Dominicus did not die on the spot, as he had so desperately asked of God, upon stumbling into a whole hornets’ nest of cadets, one of whom he decidedly did not want to see, with an armful of books about romances.
They did not have dicks on the cover, generally (some had very artful dicks on the cover – in fact there were many anatomies represented, some very questionably identifiable as dick-like, but it was mainly the identifiable dicks that caught his attention, as dicks were rather at the centre of his problems – but Feichín seemed not to notice the dicks, so Dominius tried very hard not to notice the dicks. He hated Ainjir and all of its people).
He was, actually contemplating the deep mystery of the universe and his particularly cursed position within it (suffering could be a blessing, but the Holy Mother who watched over him had railed against such a blessing) in that of the many cadets he had run into, one of them had to be Cadet Cole – that, not the dicks (thank God), was what he was contemplating through most of the inane arguing happening around him.
The other cadets, some of whom he recognise from classes, were generally benign presences. He could probably beat most of them in a fight, if he had to, but they weren’t the types to make him have to fight. Some might even be said to be nice to him, even if it seemed to make them uncomfortable in some way. (Fuck them, was all he managed to think of it – he did not have time or interest in the fathoming of shallow depths).
Cadet Cole, on the other hand… Cadet Cole annoyed him. Cadet Cole was either entirely a wet noodle or a surprisingly deadly trap, waiting to be triggered.
Cadet Cole seemed always to be about when there needed to be a fight. He himself was perhaps a benign presence – perhaps more than that, perhaps ‘vapid sucking hole of non-presence’ – the problem was that he was so malleable. Moveable. Unpredictable.
Unpredictable was bad when unpredictable came along with the ability to potentially kick Dominicus’ ass. And God love Feichín, but he was useless in a fight. IF there should be a fight, it would be eight Ainjir against one with one Ainjir who could potentially turn the tide of battle on his own, and Dominicus hated that.
Grateful to Feichín (Feichín wasn’t stupid) for freeing his arms, when Cadet Cole referred to him, he was temporarily overwhelmed by the urge to put his hands up in self-defence, but it seemed, in the end, unnecessary. Truly, perhaps like a particularly dumb ram, if Dominicus simply moved slowly and non-threateningly, Cadet Cole would merely forget he was there. Thus Dominicus could fall back into wondering what transgression against the Prophet’s dictums had earned him this particular form of Living Hell.
“You run sheep now,” one of the other Ainjir was saying.
It was only the frightened and furiously red face of Feichín turning towards him that really woke him from his malign stupor and dulled the ringing in his ears. From this close Dominicus could see, Feichín was nearly tearing up with embarrassment.
Fuck, he was not being a very good friend.
Cadet Cole snapped a book shut and half of the little snots jumped. (Dominicus did get some satisfaction from that).
But now he succumbed to another preoccupation. Somebody had apparently rather severely insulted his roommate and he had not noticed. Probably it was Cadet Cole’s fault, somehow, but from the way Feichín scampered to follow him pushing past them up the aisle of books, he had to assume not.
The intricacies of intra-Ainjir insults were a new field of study for Dominicus Sure, they shared the standard set – sexual proclivities, general filth, likening to animals, lineage-based aspersions, and so on – but there were also more subtle jabs that hit upon preoccupations particular to themselves. There also existed a much more complicated hierarchy of reactions for these less clearly-stated rhetorical assaults.
It wasn’t a secret his family ran sheep, or was it? Was it something about sheep? He didn’t think so, many of wealthy cadets were so because of wool. Feichín truly didn’t talk about his family very much, but he didn’t avoid it, either...
Truly, Dominicus so avidly didn’t care about any of it that odds were good even had he been paying attention he would not have recognised the moment, but he did still feel bad that he had not been paying attention.
So he did not turn immediately to follow, instead surveying the backlit faces of the cadets in the little alcove (in their turn, fixed on the ones leaving) looking for guilt.
Might as well be looking for palm trees. He would have to remember their faces. He would have to keep an eye on them. It was hard, as all Ainjir faces were more or less similar, but he thought maybe he could sift out the ones who looked hostile now, and keep them in mind for later.
But also – there was no reason to be left behind with a bunch of hostile Ainjir.
Turning up the dark aisle of books he had to stretch his pace to catch up with the (forced) idle stroll of Feichín and Cadet Cole. Cadet Cole had apparently decided to fill the silence with more ruminations on the books Feichín had selected, or perhaps poetry in general. Three problems emerged for Dominicus:
1) Listening to Cadet Cole ruminate aloud was as dreadfully boring outside of class as it was during class (he seemed determine never to say anything overly important or relevant)
2) Leaving their company was asking to get jumped, should the book club decide to attack, so he was stuck there listening to Cadet Cole ruminate because drawing any attention to his continued presence was to risk having to explain what he was doing in the Library in the first place (dick books)
3) For the first time being casually arrayed behind Cadet Cole with nothing else to do, he had time to observe that there were Shapes happening (Actually kind of nice shapes).
Well, it stood to reason, didn’t it? He was awfully popular.
He wasn’t sure what that even meant (thus the books). The very thought made Dominicus’s face heat like a pot being fired. He put the backs of his hands on either side of the bottom of his jaw to try to cool his cheeks, following the two cadets out of the aisle and into one of the wide studying areas.
It had so darkened outside that the lanterns filled the place with yellow light like little suns. It felt like they were stumbling out of cave. At least, he could blame his stiff-legged pivot to try to keep up with Feichín and Cadet Cole on that sensation instead of the fact that he was actively experiencing the damnation of heretical longing.
Confusing heretical longing.
Embarrassing and confusing heretical longing.
Cadet Cole’s gaze slid back over his shoulder to check who was following, so he must have caught sight of Dominicus turning like a marionette, his hands squished up to his cheeks like a cat cleaning itself.
Dominicus dropped his hands immediately, feeling his face fall into a scowl.
Yet Cadet Cole made no comment, nor betrayed any reaction, instead changing his droning observations into a hushed assurance.
“I think we’re clear of them.”
“Death,” Feichín breathed, letting his whole chest fall forward over the armful of books. “I thought we were about to be properly bloodied.”
Surveying the aisles around them, Cadet Cole selected a direction and, shoving hands in his pockets, nodded them on.
“They wouldn’t have managed it, though they might have ventured.”
“Generous of you to say,” Feichín said, with a little laugh.
Cadet Cole smiled at him. Dominicus didn’t particularly like that. Dominicus may not have sought out such gossip but he was certainly aware what havoc Cadet Cole’s popularity loosed among his classmates. He would not be a bad friend to Feichín on that front – Cadet Cole could be advised to keep his stupid smiles to himself.
“We’ll go out the side, over here,” Cadet Cole said.
“I didn’t even know there was an exit over here,” Feichin replied.
“It’s not recommendable on every occasion. It empties out towards the Third Year dormitories, so they tend to use it, but I think on this occasion it’s worth risking them.”
Dominicus followed along as they wound down another aisle of enormous shelves, which unfortunately gave him more time to think.
He didn’t precisely know why he didn’t like that smile. After all, Feichín spoke little of attractions, but when he did it was of women.
Maybe he didn’t trust the smile? He certainly didn’t trust Second.
And, of course, he had been remiss in his duties to Feichín, so perhaps he was feeling he had mistakes to correct (he did – he did have mistakes to correct, for he had caused them to stumble into the party that had insulted his room mate, and thereby been responsible for his being insulted and doubly remiss in not having noticed it. Likewise, should his assumption about Feichín’s interests be incorrect and this all lead to some kind of heart-breaking entanglement with the famously carelessly cruel Second, that could conceivably also be laid on Dominicus’ account).
All in all it would be an appropriate series of consequences for his indulging investigation of his own sinful thoughts when he knew very well they could lead nowhere and there was nothing he could do about them. He was reminded of the tales his mother sometimes told that always ended up with curious little children being eaten by bears or having their bleached bones plucked off the forest floor and fashioned into musical instruments by wandering bards (so many bards in relatively untrodden forests – it wasn’t all the tales but it was Too Many of them, and they had to stop being told so regularly because they made Spesnova cry, but she also cried every time a bird was shot for its magical feather or whatever was necessary to move plot forward so she was hardly a metric to judge by).
“Hounds,” Mathúin snarled, standing a few steps behind them with shoulders broad, fists clenched.
Another mistake – Dominicus, as self-appointed rear-guard, should probably have been attending to whether they were being followed or not, but instead, here he was, thinking about sin and fairy tales.
Really, the dick-books were the least of his problems. He was being a terrifically shit friend.
They had almost made the door. Cadet Cole and Feichín had been absorbed in their chatter (and could rely on Dominicus, or so they must certainly have thought), so had not noticed his approach. He had apparently pursued them alone, either not able to convince his companions to tag along or very foolishly overconfident in his abilities. Either way, his catching up wasn’t terribly concerning, although the moral implications still weighed heavily upon Dominicus.
Feichín drew back but Cadet Cole audibly sighed. This did not please Mathúin.
“I don’t believe you just stumbled in by accident.”
“That’s a bit foolish,” Cadet Cole replied coolly.
“You and your little court of trucklers have been trying to keep us down from the start,” Mathúin snarled. “I’m sick of it. We’re sick of it.”
Nobody said anything to this until, perhaps driven by a sense of politeness, Feichín said, “I’m not sure that’s quite true…”
“Oh, no, it pretty much is,” Cadet Cole said.
“Oh,” said Feichín.
Dominicus was trying to recall the debates related to the nature of friendship and its relationship to duties both earthly and spiritual.
“It’s not like it’s a conspiracy,” Cadet Cole went on, lightly. “It is simply how things are.”
“That is what a hound for the nobility would say,” Mathúin said. “That it’s just the nature of things. Well, that’s not how it’s going to go here, and that’s not how it’s going to be long.”
“True,” said Cadet Cole.
This left everyone a little adrift.
“Well,” Cadet Cole said pleasantly into the silence, “stands to reason the advantage of Preparatory will wear off, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” Feichín replied hesitantly.
“Then things will even out.”
“That’s not good enough,” Mathúin snapped. “You should pay the crime of what unevenness you’ve fed into the system!”
“Bit rich to blame me for the Two Branches,” Cadet Cole observed. “That’s kind of Keadar-Ainjir’s fault. Not that I hate being likened to him.”
Mathúin seemed to find the smile Cadet Cole shared with Feichín at this even more annoying that Dominicus did.
“You’re pathetic! A beef-eater for those inbred hacks!”
Cadet Cole’s smile dropped (Dominicus tried not to be soothed by this).
“I truly do not wish to have to do something about you today, Mathúin.”
“I truly don’t give a shit,” Mathúin spat, showing a great deal more courage than Dominicus believed him to have. “I won’t be satisfied without an answer.”
“Technically, you’re dissatisfied by our answer,” Feichín said.
“Shut it, you hedge-born sow,” Mathúin growled.
Dominicus punched him.
Everyone seemed surprised, which was foolish. (To the others, it appeared that Mathúin stepped back with a cry, while Galen moved forward; Cole had the presence of mind to hop back, hands raising for defence. Feichín just let out a little ‘oh’). But after a moment’s thought, Dominicus realised he should explain himself, as nobody had hit anybody yet in this confrontation (arguably, Cadet Cole was trying to avoid hitting anyone, which again, was foolish).
“Be polite,” he said.
He thought about clarifying that he really only cared if Mathúin was polite to Feichín; should he chose to insult Cadet Cole that was their problem. But that seemed altogether too specific and anyway he was already behind in the interaction. They continued to look surprised, which was frustrating, as Dominicus felt he had been very clear, and it wasn’t that hard of a punch.
Holding his nose (it wasn’t even bleeding) Mathúin puffed his chest, stepping towards Dominicus.
“I wouldn’t have expect you to bend to them, but I suppose you are used to bending to your god.”
“That’s unnecessary,” Cadet Cole said, reversing his previous stance to glower at Mathúin (surprising the shit out of Dominicus, who once again barely avoided raising his hands defensively).
“All of this is unnecessary,” Feichín observed wearily.
“Only if you have no spine,” Mathúin hissed. “I suppose yours was bred out of you.”
Dominicus – in the process of punching Mathúin again, because apparently he was a slow learner – had his fist stopped.
With three light clucks, a Third Year cadet materialised from the dark stacks beside Cadet Cole, resting an arm heavily on his shoulder as if he were a fencepost. As was dramatically appropriate, a clap of thunder rolled over them through the thick stone walls.
“Oh, bother – what do we have here?”