Chapter Text
The cane never fell quite so hard on the wealthier students.
Nor did they ever receive the lash of a critical tongue in the same way, or faced the wall with the same pitiful shame as the class looked on with ignorance.
In his mind, Clarence wasn’t fond of this dynamic, even as he himself received the preferential treatment.
Around the dinner table, holding hands with his mother and older brother, Clarence recited the thankful prayer with a distracted conscience. The words fell automatically, a ritual rather than appreciation.
He felt the subtle squeeze from his mother’s hand, keeping him in time with the family prayer, lest he not give due worship. He swallowed back the irritation that was riling up inside his chest, teasing in the back of his mind. A kind prayer was the last thing he wanted in this moment.
The family opened their eyes, soft smiles and placid nods before mother began serving the side portions. Clarence observed absent-mindedly, the twitch in his fingers hidden beneath the large oak table.
His father caught his eye, a flash of concern that usually preceded an interrogation, even if it were in front of the family. This time, however, the greying gentleman held a long pause before distracting himself with the usual chatter.
He avoided his father’s eyes throughout the rest of the meal, the irritation stewing into a nervous dread. It wasn’t that his father was unkind; just firm, and very strict when it came to managing outward appearances. Essentially his one imparted lesson above all else was the importance of the face you wore. It protected your secrets, instilled trust in those held dear, unsettled anyone with grievances against you. With one expression, you could tear down the foundations of another’s confidence or betray a long-held mission that impacted the greater good. Even as the plates emptied and his mother and sister departed for wash up duties, the echoes of his father’s silence felt louder than any dish clatter.
“Roger, I believe you have a literature project to finish. I will be checking on you after an hour, no more.”
His older brother, face as calm and steady as his own father’s, gave a swift nod. In one graceful slide from his heavy chair, Roger set off towards the study, his figure illuminating into a wispy silhouette from flickering lamps in the hallway.
Clarence watched the departing form for as long as he could get away with, already sensing the pressing gaze from his father’s tired eyes.
“Look at me, Clarence.”
His tongue trapped between his teeth, willing his face to obey into a calm submission. He only took maybe ten seconds, but it was plenty long enough to answer the quick-witted man.
As soon as their eyes met, his father’s mouth set in a thin line.
“Let’s take a walk to the well. Your mother has had enough discontent for the day, no thanks to your aunt, and she deserves the peace. Come.”
The stone benches curved around the proud well, a peaceful sight even in the late March chills. His wool jacket protected from the worst of the breeze, a merciful layer even in the evergreen-shielded patch of garden away from prying eyes.
Just a few feet to the side, his father perched with a cross of his ankles, an almost unusual sight before he had unwound for the evening.
“They were cruel to him. Cowardly. A group-”
“Clarence.”
The simple act of using his name in the stern tone silenced his justifications, cut through his excuses. His chest ached, wanting to scream out and lash, to destroy and cry all at once. None of which his proud father would ever allow.
His shaky breaths slowed, forcing down his flaming temper. The memory of today’s events burned behind his eyelids. No matter how the bruises would not sit on his own skin, they felt perfectly scarred into his mind.
“Father... I feel like i could stop them. I know the teachers can’t do it, and i know their own parents won’t, but I'm strong. You taught me how to protect myself. If i see them hurting him, i can protect-”
“I taught you how to defend your body from harm, not to use it as a weapon. You’re not a small child any longer, Clarence. Your fists will do far worse than theirs can, and with far worse repercussions for our entire family. The incidents like today, they will pass. But the smear on our name? That will live for centuries. You know we cannot afford such a cost. Not for what we do.”
His jaw flexed, listening to the speech with an internal war sparking. I just want them to leave him be. I just want them to STOP.
His father’s hand rested on his shoulder, relaxed and kind, even as he automatically flinched. Maybe it was the fire still blazing within, or the hormones which had hardly eased since his voice had cracked years henceforth; a hunger for the fight and the clash of fists was all he yearned for right now.
“Son, you’ve taken far too much of your mother’s temper for your own good. Yes, i know. She hides it exceptionally well, the apple of my eye and the picture of politeness in our circles. She had to learn her own control, even at a much younger age than you, such as is expected from the young ladies. I had hoped you’d learn a similar lesson, while you were small enough to not significantly harm your opponent. Now, I’m afraid, i have a very different lesson to teach.”
His stomach dropped, instantly feeling a flutter of panic at the thought of one of father’s rare but effective physical punishments. They only come when truly due. I haven’t done anything to deserve that!
Even as his nerves frayed under the patient gaze of his father, Clarence’s body tensed as if preparing to block the first strike.
After a long moment without a reply, his father stood, turning towards the well.
He bent low, gently rolling the nearby pebbles until he found one apparently suitable.
Straightening up and brushing off the rounded surface, the leathery face evolved into concentration, searching through the vines that wrapped in tight string around the well’s frame, kept out of the rain as the peppers and herbs naturally dried and shrivelled. With a tiny nod and a pleased hum, he tore off just a single leaf from the ivy vine and swiped it against a drying vegetable, keeping the pebble at the forefront of his attention as he leaned over the gaping well’s maw and seemed to inspect something inside.
He looked back over his shoulder to where Clarence practically trembled with anticipation and fear. His father remained calm, steady, a small flicker in his lip that betrayed amusement.
His son didn’t trust him one bit.
“Come, you won’t learn anything from over there. I need a hand. My eyes aren’t what they used to be.”
Though the logic in his mind screamed not to get up, his feet had already begun to obey, carrying him towards the ominous scene. A punishment of some variety, just no idea what-
His father held out the stone to him; no hint of malice, no tightness in his hands that threatened a strike. His own shaking fingers hesitated in the air before quickly snatching the offering, eyes darting up to the face that gave no indication of threat. A sheet mask of control. Performative.
His father turned back to the well, rolling back the sleeves to halfway up his forearm, the deep lacing scars and pockmarks evident from his rough years in the last invasion. Clarence’s mind wandered between the strength father must have possessed to earn so many scars yet to come home alive, and what possible punishment could require him to be so near a well. Surely he wasn’t about to be thrown in, there would be no way out!
With heightened caution, his hand rested on the well’s stone wall, the other carefully cupping the stone. He shivered, perhaps from the breeze that just rustled through the dense shrubbery, or from the increasing timespan between whatever father had to say next.
It took an unsettling couple of minutes to realize Clarence would have to break the silence.
“What are we looking for?”
“This isn’t going to be handed to you on a platter, son. Use what you have been given.”
A rock?
He looked into the well with bemusement, studying the deep walls even as they became nought but shadow, wondering where the pebble would be needed.
All the stones were set in place, nowhere that would need adding to. The bucket and rope were fine, and father was only looking at the inside of the well, not the roof. The water was at its usual height, and this little thing wouldn’t do much to change that. Why the vegetable wiping, too? Was there anything to knock off?
His mind spun with the increasing panic, worrying that not completing this task would only make his punishment worse.
As he risked giving his father a scared glance, meeting his eyes only confused him further.
In them, he saw concern. Disappointment.
For a moment, he even considered fleeing.
“I’m... sorry, i don’t understand. What would you have me do with this?”
Almost instantly, his father’s face shifted in subtle relief. Hardly noticeable, certainly not to anyone who didn’t see the way his mask changed day by day with tiny hints of expression; yet, to his family, he was an open book.
“I’d have you think very long and hard about how you view situations. How many of our last few minutes have been spent in cowardice?”
“... Most, sir.”
“And in those minutes, how many of your thoughts were directed towards harming those bullies in your school?”
Clarence blinked, startled back into the memories from today’s break period.
“N-none?”
“Correct. Son, you must understand the impact of violence on others, especially how they see you, and how that will affect their trust. I am your father, and it is my responsibility to raise you properly. That requires punishment and praise in fair order. You know that of me, and you expect it. What do you think you would have felt if i had never lashed or hit once in our lives? If all you had come to know were words and actions without harm?”
“I... i think i might not have been so... weak.”
“I think you would have been less afraid” he mused, fixing his sleeves to normal as he appraised his son’s nervous stance; “and i think you would have been a touch more eager to contribute. If your mother had done the same things, would she have received the same tremor in your hands?”
“No, sir.”
“Then perhaps you don’t know your mother quite so well” he chuckled under his breath, much to Clarence’s surprise. He cleared his throat, correcting to a proud posture with a small half-smile, holding his son’s gaze while imparting his lesson. “The most effective use of this technique comes from a decent balance of trust and respect. The recipient must be pliable to your influence, or see value in complying. Deflect. Distract. Distance.”
The three words became a weight that settled on his shoulders. His eyes dropped, feeling embarrassed at being so foolish to not recognize this as a useless task meant for nothing but humiliation. Yet, his father didn’t seem cruelly amused, or otherwise mocking. Simply patient, letting the words sink in before continuing.
“If you can achieve one without requiring another, then you may not have needed it at all. All three are meant to be used in tandem, to resolve longer-spanning conflicts. A lesson we pass down through generations as our sons become leaders and gentlemen, while our daughters become great ladies in our society and homes. Your brother picked up on it rather young, being the more level-headed of my two lads.”
Clarence’s ears flamed with embarrassment and irritation, always hating to be compared to the smarmy older brat; always buffed up and shiny as if the perfect son and schoolboy, never once getting into trouble. He couldn’t find it in himself to object, though the twitch in his cheek gave away his reaction.
His father turned and strode leisurely out of the shrouded vicinity, taking a journey towards the southern grounds, where the pigs and chickens were penned in. Clarence quickly jogged to catch up, working harder to keep pace once he was at his father’s side.
“Where are we going?”
“Further away.”
“From what?”
“Your temper.”
Clarence almost skidded in his stop, eyes widening in confusion. His father came to a gradual stop, turning halfway to face him as if offering to stay or go at his own choice. Clarence swallowed thickly, forcing himself to gain control over the flash of heat in his head as the entire situation seemed plotted against him.
“Son, i understand you far better than i do your sister, and far less so than i understand your brother. You’re a softer boy. One with the musings of wonder, yet a roaring fire surrounding it. If you didn’t have my face exactly, I'd wonder if you were even mine.”
Though his eyes were alight with humour, Clarence still internally balked at the words.
“Still,” he continued, glancing out over the modest land, with all the animals well-tended by this hour; “you are, and you must learn to act like a Gailson. Our family is from a long line of guardians and soldiers, men of war and words as much as fathers and brothers. The softness you carry inside needs resolving, or at least redirecting, if you’re going to ever learn to manage your flame. We cannot risk your drafting to be your doom, simply because you cannot control yourself.”
“My... drafting?”
He nodded; “the time will come. You have years yet before yours should come to call. Mine and Roger’s will likely be sooner. Our great Queen is ill of health, as you may not have realized. The death of a Monarch always seems to bring conflict, especially after the plague has weakened the population. I would give it three summers at most before the next draft.”
“Three years?! Father, that’s not-”
“Hush, don’t whine. It is the way of our country as it stands. And stand we do. Consider this situation in school to be the first of many opportunities to apply my teachings. To help the weaker, we deflect the stronger. Without physical fight, you can turn their attention elsewhere, perhaps by creating another situation, or redirecting their energy towards a solution or otherwise relevant task. I take it this was another soft boy?”
Clarence nodded, gazing to his shoes, shame blazing in his cheeks as the word ‘another’ lingered between them. It wasn’t formally discussed, but the evidence in his personality growing up had been hard to stifle. He sought the attention of men, not women, even beyond any beating or lesson could break out of him.
“Then you may need to completely render a new situation. Once those brutish boys get a hold of one, it’s hard to unlatch. Would i know their families?”
He knew of only one surname, a family crest which spoke of a wealth far beyond that of the Gailson’s, and yet attending the school here for mere convenience. The nearest rich school had been too far out for reasonable carting, and certainly not necessary given the reputation of the one he attended. In the lands close to where army generals raised their own young, politics were discussed far more than punches.
Which was where his father found the advantage.