Post by Seek on Aug 12, 2012 3:22:35 GMT 10
Title: Dirge
Rating: PG
Team: PD/SS
Prompt: 'What have you known of loss, That makes you different from other men?' -- Gilgamesh
Word Count: 1269 words
Summary: Evening Watch in the Lower City has a tendency to go terribly wrong. They just never thought it would happen to them. Warning: major character death.
-
It was always hard when a Puppy died.
Harder, Mattes thought. It always was. The Dogs always kicked themselves for weeks after, playing the old game: what if. What if they hadn’t split up in pursuit of their rusher? What if they’d waited for back up? What if, what if. What if was a game he’d sat down and listened to the other Dogs play. The Lower City was always dangerous but they were Senior Dogs; they’d curst well survived the worst the Lower City could throw at them, silt, scummer and all.
He’d bought the drinks for those nights at the Mantel and Pullet, shared the costs around with some of the Senior Dogs. Losing a Puppy was always hard, and losing a Senior Dog even more so. They tended to close ranks over the years. Even when the rush of invincibility that youth brought had faded with enough murders and Puppy trim hastily torn off, they’d felt close enough to it.
They were all going to have a drink together in the same eating house, the same old Mantel and Pullet, long after they’d thrown away their blacks. Hendon always said they’d bury him in Dog black but it’d always felt that way to most of them. Veletier was the one with a plan for what she was going to do after she turned in her baton; Mattes wasn’t even sure he could think of life beyond the black. The newly-opened space among them felt even more raw when the Senior Dogs weren’t trying to talk about it and were trying to drink themselves half-blind.
He’d seen Hendon lose his Puppy. He’d—They’d—he’d never been assigned a Puppy. Never had to lose one. Mattes stared at his mug and for the first time, thought he knew why Jans had quit so soon after Haifa had died. Drowned himself at the bottom of an ale cask—and eventually, in his own blood and the piss and scummer of the Cesspool.
It was always hard when a Puppy died. Dogs had broken that way, turned in their baton and said they just couldn’t do it any more. Losing their nerve, the Dogs called it. No one really blamed them for it.
For the first time, Mattes was beginning to think that wasn’t quite right. It felt much harder, losing a partner.
-
The healer had taken one look at him and turned him out of the room altogether. It wasn’t uncommon on a bad night, when the healers were overstretched. “Tend to your cuts,” the kennel healer-in-charge told him brusquely and then closed the door in his face.
Mattes wandered aimlessly, found himself sitting on one of the benches in the kennel courtyard. Time to muster out, time for Night Watch to go about their shift and he stared down at his interlaced fingers.
Light pressure against his forehead.
“Ouch!”
A second person sat by him on the bench; he heard it creak beneath her weight. And then Kebibi Ahuda looked at him, and he could’ve sworn those dark eyes had softened. She was carrying a partly-opened first-aid kit, and she took the damp cloth pad from his forehead.
“Take care of your wounds, Senior Dog Tunstall,” she said. “Understand?”
He remembered a trickle of wet above his eyebrow, hadn’t felt it for a while. Ahuda soaked the cloth in a flask of water—her flask, he realised, and he opened his mouth to tell her he didn’t need it. She just gave him a level glance and Mattes shut up. No one fought with Watch Sergeant Kebibi Ahuda. No one.
No one sane.
She pressed it to the cut that Mattes had forgotten about in the run back to the kennel. Along with the other things he barely remembered doing. Blowing the whistle. Tying up the rushers with the rawhide cords, coming up short, using Clary’s. He could’ve done the knots in his sleep. Dropping the Rats at one of the carts or handing them off to the first Dog on the scene. He couldn’t remember which. The race back to Jane Street, with Clary.
A flare of pain brought his attention back to Ahuda’s ministrations. “Hag rot this,” Ahuda muttered as she deftly applied salves and cleaned out cuts that Mattes swore he hadn’t even remembered getting. He wasn’t supposed to be doing this, of course. He stared back down at his grimy, bloodied hands. Not his hands. He wiped them on his breeches. The blood didn’t even show up as anything other than a damp spot on Dog black.
He was supposed to tend to his wounds as soon as he could. That meant after the fight, that meant…
Too many things to do. He couldn’t remember how he’d done them all.
The door to the healers’ rooms opened. The kennel healer-in-charge stood in the doorway. He looked straight at Mattes.
Mattes was through the doorway before he’d even opened his mouth.
At least they’d cleaned off the blood, he thought and almost laughed himself sick at the thought. His hand froze over the pale, clean sheets. They always used herbs in the healers, to hide the stench of death.
He should’ve been there when they’d failed. He steeled himself, and drew back the covering sheet.
No more blood. They’d cleaned it off. He’d been right about that.
“Go home,” Ahuda said. The gentle grip on his biceps was hers.
Mattes went.
-
Tomlan came to the funeral.
Of course he would have.
They buried her, in the same graveyard that Mattes had come to hate, on a bright summer’s day. Tomlan looked as though he hadn’t slept in days. Mattes thought he might’ve looked the same. Their eyes met, and the man gave him a brief nod.
Dogs spoke for Clary Goodwin. Even Ahuda, who normally spoke briefly of each Dog had much to say about Clary.
Tomlan should’ve hated him. He was supposed to be Clary’s partner. He was supposed to be good for the trust she’d put into him because he was supposed to be there when the killing blow had fallen.
He hadn’t been. He’d been on the other end of the alley, boxed in.
He looked at the coffin, but not inside. He didn’t want to say goodbye. Not this way.
Then it was his turn. “Clary was my partner,” he said. He fumbled for the words, came up empty. They’d never needed words, after a time. Now he couldn’t find them even if he’d wanted to. “And the best partner a Dog could’ve ever asked for.”
And then the words really did choke up his throat so he couldn’t have spoken even if he’d wanted to.
After the funeral, Tomlan stopped him, his eyes red-rimmed. They acknowledged each other in a sort of awkward silence, before the man spoke. “See that you don’t flog yourself over it. My Clary wouldn’t have any of that, now.”
They looked at each other, two halves of Clary’s life. He’d had the Evening Watch, tense nights spent on patrol, the unspoken trust between partners. Tomlan had something else…not something more, just different. A different side of Clary, a different facet of her life.
And now they were both empty. He looked down at his hands, the scabs just beginning to peel away from the angry pink skin. “I’ll try,” he said honestly.
Tomlan’s voice was gruff. “See to it. Best you can do for her.” He walked off. Mattes didn’t follow. Some things he didn’t have a right to. Best left alone.
He didn’t want to see the half-formed tears in the other man’s eyes.
Rating: PG
Team: PD/SS
Prompt: 'What have you known of loss, That makes you different from other men?' -- Gilgamesh
Word Count: 1269 words
Summary: Evening Watch in the Lower City has a tendency to go terribly wrong. They just never thought it would happen to them. Warning: major character death.
-
It was always hard when a Puppy died.
Harder, Mattes thought. It always was. The Dogs always kicked themselves for weeks after, playing the old game: what if. What if they hadn’t split up in pursuit of their rusher? What if they’d waited for back up? What if, what if. What if was a game he’d sat down and listened to the other Dogs play. The Lower City was always dangerous but they were Senior Dogs; they’d curst well survived the worst the Lower City could throw at them, silt, scummer and all.
He’d bought the drinks for those nights at the Mantel and Pullet, shared the costs around with some of the Senior Dogs. Losing a Puppy was always hard, and losing a Senior Dog even more so. They tended to close ranks over the years. Even when the rush of invincibility that youth brought had faded with enough murders and Puppy trim hastily torn off, they’d felt close enough to it.
They were all going to have a drink together in the same eating house, the same old Mantel and Pullet, long after they’d thrown away their blacks. Hendon always said they’d bury him in Dog black but it’d always felt that way to most of them. Veletier was the one with a plan for what she was going to do after she turned in her baton; Mattes wasn’t even sure he could think of life beyond the black. The newly-opened space among them felt even more raw when the Senior Dogs weren’t trying to talk about it and were trying to drink themselves half-blind.
He’d seen Hendon lose his Puppy. He’d—They’d—he’d never been assigned a Puppy. Never had to lose one. Mattes stared at his mug and for the first time, thought he knew why Jans had quit so soon after Haifa had died. Drowned himself at the bottom of an ale cask—and eventually, in his own blood and the piss and scummer of the Cesspool.
It was always hard when a Puppy died. Dogs had broken that way, turned in their baton and said they just couldn’t do it any more. Losing their nerve, the Dogs called it. No one really blamed them for it.
For the first time, Mattes was beginning to think that wasn’t quite right. It felt much harder, losing a partner.
-
The healer had taken one look at him and turned him out of the room altogether. It wasn’t uncommon on a bad night, when the healers were overstretched. “Tend to your cuts,” the kennel healer-in-charge told him brusquely and then closed the door in his face.
Mattes wandered aimlessly, found himself sitting on one of the benches in the kennel courtyard. Time to muster out, time for Night Watch to go about their shift and he stared down at his interlaced fingers.
Light pressure against his forehead.
“Ouch!”
A second person sat by him on the bench; he heard it creak beneath her weight. And then Kebibi Ahuda looked at him, and he could’ve sworn those dark eyes had softened. She was carrying a partly-opened first-aid kit, and she took the damp cloth pad from his forehead.
“Take care of your wounds, Senior Dog Tunstall,” she said. “Understand?”
He remembered a trickle of wet above his eyebrow, hadn’t felt it for a while. Ahuda soaked the cloth in a flask of water—her flask, he realised, and he opened his mouth to tell her he didn’t need it. She just gave him a level glance and Mattes shut up. No one fought with Watch Sergeant Kebibi Ahuda. No one.
No one sane.
She pressed it to the cut that Mattes had forgotten about in the run back to the kennel. Along with the other things he barely remembered doing. Blowing the whistle. Tying up the rushers with the rawhide cords, coming up short, using Clary’s. He could’ve done the knots in his sleep. Dropping the Rats at one of the carts or handing them off to the first Dog on the scene. He couldn’t remember which. The race back to Jane Street, with Clary.
A flare of pain brought his attention back to Ahuda’s ministrations. “Hag rot this,” Ahuda muttered as she deftly applied salves and cleaned out cuts that Mattes swore he hadn’t even remembered getting. He wasn’t supposed to be doing this, of course. He stared back down at his grimy, bloodied hands. Not his hands. He wiped them on his breeches. The blood didn’t even show up as anything other than a damp spot on Dog black.
He was supposed to tend to his wounds as soon as he could. That meant after the fight, that meant…
Too many things to do. He couldn’t remember how he’d done them all.
The door to the healers’ rooms opened. The kennel healer-in-charge stood in the doorway. He looked straight at Mattes.
Mattes was through the doorway before he’d even opened his mouth.
At least they’d cleaned off the blood, he thought and almost laughed himself sick at the thought. His hand froze over the pale, clean sheets. They always used herbs in the healers, to hide the stench of death.
He should’ve been there when they’d failed. He steeled himself, and drew back the covering sheet.
No more blood. They’d cleaned it off. He’d been right about that.
“Go home,” Ahuda said. The gentle grip on his biceps was hers.
Mattes went.
-
Tomlan came to the funeral.
Of course he would have.
They buried her, in the same graveyard that Mattes had come to hate, on a bright summer’s day. Tomlan looked as though he hadn’t slept in days. Mattes thought he might’ve looked the same. Their eyes met, and the man gave him a brief nod.
Dogs spoke for Clary Goodwin. Even Ahuda, who normally spoke briefly of each Dog had much to say about Clary.
Tomlan should’ve hated him. He was supposed to be Clary’s partner. He was supposed to be good for the trust she’d put into him because he was supposed to be there when the killing blow had fallen.
He hadn’t been. He’d been on the other end of the alley, boxed in.
He looked at the coffin, but not inside. He didn’t want to say goodbye. Not this way.
Then it was his turn. “Clary was my partner,” he said. He fumbled for the words, came up empty. They’d never needed words, after a time. Now he couldn’t find them even if he’d wanted to. “And the best partner a Dog could’ve ever asked for.”
And then the words really did choke up his throat so he couldn’t have spoken even if he’d wanted to.
After the funeral, Tomlan stopped him, his eyes red-rimmed. They acknowledged each other in a sort of awkward silence, before the man spoke. “See that you don’t flog yourself over it. My Clary wouldn’t have any of that, now.”
They looked at each other, two halves of Clary’s life. He’d had the Evening Watch, tense nights spent on patrol, the unspoken trust between partners. Tomlan had something else…not something more, just different. A different side of Clary, a different facet of her life.
And now they were both empty. He looked down at his hands, the scabs just beginning to peel away from the angry pink skin. “I’ll try,” he said honestly.
Tomlan’s voice was gruff. “See to it. Best you can do for her.” He walked off. Mattes didn’t follow. Some things he didn’t have a right to. Best left alone.
He didn’t want to see the half-formed tears in the other man’s eyes.