He Sits...

...in his office at Griffin Keep. Staring at a blank page. A similar expression on his face.

'Where's your sense of humour?'

Always that question, and always when someone has done something wrong they expect him to laugh off. It's happened on patrols so many times, back in the keep, in the yard, social events...he gets asked it everywhere. When it's asked to his face, it's always in the same tone - very rarely is someone unaware they've crossed a line, and the attempt at minimising is obvious.

'Where's your sense of humour?'

Where's theirs?

The question isn't sensible, but is the immediate response that always forms on his lips. It would be better to ask where their sense of duty is, or their sense of occasion, or respect, or decency. Any of those. They don't get asked either. The very fact he'd felt the need to ask it of them would mean they'd laugh. The one time he bit the tip and tried it, they did.

But seriously, where is it?

He wasn't always like this. After he had crossed the border, the first thing he had done after crying was to laugh. What he had used to be had come back slowly, as he worked past the nightmare that was Blackgate, and started to regain the sense of humour in which everyone else seemed so interested. Impulsive, quick, intuitive - building camaraderie like he had on the streets of Heusenberg. Building relationships the same way. Authority was nothing - be their friend and you'd be able to call on their loyalty.

It had made him one of the most incompetent, disrespected, ignored and ridiculed patrol commanders in the Barony.

Katrin had made it worse. She had said it - his attempted persecution of her had given her something to push against, and had made it so easy for her to paint him as a figure of stupidity. It had worked.

Jameson had helped. Cut out this and that, he had said. Add in these. Get it right. Keep getting it right. They can't laugh at you if you keep getting it right. It had gotten him commissioned. It had taught him self-respect, where before there had only been self-love.

Lilium had been a revelation. She validates him in ways he didn't even know he needed. She is so bright, so full of life, even waking up after falling asleep face-first on her books. She doesn't judge. She isn't waiting for him to fail. He's safe around her.

And that's it. Safety.

You can't show a sense of humour among those around whom you don't feel safe.

Allowing someone else to not only see your weaknesses, but share them with you, is a massive leap - you're trusting them not to use it against you. Unless that is the case, why show it to them? There are so many who are waiting for him to fall, waiting to call him incompetent. Negligent. Unfit. Any reason to disregard him as irrelevant. Like they had done when he had tried to laugh with them. Why give them any more ammunition than they have already?

Sorry Varog. You caught me at a bad time. On duty.

He realises his face is in his hands, and his eyes are wet. He rubs them dry.

Another one lost. How many more?

Is it worth losing the ones you are losing against keeping those you've already got?

Where's your sense of humour?

He looks around. He alone. No-one outside. No-one waiting for him. He's alone. His eyes close. A breath.

It's locked away, where only those who deserve it can find it.

He opens his eyes, dips his quill, and starts to write his report.