald shook her head, snapping her fingers to indicate she was done with this moment before reaching for the whistle around her neck, turning to make sure that practice wrapped up as needed, leaving the three and their unwanted audience to figure themselves out like growing young galdori should—properly this time. (And leaving Naul to keep an eye on the younger ladies, much to his obvious displeasure.)

"You both should work out your differences actually on the field. Where it matters." Muttered the eldest Siordanti, fussing with his suspenders before crossing his arms over his chest, feeling moisture cloy to him beneath so much wool. He arched a challenging ginger brow at the pair of younger students still staring, shooing them back to whatever the hells they'd been doing, "Gods. What a waste of time."

Welcome to Brunnhold. Now go home.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Field of Practical Application, Brunnhold Campus
Yaris 31, 2714 - Late Afternoon

All eyes were on this little scene, or at least that's how it felt to Cerise. The irritated pulse of her field had been met with not so much of a blink, which did nothing to improve her mood whatsoever. It wasn't that she thought she was intimidating to an upperclassman, at least--but Siordanti curled his lip at her like he would just as soon crush her as anything. The heat had baked her brain; the only thing Cerise could summon up was a matching aggression.

What did she care, if the Varsity team couldn't keep their minds on their own casting because of the noise of a couple of lower-form girls? Cerise stubbornly refused to feel any responsibility even in this hypothetical. Also, she hadn't started it. Not precisely. Antoinette could have left her alone, and didn't. What was Cerise supposed to do--ignore her?

Probably that exactly, actually.

Cerise stood with no small amount of indecipherable grumbling, making a show of picking blades of dead grass out of her stockings and off of her skirt. Her stomach was starting to sink now, listening to the whispers of the other students all around them. Swinging her fist at Antoinette's face had felt so good, a burst of motion and intention and nothing else. The high that had come from that ill-considered (really, not-at-all-considered) action was starting to dissipate leaving Cerise only with the cold certainty that no matter what, this would become her fault. It was always her fault. At least, she noted with some satisfaction as she looked over to where Antoinette stood, that eye was likely to bruise.

Sharp-elbowed arms came to cross in front of her chest at Siordanti's "it doesn't matter". Of course it mattered who started it! It mattered because it hadn't been her. She didn't start fights, she wanted to insist, she just finished them. At least, she didn't usually start them. As if coming up to her and taunting her had been "sportsmanlike". Her jaw set and her heavy eyebrows drew together. When Siordanti mentioned staying after practice to clean up the Lawn--like she didn't have little enough time before curfew!--Cerise opened her mouth to protest, but was cut off by Professor Reginald's intervention.

"Respect my erse," she muttered quietly to herself, realizing that there was no way out of this. That didn't mean she had to like it, or take it lying down. Her grey eyes had been fixed firmly and sullenly on the ground in front of her; they snapped up when Professor Reginald spoke again to remind her about her position. To her horror, Cerise felt red-hot shame creep up the back of her neck and color her face. This was the problem with caring about her position on the team at all; she could be made to care about other things that she normally wouldn't. Like behaving so she didn't get kicked off of it.

"Yes, Professor..." Cerise spoke and Antoinette echoed her; the darker-haired girl heard a distinct note of triumph in it. There had been snickering from the gathered crowd, too. Cerise knew, she just knew, that it was at her expense. Her arms uncrossed but her hands balled into angry fists at her side.

Siordanti didn't seem to want to stay any more than they did--so why'd he have to go open his big mouth about it, anyway? He, at least, had nothing to do with their fight (if you could even call it that). Honestly, she wasn't sure why he had come over to pull them apart. From everything Cerise had heard, Siordanti'd done worse. Maybe not with a fist, Cerise allowed. That was probably the shocking part. She didn't regret it one bit. If he asked her to apologize, she thought to herself firmly, she would not do it. She was not sorry, and would never be sorry. Antoinette Roumanille had deserved every bruise and scrape Cerise had given her, and then some.

"Then why'd you bother sticking your clocking freckled nose in it!" Cerise didn't shout, but her voice certainly carried far enough for both Siordanti and Antoinette to hear her. The "waste of time" had tindered some spark of new anger in her, hot inside her head as on the Lawn. Cerise bristled all over, sharp as anything. Antoinette gasped, a sound that was both genuinely shocked at her language and gleefully anticipating some kind of further punishment for Cerise. She didn't care. If it was such a waste of his precious time, then he could have just stayed out of it.

[Nauleth Siordanti]

31st of Yaris, 2714
THE LAWN | LATE AFTERNOON

"Itwasn't my choice. Excuse you." The eldest Siordanti sneered, choosing not to raise his voice no matter how tempting it was. It took all of his hard-earned self control to keep from lashing out at her, to keep himself from going further than he needed to verbally or otherwise. That physical gravity of his field seemed to sink, like a star collapsing into itself, and he glowered, holding in anything he could have said inside. Thoroughly annoyed now, his lip curled instead, left side lagging, but he chose not to rise to the challenge with obvious difficulty, unable to entirely hide the struggle from his sweaty, freckled face. He shook his head and fell quiet, looking back out across the field to distract himself by watching everyone else get back to their matches, by counting the hyperocellators, the various plot boundary markers, and all the other equipment to determine just how much shit they'd have to pick up, to look at anything other than at the younger student, at the child of another Incumbent.

His tenth clocking year, tenuously on the edge of being accepted into post-graduate studies, locked out of the League travel team on accounts of his damn backlash—years ago, mind you, but forever an unseen scar, a burn mark on his Brunnhold record—as a safety hazard, as a wild card barred from full participation. He'd not even been courted by exhibition sponsors, no matter how hard he worked to make his talent seen. Whispers were he probably would be passed over for an opportunity to proctor, to set himself on the track to become a judge.

At least he had a surer bet on becoming a junior professor.

But, gods, he'd had a goal once.

Gold-rimmed eyes narrowed again and he shifted on his feet, prepared to go back to what was left of practice before he was stuck here all evening, "Sometimes, even I can do as I'm asked. By the chimes, you'll never get anywhere as a duelist if you can't figure that out. Sounds like you're not going to keep your place on the team anyway, huh?"

Nauleth taunted her with Professor Reginald's own words, aware that Cerise had a history of physical altercations and taking things to far, but also aware from what few observations he'd managed to make that she was a decently capable sorcerer. That their fields were belike was a bonus, probably, when it came to his opinion of the girl, but it wasn't like he'd really paid that much attention to anyone younger, to anyone who wasn't yet on par with him (in his opinion).

Perhaps he should've, perhaps he'd have been told by any professor that if he wanted to actually lead a classroom, then he certainly needed to pay attention. Then he certainly needed to search for opportunities to lead even on the Field of Practical Application. Scanning the other Varsity students still in their practice matches, aware of the brackets that'd been laid out for today, Naul knew he'd been skipped over on purpose, all under the guise of giving him opportunity to stretch his judging skills. He'd dueled two students, but only as a warm up, and while he'd won one, he'd still been handed a stopwatch and a whistle as if his victories held no weight.

As if his victories had lost their meaning.

His attention flickered to Antoinette, eyes narrowing as to shame her for her expression of surprise, hoping to at least intimidate one of the two young women, before he looked back to Cerise. While Miss Roumanille had perhaps felt the sting of Miss Vauquelin's misdirected wrath, it wasn't as though the other girl was at all cowering now,

"Why'd you bother hitting anyone, if you knew it wouldn't make any difference?"

Welcome to Brunnhold. Now go home.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Field of Practical Application, Brunnhold Campus
Yaris 31, 2714 - Late Afternoon

Somehow the idea that Siordanti had come over to meddle because he'd been told to, and not just because he felt driven to intervene by some higher clocking power, made Cerise more angry rather than less. She was too hot and too agitated to have put her finger on why, and she didn't think it mattered besides. He looked at her, and took in the challenge she had offered, and he didn't rise to take it.

She was so incredibly furious. He wasn't now even looking at her--she seemed dismissed from his mind as neatly as she was from everyone else's. Cerise hadn't expected anything else, but it never failed to irritate her when it happened. It was worse than whispers, worse than laughter. Those, at least, she could round on like some bristling-toothed wildcat and deal with one way or another. But to lash out at being ignored made her look, and feel, like a child. And she wasn't--a child, that is.

"Sounds like you're not going to keep your place on the team anyway, huh?"

The shame that had crept so horrifyingly over the back of her neck when Professor Reginald had first mentioned her place on the team colored her face even more then and dropped into the pit of her stomach. If that was meant to make her more obedient, to make her reign in her temper or feel any contrition at all, the words missed their mark. Likely it was meant as just what it was: an insult. Cerise sharped in both frown and field, her hands balled to fists so tight she could feel indents being dug into her palms.

How dare he! He was older, yes, and he'd been asked to--to what, to keep an eye on them? To babysit? None of that mattered. Cerise didn't even care that she knew from the press of his field that backlash or not, if she'd challenged him properly he'd win, and solidly. She made a choked sound, an expression of impotent rage she couldn't keep in check.

Antoinette caught the narrow glance of the older student's golden eyes, and she flushed, bowing her head. Cerise couldn't feel any victory there; that hadn't been her blow that had landed, and she didn't want Roumanille to get in trouble just for the sake of it. She wanted to deliver the punishment, swift and unforgiving, by her own two hands. She didn't want justice; she wanted revenge.

Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was something else with her day, but Cerise couldn't seem to keep her tongue in her head where in a more sensible moment she might have known it belonged. She hated Roumanille, she hated the professor, she hated the rest of the team, and in that moment she hated Siordanti too, for mocking her, for confirming what she already knew: nobody cared. Because they didn't want justice either, they wanted order.

"Why'd you bother staying on the team if you knew they'd never put you on the field?"

They'd all heard it. Even the junior varsity team had heard the rumors about Siordanti and his backlash, Siordanti and a career ended before it had even become. Some of them thought it was pitiable, others thought it was hilarious. Cerise didn't think much of anything about it; it didn't concern her, and she didn't know the truth of it. But she thought it might stick, so she'd lashed out with it. As unskilled as the swings of her fists had been when she'd brought them to Antoinette's freckled, Anaxi face, but full of no less intent. A sneer curled her lip, a look she did not yet realize was such a mirror image of her father. Haughty and self-important.

[Nauleth Siordanti]

31st of Yaris, 2714
THE LAWN | LATE AFTERNOON

Her question wasn't new. The sharp edge of her words weren't unfamiliar. Nauleth had threatened Miss Vauquelin's young dignity and she responded in kind with all the cruelty the once very talented bully knew the shape of so well. He deserved it, perhaps, for stepping too far, but at the same time, the girl whose lips were still drawn into that defiant sneer had no clocking idea all he'd already crawled back from over the past four years to earn his place in the hot Yaris sun standing with the varsity dueling league even if they'd avoided letting him play, even if he had no hope of competing ever again. No clocking idea of what it all felt like—still felt like—let alone what recovery sounded like on the lips of his peers.

"Shut your head." He snapped, hissing a knee-jerk response while eyes burned through the pale wool of his uniform shirt and bored into freckled skin from all around them.

Gods—was everyone looking now?

They were. He heard their giggles and whispers, the syllables of their judgement rolling between his shoulder blades like so much sweat.

Why did he clocking bother? Why did he get out of that bed? Why did he endure all of the physical therapy? Why did he bring himself before the gods and the mona to repair a magical relationship he'd set fire to in his childish, helpless frustrations? Why did he push himself harder? Why did he endure the dismissal and the fear of his peers and professors alike? Why, indeed.

Because he knew what he was capable of. Because alone in the Infirmary and alone over that first winter break when his family told him not to come home and alone every damn break since, Nauleth knew he was better than most. He'd climbed so high on every bent back and every student crying on the Lawn because he had a natural comfort with sorcery, and he'd fallen so hard because he'd refused to temper his heart with his intelligence. He knew better now. He had purpose and direction, and just because he still took satisfaction in glorifying those same gods who'd not left him paralyzed or dead four years ago through dueling didn't mean he had to listen to the doubts of others when they told him he couldn't do such things any more.

His lip curled, one side more expressive than the other, and he carefully chose his words, the depths of his voice unwavering while he flexed his belike field like an invisible wall of expressive, threatening force,

"Precisely because they clocking told me I couldn't, Miss Vauquelin." Louder than necessary, chest tight, the disgraced Siordanti's left fingertips tingled. He didn't look at anyone else, too terrified to honestly cast his furious gaze onto everyone who deserved it. He felt them all collectively holding their breaths, ears ringing, cicadas humming a steady accompaniment to his pulse. They all deserved the truth, even Professor Reginald. He'd kept quiet long enough, enduring being told to sit down, to sit out, to Proctor, to hold the timer, to set up the prodigium, to check the hyperoccilators, and to break up stupid clocking fights between stupid clocking children. They were all missing out on his true potential, even now, only focused and refined by pain and proper perspective, and one day—one clocking day!—they'd see it.

"Everyone thought I'd not walk again or cast again, either, and so every chance I get to rub this in their faces, knowing they're too damn scared to test my monic theory on the Field, is still a victory for me."

Silence for a brief, terrible moment.

Then a chuckle. A gasp. A groan.

"That's quite enough, Mister Siordanti." Ah, yes, and the professor, unamused.

The redhead rolled his eyes, finally tearing his attention away from Cerise, and looked down at his closed fists, at his shoes, jaw clenched and field so sigiled his own neck hairs stood on end,

"My apologies, Professor."

"No need." She met his gaze before it slipped toward the dark-haired other Incumbent's daughter, not in warning but in something else, something unspoken and intangible, "But do stop by my office when you're all finished cleaning up the field. Just you, Nauleth."

Godsdamnit.

"Of course." Confused, deflated, but not entirely concerned, the rest of practice dragged on in the Yaris sun until everyone was worn thin. If there were any more comments or stares, snide remarks or insults, they went unnoticed for the most part, and everyone was quick to leave the trio of unfortunate souls to keep baking on the Lawn in order to pick up after both Junior Varsity and Varsity teams.

Nauleth didn't have any interest in a conversation, feeling drowned in his own perspiration, feeling bled out by just a single cut. Left in charge with the clipboard, however, he had no choice,

"If you ladies would please gather the exterior spheres, I'll carry them to the Gyre. I will, uh, I will busy myself with cleaning up the plots." It kept them apart, at least, though perhaps it was a calculated risk to leave Cerise with Antoinette again. Surely, they'd gotten over themselves by now. He just wanted to change before dinner, that was all. Chewing the inside of his cheek, he made an effort, a small effort, to be civil,

"Unless you have a better idea on how to make this go by faster."

Welcome to Brunnhold. Now go home.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Field of Practical Application, Brunnhold Campus
Yaris 31, 2714 - Late Afternoon

There were eyes and whispers plenty enough, all around them. For her, or for Siordanti? Whatever the answer, it didn't matter--Cerise was stung by them all the same. It goaded her into continual sharpness, fixing that sneer into lines swiftly becoming permanent even on her young face. Cerise wiped sweat off her brow with a corner of her sleeve, the scratch of the wool scouring skin already tender from being out in the unrelenting Yaris sun.

Siordanti snapped at her, and she knew her low blow had landed. It didn't feel good, to have hit home, but it did satisfy some snarling banderwolf feeling in her heart. He, she told herself fiercely, had struck first. That Nauleth Siordanti, of most present, might understand best how much her place on the team meant to her wasn't a thought in her head now. All she knew was that she was hot and angry, and he had struck somewhere she hated that she had to be hurt. A weak spot she didn't yet know how to protect.

There was a flex of his field against hers, belike but so much stronger--Cerise flinched, and it made her angrier still. The tension of her fists wouldn't release; she knew if she flattened her hands now she would see half-moon grooves in her palms, deep and furiously red where blood rushed back to the surface. All side chatter had stopped, the group that remained now all focused on Siordanti as he spat words of defiance back at her. Her head buzzed; common sense would have told any other thirteen-year-old to back down.

Cerise didn't have much of that. You could ask anyone. Something cut its way through her that wasn't anger or aggravation. She was, unaccountably and terribly, curious. The professor was less than interested, though, and her voice cut through the buzz of the spectators. Cerise uncurled her fists, one finger at a time. Whatever was in the professor's eyes when she looked at Cerise, small and defiant, she couldn't read it.

It was enough to break whatever spell had been held over her, though, and she resumed waiting for practice to end. There were comments, and she ignored them--Cerise was focused, wholly, on trying to make sense of her own thoughts now. The others filtered away quickly enough when practice at last came to an end, anyway. Eager to watch the explosion, but not interested in seeing the debris left behind.

Cerise scratched at an itch on her neck, leaving a streak of red against her pale skin. The heat made it hard to think; that was why she had lashed out at Roumanille. Well, no, that wasn't true. She had lashed out against Roumanille because she was a jerk and deserved the beating, plus more besides. But maybe if it weren't so clocking hot she would have chosen her moment better. Maybe.

It had been damn satisfying though. Cerise couldn't find it in herself to regret it, even as Siordanti came over with a clipboard and started issuing orders. Antoinette, eager to get this over with and get herself back to her room, set off to the nearest sphere without hesitation. But Cerise? She stood there, frowning at Siordanti, unmoving.

"I'm not," she said, instead of "yes", instead of doing what she had been asked to do. "Afraid. If--" She squinted and bit her lip, thinking. "If you're so good, still, prove it. I want to see. Unless you can't win against a junior." Cerise raised her chin and crossed her arms, looking up at the older politician's son. Annoyed, always annoyed, but something else too.

[Nauleth Siordanti]

31st of Yaris, 2714
THE LAWN | LATE AFTERNOON

It wasn't really so long ago that he'd enjoyed watching other students flinch when he flexed his field or shrink away when he glared at them. It wasn't so long ago that he couldn't remember that thrill, that sense of power he'd once chased after and grasped for, never quite curling his fingers around whatever it was he thought he'd find at the end of another duel, at the tears of some other frightened student's defeat. It wasn't really so long ago, and yet it really did feel like another life. He'd been told that his backlash had been severe enough, that he could've died, that he might've stopped breathing had his paralysis reached just a little more up his spine. He'd fancied for a few days how much better it might've been had he done so, and that dark black smear in his consciousness separated this lifetime from the one he'd left behind that autumn on this same Lawn.

Uncomfortable and slow like some insect, he'd shed his skin over the months that had followed, becoming someone new while still possessing enough of himself to not look that much different—other than the obvious physical delays caused by damage that he'd been told may never heal.

All that to say that there was something strangely nostalgic about the satisfaction that fluttered through his sweaty chest when Cerise Vauquelin flinched, but even more than that was the satisfaction that welled up, hotter than this clocking Yaris afternoon when she raised her chin at him, frowning and defiant.

Nauleth wasn't surprised by her words, not one bit.

He smirked, lopsided, and his blue-green eyes narrowed, "Prove it to whom? Miss Roumanille? She may actually be a worthy opponent, from what I hear—oh—" The eldest Siordanti's aquiline features drew together into a sneer, one side a few seconds before the other, "—you meant proving myself against you, Miss Vauquelin? Please—"

He should certainly have laughed at her and told her to sod off. He should have simply continued being a decent example of a mostly tamed former troublemaker, but there was just something in that sharp glare of her eyes that cut through all the well-behaved chroveshit he'd put on so he could do the research he wanted without getting denied at every permission slip some professor had to doubtfully sign.

He snorted instead, rolling up his sleeves already, huffing a few unruly red waves from his freckled face with all the haughtiness he'd always been quite good at putting on for competitions, all that politician's son pretentiousness he could put on like another uniform even if underneath he was just too curious for his own good and he enjoyed taking other sorcerers apart, spell by spell just to see what was left in the end. No one else was around now—most of the sweltering oven that was the Field of Practical Application devoid of student life precisely because dinner was approaching and because it was hot enough to cook said dinner on the cobblestones.

"—dueling isn't at all following directions, but I wouldn't expect you to be any better at one than the other. I don't have anything to prove to you." His grin was chrove-like, well-bred teeth all in their orderly rows like books in the library. Naul knew of her skill, even as a Junior, and he'd heard a few whispers about which students had been considered being invited to Varsity even before tryouts next year, "But, if I char the Lawn with you, who will clean up our class equipment? I won't. You'll be on your own."

He added, tilting his head toward Miss Roumanille, "Are you going to keep this formal? You're at least remedially aware of how judging works, aren't you? I suppose you want to make the rules, too, Cerise?"

Welcome to Brunnhold. Now go home.