Another no title

[breezeshadow]

Written for darkfantasybingo, prompt "psychological turmoil".

Alden sucked in ice-cold air as he tried to regain his sanity. The frigid Pooselridge winter did not seem on his side that night, as his head still felt a muggy mess, sobriety not coming in with the wind. He should have, did know not to drink so much, but he got swept into the adolescent rebellion, the idea that at sixteen-years-old he was an adult, and should show his parents. Were they not showing the first signs of being true men?

But no, how stupid -- he was under his father's thumb until he was twenty, and no later. Unless he married, but -- he remembered all of the girls he parents kept setting him up with, thirteen or fourteen, all from families that his father wanted to get a bit closer to, to build up the cause -- but Alden just was not able to get close to them, connect, and he had refused each one. Had his mother not allowed him a bit more freedom, no doubt his father would have forced one.

A part of him wished, at this point, that he had. Perhaps then he would not be leaning over the balcony, suppressing the urge to puke his guts out onto the front lawn two stories below. He would have a family too, broken and wrong, yes, but there. Perhaps he could find a way to stand the sex and father a few children, or maybe she'd get so sick of his lack of interest that she'd find someone else to be a surrogate. His father would never have to know.

He did know, though, and at ten sharp tomorrow morning he would sit in the stands and watch his father present arguments for why he should be permitted to disown his sun, and thus force his son to be independent, an adult in name and law -- and one without a last name or a family or a home.

His mother would be providing the counterarguments, but it was a useless gesture. That she was even being allowed to stand against her husband at all was impressive -- the Women's Advancement Act was barely a year old, and its provisions were being painfully forced into society at a crawl. The Pooselridge courts cheerfully allowed her to speak up and out, but that did not mean she would be listened to or given any weight in the decision.

She said she would provide a home for him, so he could stay in Pooselridge, but Alden wondered how she planned to do that without his father finding out. His father was the master of house; he knew everything that happened. No doubt he knew that Alden had snuck into the house and was trying to sober up before facing the lights in the main room.

The idea almost made him vomit, and he swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. His body compromised on some sickly hacking, and finally Alden gave up on the cold air to help and returned to the darkness of his room. He tiptoed without good reason out of his room and down to the water closet across the hallway. The water in the stone basin was frigid, and the shock of it on his face snapped his mind to better attention. He was sure drinking it would do even more wonders, but he thought it may just make him puke, too, and that was the last thing he wanted to do in front of his father.

Then it was down the staircase, hoping his grip on the railing was not too obviously tight, and when he looked up at the last step his father was staring coldly, face expressionless, hands clasped in his lap.

He looked almost relaxed on the sofa, in a pair of loose trousers and thick nightgown. There were two mugs on the sofa table, however, neither of them steaming; it did not look like his father had been reading the book beside the cups. A quick glance around the room did not reveal his mother, or even a sign of her. No doubt she had woken up when his father did, but then his father had then likely told her to stay in bed, not get up, let him handle it… And Alden knew he would have to handle it alone.

"Sit down." No matter what time it was, what the situation was, his father never sounded tired. He did not even sound angry or worried; just disappointed, always disappointed. When Alden obeyed right away, he did not seem any more impressed. "Where were you?"

"Out with friends." He stared into the depths of one of the mugs, wondering when his father had made the coffee. If he reached out and touched it, he would know, but his father had not invited him to take a drink, and he knew better than to assume it was for him.

"Friends? Do you mean Patrick?" His father said the name with slightest trace of disgust, and it was enough to make Alden wince. "I told you never to see him again. You were supposed to be home tonight, studying."

Alden bit his lip, so that his replies did not spill out. It was a foolish strategy and gesture, but perhaps, if he was a good son for just this moment, tomorrow would never come…

"Your mother told me to leave you alone. She said that you should have a moment to yourself before tomorrow." His father sneered, ever slightly. "I told her that you were rebellious enough without her enabling you. I thought you would at least stay home tonight. Do you want to be alone in this world? After all I did for you? This is why i refuse to do anything more."

His father sighed and picked up one of the mugs, sipping at it with enough distaste that Alden imagined that if it could, even the coffee would apologize. Still he did not offer any to Alden, and so still he resisted the urge to grab it and hope it helped make him sober.

"I have never been more disappointed in you than I am tonight. 'Perhaps this will do it', I told your mother. 'Perhaps this will make him act his age and work harder.' But no. You'd rather live in debauchery. Fine then. Leave."

"What?" It was the only word that seemed appropriate, even though he knew, knew the only right response was to obey.

"No, Isaac." His mother's voice was exhausted yet still strong. Even when his father turned to glare at her, she still approached, still wearing her night smock and slippers, hands buried deep in the gown's pockets. "Enough. He can spend at least one more night at home."

"He clearly does not want to. Dawn is only four hours away, and he is only just getting back? There is no reason he should stay here a few hours more." His father sneered and turned away from them both, holding his mug as he stared out the window.

"Isaac." She got no response, but still walked over, putting a gentle hand on Alden's shoulder. "Do not make me beg."

"You should." His father rose, not even glancing in their direction as he picked up both mugs. "He has done nothing to deserve being here."

"He is your son." The strength was leaving her voice, though she still did not plead. He could feel the weakness seeping from her hand, though, see it in the pain in her tired eyes.

"No, he is not. And come noon, I am sure the courts will agree with me." And then he walked out of the room, leaving his mother to stutter, swallowing whatever words she had ready next.

Tears brimmed in her eyes as she sat down beside Alden, staring at the ring of liquid that the second mug had left. Alden looked away from her, staring at where his father had been. He could see the agony in her face, and knew that she wanted to sneak him back to his room, let him stay and have a warm place to sleep, or at least try to. He also knew she had no power to do that, and that if she did, his father would hear, and know, and throw him out on his own. He would not lay even a finger on either of them, but Alden suspected it was only because he knew he didn't need to. He would ignore them both if Alden stayed, and even after Alden was kicked out, he would ignore his mother. Alden had seen it happen before: meals eaten in utter silence, a hand on the shoulder ignored as he seemed to stare right through her, giving her not the slightest acknowledgement that she may exist, let alone be worth his time. Some nights, when he would still be up studying or finishing whatever nonsense chores he had been given, he could hear his mother weeping while his father slept in the same room, inches from her.

And he realized with a start that the soft sobs he heard were not from his memories, but from her beside him, face in her hands. The strength she had showed had left the room with his father, leaving the broken woman that remained, powerless to do anything, say anything…

He had to go. If only to spare his mother a few days of being a shadow in her own home, he had to go.

"I'm sorry."

"No." She snapped the word in a sob. "Don't you ever apologize because of him, ever. It's not your fault. You could have stayed home studying all night and he still would have--" She cut herself off, shaking her head. "I should be sorry. I'm so sorry I can't do more."

Alden struggled for the right words as his mother rose, hands clenched in fists, tears silently falling. She walked away without another word, determination in her steps, and thought he wanted to follow, some remaining self-preservation told him to stay on the safety of the couch, away from whatever storm would result.

Yet he heard no yelling, not even the slightest word or voice. Silence descended upon the house like a plague, enveloping him in cold unease. It was a familiar feeling -- when no one was yelling in the house, it always felt like something important was missing, or that they were merely in the eye of the storm, bracing for second impact. This had a different chill to it, however -- for Alden sensed that the storm had long-passed, and he was standing in wreckage.

Then his mother reappeared, and he could only stare dumbfounded. She held a bag, bulging in some areas with stuff, that she quietly set at his feet. She followed it with a wicker basket that had been hidden by the larger satchel.

"I'll be damned if I will be unable to help my own son. I did not give birth to you to let you die in the cold." There was a ferocious edge in her voice that Alden had never heard, and was not entirely sure he ever wanted to again. "So clothing, blankets, food, and herbs. I stripped your room, our cabinets, and the kitchen as best I could."

"Won't Father--?"

She cut him off immediately. "I can handle whatever your father feels would be an appropriate response. I'd divorce him if it wouldn't be a waste of my time." The words sent chills down Alden's spine, but his mother did not appear to notice. "It's nothing I haven't dealt with before. But I will not experience you dying. Please, write. Use an alias if you have to. I just..." She trailed off, shaking her head.

"You don't think...?" He couldn't finish the sentence. Yet when his mother smiled sadly at him and gave her a hug, he knew she had understood.

"It was done from the beginning. I'm so sorry. But I will try." SHe gave him a soft kiss on the cheek. "I promise I will try."

He wanted to stay longer, to talk to her, to -- to do what, exactly? What could he do to make it better? He could not go back in time, could not convince his father... He had made his decisions, mapped out and walked his path to life, and now there was nothing to do but deal with the consequences.

"I will write, Mother. And I'm sorry." He hugged her tightly then, even as she shook her head.

"I told you. No apologizing for him." She glanced toward the bedroom. "I will see you tomorrow. And I love you." She looked back at him, tears in her eyes, but a smile on her face. "Always."

And it was that look on her face and conviction in her words that Alden took with him into the cold night of Pooselridge.

I've had nasty writer's block lately, making writing this feeling like pulling teeth. So if I don't post often, that is why.

Tschuess.