Post by Seek on Oct 27, 2011 19:45:00 GMT 10
Title: Old Bones
Rating: G
Prompt: #53 Crooked Hearts
Summary: Gershom has a job for Mattes. Set some time before Mastiff. Spoilers for Mastiff.
-
His bones are aching where he's broken his legs at least three times. Sometimes, he envies the Yamani roses in his little garden. It is easy for them; winter-death does not linger when the killing cold sets in. He threw the blighted roses out this morning. Hasn't thought about replacing them yet.
Gershom clears his throat. "M'lord," Mattes says. He'd stand up, but Lord Gershom waves him down.
"They are moving."
Mattes nods. "So I've heard."
"Nothing-- nothing leaves this room, Tunstall. I have your word?" Urgency.
"You do."
A grim smile touches Lord Gershom's lips. He is wrought of iron. Something about him that is more in touch with the common Dogs than the nobility of his station. "Good," the Lord Provost says. "I've got a Hunt for you."
Mattes blinks. "Without Beka."
"Too dangerous," Gershom says, briskly. "It'll take a long time before anyone forgets Port Caynn. When they make their move, they'll see to having an eye on the best of the Dogs." His eyes flick from the candle to Mattes.
"And I'm her partner."
Gershom nods. "Have you seen Beka try to play a loose Dog?" Mattes barely chokes his own chuckle. "This Hunt will be long, and dangerous. I don't need a loose Dog. I need a crooked Dog."
Mattes wonders if he should have handed in his resignation early. Nods, understanding what Lord Gershom is getting at. They'll spot him as the weakest link. Common Dog, offer him riches, wealth...a chance to marry above his station...
"There won't be a writ," Gershom says. A note of warning enters his voice. "Not from me. Not from the king."
Ferret work. That kind of dangerous, then. Mattes finds his voice. "I'll do it." A dangerous game, Hunting Rats from the inside. The longer he does it, the more it'll mess with him.
The tight line of the Lord Provost's shoulders relaxes. "Good. Not a word, Tunstall. I'll make the arrangements." He stands up to leave.
"Tisane, m'lord?"
Lord Gershom shakes his head. Tight lines on his forehead. "No, thank you." He is as quiet on his feet as a cat, shutting the door behind him. Mattes stares at the cold tin cup of tisane. Too cold, he thinks ruefully. Too old. His bones ache, in the winter chill, and the unmarked grave where his roses lie calls out.
He won't get new roses, then. In the winter, everything is old, and aching. Everything is tired and ready to die.
Rating: G
Prompt: #53 Crooked Hearts
Summary: Gershom has a job for Mattes. Set some time before Mastiff. Spoilers for Mastiff.
-
His bones are aching where he's broken his legs at least three times. Sometimes, he envies the Yamani roses in his little garden. It is easy for them; winter-death does not linger when the killing cold sets in. He threw the blighted roses out this morning. Hasn't thought about replacing them yet.
Gershom clears his throat. "M'lord," Mattes says. He'd stand up, but Lord Gershom waves him down.
"They are moving."
Mattes nods. "So I've heard."
"Nothing-- nothing leaves this room, Tunstall. I have your word?" Urgency.
"You do."
A grim smile touches Lord Gershom's lips. He is wrought of iron. Something about him that is more in touch with the common Dogs than the nobility of his station. "Good," the Lord Provost says. "I've got a Hunt for you."
Mattes blinks. "Without Beka."
"Too dangerous," Gershom says, briskly. "It'll take a long time before anyone forgets Port Caynn. When they make their move, they'll see to having an eye on the best of the Dogs." His eyes flick from the candle to Mattes.
"And I'm her partner."
Gershom nods. "Have you seen Beka try to play a loose Dog?" Mattes barely chokes his own chuckle. "This Hunt will be long, and dangerous. I don't need a loose Dog. I need a crooked Dog."
Mattes wonders if he should have handed in his resignation early. Nods, understanding what Lord Gershom is getting at. They'll spot him as the weakest link. Common Dog, offer him riches, wealth...a chance to marry above his station...
"There won't be a writ," Gershom says. A note of warning enters his voice. "Not from me. Not from the king."
Ferret work. That kind of dangerous, then. Mattes finds his voice. "I'll do it." A dangerous game, Hunting Rats from the inside. The longer he does it, the more it'll mess with him.
The tight line of the Lord Provost's shoulders relaxes. "Good. Not a word, Tunstall. I'll make the arrangements." He stands up to leave.
"Tisane, m'lord?"
Lord Gershom shakes his head. Tight lines on his forehead. "No, thank you." He is as quiet on his feet as a cat, shutting the door behind him. Mattes stares at the cold tin cup of tisane. Too cold, he thinks ruefully. Too old. His bones ache, in the winter chill, and the unmarked grave where his roses lie calls out.
He won't get new roses, then. In the winter, everything is old, and aching. Everything is tired and ready to die.
;D
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!