Post by wordy on Feb 14, 2011 10:10:08 GMT 10
Title: Things To Come
Rating: G
Word Count: 797
Summary: Good things come to those who wait.
He was sick to death of mud. They’d been marching for days on end, now that Corus was in sight, and though Gareth was one of the lucky few to be riding, he still felt the disheartening fatigue that the enlisted men did.
But now he was coming home. The thought filled him with hope, and apprehension. It was a long time for a person to wait, he knew, yet some foolish part of him still expected—wanted—her to be there.
His feelings became more and more frenzied as they approached the palace, the Conté coat of arms flying proudly on every flag raised on the battlements. A sense of relief seemed to sweep over the marching men at last, some who had never thought to see home again, but still Gareth’s thoughts churned wildly, and he gripped the reins tighter in his gloved hand as they crossed the final bridge.
Eventually, in the midst of men and horses, a squire found him. He left his horse to the care of a lad from the stables, though he regretted not doing the job himself. But his king expected him, and even that was a welcome pretext to keep him from meeting with Roanna. He still needed time to untangle his thoughts—nigh on twenty years was time enough, she would have countered—so he went to meet his king with an occupied mind.
Roald was looking older than Gareth had left him, but his hair was still dark as night. The queen was not present; another miscarriage, he was told, which made him wonder how many other troubles were weighing on his sovereign’s shoulders. Gareth rose, but it was Roald who spoke first.
“You’ve been away for too long,” he said, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair. “What use is a Champion to defend my name when he is too far abroad for me to contact?”
“If you’ll remember, it was you who sent me abroad,” answered Gareth. “And I can defend your name and your kingdom far better with the army than I can at court.” They both knew that there were plenty of vipers dressed in silks at court, but they had had that conversation many times before; Roald liked to keep his enemies close at hand, and was proud of his title as Peacemaker. Nothing Gareth had ever said—or ever could say—would sway him. So it was best not to get involved.
Now Roald examined him with piercing eyes. “Things are changing. I need you at the palace, permanently.” He held up a hand when Gareth would have interrupted. “This is not a request. I need a new training master, and who better than the best of my knights? In turn, you shall train these boys to be the best.”
Gareth’s mouth twisted as he tried to arrange the right words. “Sire, I am no training master – surely, you must know that -”
“Perhaps that is the case. But you will be.” Roald’s look softened. “I need you to do this, Gareth. Be my training master. You will be closer to my side, where I need you. And you will finally be able to marry Roanna.”
That brought Gareth’s head up sharply. Was that all this was – a ploy that would enable him to marry, after all these years? He would have accused his king of matchmaking, but something drew him up short. Roald was called the Peacemaker, yet he was by no means obtuse or the type of man to care for the trivial; he was still a king, and a good one. Gareth sighed.
And so he left his king feeling even more confused than before. Him – training master? The thought was absurd. But he had promised to take the position, and though he could be contrary on occasion, Gareth was still a man of his word.
It was a long time to wait. And though he had never explicitly said—neither one of them had ever put it into words, in truth—Roanna was not worried. So she sat, calmly, and gave her stitches the same careful attention that she always did.
It was a long time to wait. She had watched the army approaching (rows upon rows of men, looking like small toy figurines, every one the same as the other and marching in time) from her window.
Yes, it was a long time to wait. But one hour more—and here she stilled her hands, imagining him walking along the corridors, raking a hand through his thinning hair as he frowned, making his way to her step by step—was nothing at all.
She would wait, until he came to her. One more hour, in exchange for a lifetime, was nothing at all.
Rating: G
Word Count: 797
Summary: Good things come to those who wait.
He was sick to death of mud. They’d been marching for days on end, now that Corus was in sight, and though Gareth was one of the lucky few to be riding, he still felt the disheartening fatigue that the enlisted men did.
But now he was coming home. The thought filled him with hope, and apprehension. It was a long time for a person to wait, he knew, yet some foolish part of him still expected—wanted—her to be there.
His feelings became more and more frenzied as they approached the palace, the Conté coat of arms flying proudly on every flag raised on the battlements. A sense of relief seemed to sweep over the marching men at last, some who had never thought to see home again, but still Gareth’s thoughts churned wildly, and he gripped the reins tighter in his gloved hand as they crossed the final bridge.
Eventually, in the midst of men and horses, a squire found him. He left his horse to the care of a lad from the stables, though he regretted not doing the job himself. But his king expected him, and even that was a welcome pretext to keep him from meeting with Roanna. He still needed time to untangle his thoughts—nigh on twenty years was time enough, she would have countered—so he went to meet his king with an occupied mind.
Roald was looking older than Gareth had left him, but his hair was still dark as night. The queen was not present; another miscarriage, he was told, which made him wonder how many other troubles were weighing on his sovereign’s shoulders. Gareth rose, but it was Roald who spoke first.
“You’ve been away for too long,” he said, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair. “What use is a Champion to defend my name when he is too far abroad for me to contact?”
“If you’ll remember, it was you who sent me abroad,” answered Gareth. “And I can defend your name and your kingdom far better with the army than I can at court.” They both knew that there were plenty of vipers dressed in silks at court, but they had had that conversation many times before; Roald liked to keep his enemies close at hand, and was proud of his title as Peacemaker. Nothing Gareth had ever said—or ever could say—would sway him. So it was best not to get involved.
Now Roald examined him with piercing eyes. “Things are changing. I need you at the palace, permanently.” He held up a hand when Gareth would have interrupted. “This is not a request. I need a new training master, and who better than the best of my knights? In turn, you shall train these boys to be the best.”
Gareth’s mouth twisted as he tried to arrange the right words. “Sire, I am no training master – surely, you must know that -”
“Perhaps that is the case. But you will be.” Roald’s look softened. “I need you to do this, Gareth. Be my training master. You will be closer to my side, where I need you. And you will finally be able to marry Roanna.”
That brought Gareth’s head up sharply. Was that all this was – a ploy that would enable him to marry, after all these years? He would have accused his king of matchmaking, but something drew him up short. Roald was called the Peacemaker, yet he was by no means obtuse or the type of man to care for the trivial; he was still a king, and a good one. Gareth sighed.
And so he left his king feeling even more confused than before. Him – training master? The thought was absurd. But he had promised to take the position, and though he could be contrary on occasion, Gareth was still a man of his word.
***
It was a long time to wait. And though he had never explicitly said—neither one of them had ever put it into words, in truth—Roanna was not worried. So she sat, calmly, and gave her stitches the same careful attention that she always did.
It was a long time to wait. She had watched the army approaching (rows upon rows of men, looking like small toy figurines, every one the same as the other and marching in time) from her window.
Yes, it was a long time to wait. But one hour more—and here she stilled her hands, imagining him walking along the corridors, raking a hand through his thinning hair as he frowned, making his way to her step by step—was nothing at all.
She would wait, until he came to her. One more hour, in exchange for a lifetime, was nothing at all.