Celta Thursday (belated)
Nov 13 2012 Dictation
Thunder rumbled outside his tent and he shivered as memory came. She'd been hurt when he'd withdrawn. He'd seen it in her eyes. She'd opened her mouth to push again, as always, but had stopped. For that he was grateful, but it dug in like a thorn in his skin, that she was pushy and he spiraled down into the worst thing he'd done in his life. He'd been barely seventeen when the fever of Second Passage snatched him. He'd stumbled along through that Passage (where), and she'd been there, in that feverish** dreamstate with him. It had been a long time since his First Passage at seven years old. He didn't hang out with other teens who had enough Flair to experience Passage – not that he felt he had much Flair, either. So he hadn't figured out what was happening to him yet. Nor had his self-centered mother. And his father, well, his father had been a nice man. Not exactly smart, though. So Jace had been stumbling through Passage. SETTING
His mother had been talking in that sweet, persuasive voice that he hated. The voice she used to get whatever she wanted from his father. This time she wanted a bracelet. Some flashy, ugly thing that they couldn't afford unless his father left their village for the bigger city in the north near the Plano Strait and work as a warehouse man for the merchant's guild there for an entire month...including the three weekend days. And, like always, Jace was expected by his parents to up his own work schedule doing all the odd jobs for the small merchants in their village.
Through the red haze of fever Jace stared at his father and saw a worn man. Big as he was, he hadn't looked well for the last month or so, still working hard to pay off his wife's last bauble. Jace hoped his dad would see a Healer while in the city, but probably wouldn't take the time, even though the free AllClass Clinic was a good one.
And in the fever** Jace's mother's sweet voice became a high-pitched whine, then a buzzing screech piercing his mind, going on and on and on in his ears, never ceasing, always demanding. Like a bitemite, a huge, nasty bitemite sucked into his head and eating his brain from the inside. He'd waved, flailed, at the thing, and he'd slapped her. He'd hit his own mother.
His father had hit him twice and twice as hard.
He came from that, from petty greed, from a man loving a woman and killing himself to give her what she wanted. From selfishness. From easy violence, and he never forgot it.
He always kept his relationships light, always surface, never deep so they roused anything he couldn't control.
So he was selfish himself, wouldn't let himself be manipulated by a woman for what she wanted that wasn't good for him, too.
The mutual sex with Glyssa was damn good. His chest loosened at the thought and his relieved sigh escaped. He'd escaped the past again. Just as he'd left soon after that incident, all of them knowing he'd gone through Second Passage and was officially considered an adult.
The misery of Passages without the payoff of greater and defined Flair, when he was seven, seventeen and twenty-seven.