Post by Verasque on May 29, 2009 17:20:26 GMT 10
Title: A not so well-known fact
Rating: PG
Summary: Kings, snot-bubbles and womanly wagers. Jonathan reflects.
Note: This came out of nowhere (well, while I was reading some Merlin fanfiction) and I’m not entirely sure if I like it or not yet.
He was desperate to wipe that smug smirk off her lips, but the ache in his chest and head hindered his movements. Her famous eyes twinkled with amusement at his bed-ridden and helpless state, a sentiment she often displayed when a bad case of the cold made his nose run and his lungs stack with coughs.
It was not well-known that the King sought out his Champion’s healing services rather than the Palace’s Chief Healer's.
And with good reason. He was starting to doubt why that was so as he glared at his now dozing, dribbling friend sprawled ungracefully on his wife’s favourite settee. What kind of healer was this?
While Jon was content to leave his wife and children in Duke Baird’s care, he preferred Alanna’s violet touch to cure all the injuries he sustained. And though the red-head could inflict some serious damage to his person (and his sanity), she always stitched him back up later (and somehow managed to make the recovery process much more difficult than he suspected was normal).
When it came down to it, he trusted no one with his life save for her (and Raoul and Gary—depending on his mood).
So it made sense. She was his sword arm; scarred and strong and troublesome, but meant always to be by his side. Without her, who else wouldwipe his runny nose? defend him and save his life?
“Lady Knight, wake up.”
She sniffed in her sleep and rolled over to face away from him. “Spoilt git,” she mumbled low, though Jon liked to exercise his Kingly rights and be selective in what he heard.
“My nose is running,” he informed her.
“Then run after it.” Her mouth was moving even if her eyes were shut. ”Does being King make you forget that you’re a knight too?”
He breathed out impatiently through his nostrils, but realized too late how unwise that was when a bubble of white liquid bloomed before his very eyes. Gods. It disappeared when he inhaled chokingly and then appeared again obediently when his air supply ran out. “Hurry, Alanna! In case you forgot, the draught you gave me makes me completely numb.”
“I know that. I’m the one who brewed it and paid for the ingredients.”
Finally! he thought, she’s getting up. “The cloth is over th—murrghyaak Alanna!”
“What? I’m wiping your nose!”
“You’re smudging it all over my face!”
Her eyes flashed. “I don’t have to be here wiping your awful nose. You have a wife to do that for you.”
Which was why Alanna was not her. “Thayet is currently holding lunch with the Scanran embass—“
“Will you stop prattling and complaining? I know you’re sick, but you can be more appreciative of what I had to give up to be here playing your serv—“
“—y and I will have nothing disrupt the pea—“
Alanna’s lips were chapped and dry and broke his train of thought (and speech). They were cool against his own and pressed down savagely to block any other words from exiting his mouth. When she lifted her head, she was glowering at him with crimson cheeks.
He opened his mouth, but they only flapped unattractively instead of omitting those strange sounds called human talk. Why? he mouthed rather dumbly. It was definitely not an action becoming of a great King like himself.
She collapsed into Thayet’s chair and narrowed her eyes at him. “Good,” she suddenly declared. “I thought you’d never shut up.” She then frowned in misery when Jon sent her a disbelieving and disapproving look. “Oh dung. That’s another bet Thayet won. Argh!”
As she let out a string of curses about Thayet not needing any more money, Jon looked up at his ceiling and willed his illness to go away. With an effort—he turned on his side and ignored his Champion. She wasn’t his sword arm, he decided rather fiercely (for the time being). She was his donkey—obstinate, offending and altogether a pain in his royal (and numb) behind.
Rating: PG
Summary: Kings, snot-bubbles and womanly wagers. Jonathan reflects.
Note: This came out of nowhere (well, while I was reading some Merlin fanfiction) and I’m not entirely sure if I like it or not yet.
He was desperate to wipe that smug smirk off her lips, but the ache in his chest and head hindered his movements. Her famous eyes twinkled with amusement at his bed-ridden and helpless state, a sentiment she often displayed when a bad case of the cold made his nose run and his lungs stack with coughs.
It was not well-known that the King sought out his Champion’s healing services rather than the Palace’s Chief Healer's.
And with good reason. He was starting to doubt why that was so as he glared at his now dozing, dribbling friend sprawled ungracefully on his wife’s favourite settee. What kind of healer was this?
While Jon was content to leave his wife and children in Duke Baird’s care, he preferred Alanna’s violet touch to cure all the injuries he sustained. And though the red-head could inflict some serious damage to his person (and his sanity), she always stitched him back up later (and somehow managed to make the recovery process much more difficult than he suspected was normal).
When it came down to it, he trusted no one with his life save for her (and Raoul and Gary—depending on his mood).
So it made sense. She was his sword arm; scarred and strong and troublesome, but meant always to be by his side. Without her, who else would
“Lady Knight, wake up.”
She sniffed in her sleep and rolled over to face away from him. “Spoilt git,” she mumbled low, though Jon liked to exercise his Kingly rights and be selective in what he heard.
“My nose is running,” he informed her.
“Then run after it.” Her mouth was moving even if her eyes were shut. ”Does being King make you forget that you’re a knight too?”
He breathed out impatiently through his nostrils, but realized too late how unwise that was when a bubble of white liquid bloomed before his very eyes. Gods. It disappeared when he inhaled chokingly and then appeared again obediently when his air supply ran out. “Hurry, Alanna! In case you forgot, the draught you gave me makes me completely numb.”
“I know that. I’m the one who brewed it and paid for the ingredients.”
Finally! he thought, she’s getting up. “The cloth is over th—murrghyaak Alanna!”
“What? I’m wiping your nose!”
“You’re smudging it all over my face!”
Her eyes flashed. “I don’t have to be here wiping your awful nose. You have a wife to do that for you.”
Which was why Alanna was not her. “Thayet is currently holding lunch with the Scanran embass—“
“Will you stop prattling and complaining? I know you’re sick, but you can be more appreciative of what I had to give up to be here playing your serv—“
“—y and I will have nothing disrupt the pea—“
Alanna’s lips were chapped and dry and broke his train of thought (and speech). They were cool against his own and pressed down savagely to block any other words from exiting his mouth. When she lifted her head, she was glowering at him with crimson cheeks.
He opened his mouth, but they only flapped unattractively instead of omitting those strange sounds called human talk. Why? he mouthed rather dumbly. It was definitely not an action becoming of a great King like himself.
She collapsed into Thayet’s chair and narrowed her eyes at him. “Good,” she suddenly declared. “I thought you’d never shut up.” She then frowned in misery when Jon sent her a disbelieving and disapproving look. “Oh dung. That’s another bet Thayet won. Argh!”
As she let out a string of curses about Thayet not needing any more money, Jon looked up at his ceiling and willed his illness to go away. With an effort—he turned on his side and ignored his Champion. She wasn’t his sword arm, he decided rather fiercely (for the time being). She was his donkey—obstinate, offending and altogether a pain in his royal (and numb) behind.