FIELD of PRACTICAL APPLICATION | EVENING
He'd already struggled to have any semblance of respect among his peers, and there were several members of faculty who doubted his both magical talent as well as his ability to teach younger minds after his own so-called troubled youth. No one wanted to pay attention to how hard he'd worked to become someone else, to repair his broken relationship with the mona, and to press forward in a field of study that was both challenging and theoretically unexplored. Now, a younger foreign woman had not only told him he was wrong but had refused to even bend to his requests!
Gods, he'd not even gotten a bite of dinner.
Freckled fingers trembled with unspent emotion as he stepped out into the night air and untangled himself from his red tie, hissing a string of expletives at the chill that struck his pale skin through the thin, fine fabric of his shirt. Standing at the bottom of the formal hall's steps, he couldn't help but let his gold-rimmed gaze scan the phosphor-lit sidewalks and roam angrily over what campus he could see in the late evening darkness, admittedly hoping to catch sight of Athrym somewhere.
But not to apologize.
Tocks, no. He had no apologizing to do—this was clocking Anaxas, not Gior, and passives weren't meant to be equal to their galdori parents nor were they at all special to the gods. Obviously, else wouldn't the mona hear them as it should?
How could that not make sense to anyone?
The Lawn wasn't far, and by the light of the moons, he caught sight of the pale, petite creature he'd professed his awkward, real love to in front of his own conniving parents. He'd meant every word, aware of the risk of such an admission, and here he felt a discomfort that burned far hotter than the sting of his backlash ever had all those years ago. The corner of his eye caught the intricate stonework of the church, the moons reflecting off the stained glass windows as if in tribute to the Goddess of Time. Naul hesitated, gaze lingering not on Athrym, but with a tilt of his head on the glasswork, chewing on the inside of his cheek as if he was aware of the mistakes he had the potential of making in his indignant frustration.
Clock the Circle, he certainly didn't believe that his Kingdom of birth got everything right all of the time—he was an academic after all and his life's work this far had certainly attempted to reveal new truths—but, for the love of all that was sacred, it didn't seem as though the Kingdom of Gior knew anything at all! And here he was, up to his eyeballs in paperwork to sort out his approval process for the supposedly clocking difficult entry into the Kingdom in hopes of making new discoveries in Physical conversation, in hungrily pursuing his interest in the laws of the universe, in physics, and in electricity. With whom? With a bunch of ignorant albinos?
Oh, gods, what kind of mistake was he making? What had he done? Had this been Hadrian's plan all along? To ruin him further? How had he known?
Surely, this was all a cultural misunderstanding and everything would be fine. Athrym had just been caught off guard and she'd make sense once they could talk out of public view. All of this could be discussed and there wouldn't be any more ridiculousness. Yes. Of course. Nauleth assured himself of these things, attempting to calm his frayed field and even more frayed nerves, tucking his tie into the pocket of his well-tailored pale trousers as he stalked across familiar paths of campus that he knew so well to the Field of Practical Application, desperate to quell the simmering tide of too many thoughts and too many feelings, very much aware of all the sweet, tender, and enjoyable moments he'd shared with the Gioran Ambassador as well as the intellectual challenges they'd presented to each other in terms of research.
But this?
The young Siordanti wasn't sure what this was, other than a mess.
He didn't make any pretense about his approach. He wasn't invisible. He couldn't hide the electric almost blindingly bright slant to his field, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers and coming to a stop in front of the lovely, angry, pale Gioran, only to realize he had no idea what he at all wanted to say,
"Ruining formal dinners—is this our thing, Ambassador Bruthgrave?"