Post by max on Feb 16, 2010 12:00:41 GMT 10
Cowardice II
Rating: PG
Length: 406
Competitor: Raoul
Round/Fight: 1/C
Summary: What came first, the chicken or the dickhead?
Actually that's just the song I was listening to when I wrote this.
Timeline is probably all un-canonical but I'm going on memory because most of my TP books are all boxed up in the sleepout, Squire among them, so yuh.
=============================
When he is 19 years old and a Tusainian broadsword bites deep into his ribs, miles from any healer, he is given a flask of single malt to ease the pain. Even after they fix his body, after the Tusaine army has long retreated, the pain is still there, somehow, compounded by a horrific fear of thirst.
When Keladry is brought into the field hospital (tent) with the creature lifted from a dead centaur he forbids the administration of spirits while she is waiting for a healer – and is rewarded in the early dawn hours, when her fever breaks.
She sleeps with that perfect untroubled stasis so common in the young – though maybe that’s just because of the healing; her hair trailing (grown an inch since the hunt began) across her pillow in feathery strands, eyes tightly closed, hardly seeming to breathe. When he leans over her, checking for cold air across his cheek, his eyes fix upon her eyelashes, long and curled, and in a moment of whimsy, he wants to touch them.
Lulls in wards are short-lived, though, and in a sudden exhalation there are healers gliding between beds, administering medicants, saying ‘You need rest yourself my lord knight commander’, pulling him away (and for his own good). When he returns to his own bed, though, Flyn follows him.
‘The thing about gossip is that we can’t defend you when it’s true,’ arms folded, furious.
‘What can they say, Flyndan? That I was checking her breathing indecently?’
‘You were.’
His voice remains low, but barely.
‘I thought you realised what kind of a razor’s edge you signed up for when you took her on. I thought – ’
‘Would you rather I didn’t touch her at all?’
Flyn grits his teeth, an audible shift of shadows between his cheekbones and jaw.
‘You can’t treat her like a bottle of cognac, Raoul.’
And whatever protest he’d been about to make melts out of his head.
‘You can’t be seen to touch her in any way that can be construed as inappropriate – you are not a healer. Checking her breathing therefore falls under this category. But tell me – how many people have realised your alcohol problem through your abstinence?’
Recognising silence for defeat, Flyn nods his goodnight, leaves his commander to his own devices.
When third company returns to the palace, he starts her tilting.
If she had been any other person, it would have been enough.
Rating: PG
Length: 406
Competitor: Raoul
Round/Fight: 1/C
Summary: What came first, the chicken or the dickhead?
Actually that's just the song I was listening to when I wrote this.
Timeline is probably all un-canonical but I'm going on memory because most of my TP books are all boxed up in the sleepout, Squire among them, so yuh.
=============================
When he is 19 years old and a Tusainian broadsword bites deep into his ribs, miles from any healer, he is given a flask of single malt to ease the pain. Even after they fix his body, after the Tusaine army has long retreated, the pain is still there, somehow, compounded by a horrific fear of thirst.
When Keladry is brought into the field hospital (tent) with the creature lifted from a dead centaur he forbids the administration of spirits while she is waiting for a healer – and is rewarded in the early dawn hours, when her fever breaks.
She sleeps with that perfect untroubled stasis so common in the young – though maybe that’s just because of the healing; her hair trailing (grown an inch since the hunt began) across her pillow in feathery strands, eyes tightly closed, hardly seeming to breathe. When he leans over her, checking for cold air across his cheek, his eyes fix upon her eyelashes, long and curled, and in a moment of whimsy, he wants to touch them.
Lulls in wards are short-lived, though, and in a sudden exhalation there are healers gliding between beds, administering medicants, saying ‘You need rest yourself my lord knight commander’, pulling him away (and for his own good). When he returns to his own bed, though, Flyn follows him.
‘The thing about gossip is that we can’t defend you when it’s true,’ arms folded, furious.
‘What can they say, Flyndan? That I was checking her breathing indecently?’
‘You were.’
His voice remains low, but barely.
‘I thought you realised what kind of a razor’s edge you signed up for when you took her on. I thought – ’
‘Would you rather I didn’t touch her at all?’
Flyn grits his teeth, an audible shift of shadows between his cheekbones and jaw.
‘You can’t treat her like a bottle of cognac, Raoul.’
And whatever protest he’d been about to make melts out of his head.
‘You can’t be seen to touch her in any way that can be construed as inappropriate – you are not a healer. Checking her breathing therefore falls under this category. But tell me – how many people have realised your alcohol problem through your abstinence?’
Recognising silence for defeat, Flyn nods his goodnight, leaves his commander to his own devices.
When third company returns to the palace, he starts her tilting.
If she had been any other person, it would have been enough.
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!