Post by Shhasow on Nov 16, 2010 11:25:38 GMT 10
Tilting at Windmills
Summary: Kel and Wyldon joust. Kel ponders.
Rating: PG
This was the first I wrote in the series, and it sets up the rest of it, so bear with the introspection - it's important.
Thanks to Ankhiale for beta-ing!
Part 4 of 10 (so far)
______________
“Again.”
The voice reverberated through the courtyard, cutting easily through the thick summer air. It was no contest, for the owner had carefully cultivated his voice to be heard on a chaotic battlefield, therefore it boomed in the quiet training yard filled with two knights on horseback and a small collection of onlookers.
Keladry of Mindelan patted her tired mount, hitched up her shield, readied her lance, and the two charged down the field towards each other. After the resulting crash of weapons, she was moderately pleased for she had not taken flight, though it was a near thing, as always. Trotting back, she made sure to stretch out her tired limbs.
“Again.”
It was after the Scanran war that he had taken an active role in her continued training, slipping into a familiar role though with a more personal touch than usual. After all, few pages, squires, or knights received personal attention from Lord Wyldon.
Of course, no one else was crazy enough to accept, even if it had been offered. When she told her former knight-master, Raoul had guffawed and told her that he would pick up the pieces of her, if there were any left.
Frankly, Kel sincerely doubted her continued existence. Three rounds and she already felt pulverized like a piece of meat. Why had she accepted, again?
Not that she wasn’t grateful for the lessons. She was at home in her saddle, peering down the lane at helmeted opponents, even more comfortable than when she wielded her glaive. There was something about tilting, a combination of skill and strength and speed. Everything fit just right. Even if there was always someone better, there was always more to learn, and Lord Wyldon was undisputedly the best.
“Again.”
Keladry had always admired her training master, though his insistence on granting her probationary status her rankled at first. Her inherent sense of justice had railed that entire year, sharpened by the sting of betrayal. He was a trusted, worthy, skilled knight who had upheld the code of chivalry for more years than she had been alive, yet he perpetuated the injustice against her. For a long time, she could not reconcile the two, and her anger only truly subdued when he let her return.
No, that was not true. She had accepted it, but not understood.
True understanding came later.
She, along with everyone at court, had been very surprised when this stiff inflexible man unbent enough to change time-honored traditional training tactics. Surprised, but it earned her respect.
After a close questioning of Sir Raoul, she learned that he himself had never learned tactics and strategy as a page, nor had he heard of it ever being taught. It was untraditional. For all of Neal’s protests and baiting of Sir Wyldon, even he admitted that the training master had unwound slightly, though Neal still insisted that the “Stump” had some nefarious plan that would eventually be revealed.
“Again.”
Still, it was not until her days as a squire that she gave up all vestiges of resentment against the man. It was one thing to learn about warfare and battle, and it was another to actually experience the kraken. Her life depended on her comrades and theirs on her. A weakness in the field in the line of duty spelled disaster for all. As much as she disliked to think it, Sir Wyldon was not unjustified in insisting on a year of trial to see if she could keep up with the boys. If she hadn’t sought out extra exercises from the Shang Wildcat, if she hadn’t weighted all of her weapons, would she be alive now?
His breach of justice, in her mind, was somewhat justified. His ultimate goal was not, as she suspected for so long, to keep her down and send her home, but to ensure the safety of everyone by making sure she was capable, willing to work harder than the boys to remain on an even keel and surpass them.
Kel didn’t like it, but she accepted it.
Nor could she forget that day when she caught him before he left for the Scanran border just after he resigned. He hid it well, his utter broken-heartedness and shame and confusion. The real and likely possibility that he had failed in his duty even for just Joren and Vinson tore him apart. Lord Wyldon was honor; duty guided him in all actions, it was his duty to prepare boys into manhood and knighthood, and something somewhere had gone terribly wrong.
And she never could shake the slight disappointment when he did not offer to participate in the rituals before her Ordeal. He was in the north, of course, and her feeling of being let down surprised her at first, but it made sense. Lord Wyldon had been there from the beginning, he had pushed and bullied her past her failures, had broken her down to build her up stronger and unbreakable, forged by duty for duty.
When Kel realized she was working under him in her first trial as a knight as commander of Haven, she felt an inexplicable warmth of relief even if she hadn’t initially liked the assignment. Well, it was explainable. He was steadfast, brilliant, capable, and he trusted in her abilities, the perfect commander except for his later refusal to let her follow the refugees.
Yet it remained the proudest moment of her life when she stood on the banks of the Vassa, exhausted and injured, anxious and filled with trepidation that she would go to Traitor’s Hill for her desertion. When he covered the distance between them and kissed her forehead tenderly, she had received the only acknowledgement needed, that of the man she wished to emulate for the rest of her life, the ideal of knighthood and the embodiment of the Code.
“Again.”
Keladry did not see him again until a few months after the War. She had continued to serve under him in New Haven, but they rarely communicated outside of reports and the odd meeting at the Fort. Afterwards, they met accidentally in Corus in a strategy meeting for the remnants left over by the war. She was the main voice for the removal and disposal of the refugees, he was one of the senior commanders reporting overall strategy and necessary improvements.
After the meeting, she managed to speak with him for a few minutes, offering her sincere condolences for the death of his wife who, if rumor had it, surprisingly was much beloved by the cold man. He had seemed surprised by her concern and he thanked her sincerely, if distantly. The ravages of grief still lined his face, combating with those from war, making him seem older than his years.
It was during that conversation that he offered to train her in the art of tilting, and in a moment mixed with sympathy, excitement, and madness, she accepted.
At least, it was madness according to Neal, who had never lost his dislike for the training master, nor Wyldon for him.
Kel thought it was rather habit by now for both of them.
She waited for the commanding voice to fill the field, forcing her to charge again though her limbs drooped and her head was both ringing and stuffed with wool. Even tilting against Raoul did not hurt so much. He was a sledgehammer; Wyldon was an unstoppable force, an avalanche, a toppling mountain.
Kel noticed that she was getting tilt-silly again, waxing lyrical over the pain shooting through her entire body. How exactly did her toenails hurt?
Sir Wyldon, on the other hand, looked virtually undisturbed. How
many rounds had it been? Not enough for him apparently, though he sipped from his water almost as greedily as she, though with more composure. Where she swayed in her saddle and stretched out her exhausted limbs, he sat still, unmoved, unaffected, one with the great beast underneath carrying him.
She patted Peachblossom, his coat dark with sweat. He was nearly worn in, his nostrils flaring as he heaved great gasps through his barrel chest.
“Mindelan,” she heard and looked up at Wyldon. “Live lances.”
But that will hurt more – she wanted to cry out. Kel swallowed her misgivings and turned to pick up a lance from a selection, then urged Peachblossom back into the lane.
This reminded her of that old phrase about jousting and windmills and futility. At least, Kel thought it did, but she wasn’t sure of much at the moment.
“Again.”
This charge and impact felt as if all the gods above came down on her, as if the smith god himself was forging her into a weapon, stoking the fires, beating from her any imperfections.
It was probably a more apt metaphor than she realized.
Her lance had shattered after the pass, though she had made his break as well which did give her some tired satisfaction; she turned away to pick up a new one. Out of the corner of her eyes she spotted him loosening up, shaking his arms like she did after every round. So! She did affect him somewhat, but he was too proud to show it.
Was it because she was still a relatively green knight, or because she was the Girl?
Kel allowed herself to scowl for a second then dropped her Yamani mask.
She would show him, Girl or not.
Peachblossom, feeling the new life inside of her, sashayed up to the starting line. He rolled his head to look at her with one dark eye and she nodded to her fierce companion and fellow survivor of many battles. This was just one more battle.
Keladry tucked away her exhausted, her burning muscle, her aching everything. Nothing mattered but Lord Wyldon’s shield, her target. She shouted –
“Again!”
The two knights charged once more but one of them was slightly unsettled, seat not quite secure, poise not perfect.
When they crashed together, one of them flew through the air.
Keladry of Mindelan stared disbelievingly. The onlookers all gasped and ceased their betting and horseplay, immediately silent. Raoul, back from his ride and true to his earlier promise, nearly fainted off his horse.
She dismounted and walked up to the fallen body of the indestructible and unseatable former training master, who was muttering under his breath too low to be heard through the metal of their helmets.
He accepted her helping hand and stood, the two of them nearly eye to eye, though he stood a scant few inches taller. They removed their helmets and revealed his lips twisted into a genuine smile, the largest she had ever seen from him, though had it been on any other man she would have though him merely pleased. Had his eyes always been that warm shade of golden brown? Did she know that he had the slightest hints of dimples?
“Very good, Mindelan. Now do it again.”
“Sir?” Kel gasped and groaned.
“I knew you could, Lady Knight. I knew you were capable, if anyone, and I am confident you can do it again.”
“Not now, sir?”
He barked a short laugh, eyes still dancing in his lit-up face. “No, Mindelan, let me save the rest of my dignity to be destroyed another day. I shall rest on the delusion that it was an accident and will never happen again, at least until next time.”
Struck by thoughts that danced through her head the size and weight of her warhorse, Kel accepted the offered hand. They clasped forearms like old war companions come to a mutual happy understanding.
Even stone can bend.
Summary: Kel and Wyldon joust. Kel ponders.
Rating: PG
This was the first I wrote in the series, and it sets up the rest of it, so bear with the introspection - it's important.
Thanks to Ankhiale for beta-ing!
Part 4 of 10 (so far)
______________
“Again.”
The voice reverberated through the courtyard, cutting easily through the thick summer air. It was no contest, for the owner had carefully cultivated his voice to be heard on a chaotic battlefield, therefore it boomed in the quiet training yard filled with two knights on horseback and a small collection of onlookers.
Keladry of Mindelan patted her tired mount, hitched up her shield, readied her lance, and the two charged down the field towards each other. After the resulting crash of weapons, she was moderately pleased for she had not taken flight, though it was a near thing, as always. Trotting back, she made sure to stretch out her tired limbs.
“Again.”
It was after the Scanran war that he had taken an active role in her continued training, slipping into a familiar role though with a more personal touch than usual. After all, few pages, squires, or knights received personal attention from Lord Wyldon.
Of course, no one else was crazy enough to accept, even if it had been offered. When she told her former knight-master, Raoul had guffawed and told her that he would pick up the pieces of her, if there were any left.
Frankly, Kel sincerely doubted her continued existence. Three rounds and she already felt pulverized like a piece of meat. Why had she accepted, again?
Not that she wasn’t grateful for the lessons. She was at home in her saddle, peering down the lane at helmeted opponents, even more comfortable than when she wielded her glaive. There was something about tilting, a combination of skill and strength and speed. Everything fit just right. Even if there was always someone better, there was always more to learn, and Lord Wyldon was undisputedly the best.
“Again.”
Keladry had always admired her training master, though his insistence on granting her probationary status her rankled at first. Her inherent sense of justice had railed that entire year, sharpened by the sting of betrayal. He was a trusted, worthy, skilled knight who had upheld the code of chivalry for more years than she had been alive, yet he perpetuated the injustice against her. For a long time, she could not reconcile the two, and her anger only truly subdued when he let her return.
No, that was not true. She had accepted it, but not understood.
True understanding came later.
She, along with everyone at court, had been very surprised when this stiff inflexible man unbent enough to change time-honored traditional training tactics. Surprised, but it earned her respect.
After a close questioning of Sir Raoul, she learned that he himself had never learned tactics and strategy as a page, nor had he heard of it ever being taught. It was untraditional. For all of Neal’s protests and baiting of Sir Wyldon, even he admitted that the training master had unwound slightly, though Neal still insisted that the “Stump” had some nefarious plan that would eventually be revealed.
“Again.”
Still, it was not until her days as a squire that she gave up all vestiges of resentment against the man. It was one thing to learn about warfare and battle, and it was another to actually experience the kraken. Her life depended on her comrades and theirs on her. A weakness in the field in the line of duty spelled disaster for all. As much as she disliked to think it, Sir Wyldon was not unjustified in insisting on a year of trial to see if she could keep up with the boys. If she hadn’t sought out extra exercises from the Shang Wildcat, if she hadn’t weighted all of her weapons, would she be alive now?
His breach of justice, in her mind, was somewhat justified. His ultimate goal was not, as she suspected for so long, to keep her down and send her home, but to ensure the safety of everyone by making sure she was capable, willing to work harder than the boys to remain on an even keel and surpass them.
Kel didn’t like it, but she accepted it.
Nor could she forget that day when she caught him before he left for the Scanran border just after he resigned. He hid it well, his utter broken-heartedness and shame and confusion. The real and likely possibility that he had failed in his duty even for just Joren and Vinson tore him apart. Lord Wyldon was honor; duty guided him in all actions, it was his duty to prepare boys into manhood and knighthood, and something somewhere had gone terribly wrong.
And she never could shake the slight disappointment when he did not offer to participate in the rituals before her Ordeal. He was in the north, of course, and her feeling of being let down surprised her at first, but it made sense. Lord Wyldon had been there from the beginning, he had pushed and bullied her past her failures, had broken her down to build her up stronger and unbreakable, forged by duty for duty.
When Kel realized she was working under him in her first trial as a knight as commander of Haven, she felt an inexplicable warmth of relief even if she hadn’t initially liked the assignment. Well, it was explainable. He was steadfast, brilliant, capable, and he trusted in her abilities, the perfect commander except for his later refusal to let her follow the refugees.
Yet it remained the proudest moment of her life when she stood on the banks of the Vassa, exhausted and injured, anxious and filled with trepidation that she would go to Traitor’s Hill for her desertion. When he covered the distance between them and kissed her forehead tenderly, she had received the only acknowledgement needed, that of the man she wished to emulate for the rest of her life, the ideal of knighthood and the embodiment of the Code.
“Again.”
Keladry did not see him again until a few months after the War. She had continued to serve under him in New Haven, but they rarely communicated outside of reports and the odd meeting at the Fort. Afterwards, they met accidentally in Corus in a strategy meeting for the remnants left over by the war. She was the main voice for the removal and disposal of the refugees, he was one of the senior commanders reporting overall strategy and necessary improvements.
After the meeting, she managed to speak with him for a few minutes, offering her sincere condolences for the death of his wife who, if rumor had it, surprisingly was much beloved by the cold man. He had seemed surprised by her concern and he thanked her sincerely, if distantly. The ravages of grief still lined his face, combating with those from war, making him seem older than his years.
It was during that conversation that he offered to train her in the art of tilting, and in a moment mixed with sympathy, excitement, and madness, she accepted.
At least, it was madness according to Neal, who had never lost his dislike for the training master, nor Wyldon for him.
Kel thought it was rather habit by now for both of them.
She waited for the commanding voice to fill the field, forcing her to charge again though her limbs drooped and her head was both ringing and stuffed with wool. Even tilting against Raoul did not hurt so much. He was a sledgehammer; Wyldon was an unstoppable force, an avalanche, a toppling mountain.
Kel noticed that she was getting tilt-silly again, waxing lyrical over the pain shooting through her entire body. How exactly did her toenails hurt?
Sir Wyldon, on the other hand, looked virtually undisturbed. How
many rounds had it been? Not enough for him apparently, though he sipped from his water almost as greedily as she, though with more composure. Where she swayed in her saddle and stretched out her exhausted limbs, he sat still, unmoved, unaffected, one with the great beast underneath carrying him.
She patted Peachblossom, his coat dark with sweat. He was nearly worn in, his nostrils flaring as he heaved great gasps through his barrel chest.
“Mindelan,” she heard and looked up at Wyldon. “Live lances.”
But that will hurt more – she wanted to cry out. Kel swallowed her misgivings and turned to pick up a lance from a selection, then urged Peachblossom back into the lane.
This reminded her of that old phrase about jousting and windmills and futility. At least, Kel thought it did, but she wasn’t sure of much at the moment.
“Again.”
This charge and impact felt as if all the gods above came down on her, as if the smith god himself was forging her into a weapon, stoking the fires, beating from her any imperfections.
It was probably a more apt metaphor than she realized.
Her lance had shattered after the pass, though she had made his break as well which did give her some tired satisfaction; she turned away to pick up a new one. Out of the corner of her eyes she spotted him loosening up, shaking his arms like she did after every round. So! She did affect him somewhat, but he was too proud to show it.
Was it because she was still a relatively green knight, or because she was the Girl?
Kel allowed herself to scowl for a second then dropped her Yamani mask.
She would show him, Girl or not.
Peachblossom, feeling the new life inside of her, sashayed up to the starting line. He rolled his head to look at her with one dark eye and she nodded to her fierce companion and fellow survivor of many battles. This was just one more battle.
Keladry tucked away her exhausted, her burning muscle, her aching everything. Nothing mattered but Lord Wyldon’s shield, her target. She shouted –
“Again!”
The two knights charged once more but one of them was slightly unsettled, seat not quite secure, poise not perfect.
When they crashed together, one of them flew through the air.
Keladry of Mindelan stared disbelievingly. The onlookers all gasped and ceased their betting and horseplay, immediately silent. Raoul, back from his ride and true to his earlier promise, nearly fainted off his horse.
She dismounted and walked up to the fallen body of the indestructible and unseatable former training master, who was muttering under his breath too low to be heard through the metal of their helmets.
He accepted her helping hand and stood, the two of them nearly eye to eye, though he stood a scant few inches taller. They removed their helmets and revealed his lips twisted into a genuine smile, the largest she had ever seen from him, though had it been on any other man she would have though him merely pleased. Had his eyes always been that warm shade of golden brown? Did she know that he had the slightest hints of dimples?
“Very good, Mindelan. Now do it again.”
“Sir?” Kel gasped and groaned.
“I knew you could, Lady Knight. I knew you were capable, if anyone, and I am confident you can do it again.”
“Not now, sir?”
He barked a short laugh, eyes still dancing in his lit-up face. “No, Mindelan, let me save the rest of my dignity to be destroyed another day. I shall rest on the delusion that it was an accident and will never happen again, at least until next time.”
Struck by thoughts that danced through her head the size and weight of her warhorse, Kel accepted the offered hand. They clasped forearms like old war companions come to a mutual happy understanding.
Even stone can bend.