He's a child, but he doesn't even have a substantial understanding as to what constitutes a proper childhood.
He supposes that it includes being tucked in the bed by your mother and father – with the former kissing you good night and wishing for your dreams to be sweet and the latter smiling at you reassuringly as he turns off the light and leaves your bedroom door opened halfway to keep the monsters away. Maybe it's the act of gathering around the table for dinner at the end of a long day, chatting happily about what you've done in school or the friends you've played with. Perhaps it is when you come home from playing with your friends, both knees scraped and tears and snot running down your face as you bawl your eyes out and tell your sympathetic parents that "it hurts, make it go away, please?"
He thinks a lot about it, lists down any potential answers, because he has no friends to ask for answers and even his twin brother ponders about the same thing. They are a pathetic pair, but at least they have each other. They may never know what a proper childhood is, but they're more grateful for having each other's back. He probably will never ask for more, and his brother tells him the exact same thing.
"Again."
Father's voice is cold and monotonous, and though he finds familiarity in it he wishes that a day may come that he will be able to hear warmth and affection in it. But warmth and affection have no place in the training grounds, nor in the hallways or the dining hall or anywhere, for that matter. Warmth is a crutch, more so affection. Weaknesses. Things spies have no use for.
He grips the wooden training sword tight with both hands, ignoring the way the sharp tang of iron coats his tongue. With a quiet huff he rushes forward, training sword poised to stab but Father sees through the terribly transparent attack and quickly catches one of his wrists. He finds himself being effortlessly tossed aside like a rag doll, and before his body hits the floor someone catches him. He and his savior crashes to the ground all the same, and underneath him Hyarantë lets out a frustrated huff.
They help each other back on their feet and stand shoulder to shoulder, one pair of pale blue eyes gazing downward while the other pair meets the unimpressed golden gaze of their Father. Haldir feels Hyarantë shuffle beside him and when he glances at his older twin he sees that the latter is grinning boyishly up at the oldest in the room.
He swallows the lump in his throat and fixes his gaze back to his bare feet.
"Haldir's training isn't over yet," Father says in that same impassive tone. "Return to your own lessons."
"I finished my tasks early, Chichiue," Hyarantë replies confidently, and not for the first time Haldir wishes that he has the same confidence his brother possesses. He feels one of his brother's hands grip his, supportive and calming. But when he chances a glance all he's met is Father's disapproving gaze.
"Then stay outside and wait for your turn."
Hyarantë offers the patriarch a swift but respectful bow, hand squeezing Haldir's as an act of comfort that isn't lost on anyone. The older twin lets go and before disappearing behind the double wooden doors he offers Haldir a wide, cheerful grin. He responds with a weak smile that vanishes instantly as soon as the doors slid shut.
"Again."
With shaky but renewed determination, the younger Erennor twin steels himself and charges forward once again.
——
He supposes that it includes being tucked in the bed by your mother and father – with the former kissing you good night and wishing for your dreams to be sweet and the latter smiling at you reassuringly as he turns off the light and leaves your bedroom door opened halfway to keep the monsters away. Maybe it's the act of gathering around the table for dinner at the end of a long day, chatting happily about what you've done in school or the friends you've played with. Perhaps it is when you come home from playing with your friends, both knees scraped and tears and snot running down your face as you bawl your eyes out and tell your sympathetic parents that "it hurts, make it go away, please?"
He thinks a lot about it, lists down any potential answers, because he has no friends to ask for answers and even his twin brother ponders about the same thing. They are a pathetic pair, but at least they have each other. They may never know what a proper childhood is, but they're more grateful for having each other's back. He probably will never ask for more, and his brother tells him the exact same thing.
"Again."
Father's voice is cold and monotonous, and though he finds familiarity in it he wishes that a day may come that he will be able to hear warmth and affection in it. But warmth and affection have no place in the training grounds, nor in the hallways or the dining hall or anywhere, for that matter. Warmth is a crutch, more so affection. Weaknesses. Things spies have no use for.
He grips the wooden training sword tight with both hands, ignoring the way the sharp tang of iron coats his tongue. With a quiet huff he rushes forward, training sword poised to stab but Father sees through the terribly transparent attack and quickly catches one of his wrists. He finds himself being effortlessly tossed aside like a rag doll, and before his body hits the floor someone catches him. He and his savior crashes to the ground all the same, and underneath him Hyarantë lets out a frustrated huff.
They help each other back on their feet and stand shoulder to shoulder, one pair of pale blue eyes gazing downward while the other pair meets the unimpressed golden gaze of their Father. Haldir feels Hyarantë shuffle beside him and when he glances at his older twin he sees that the latter is grinning boyishly up at the oldest in the room.
He swallows the lump in his throat and fixes his gaze back to his bare feet.
"Haldir's training isn't over yet," Father says in that same impassive tone. "Return to your own lessons."
"I finished my tasks early, Chichiue," Hyarantë replies confidently, and not for the first time Haldir wishes that he has the same confidence his brother possesses. He feels one of his brother's hands grip his, supportive and calming. But when he chances a glance all he's met is Father's disapproving gaze.
"Then stay outside and wait for your turn."
Hyarantë offers the patriarch a swift but respectful bow, hand squeezing Haldir's as an act of comfort that isn't lost on anyone. The older twin lets go and before disappearing behind the double wooden doors he offers Haldir a wide, cheerful grin. He responds with a weak smile that vanishes instantly as soon as the doors slid shut.
"Again."
With shaky but renewed determination, the younger Erennor twin steels himself and charges forward once again.
——
"You do realize we're allowed to complain, right? I mean, Chie does it all the time and he gets no beating for it!"
He keeps his mouth shut and doesn't bother to reply. Instead he focuses on the sweetness of the konpeitō, feet swinging idly below him as he and Hyarantë sit side by side on the engawa. Haldir is just grateful that all he's gotten out of the swordsmanship training earlier are bruises and a dislocated shoulder. Father hasn't spoken any kind of reprimand with regards to Hyarantë stepping in earlier to help Haldir and while Father's glare continues (and will never cease) to sting, the younger Erennor twin knows that he has been let off easily. Father – and by extension, Mother – favors Hyarantë more than Haldir, so he assumes that scolding Haldir will only lead to the older twin throwing a tantrum.
And being a pain in everyone's collective backside, he adds.
"Did you get your shoulder fixed?" his twin asks, hands digging through the small bowl of candy Haldir is holding. He simply nods, not really in the mood to speak after hours of being deflected and thrown around like he weighs no more than a tiny sack of flour.
He hears Hyarantë sigh dramatically beside him.
"What do you want for our birthday, brother?"
Haldir shrugs and shakes his head once. He has no idea. They are turning seven in three days' time, but the trainings and lessons continue as if the celebration isn't swiftly coming. But then again even birthdays are no exceptions. Perhaps he can consider their education and training his gifts? What does even kids their age get for their birthdays? Do they celebrate it with much fanfare? Do they get a giant cake for it?
Soft chirps strike a melody from one of the trees in the garden before them, and Haldir spots a bird with blue and white plumage. It is a tiny, beautiful thing, and before he registers what he is doing he finds himself lifting a hand and pointing a finger at the creature.
Hyarantë lets out an appreciative "oooh!" as the bird takes flight up to the sky. Two pairs of pale blue eyes watch with childish fascination as the blue bird disappears from their view.
Haldir has read that birds in flight often depict freedom. He blinks, unsure as to why the thought suddenly crosses his mind. He looks down at the bowl of candy and frowns lightly when he sees that almost half of the konpeitō are now on his brother's lap. One small hand tugs at the older twin's sleeve, the other raising the small bowl to Hyarantë's face.
His brother snickers apologetically but doesn't give any indication that he'll give back Haldir's share of candy. Instead, Hyarantë tries his best to scoop up every piece in his equally small hands before hauling himself up on his feet. The younger between the two made no effort to follow, only letting his light but disapproving frown speak for himself.
"I'll get us something cool for our birthday, Haldir," declares the older twin with a bright grin. "So let me have all these, okay? I'll tell Father and Mother that you only ate a few–"
"But I did, and I want more candy," he signs in protest.
"So they'll know we've been good!" Hyarantë reasons, grin morphing into a smile. "Then they'll let us get something cool for our birthday!"
Haldir narrows his eyes at his twin, pondering the pros and cons as he chews on his bottom lip. They're turning seven, and like his brother he wants something cool as a present. Maybe a pet or something. Remembering the blue bird from earlier, the frown on his face disappears and is replaced by a wide-eyed determination. He gets up from his seat with a quiet huff then places the small bowl under Hyarantë's cupped hands. The candies rattle as the older between the two puts them back in the bowl and takes it from Haldir.
Their eyes meet, and, coming to a shared understanding, take their last piece each. Hyarantë's giggling is infectious, and soon enough both boys are laughing as if sharing a private joke only the two of them know.
——
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