Post by Seek on Aug 12, 2012 4:12:51 GMT 10
Title: Leaves That Are Green
Rating: PG
Team: PD/SS
Prompt: Cold Calling
Word Count: 691 words
Summary: The leaves that are green turn to brown. Mattes and Clary are older, now.
Notes: Not using the prompt as the term ‘cold calling’ would suggest. Rather, think of it as ‘cold, calling’. More a mood piece.
-
The first hint of a sharp winter bite had reached the Corus air. They weren’t making Dog uniforms like they used to, Mattes thought. Almost smiled with grim humour at the thought. You’re getting old, Tunstall. It wasn’t the uniform. It was him.
He knew better than to stop. Walking kept the cold at bay. His legs ached, where even the kennel healers’ best work couldn’t fix them. Going to storm, perhaps. That was what they said in the hills. Old bones know the sky-signs, the actual Hurdik proverb went.
He stretched, trying to work out a kink in his back. “Mother save us,” Clary said, “You’re fidgety today.” Extra edge to her tongue. He glanced at her, saw she was frowning. Wondered if he remembered the tight lines around her mouth.
“You’re in good spirits,” he said lightly.
Clary gave him a don’t-be-a-sarden-looby stare. “It’s curst cold,” she said, quietly. “Word is, it’s going to be a hard winter.” Chases over streets made treacherous with slick ice, piled snow, and the ever-present cold. He’d fallen and broken his legs during just such a winter.
They paused at the street corner. Mattes glanced around them. Browning leaves crackled underfoot, fluttered in the breeze. Hardly a trace of green in Corus now, he thought. All browns and whites and sullen gloomy greys. He felt that way, sometimes. Stretched and wrung out, and wondering if twenty one years walking the Lower City made a man feel that way. If he’d had more than enough.
“Plenty enough winters are hard, these days,” he replied. Nothing brewing down this street, at least. He longed for the end of their Watch, for a good warm supper in the Mantel and Pullet, with mulled wine and to warm his bones by a roaring fire.
Clary was silent for a time. Finally, she said, “Do you ever start to think you’re getting on?” She wasn’t looking at him. She was counting cobblestones, the torches and braziers they passed. Mattes thought of stretching his hands out to warm them, but knew if he stopped, he’d never want to continue his route.
“Yes,” he said. Sometimes, it seemed like it was a lifetime ago that he’d chosen to join the Dogs. Two lifetimes. He’d met Clary a lifetime ago, been assigned to the hard mot with the reputation for being the Dog who ran all her partners ragged. There’d been bets he wouldn’t hit it off with Clary. But they had, and they’d sent all the Rats of the Lower City scurrying into their holes. It’d been back then, when they’d thought they were invincible, and maybe young enough Dogs to believe it.
She walked straighter back then, he thought. Back then, Clary’s stride was focused, purposeful. She’d places to be, things to do, and she wasn’t lightly crossed. She was still Senior Corporal Clary Goodwin, but something had changed in the passing years. It was almost as if he was beginning to discover Senior Corporal Goodwin was a mask Clary knew to slip into.
No less real than the Clary Goodwin Tomlan saw. No more real.
Time was, hints of someone else slipped through. Someone who was beginning to find the heady thrill of the chase had worn off, that mistakes cost, and that older bodies didn’t take abuse and bounce back as quickly.
He saw the pale, winter grey hidden in her eyes, and looked away.
He wondered if it was the cold getting to his bones.
“Well,” Mattes said lightly, “Best tell me if you’re planning on giving up the black. The Rats wouldn’t take well to my walking our route on my own.”
Clary gave him another look. “Believe me, Mattes,” she said, “If I’d had any plans to retire, you’d be the first to know. Now can we get back to what we’re supposed to do?”
The old Clary slipped back, the flash vanished. Mattes just wished neither of them sounded so hollow, so scraped-thin. He made a sound of assent, quickening his stride to match hers. The cold air tugged at his clothing, scraped against his skin.
Best left for another time, he thought.
Rating: PG
Team: PD/SS
Prompt: Cold Calling
Word Count: 691 words
Summary: The leaves that are green turn to brown. Mattes and Clary are older, now.
Notes: Not using the prompt as the term ‘cold calling’ would suggest. Rather, think of it as ‘cold, calling’. More a mood piece.
-
The first hint of a sharp winter bite had reached the Corus air. They weren’t making Dog uniforms like they used to, Mattes thought. Almost smiled with grim humour at the thought. You’re getting old, Tunstall. It wasn’t the uniform. It was him.
He knew better than to stop. Walking kept the cold at bay. His legs ached, where even the kennel healers’ best work couldn’t fix them. Going to storm, perhaps. That was what they said in the hills. Old bones know the sky-signs, the actual Hurdik proverb went.
He stretched, trying to work out a kink in his back. “Mother save us,” Clary said, “You’re fidgety today.” Extra edge to her tongue. He glanced at her, saw she was frowning. Wondered if he remembered the tight lines around her mouth.
“You’re in good spirits,” he said lightly.
Clary gave him a don’t-be-a-sarden-looby stare. “It’s curst cold,” she said, quietly. “Word is, it’s going to be a hard winter.” Chases over streets made treacherous with slick ice, piled snow, and the ever-present cold. He’d fallen and broken his legs during just such a winter.
They paused at the street corner. Mattes glanced around them. Browning leaves crackled underfoot, fluttered in the breeze. Hardly a trace of green in Corus now, he thought. All browns and whites and sullen gloomy greys. He felt that way, sometimes. Stretched and wrung out, and wondering if twenty one years walking the Lower City made a man feel that way. If he’d had more than enough.
“Plenty enough winters are hard, these days,” he replied. Nothing brewing down this street, at least. He longed for the end of their Watch, for a good warm supper in the Mantel and Pullet, with mulled wine and to warm his bones by a roaring fire.
Clary was silent for a time. Finally, she said, “Do you ever start to think you’re getting on?” She wasn’t looking at him. She was counting cobblestones, the torches and braziers they passed. Mattes thought of stretching his hands out to warm them, but knew if he stopped, he’d never want to continue his route.
“Yes,” he said. Sometimes, it seemed like it was a lifetime ago that he’d chosen to join the Dogs. Two lifetimes. He’d met Clary a lifetime ago, been assigned to the hard mot with the reputation for being the Dog who ran all her partners ragged. There’d been bets he wouldn’t hit it off with Clary. But they had, and they’d sent all the Rats of the Lower City scurrying into their holes. It’d been back then, when they’d thought they were invincible, and maybe young enough Dogs to believe it.
She walked straighter back then, he thought. Back then, Clary’s stride was focused, purposeful. She’d places to be, things to do, and she wasn’t lightly crossed. She was still Senior Corporal Clary Goodwin, but something had changed in the passing years. It was almost as if he was beginning to discover Senior Corporal Goodwin was a mask Clary knew to slip into.
No less real than the Clary Goodwin Tomlan saw. No more real.
Time was, hints of someone else slipped through. Someone who was beginning to find the heady thrill of the chase had worn off, that mistakes cost, and that older bodies didn’t take abuse and bounce back as quickly.
He saw the pale, winter grey hidden in her eyes, and looked away.
He wondered if it was the cold getting to his bones.
“Well,” Mattes said lightly, “Best tell me if you’re planning on giving up the black. The Rats wouldn’t take well to my walking our route on my own.”
Clary gave him another look. “Believe me, Mattes,” she said, “If I’d had any plans to retire, you’d be the first to know. Now can we get back to what we’re supposed to do?”
The old Clary slipped back, the flash vanished. Mattes just wished neither of them sounded so hollow, so scraped-thin. He made a sound of assent, quickening his stride to match hers. The cold air tugged at his clothing, scraped against his skin.
Best left for another time, he thought.