Burn (Barlyle) (COMPLETE)

18

Phillip stormed into the backstage tent, tears wettening his cheeks, hands stained in ink. Charles stared after him.

"What's the matter with you?"

Phillip didn't hear him.

Phillip didn't hear anything.

"I wanted to give you this."

A small box was passed to the young man. He stared at the giver of the gift, who met his gaze with cold, hard eyes.

"Well?" the giver snapped.

Throat suddenly dry, Phillip took the gift and unwrapped it as if dealing with fine china. He removed the pen from its box and stared down at it.

"For your...writing. You better not disappoint us, Phillip."

"N-No, sir." He cleared his throat. "Thank you, sir."

Phillip wanted to cry, but he didn't dare risk being whipped again.

"It's just a pen," the giver spat after a moment of silence, "but an expensive one. Don't you break or lose it, you hear? Or there'll be hell to pay."

It may have been just an expensive pen, one that would probably run out of ink sooner rather than later, but Phillip Carlyle had never received a gift in his life. He forced himself to swallow a lump in his throat and nodded, looking up into the giver's eyes. Cold stones stared back at him.

"Thank you, Father."