12 Ash, 121
The days began to pass by, finding the typical rhythm Rivin had grown used to as an adult. He rose when he wished, called for food, was allowed out into the inner courtyard during the day to exercise, walk, or just lay out under the sun and soak it in. He would never tan, and yet he didn't seem to burn unless he was stupid enough to fall asleep and spend the majority of the hottest hours in the day star's direct light. His skin's color was a natural part of his heritage, or combined heritage, he imagined. It wasn't something he quite understood, as his mother had been a grey that looked almost purple in some lights, and while he had never seen his father, he had seen Dratori men and they seemed to tan without issue. Rivin was just a pale human-looking color, changing to a more sickly grey when he was trapped inside too long, or a moderately more healthy appearing (for a human) color when he was given as much time in the sun as pleased him. He was healthy either way, but when he looked more human he found that people paid less attention to his horns or the color of his eyes. Not a lot less attention, but some was better than none. If it was late, and dark, and the person speaking to him did not initially notice his horns, they sometimes mistook him for human and the tones in which they spoke were at once only subtly changed and altogether different than the ones used when all his features could be seen clearly.
Dr. Ilex spoken to everyone Rivin had ever seen him speak to in the same way, though his moods and level of emotions changed to fit the situation, his underlying tone said he saw everyone the same. Rivin knew it would not have been something that those in the higher levels of society would have appreciated knowing, and those in the lower would have been only confused, so it wasn't useful to him.
On the third day of his relative freedom, as the doctor had not called for him for either assistance or experimentation, Rivin asked if he could see the library. He wasn't always allowed, and those houses in which he was denied access always made his hands twitch with suppressed desire. All knowledge had the potential to be useful, though the degrees of usefulness varied wildly, but hidden knowledge was always valuable.
He had been caught attempting to get into those libraries several times when he'd been a teenager, and the punishments had not been gentle. He had survived them though, and found that, several times, the fear of them had not been enough to keep his adolescent emotions from mixing with his obsessive desire to know more. Dr. Ilex had never expressed more displeasure with him than he had the first time, or any of the other times he'd been punished at that age. Punishing Rivin when he'd been small had caused the man to show a minor amount of displeasure only, as though punishing the child was, in itself, almost as bad as what had been committed to warrant the act. When he'd been a teenager the punishments, and the displeasure had grown, though not in proportion to each other.
As an adult, Rivin had learned to either curb his rebellious tendencies, or not get caught at them. Almost. There had been a handful of times that Rivin had either been caught or had been compelled to confess his disobedience. They had been even less pleasant than similar times in his youth, as made sense. If the intensity of the chastisement increased with his age, Rivin would soon approach a time when no enticement would be strong enough to risk the damage to his body.
It had been more than a year since Rivin had last been called to submit to being beaten, and he had every intention of increasing that through many more years. There had been... other incidents in which he had been called to submit, but they had not been punishment. No amount of obedience or begging would earn his way out of those, so they were endured. They could be, and so, they would be.
An hour after he had made the request to be allowed into the library, he received back the answer that he could use the library that came with the house but was to keep out of the doctor's study. This was well enough by him and he was escorted to the large room, one wall all windows, the other three all bookshelves. His step was light, almost dance-like as he flitted from one shelf to the next, learning how the books were organized and what subjects were available. By late afternoon he had a good grasp on the contents, mostly science and history, with small sections for fictional literature, geography, and, interestingly archeology.
He found several books that he had been in the middle of when the most recent move had occurred, or previous moves that he had not found at the new house, and sprawled into an overstuffed armchair to get back to them. The guard who was assigned to him settled in for what the man knew would be a long afternoon of boredom for him. This bothered Rivin not at all.
While the majority of his conscious mind dove hard into the book under his hands, before his eyes, a part of his subconscious dug just as hard into the memories of the first time he'd ever been punished, seeking out, as it always did, more understanding. With better understanding came a better ability to prevent damage, and with enough knowledge, came the ability to prevent it altogether.
~~~~
Rivin's mother let him settle into their new life in the room with its two beds before continuing the education she intended him to have. Each time he rose in the middle of the time and attempted to sneak into her bed with her, she would wake and lift him up, and return him to his own. This game lasted for several weeks, by the end of which he could successfully get himself into her bed without waking her, but when she woke in the morning to find him tucked up beside her she would be displeased with him for the rest of the day. The weeks also allowed him to grow enough used to sleeping by himself that he didn't feel the urge to continue to disobey her once he was sure he could get away with it, if he wanted to.
When he had slept in his own bed without attempting to gain his way into her's for several days in a row she had called him to sit on his bed while she sat on hers. The washstand was between the beds and they could both clearly see and reach it. She had removed the pitcher and bowl, placing them on the floor. The surface of the stand was pale wood, and smooth. Dipping her finger into the water his mother had drawn something on the surface of the stand. Rivin had looked but with no idea what she was doing it was just a squiggle to him. She had explained that this was a letter. That letters made up words, that words could be written and seen as well as they could be spoken.
This made a certain amount of sense, inherently. Storing information in a more permanent form, or being able to leave words for someone to find later, or being able to send words farther than one could shout them would be useful. When he asked no questions his mother turned back to the table and explained that the thing she had drawn was one of many letters that could be combined to form all the words that there were. The system seemed clever, but also a bit unbelievable. He asked if the letters were the same for all the languages, and she answered that they were not. Some languages shared letters, others had their own sets. This satisfied him and he allowed her to continue teaching him. She wrote out all the letters in Common onto the surface of the table, telling him their names and the basic sounds they made. She went through them three times, by which time the drawings she had done had dried and were no longer visible. She drew the first letter again, larger, and told him to make one of his own. Rivin dipped a finger into the water pitcher and did his best.
It was like a game, her giving him letters, him attempting to copy them, growing better motor control of his hands, growing knowledge of the letters. Before he had learned to draw them all he was beginning to combine their sounds into words and write the words down. His mother was pleased by this and did not discourage him unless it stopped him from continuing to learn to draw the remaining letters. When he could recreate them all to her satisfaction she began writing out words and having him read them. There were combinations of letters that did not make the same sounds as the letters did alone and those bothered him for a time. He always tried to pronounce each letter as a distinct individual and it was his only real stumbling block as he learned to read.
Later he would learn that the time it had taken him to learn how to read, a little over two months, was astonishingly quick for a child without books or any teaching aids aside from the washbasin table. But, he told himself, he hadn't had anything else to do. If another child had been motivated and this concentrated on the single avenue of learning, it seemed likely they would have pushed through it too.
The days began to pass by, finding the typical rhythm Rivin had grown used to as an adult. He rose when he wished, called for food, was allowed out into the inner courtyard during the day to exercise, walk, or just lay out under the sun and soak it in. He would never tan, and yet he didn't seem to burn unless he was stupid enough to fall asleep and spend the majority of the hottest hours in the day star's direct light. His skin's color was a natural part of his heritage, or combined heritage, he imagined. It wasn't something he quite understood, as his mother had been a grey that looked almost purple in some lights, and while he had never seen his father, he had seen Dratori men and they seemed to tan without issue. Rivin was just a pale human-looking color, changing to a more sickly grey when he was trapped inside too long, or a moderately more healthy appearing (for a human) color when he was given as much time in the sun as pleased him. He was healthy either way, but when he looked more human he found that people paid less attention to his horns or the color of his eyes. Not a lot less attention, but some was better than none. If it was late, and dark, and the person speaking to him did not initially notice his horns, they sometimes mistook him for human and the tones in which they spoke were at once only subtly changed and altogether different than the ones used when all his features could be seen clearly.
Dr. Ilex spoken to everyone Rivin had ever seen him speak to in the same way, though his moods and level of emotions changed to fit the situation, his underlying tone said he saw everyone the same. Rivin knew it would not have been something that those in the higher levels of society would have appreciated knowing, and those in the lower would have been only confused, so it wasn't useful to him.
On the third day of his relative freedom, as the doctor had not called for him for either assistance or experimentation, Rivin asked if he could see the library. He wasn't always allowed, and those houses in which he was denied access always made his hands twitch with suppressed desire. All knowledge had the potential to be useful, though the degrees of usefulness varied wildly, but hidden knowledge was always valuable.
He had been caught attempting to get into those libraries several times when he'd been a teenager, and the punishments had not been gentle. He had survived them though, and found that, several times, the fear of them had not been enough to keep his adolescent emotions from mixing with his obsessive desire to know more. Dr. Ilex had never expressed more displeasure with him than he had the first time, or any of the other times he'd been punished at that age. Punishing Rivin when he'd been small had caused the man to show a minor amount of displeasure only, as though punishing the child was, in itself, almost as bad as what had been committed to warrant the act. When he'd been a teenager the punishments, and the displeasure had grown, though not in proportion to each other.
As an adult, Rivin had learned to either curb his rebellious tendencies, or not get caught at them. Almost. There had been a handful of times that Rivin had either been caught or had been compelled to confess his disobedience. They had been even less pleasant than similar times in his youth, as made sense. If the intensity of the chastisement increased with his age, Rivin would soon approach a time when no enticement would be strong enough to risk the damage to his body.
It had been more than a year since Rivin had last been called to submit to being beaten, and he had every intention of increasing that through many more years. There had been... other incidents in which he had been called to submit, but they had not been punishment. No amount of obedience or begging would earn his way out of those, so they were endured. They could be, and so, they would be.
An hour after he had made the request to be allowed into the library, he received back the answer that he could use the library that came with the house but was to keep out of the doctor's study. This was well enough by him and he was escorted to the large room, one wall all windows, the other three all bookshelves. His step was light, almost dance-like as he flitted from one shelf to the next, learning how the books were organized and what subjects were available. By late afternoon he had a good grasp on the contents, mostly science and history, with small sections for fictional literature, geography, and, interestingly archeology.
He found several books that he had been in the middle of when the most recent move had occurred, or previous moves that he had not found at the new house, and sprawled into an overstuffed armchair to get back to them. The guard who was assigned to him settled in for what the man knew would be a long afternoon of boredom for him. This bothered Rivin not at all.
While the majority of his conscious mind dove hard into the book under his hands, before his eyes, a part of his subconscious dug just as hard into the memories of the first time he'd ever been punished, seeking out, as it always did, more understanding. With better understanding came a better ability to prevent damage, and with enough knowledge, came the ability to prevent it altogether.
~~~~
Rivin's mother let him settle into their new life in the room with its two beds before continuing the education she intended him to have. Each time he rose in the middle of the time and attempted to sneak into her bed with her, she would wake and lift him up, and return him to his own. This game lasted for several weeks, by the end of which he could successfully get himself into her bed without waking her, but when she woke in the morning to find him tucked up beside her she would be displeased with him for the rest of the day. The weeks also allowed him to grow enough used to sleeping by himself that he didn't feel the urge to continue to disobey her once he was sure he could get away with it, if he wanted to.
When he had slept in his own bed without attempting to gain his way into her's for several days in a row she had called him to sit on his bed while she sat on hers. The washstand was between the beds and they could both clearly see and reach it. She had removed the pitcher and bowl, placing them on the floor. The surface of the stand was pale wood, and smooth. Dipping her finger into the water his mother had drawn something on the surface of the stand. Rivin had looked but with no idea what she was doing it was just a squiggle to him. She had explained that this was a letter. That letters made up words, that words could be written and seen as well as they could be spoken.
This made a certain amount of sense, inherently. Storing information in a more permanent form, or being able to leave words for someone to find later, or being able to send words farther than one could shout them would be useful. When he asked no questions his mother turned back to the table and explained that the thing she had drawn was one of many letters that could be combined to form all the words that there were. The system seemed clever, but also a bit unbelievable. He asked if the letters were the same for all the languages, and she answered that they were not. Some languages shared letters, others had their own sets. This satisfied him and he allowed her to continue teaching him. She wrote out all the letters in Common onto the surface of the table, telling him their names and the basic sounds they made. She went through them three times, by which time the drawings she had done had dried and were no longer visible. She drew the first letter again, larger, and told him to make one of his own. Rivin dipped a finger into the water pitcher and did his best.
It was like a game, her giving him letters, him attempting to copy them, growing better motor control of his hands, growing knowledge of the letters. Before he had learned to draw them all he was beginning to combine their sounds into words and write the words down. His mother was pleased by this and did not discourage him unless it stopped him from continuing to learn to draw the remaining letters. When he could recreate them all to her satisfaction she began writing out words and having him read them. There were combinations of letters that did not make the same sounds as the letters did alone and those bothered him for a time. He always tried to pronounce each letter as a distinct individual and it was his only real stumbling block as he learned to read.
Later he would learn that the time it had taken him to learn how to read, a little over two months, was astonishingly quick for a child without books or any teaching aids aside from the washbasin table. But, he told himself, he hadn't had anything else to do. If another child had been motivated and this concentrated on the single avenue of learning, it seemed likely they would have pushed through it too.
