26th of Dentis, 2718
The BANQUET HALL | DINNER HOUR
Truly, the spill was not a large one nor was the possibility of a stain even an issue for the galdor, and yet there was something so incendiary about the situation that Nauleth simply couldn't contain his ire. He'd been a quick-tempered boy once, years ago, and the price he'd paid then had been a high one he'd still never fully recovered from, but that didn't mean all of his hard work at internal reformation was at all complete nor perfect. No, incompetence gnawed at him, dug beneath his freckled skin, and reminded him of not only his own imperfections, but the assumptions he'd spent his entire life defending himself against since his near-fatal backlash at sixteen.
The weaknesses of others were only disgusting because his own were so obvious on the outside instead of able to be hidden inside like everyone else. His damaged nerves that caused the observable delay in his facial movements on the left side were a constant reminder of his own mistakes, of his own shortcomings.
The passive may as well have been holding a mirror instead of a pitcher.
The young Siordanti hissed his displeasure at the realization that Athrym was not at all on his side in the manner. No, the Gioran Ambassador was clocking defending the passive here in the Banquet Hall in front of his entire class, and, even worse, in front of that sympathizing Headmistress, Ophelia Servalis. Gods, was the entire school watching now as Naul had awkwardly stood, as the shorter, paler creature spoke up above the giggles of immature Anaxi upperclassman? Sea glass-colored eyes widened for a sharp inhale and then narrowed, sternly, at the woman he'd proposed to just two seasons before as she bowed at the godsbedamned scrap,
"There's no need to placate the man, either, Ambassador. He is, after all, a servant." His words were hard, the tone of them dragged over the electric crackle of his field that was almost tangible. He hid embarrassment behind a deadpan expression but could not hide the blush that threatened to take over his freckled face, "I don't clocking need a change of jacket. I can go without one for the meal since our server here had the minor stroke of luck to miss my tie entirely, thank the Good Lady—"
The tall redhead was already removing his coat, aware of the eyes of other faculty and staff on him, on the standing Miss Bruthgrave who he shouldn't have invited, and tossed it without a second thought over the back of his chair, "—that's enough, Ambassador. I will address my class' behavior tomorrow morning, bright and early, on the Lawn for class. What they intend to do with their immature lives after graduation is currently not your concern here in the Banquet Hall, Athrym." He quipped rudely, both to shut her up in utter horror of her addressing his students in a moral or even educational fashion given the level of respect she'd just shown a passive and in order to let his students know that his approval of their admittedly shameful behavior was severely lacking.
She was a guest. She was not faculty.
Oh, gods, he would never hear the end of this in the teacher's lounge for the rest of his clocking career.
All over a bit of bristleberry juice, yes. But. That was no longer the godsbedamned point. How dare she.
This was his place of authority, his one place in all of Brunnhold—in front of his students—and here she was nearly shaming him—him!—over an incompetent passive. The junior professor exhaled roughly, reaching for the petite blonde's chair and indicating that he would be offering her to sit again, grip on the back of her seat white-knuckled and barely contained. Of course he couldn't make her sit and he couldn't order her to do so, but it was clear by the expression on his face that he was rather concerned for how much attention they were garnering from the other dining students and faculty and that he was somewhat ready to at least tone it down.
A little.
Superficially, anyway.
But not really. Never would he have ever expected the attractive Gioran to not step in on his side of things. They'd fought and dueled and bickered, but they'd also laughed and touched and explored theoretical limitations both magically in public and physically in private. She'd stood up for him in front of Incumbent Hadrian Siordanti and yet here she was, bowing to a passive in apology! Her defense of the scrap was an insult but her very obvious attempt at shaming him hurt—deeply. This was his Kingdom and his culture, a culture she'd been sent to understand while also representing her own. This was his realm of influence and it was still her place as a guest to respect it. And this passive was nothing but a mistake, regardless of how large or small his mess had been!
Heat clawed up the back of his neck and a heavy, molten feeling that could only be described as betrayal thickly settled into his empty stomach—this was the woman his father had arranged for him to marry. This was also the woman he'd so cluelessly proposed to.
He loved her. Or so he thought.
And yet here she was, not at all supporting him.
What kind of twisted form of political game had Hadrian Siordanti played when he made his deal with Athrym's father? His insides churned and he couldn't help the pained expression of his twisted, internal thoughts that crossed his face, right side before the left, half of his frown far slower than the other. His father had done this to mock him, and after all this time, after all of their enjoyable studies and conversation, the truth was peeking through.
His students had grown very quiet when the Gioran Ambassador had snapped at them, every other teenager at the table staring with mouth agape first at her and then expectantly at Nauleth as if to see how the junior professor would handle such an affront to his very limited reach of authority. By a foreigner. By a woman. By his godsbedamned fiancé.
He said nothing to them, but gods how he wanted to!
Clock it all.
"Please, return to your seat before the Headmistress becomes concerned over our situation, Athrym. Thank you. Now—" Naul turned toward the passive, swallowing several more rude statements and attempting to tame the frayed edges of his oppressively irritated field in front every clocking galdor in the room. He let anger cover the dull ache in his chest and the worry that began to gnaw away at the lining of his internal organs from the smoldering fires of treachery that burned through his every thought from the inside outward,
"—no, I will concede just this once for your sake that there is very little harm done as I'm quite confident I can have my coat cleaned before my next red tie. Unfortunately, that is no longer the point in my opinion since you appear to be so nervous about fetching your patron, I will assume that you have a history of problems and want to spare yourself the discipline. Any other well-meaning passive in this room would have immediately done as I asked. So, while you can't make any of this up to me, you can still give me the name of your patron and I will take care of things myself after this dinner is over. Do I make myself clear?"
Eager to sit before the meal was actually served, the tall redhead had already drawn enough attention to himself and his table. He began to shift toward his chair, but he kept his eyes on Lars with a stern sort of expectation, waiting to sit again until he'd been answered with the respect he deserved.
Welcome to Brunnhold, stop-clocker, now go home.