Post by Alliecat on Jan 11, 2012 15:17:57 GMT 10
Title: Stuck in the In-between
Rating : PG
Word Count: 606
Summary (and any Warnings): George struggles to climb the rungs of the Rogue. Mentions of death.
::::
George turns over, pushing off the man’s body, and spits. As he expects, the saliva runs pink with blood. He shifts his weight, preparing to stand, but before he can do so the gravel bites into his cut palms, making him wince. He rises, spitting once more for good measure, and begins to hobble away. Before he is out of sight, he remembers his knife still stuck in the body.
Amateur.
In this part of the city knives are common, though George doubts that any thief would bypass his Raven Armory knife. George certainly didn’t, not when he saw it dangling loosely from the belt of a lost noble last month. His friends (if they can be called that with such certainty George no longer knows, for in Corus when boys began to grow tall so do their ambitions) had they been here would have mocked him for such stupidity.
“Hey you!” George looks up to see a woman shaking her laundry out the window. “That body’s not going to walk itself off. It’s gonna stink!” He shakes his head and continues walking. Men of the Rogue do not dispose of their own bodies, but instead leave them for the Provost’s Guard. (But late tonight George will return, for this corner of Corus is less patrolled and the body would stink. He will check first to be sure he is alone, for being seen would do his status no favors.)
As George stumbles towards home his leg cramps. He tries to turn his mind off the pain, attempting to figure an excuse for his mother. Maybe it is the pain, maybe it is that no excuse would cover such extensive injuries or maybe it is just the idea that she will know no matter what he says, but he gives up and decides on the usual.
He walks in the door, standing as straight as he can. Sitting at the wooden table, he requests a bowl of water for his wounds. “Would you like to wait for it to warm or will you take it cold?” Eleni asks. He mrphs no and she scolds him for his lack of words, smacking his arm.
“Cold, please,” he says, trying hard to keep his voice light, for it is far harder to hide pain when one actually speaks words.
“So,” Eleni says, “Would you care to explain why you’re stumbling into my house, broken and bruised?”
“I fell,” George says curtly and accepts the bowl. He goes to pull his shirt over his head but pauses, bracing himself. Eleni comes round the table and pulls the shirt off. (A little too hard, he notices. But he doesn’t complain because he knows better.)
“You fell again.” Her tone is flat. “Did you not fall yesterday?”
He shakes his head. “Two days ago.”
“Ahhh,” she sits at the table and gazes at her son. George gulps and begins to scrub harder. Ouch. “You fall a lot, now don’t you dear?”
He mrphs again, then corrects his mistake. “I suppose.”
She holds her gaze a moment longer, then rises. “Clean the bowl and table once you’re done. I’ll have no bloodstains in this house. Goodnight, dear.” George calls his “Goodnight”s (and “I love you”s for good measure). Now alone, or relatively so for Eleni can still hear his grunts, he is free to grimace and investigate the true depth of his cuts.
This is far from fun and a tough price to pay, especially for someone who doesn’t even like killing. But George will continue this path, and eventually fewer blows will land. “And then,” he mutters, “This will sarden stop.”
Rating : PG
Word Count: 606
Summary (and any Warnings): George struggles to climb the rungs of the Rogue. Mentions of death.
::::
George turns over, pushing off the man’s body, and spits. As he expects, the saliva runs pink with blood. He shifts his weight, preparing to stand, but before he can do so the gravel bites into his cut palms, making him wince. He rises, spitting once more for good measure, and begins to hobble away. Before he is out of sight, he remembers his knife still stuck in the body.
Amateur.
In this part of the city knives are common, though George doubts that any thief would bypass his Raven Armory knife. George certainly didn’t, not when he saw it dangling loosely from the belt of a lost noble last month. His friends (if they can be called that with such certainty George no longer knows, for in Corus when boys began to grow tall so do their ambitions) had they been here would have mocked him for such stupidity.
“Hey you!” George looks up to see a woman shaking her laundry out the window. “That body’s not going to walk itself off. It’s gonna stink!” He shakes his head and continues walking. Men of the Rogue do not dispose of their own bodies, but instead leave them for the Provost’s Guard. (But late tonight George will return, for this corner of Corus is less patrolled and the body would stink. He will check first to be sure he is alone, for being seen would do his status no favors.)
As George stumbles towards home his leg cramps. He tries to turn his mind off the pain, attempting to figure an excuse for his mother. Maybe it is the pain, maybe it is that no excuse would cover such extensive injuries or maybe it is just the idea that she will know no matter what he says, but he gives up and decides on the usual.
He walks in the door, standing as straight as he can. Sitting at the wooden table, he requests a bowl of water for his wounds. “Would you like to wait for it to warm or will you take it cold?” Eleni asks. He mrphs no and she scolds him for his lack of words, smacking his arm.
“Cold, please,” he says, trying hard to keep his voice light, for it is far harder to hide pain when one actually speaks words.
“So,” Eleni says, “Would you care to explain why you’re stumbling into my house, broken and bruised?”
“I fell,” George says curtly and accepts the bowl. He goes to pull his shirt over his head but pauses, bracing himself. Eleni comes round the table and pulls the shirt off. (A little too hard, he notices. But he doesn’t complain because he knows better.)
“You fell again.” Her tone is flat. “Did you not fall yesterday?”
He shakes his head. “Two days ago.”
“Ahhh,” she sits at the table and gazes at her son. George gulps and begins to scrub harder. Ouch. “You fall a lot, now don’t you dear?”
He mrphs again, then corrects his mistake. “I suppose.”
She holds her gaze a moment longer, then rises. “Clean the bowl and table once you’re done. I’ll have no bloodstains in this house. Goodnight, dear.” George calls his “Goodnight”s (and “I love you”s for good measure). Now alone, or relatively so for Eleni can still hear his grunts, he is free to grimace and investigate the true depth of his cuts.
This is far from fun and a tough price to pay, especially for someone who doesn’t even like killing. But George will continue this path, and eventually fewer blows will land. “And then,” he mutters, “This will sarden stop.”