Post by Seek on Apr 14, 2016 21:13:00 GMT 10
Title: Rajmuat Heat
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 932 words
Pairing: Lerant/Taybur
Summary (and any warnings): Lerant is a long way away from home.
-
The wind that blows across the Grey Palace—and indeed, Rajmuat itself—this night is hot, bringing with it only the barest hint of seaspray. It doesn’t help, thinks Lerant of Eldorne savagely, as he kicks back the sweat-drenched cotton sheets and wonders what he’s doing so far out here, with the Own somewhere out in the field.
He tries to sleep for a while longer—slaps away ineffectively at the hordes of mosquitoes—and finally gives up and pulls on his boots and, as an afterthought, straps on his sword. The walls of the Grey Palace are only a little cooler than his room, but still, Lerant lets out a quiet sigh of relief as he enters the open space, nodding greeting to the royal guardsmen on watch.
They don’t speak to each other. Lerant likes it that way.
The moon is a sliver of light, tonight: a thin crescent. Above, he can see the river of stars, running through the night sky like a glowing crack, and beyond that, the constellations, some of them slightly different from the ones he’s counted on restless nights on the field. The Weaver is missing; instead, there’s something his Islander hosts call the Jaguar.
Gazing up at the Jaguar, Lerant reflects that the constellation in question looks more like a cross between a housecat and a warrior, than anything. But then, it’s hardly his to gainsay them.
The horde of mosquitoes seems to have followed him out into the night air; Lerant curses as he slaps at another and pulls his hand away to see a splatter of blood. Serves you right, he thinks, viciously. He’s always attracted them: some of the others, like Masbolle, like Volorin—they can walk through an entire midge-infested swamp and come out whistling, untouched. He, though. He attracts them by the dozens.
He is—almost—startled, when the Captain strides over. The man moves quietly, even in boots over worn stone, and Lerant isn’t the only one who almost jumps out of his skin when Taybur Sibigat says, quietly, “Report.”
“Perfectly routine, sir,” says one of the sentries on duty. “Next watch is due to come in—” he gazes briefly at the moon, estimating. “Half an hour more.”
Impassively, Taybur nods and turns to Lerant. “Couldn’t sleep?”
This, Lerant thinks, for no reason, is a man you underestimate at your peril. He cannot quite say what prompted the thought: perhaps it’s the way Taybur stands—confident, his sword angled for easy access. Perhaps it’s the way the moon reveals the sharp line of nose and jaw, shrouds the rest in shadow, plays across planes of hardened muscle. He’s seen only one man that Taybur reminds him of, but there is more laughter in Lord Raoul than there is in Taybur Sibigat, his skin bronzed from the sun, his brown eyes deep like country wells.
He nods, says only, “Too hot.” Slaps, instinctively, at another mosquito. Misses.
Taybur’s lips twitch—just barely—in a smile. “Perhaps we should see to recruiting mosquitoes, just in case.” One of the guardsmen—a woman, Lerant notes, with black feathers woven in her hair—lets out a harsh laugh, much like a caw. “Will you walk with me?”
Lerant considers it. Why the hell not, he thinks, and nods to the man, falling into step beside him. They move on, following the perimetre of the palace walls.
“What brings you to Rajmuat, then?” Taybur asks.
Lerant raises an eyebrow. “You command the Queen’s guards,” he points out, acidly. “I’m sure the spymaster lets you know all about guests, before they even show up.”
“Consider it personal curiosity.”
“How good are you with that sword of yours?” Lerant challenges. Too sharp; too close. He doesn’t like it when they dig.
Taybur’s smile lacks genuine warmth. “Good enough,” he says. “I’m sure a swordsman like you can tell.” You could indeed tell, in a way, Lerant knows. The way an opponent walks; you can measure it, in their grace. In their confidence. But in the end, the only way to really know how good a man is is to stand across a sword’s edge from him; to test him.
He is not sure he wants to go there.
“Consider it personal curiosity,” Lerant says. Just the smallest stab.
Taybur hooks both thumbs in his sword-belt. “Are you interested in finding out?” he challenges. That smile is back: for a moment, Lerant can see what they mean, those whispers of the guardsmen when Taybur isn’t there. The death of his king changed him, they all say, and it isn’t until he sees a flash of what might have been the old Taybur—all charm, the flashy arrogance of the young, but with the skill to back that up—that he realises, with a start, what has been lost when the late King Dunevon was murdered.
He affects loose nonchalance. “What will you give me if I win?” A question that runs deeper, he thinks, than he should have allowed. Than he should have permitted.
Taybur considers that, for a brief moment. “Let’s make a fair game,” he decides. “An answer, for an answer, when you lose.”
“Done,” Lerant snaps. Even though in that moment, they move beneath the shelter of a walkway, and the torch sconces illuminate that strong face, those dark curls, and those traitorous eyes, those weary eyes that are deep brown, like his own, not coal-black.
Like and unlike, Lerant thinks, bitterly.
But something of the heat of Rajmuat is lodged under his skin now; warm, burning, and it won’t go away.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 932 words
Pairing: Lerant/Taybur
Summary (and any warnings): Lerant is a long way away from home.
-
The wind that blows across the Grey Palace—and indeed, Rajmuat itself—this night is hot, bringing with it only the barest hint of seaspray. It doesn’t help, thinks Lerant of Eldorne savagely, as he kicks back the sweat-drenched cotton sheets and wonders what he’s doing so far out here, with the Own somewhere out in the field.
He tries to sleep for a while longer—slaps away ineffectively at the hordes of mosquitoes—and finally gives up and pulls on his boots and, as an afterthought, straps on his sword. The walls of the Grey Palace are only a little cooler than his room, but still, Lerant lets out a quiet sigh of relief as he enters the open space, nodding greeting to the royal guardsmen on watch.
They don’t speak to each other. Lerant likes it that way.
The moon is a sliver of light, tonight: a thin crescent. Above, he can see the river of stars, running through the night sky like a glowing crack, and beyond that, the constellations, some of them slightly different from the ones he’s counted on restless nights on the field. The Weaver is missing; instead, there’s something his Islander hosts call the Jaguar.
Gazing up at the Jaguar, Lerant reflects that the constellation in question looks more like a cross between a housecat and a warrior, than anything. But then, it’s hardly his to gainsay them.
The horde of mosquitoes seems to have followed him out into the night air; Lerant curses as he slaps at another and pulls his hand away to see a splatter of blood. Serves you right, he thinks, viciously. He’s always attracted them: some of the others, like Masbolle, like Volorin—they can walk through an entire midge-infested swamp and come out whistling, untouched. He, though. He attracts them by the dozens.
He is—almost—startled, when the Captain strides over. The man moves quietly, even in boots over worn stone, and Lerant isn’t the only one who almost jumps out of his skin when Taybur Sibigat says, quietly, “Report.”
“Perfectly routine, sir,” says one of the sentries on duty. “Next watch is due to come in—” he gazes briefly at the moon, estimating. “Half an hour more.”
Impassively, Taybur nods and turns to Lerant. “Couldn’t sleep?”
This, Lerant thinks, for no reason, is a man you underestimate at your peril. He cannot quite say what prompted the thought: perhaps it’s the way Taybur stands—confident, his sword angled for easy access. Perhaps it’s the way the moon reveals the sharp line of nose and jaw, shrouds the rest in shadow, plays across planes of hardened muscle. He’s seen only one man that Taybur reminds him of, but there is more laughter in Lord Raoul than there is in Taybur Sibigat, his skin bronzed from the sun, his brown eyes deep like country wells.
He nods, says only, “Too hot.” Slaps, instinctively, at another mosquito. Misses.
Taybur’s lips twitch—just barely—in a smile. “Perhaps we should see to recruiting mosquitoes, just in case.” One of the guardsmen—a woman, Lerant notes, with black feathers woven in her hair—lets out a harsh laugh, much like a caw. “Will you walk with me?”
Lerant considers it. Why the hell not, he thinks, and nods to the man, falling into step beside him. They move on, following the perimetre of the palace walls.
“What brings you to Rajmuat, then?” Taybur asks.
Lerant raises an eyebrow. “You command the Queen’s guards,” he points out, acidly. “I’m sure the spymaster lets you know all about guests, before they even show up.”
“Consider it personal curiosity.”
“How good are you with that sword of yours?” Lerant challenges. Too sharp; too close. He doesn’t like it when they dig.
Taybur’s smile lacks genuine warmth. “Good enough,” he says. “I’m sure a swordsman like you can tell.” You could indeed tell, in a way, Lerant knows. The way an opponent walks; you can measure it, in their grace. In their confidence. But in the end, the only way to really know how good a man is is to stand across a sword’s edge from him; to test him.
He is not sure he wants to go there.
“Consider it personal curiosity,” Lerant says. Just the smallest stab.
Taybur hooks both thumbs in his sword-belt. “Are you interested in finding out?” he challenges. That smile is back: for a moment, Lerant can see what they mean, those whispers of the guardsmen when Taybur isn’t there. The death of his king changed him, they all say, and it isn’t until he sees a flash of what might have been the old Taybur—all charm, the flashy arrogance of the young, but with the skill to back that up—that he realises, with a start, what has been lost when the late King Dunevon was murdered.
He affects loose nonchalance. “What will you give me if I win?” A question that runs deeper, he thinks, than he should have allowed. Than he should have permitted.
Taybur considers that, for a brief moment. “Let’s make a fair game,” he decides. “An answer, for an answer, when you lose.”
“Done,” Lerant snaps. Even though in that moment, they move beneath the shelter of a walkway, and the torch sconces illuminate that strong face, those dark curls, and those traitorous eyes, those weary eyes that are deep brown, like his own, not coal-black.
Like and unlike, Lerant thinks, bitterly.
But something of the heat of Rajmuat is lodged under his skin now; warm, burning, and it won’t go away.
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!