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It was simply so- so-
Erik lifted his head from where it rested against his balled-up hand and threw a quick look around the room. There was no one here, only a gentle breeze from the window lifting the soft curtains. Erik scrunched his eyebrows and nose, and with a great exhale, rested against his hand again.
"It's just so goddamn fucking boring," came an angry whisper, with the last word stretched out.
The feather was scratching against the paper. Strong, violent strokes, leaving blobs of ink here and there. Why did he even need to know how to read and write? Most Lords didn't know how and still ruled over people! The angry little expression did not leave Erik's face as he went on with his studies. Little grumbles and humphs came from him occasionally, more frequent as time went on.
"W" was a particularly hard letter for him. He leaned back and sized up the empty spot where he needed to put it. Erik squinted, sniffled, and gathered more ink. The feather hovered above the parchment. Down. A trembling hand, no anger now, but fear.
The paper ripped.
Erik dropped his head on the table with a loud bonk at the very same moment the door to his room squeaked open. Soft steps went towards where he sat, and the boy dared not lift his head, his ears already burning in embarrassment and shame.
"I see you are hard at work, my boy," Istvan said, stroking Erik's short hair and smoothing it down after it stuck up again.
The reply that came was a mix of a mumble and a grumble and made Istvan chuckle. "Come, don't be shy. You know I will not punish you, you are only learning," Istvan stroked one of Erik's red ears and leaned closer to the boy. There, he finally caught Erik's eye. His brows were raised, eyes big — every bit the kicked puppy in that moment.
"It's embarrassing, my Lord. I can't write. I am bad at it," Erik answered in a strained whisper. "I am much better with a sword…" There was a pause then, where Erik looked deep into Istvan's eyes. "I can make you proud with a sword," Erik said in an even quieter voice, but Istvan caught it nevertheless.
The older man smiled and reached his hand to softly move a strand of hair that had fallen over the boy's eyes. "You are only 13, my boy-"
"Not a boy…" Erik grumbled.
"You are hard-working enough that I am sure you will defeat writing and reading, same as you defeat all your opponents on the training grounds," Istvan leaned closer to Erik's face. "I know you do not want to disappoint me, Erik, and you have all the resources to avoid that. Now, show me what you have here." The man motioned with his hand for Erik to lift his head; with a small smile and soft exhale, he did.
It really was embarrassing. Uneven lines, ink blots, and the worst offender of all — a huge tear right in the middle. Istvan hummed and ran his finger along, smearing the ink further.
"I really am sorry, my Lord…" Erik said uncomfortably.
"Do not be sorry, be better…" Istvan looked at the ruined parchment for several moments more before transferring his gaze to the boy. "Erik, look at me. You will never disappoint me as long as you try your very best and get better each day, for I am a patient man." Istvan slowly raised his hands and took Erik's face into his palms, smearing one of the cheeks with black ink. "You are a smart boy, my dear, more capable than any in this blasted court. You will learn how to write, same as you will learn how to read. People like us need to be better than our Lords to survive. We need to be useful, and a sword is not enough."
Istvan could see in Erik's eyes that the boy did not fully understand him. Such is youth. Brute strength always seems more powerful than the mind. But brutes die by the dozen in places decided by those with knowledge, fighting with weapons designed and built by those with skill, and for a purpose they might never truly know, for it is also decided for them.
Istvan let go of Erik with an exhale, not noticing how the boy instinctively followed his hands for a brief moment.
"Let us take a break then, hm? What do you think about going on a little stroll to the forest?"
At this, Erik instantly lit up. The forest was fun! And interesting, and maybe he could even bring his training sword if he asked nicely enough. Just as he inhaled some air to ask, Istvan raised his palm to stop him. On the older man's face was a smile that crinkled his eyes a bit. "Yes. You can take your sword. You will show me what you've learned last week with Sir Bran, too," Istvan said with fond exasperation. "Now go, prepare what you need for the stroll. I'll be waiting for you near the gates."
Erik jumped off the chair and ran away, making Istvan chuckle and start to clean up after his boy.
Forest. Forest. Forest. And a stroll — with Sir Istvan, too! It wasn't often he had time for such things, and Erik cherished every minute spent together. Especially if there was no studying involved, well, apart from sword studying or carving, those he liked.
He jumped two stairs at a time on his way down. He was neat and dressed, just like Istvan had taught him. All he needed was some foodstuffs from the kitchen and his training weapon.
Grinning and jumping around people, he soon reached the kitchen, nicking two bread rolls and some cheese. A kitchen woman tutted at him from where she stood near the stove, and Erik threw her a mischievous look before snatching some bacon and running away again.
The next stop was the training grounds, where his sword was stashed in the shack. Not a proper sword, not yet. A smaller thing, dull and not dangerous, not really. But not in his arms. Other boys of the keep feared him, for he could make this metal sing. Just this week he sent one boy to the infirmary after a particularly hard blow. One week before another boy experienced the same fate. But Sir Istvan told him it was the way it was meant to be. He was strong, and they were weak. He was helping them, showing them their weakness, showing them what they needed to become. And so Erik was not sad about their injuries, nor was he sad about all his possible friends fearing him. They were weak; he had no need for weak people. All he needed was Lord Istvan. "I need to become even stronger for him," he whispered to himself as he exited and swung his sword around.
The gates were not that far now; he reached them half-running, half-skipping, but Istvan was not there yet. Erik exhaled softly and prepared himself to wait for a little bit. People were walking around him, horses passed. There were some dandelions and nettles growing in a patch of grass near the gate wood. Boring. Suddenly he felt a little nip near his ankle that made him yelp and jump up into the air.
A small puppy stood there, yapping and jumping in return. A local bitch must have finally had her puppies.
"You—! Do not scare me like that again, you dog!" Erik spat, red in the face, frantically looking around, hoping Sir Istvan was not there to see this. The puppy didn't care about being scolded and only moved closer, jumping around between his legs. Erik blew out his lips, scrunched his eyebrows, and with another quick look around, sat down to pet the puppy.
"Ew, you are so slobbery!" Erik laughed as he petted the dog. "Hey, do you want something to eat?" Erik asked as he reached into his pouch, took out the bacon, and gave it to the little one.
"Puppies like this die early, Erik. It should not wander so far from its mother's safety," a voice from behind made the boy quickly turn back and stand up. And there Sir Istvan stood, his gaze serious and judging. "Do not get attached to the dog, and do not feed it. It needs to learn not to trust people too much. Humans are not kind to dogs. Come, Erik, let's go."
The boy was embarrassed, again. This day, all he did was disappoint Sir Istvan, and he hated himself for it. He threw one last look at the puppy behind him. Small, happy, and eating that bacon. "Maybe all a good dog needs is a good human…" he wondered before turning to run after Istvan.
Sir Istvan traveled on horseback, and Erik followed. The road to the forest was not a long one. During it, Istvan talked history and examined Erik's own knowledge of it. They left the horse near a stream and then went on foot. Erik showed Istvan new sword techniques he had learned, told Istvan of the boy he had put in the infirmary.
The forest itself was pretty quiet that day. Birds were singing, flowers were blooming. On this particular day, Erik was more similar to regular village kids—just talking about all his news, his studies, and having fun on a stroll with—
Erik looked back at Sir Istvan, who walked slightly behind him, and wondered for a moment who he was to him. Not a son. Surely not. Not an apprentice either. Sir Istvan never took Erik with him when he set out for... more sensitive missions. Erik did not know who he was to Sir Istvan, but he hoped he was useful. He hoped Istvan would allow him to stay nearby forever. Erik's eyebrows furrowed as he thought: 'I'll read all the books in the world and rewrite them a thousand times over, if only to stay with Istvan one day more.'
"What got you so deep in thought, hm?" Erik startled and looked up, his eyes connecting with Istv—Sir Istvan's. "If you furrow your brows any further, they will get stuck like that, you know?" Erik's ears reddened again, and he hummed, slowing down to match his stride with the older man's.
Soon they reached a calm forest pond that the stream flowed into.
"Go, Erik, explore a bit. Think, then tell me concisely what bothers you so," Istvan motioned forward and leaned against a tree.
Think. Sir Istvan was like that. 'Think, Erik. Think before you do, and you will reach the sun itself'—that's how he talked. The boy took out one bread roll and slowly munched on it, sitting down and looking down at himself in the water. Hair sticking out, as pale as his skin, some speckles too here and there. He couldn't help but think he looked weird, his body gangly, too—not a boy, not an adult, just... awkward all around.
Several still moments and a simple thought: 'What did Istvan see in me?'
Suddenly something rippled the water, and a creature stuck its head out.
"Sir Istvan, Sir Istvan!" Erik called. "Could you please come here? There is something in the water - I've never seen a thing like this!"
When Istvan came closer, Erik pointed at a... lizard? Playing around near the shore. And another one! Look, hiding in the grass!
"What are they, Sir Istvan? Lizards?" Erik asked.
"No, my dear, those are newts," Sir Istvan calmly answered. "Yes. They are not lizards, they are salamanders."
"No! But salamanders are burning! They are fire, are they not? Those ones are swimming," Erik tilted his head in question.
Istvan chuckled. "A human superstition, nothing more. These creatures live near us, sleep in logs and wood. And when we burn their homes, they come running. Human fear thought these simple creatures were responsible, and not their own actions."
Istvan leaned down and managed to catch one of the newts in his hand. It was a dark color, almost black, but shining gold in the light rays. Erik leaned in too to look at it closer. It still looked like a lizard, if he was honest...
"Not impressed, are you?" Istvan asked with a cunning smile.
"Well, they don't look all that strong..." Erik looked up at Sir Istvan in uncertainty.
"Oh, but they are. Newts, my dear, are the most fascinating creatures," Istvan said. Erik hummed in doubt. "Do not disregard their resilience. Underestimating them could be your greatest mistake, Erik."
Istvan brought the newt closer to his eyes before letting it go. "Newts lived where I was born," the man said in a quieter voice, and Erik was immediately captivated. It was rare for Sir Istvan to speak of those times. "When I needed to think, I came to a pond similar to this one and observed the movement of life. And do you know what I saw?"
"What?" asked Erik devotedly.
"That newts are miracle creatures." Istvan reached his hand into the water and brought out a different animal altogether—much smaller, with only two legs and funny feathers on its head. "This is also a newt, my dear."
"What? No!" Erik leaned his eye right to it. "But it looks nothing like it!"
"That's the beauty of newts, Erik. In my time spent near them, I saw a metamorphosis happen. Much like frogs, they are born weak and small, but they change over time. Adapting, getting stronger, and changing into entirely different creatures again and again. They are born in water but learn to conquer earth as well."
Istvan gently transferred the delicate creature into Erik's smaller hand.
"What do you think about this, Erik?" The boy was focused on the small newt in his hand, not seeing the waiting and analyzing gaze of the older man.
"I think it's magical. I think they are very strong, too. To change so much and to survive it all," Erik answered, enraptured.
Istvan hummed and nodded his head. "Right you are. We could all learn something from newts, couldn't we? This strive for survival, this willingness to overcome the shortcomings of the body..."
Erik nodded in response.
"You remind me of newts, too, Erik," Istvan said after a minute of silence had passed.
"Me?" Erik asked, confused, and let the small thing go back into the water.
"Yes," Istvan answered with seriousness in his voice and a smile on his lips. "I always saw this quiet strength in you, from the very moment I decided to take you with me. And I see it growing in you each day." Istvan reached his hand out and stroked Erik's soft hair. "You are changing each day. Learning and adapting. You will grow into a very capable young man. I know this."
Erik's eyes were trained on Istvan, not blinking, not even for a second. Istvan believes in me. Istvan called newts beautiful. Istvan called them strong. And he said I am—
Suddenly Erik surged forward and caught Istvan's hand in his, bringing it to his cheek.
"I will become the strongest man for you, I promise, Sir Istvan! I swear!" Istvan's eyes widened before a wide smile appeared on his face and his irises sparkled.
"I know you will. You are my Erik, after all," Istvan answered.
The return back to the keep was a loud affair. Young blood in Erik was roaring after this stroll and the many revelations he had. As soon as he got back, he waved to Sir Istvan and ran back to his rooms. To continue his learning of writing, to become better—no, the best!
And the first thing he did was write one thing with a huge smile: "Knewts are strong. I like knewts."
"They are written without a K, Erik, just so you know."
When did he ente—
"Huh?!" Erik indignantly squawked. Oh, but he did hate writing.