Post by figgsthepirate on Jul 30, 2011 0:25:02 GMT 10
Title: Strange Bedfellows
Rating: PG
Prompt: Strange Bedfellows
Summary: Wyldon is never going to forgive Raoul for getting him into this.
....................
Riding with the King’s Own was certainly different from commanding a fort on the Scanran border. Wyldon admitted, with some reluctance, that he’d been looking forward to a few weeks back at Cavall before the king decided to put him somewhere cold, wet, and uncomfortable. He hadn’t seen his wife and daughters in three years, not since he and Jesslaw had ridden back to Corus for the boy’s Ordeal. Vivienne had written many times to keep him up-to-date on the state of the fief as well as the family – he was a grandfather twice over, now, and about to add another son-in-law to the mix if his wife’s intuition was any indication – but it wasn’t the same as being there.
Of course, regardless of his own wishes, the Crown had other plans. Which was why he was stuck here, nearly swimming in mud, trying to ignore the alternating plaintive and accusatory looks of his mare as they worked to pull a broken floodgate from the churned-up riverbank in some obscure town east of the capital.
“Just wait until I get back,” he gritted out, squinting fiercely against the sheeting rain. “Just wait, Goldenlake. This is the last time I do you any favors.”
His aimless muttering was interrupted by the approach of one his – no, Raoul’s – men. The rain and mud had successfully obliterated any indication of rank on the lad’s uniform, but Wyldon would recognize those bright blue eyes and insolent grin anywhere. Why, oh why am I always stuck with a Queenscove? Never mind that it was a Masbolle, actually, but he wasn’t in the mood for specifics.
“Begging your pardon, milord, but the headman says we’d better stop before the weather gets any worse,” the sergeant said, throwing a cursory salute that was only just this side of respectful.
Wyldon eyed the rainfall drumming down around them. “Worse? Pray tell, Sergeant, how could the weather possibly get worse?”
Mithros, but the boy’s grin was a mirror image of Queenscove’s. “I believe the local hedgewitch expects hailstones within the quarter-hour, milord.”
Stifling a colorful curse, Wyldon released the ropes that bound Cavall’s Heart to the floodgate. A half-hour’s worth of work sank back into the mud with a depressing squelch, and the temporary Knight-Commander of the King’s Own led his relieved mare out of the rain to the overflowing stables. It was close quarters for everyone in this godsforsaken town, even the horses.
The inn was no different. After stamping about in front of the common room fire for what seemed like ages, waiting for a bath, Wyldon finally made it to his room. Or, more accurately, the room he was sharing with three sergeants and a corporal. Thankfully three of them were down in the common room, amusing themselves with drink and dice. The fourth – that damnable Queenscove relation – was passed out on the bed.
Wyldon glared daggers at the prone form for a few moments until he realized it would do no good. Giving up, he shucked off his wet clothing and sank into the too-small tub of luke-warm water with a groan. His joints were getting too old for this kind of nonsense. He glared absently at the tops of his knees, jammed almost to his face, before scrabbling for a bar of soap and peeling off the top layer of dirt and grime.
In spite of the less-than-favorable conditions, Wyldon was soon quite lethargic. It took all his energy to lever himself out of the tub – bones creaking and snapping ominously – and dress in somewhat-clean shirt and breeches. He wavered for a moment between the bed and the floor, but the ache in his back won out. Edging to the other side of the bed as much as possible, he laid his head on the pillow and was out like a light.
>>
The darkness of sleep melted away slowly, and Wyldon turned his head slightly to a more comfortable position. It was incredibly warm and soft in the bed, and he didn’t want to have to bother himself enough to move. Unfortunately, a more pressing need than slumber was making itself known as he dozed in a comfortable half-sleep, and it was with great regret that he opened his eyes fully.
He promptly closed them again. Something – someone, rather – was curled very intimately around him. On both sides.
Lifting one eyelid a crack, Wyldon took a closer look. That… that Queenscove relation was tucked sparingly against on side, arm thrown over his commanding officer’s chest. To the other side was a swarthier face – Volorin, wasn’t it? – nestled in the crook of Wyldon’s arm, their legs tangled somewhere at the other end of the bed. Lifting his head slightly, he could make out the entwined forms of the other three men, all slumbering contentedly.
Regarding his own imprisonment, Wyldon scowled and sank back onto the pillow. Nature would have to wait. He’d be damned if he was the one to wake them up, only to find themselves with such strange bedfellows as these.
Rating: PG
Prompt: Strange Bedfellows
Summary: Wyldon is never going to forgive Raoul for getting him into this.
....................
Riding with the King’s Own was certainly different from commanding a fort on the Scanran border. Wyldon admitted, with some reluctance, that he’d been looking forward to a few weeks back at Cavall before the king decided to put him somewhere cold, wet, and uncomfortable. He hadn’t seen his wife and daughters in three years, not since he and Jesslaw had ridden back to Corus for the boy’s Ordeal. Vivienne had written many times to keep him up-to-date on the state of the fief as well as the family – he was a grandfather twice over, now, and about to add another son-in-law to the mix if his wife’s intuition was any indication – but it wasn’t the same as being there.
Of course, regardless of his own wishes, the Crown had other plans. Which was why he was stuck here, nearly swimming in mud, trying to ignore the alternating plaintive and accusatory looks of his mare as they worked to pull a broken floodgate from the churned-up riverbank in some obscure town east of the capital.
“Just wait until I get back,” he gritted out, squinting fiercely against the sheeting rain. “Just wait, Goldenlake. This is the last time I do you any favors.”
His aimless muttering was interrupted by the approach of one his – no, Raoul’s – men. The rain and mud had successfully obliterated any indication of rank on the lad’s uniform, but Wyldon would recognize those bright blue eyes and insolent grin anywhere. Why, oh why am I always stuck with a Queenscove? Never mind that it was a Masbolle, actually, but he wasn’t in the mood for specifics.
“Begging your pardon, milord, but the headman says we’d better stop before the weather gets any worse,” the sergeant said, throwing a cursory salute that was only just this side of respectful.
Wyldon eyed the rainfall drumming down around them. “Worse? Pray tell, Sergeant, how could the weather possibly get worse?”
Mithros, but the boy’s grin was a mirror image of Queenscove’s. “I believe the local hedgewitch expects hailstones within the quarter-hour, milord.”
Stifling a colorful curse, Wyldon released the ropes that bound Cavall’s Heart to the floodgate. A half-hour’s worth of work sank back into the mud with a depressing squelch, and the temporary Knight-Commander of the King’s Own led his relieved mare out of the rain to the overflowing stables. It was close quarters for everyone in this godsforsaken town, even the horses.
The inn was no different. After stamping about in front of the common room fire for what seemed like ages, waiting for a bath, Wyldon finally made it to his room. Or, more accurately, the room he was sharing with three sergeants and a corporal. Thankfully three of them were down in the common room, amusing themselves with drink and dice. The fourth – that damnable Queenscove relation – was passed out on the bed.
Wyldon glared daggers at the prone form for a few moments until he realized it would do no good. Giving up, he shucked off his wet clothing and sank into the too-small tub of luke-warm water with a groan. His joints were getting too old for this kind of nonsense. He glared absently at the tops of his knees, jammed almost to his face, before scrabbling for a bar of soap and peeling off the top layer of dirt and grime.
In spite of the less-than-favorable conditions, Wyldon was soon quite lethargic. It took all his energy to lever himself out of the tub – bones creaking and snapping ominously – and dress in somewhat-clean shirt and breeches. He wavered for a moment between the bed and the floor, but the ache in his back won out. Edging to the other side of the bed as much as possible, he laid his head on the pillow and was out like a light.
>>
The darkness of sleep melted away slowly, and Wyldon turned his head slightly to a more comfortable position. It was incredibly warm and soft in the bed, and he didn’t want to have to bother himself enough to move. Unfortunately, a more pressing need than slumber was making itself known as he dozed in a comfortable half-sleep, and it was with great regret that he opened his eyes fully.
He promptly closed them again. Something – someone, rather – was curled very intimately around him. On both sides.
Lifting one eyelid a crack, Wyldon took a closer look. That… that Queenscove relation was tucked sparingly against on side, arm thrown over his commanding officer’s chest. To the other side was a swarthier face – Volorin, wasn’t it? – nestled in the crook of Wyldon’s arm, their legs tangled somewhere at the other end of the bed. Lifting his head slightly, he could make out the entwined forms of the other three men, all slumbering contentedly.
Regarding his own imprisonment, Wyldon scowled and sank back onto the pillow. Nature would have to wait. He’d be damned if he was the one to wake them up, only to find themselves with such strange bedfellows as these.