Happy Birthday Maria!
Aug. 8th, 2006 10:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amari_zHope you are having a wonderful, fantastic day!
Once more I am a loser at the birthday thing, and while you deserve awesome, hot fic, I provide neither. Sorry, my brain isn’t processing the idea of happy (does it ever?), and this is what came out. It’s rather random and, er, unpolished. (It’s the thought that counts, right?ˆˆ;)
Tristan crouched in the dirt by the stable's outer wall, watching Lancelot. The other boy's black temper had sent the rest of the knights scattering, but Tristan had only settled down to watch, unperturbed but careful, as Lancelot stalked about and snarled and cursed.
Lancelot was limping a little, and his face was bone white. Fury had ever been Lancelot's reaction to pain, and he had more than pain to be furious about now. This afternoon they had returned from a skirmish with the woads, which they had survived in spite of their new Roman commander's apparently determined efforts to get them all killed.
No one had died this time, mainly because Lancelot had blatantly disobeyed the Roman's orders. The consequence had been a whipping, which Lancelot had taken with barely a flinch. Lancelot’s dark eyes had fixed on the Roman through the whole thing, until the man's smug smirk had died into uneasiness. If it had not been for Gareth and Dagonet taking hold of Lancelot after he had been untied from the whipping post, Tristan had little doubt that they would have been treated to the sight of the Roman fool’s blood.
Gareth had managed to get Lancelot to sit still long enough to see to his back, but Lancelot had erupted into fury soon thereafter. Gareth had been shoved away, Galehaut had been snarled at, and the rest had known better than to stick around.
Tristan alone had stayed, and he alone would be tolerated. It was not entirely an unrewarding task. Tristan would admit to being somewhat impressed by the depth and breadth of Lancelot's vocabulary. Lancelot had picked up some new things lately. Tristan would be sure to remember them for later.
It was a good half hour before Lancelot began to wind down and the shadows around them had grown long with the retreating sun. The dark shadows lent hollows to Lancelot’s face, giving him the illusion of a maturity that he might not live to reach. The constant motion finally stopped and Lancelot stood still, hands fisted, jaw clenched. His dark tunic had a suspicious darker stain spreading on the back.
“I should go and cut that man’s beating heart from his chest.” The words, the first actually directed at Tristan, were a sign that Lancelot was moving from mindless, animal rage back to merely very, very angry.
“Do you think Romans have hearts?” Tristan asked.
The corner of Lancelot’s lip lifted in a snarl. “We could find out.”
Tristan shrugged. It would be messy and he was not really that curious.
“They dragged us here away from our home and then do not even bother to spend our lives to a purpose. Is this then the might of Rome? That its resources are so infinite that it need not even value them?” Lancelot pronounced the words like each had its own sharp edge. “At this rate none of us will live to see five years of our term served out, much less fifteen.”
Tristan did not bother to answer. He left these types of thoughts to Lancelot. Tristan himself had no expectation of ever seeing home again. He, like all of them, had been cast forth to die in this foreign land. He barely even felt that longing feeling anymore.
Tristan was not surprised when Lancelot abruptly spun and stalked away. He unhurriedly uncoiled from his crouch. There was no need to follow now. The danger that Lancelot would go after their new commander in the rash interest of detaching his life from his body was past.
Squinting briefly up at the darkening sky, Tristan went in search of supper.
As he ate his meal, Tristan endured Gareth's concerned scolding without paying much mind. Tristan had little doubt that Lancelot had slipped out of the fort, but Gareth worried too much. Lancelot would reappear when he was good and ready, and to go after him now was foolish. Tristan was not that type of fool, although Gareth was. Galehaut did not speak, although he watched with wide, distressed eyes. Tristan ignored his gaze. Lancelot had been bleeding, but the whipping had not been that bad--as furious as the Roman had been, he was not quite stupid enough to disable one of his best fighters when there were woads gathering near the Wall.
It sometimes struck Tristan as funny that these two's reactions to Lancelot were so often unproductive. Lancelot was like one of the legendary great cats that had once hunted across the steppe. You left such a creature to lick its wounds in solitude. You did not pet and coddle it. It would rip out your throat for your trouble.
As was his wont, Tristan was up well before dawn the next day. He slipped out of his room, noticing that Dinaden woke briefly, as he always did, when Tristan left. There had once been two other boys who had shared this room, but they had not lived past their first summer in Britain. It was just Tristan and Dinaden now.
He was unsurprised to find Lancelot in the deserted stables, sitting sideways against his horse's stall door. Nor was he surprised by the jug of ale by Lancelot's foot, nor by few leaves tangled in Lancelot's hair. But he was surprised at the odd sounding cheep that seemed to come from Lancelot himself. He gave Lancelot a long, considering glance as he passed, but other than the flicker of one eyelid that told Tristan that he had been noticed, Lancelot did not move. Tristan's horse nickered in greeting, and Tristan produced the apple he had secreted under his tunic. He had turned away to fetch some grain when he heard it again. It was a cheep. Like that a baby chick might make. But the hens were kept on the other side of the fort, well away from the reach of hungry Sarmatian boys.
The third time he heard it, Tristan was already walking toward Lancelot. He crouched in front of the other knight and waited. "What?" Lancelot demanded, tone belligerent, although he did not bother to open his eyes. In addition to the three leaves Tristan counted in Lancelot’s hair, there were a number of small twigs. Tristan blinked at the unruly mass of curls. Lancelot could not somehow have gotten a baby bird lost in there could he? Tristan quickly dismissed the thought as fanciful, and stared hard at Lancelot's face. There was a faint hint of color across Lancelot's cheekbones. Intrigued, Tristan leaned closer. He nearly leaped back in surprise when Lancelot's half laced jerkin seemed to bulge out and writhe about on its own.
Lancelot let out a curse. His eyes snapped open and his long fingers cupped before him just in time to catch a small bundle of fluff that tumbled free of his jerkin. Tristan stared, for a moment truly baffled at the sight. Lancelot looked up to glare at Tristan, but his hands were gentle as he cupped the tiny creature. The fluff ball cocked its head to the side and then seemed to stare straight back at Tristan with fierce, gold eyes. It was a baby hawk. Maybe a few days old.
Tristan said nothing, only looked back as the creature watched him. Sounding very nearly defensive, Lancelot said, "I found him in the forest. He must have fallen out of his nest.” Lancelot shrugged and then winced a little, but he was careful to keep his hands steady. "I should have just left him. He won’t survive anyway." His mouth twisted.
Tristan cupped his own hands and held them out. Lancelot gave him a surprised glance but carefully transferred the chick to Tristan’s hands. Tristan let his thumb brush over the chick's downy fur. The chick did not seem perturbed, only tilting its head the opposite way as it continued to regard him. Staring into the wild thing's fearless eyes, Tristan felt a flare of something. It might have been recognition.
"Her." Tristan corrected absently. She was an ugly thing, really, her head too big for her body, awkward and ungainly, but with her dark beak, already sharply curved, and her fierce eyes, a closer look beyond the downy feathers hinted at the promise of predatory strength.
"What?"
"Her. It's female."
"How can you tell?" But then Lancelot shrugged, and winced again. "Whatever." He rose to his feet, the long, coltish limbs of adolescence barely awkward despite the pain he had to be in. He stood poised for a moment, and Tristan again was reminded of the great felines that legend said had once been the hunting companions of the ancestors, but then Lancelot shifted, and he was only a boy—tired, dirty, hurt, too thin, with hands and feet that were still a little too big for his body.
Lancelot continued to watch the chick, but then his face hardened. "I suppose I should let one of the cats have it. It'll serve some use that way at least."
Tristan did not think before answering. "No.”
Lancelot only looked at Tristan before nodding, but something dark and heavy seemed to lift from his eyes. A moment later, his lips twisted into a familiar smirk. “I’m going. I thought of something last night.”
Tristan’s attention was diverted from the young hawk and he gave Lancelot an interested look. “What are you going to do?”
Lancelot’s smirk widened, and his eyes gleamed unpleasantly. “You’ll see.” Tristan watched him stride out of the stables. Well, he would find out soon enough. He had no doubt that Lancelot would find a way to make the new commander pay dearly. Tristan would have preferred the clean solution of a stray arrow the next time they left the fort, but Lancelot had a twisty brain and he had proved himself quite adequately inventive.
Tristan was jolted out of his thoughts by the feel a sharp pain and, he looked down, startled, to find that the chick had put her sharp beak to use. There was blood welling up on Tristan's thumb. The chick gazed up at him unabashed.
Tristan let a smile break through. This creature had promise. Tristan would make sure that she lived to grow and to fly. And one day, unlike the rest of them, she would fly free.
Once more I am a loser at the birthday thing, and while you deserve awesome, hot fic, I provide neither. Sorry, my brain isn’t processing the idea of happy (does it ever?), and this is what came out. It’s rather random and, er, unpolished. (It’s the thought that counts, right?ˆˆ;)
Tristan crouched in the dirt by the stable's outer wall, watching Lancelot. The other boy's black temper had sent the rest of the knights scattering, but Tristan had only settled down to watch, unperturbed but careful, as Lancelot stalked about and snarled and cursed.
Lancelot was limping a little, and his face was bone white. Fury had ever been Lancelot's reaction to pain, and he had more than pain to be furious about now. This afternoon they had returned from a skirmish with the woads, which they had survived in spite of their new Roman commander's apparently determined efforts to get them all killed.
No one had died this time, mainly because Lancelot had blatantly disobeyed the Roman's orders. The consequence had been a whipping, which Lancelot had taken with barely a flinch. Lancelot’s dark eyes had fixed on the Roman through the whole thing, until the man's smug smirk had died into uneasiness. If it had not been for Gareth and Dagonet taking hold of Lancelot after he had been untied from the whipping post, Tristan had little doubt that they would have been treated to the sight of the Roman fool’s blood.
Gareth had managed to get Lancelot to sit still long enough to see to his back, but Lancelot had erupted into fury soon thereafter. Gareth had been shoved away, Galehaut had been snarled at, and the rest had known better than to stick around.
Tristan alone had stayed, and he alone would be tolerated. It was not entirely an unrewarding task. Tristan would admit to being somewhat impressed by the depth and breadth of Lancelot's vocabulary. Lancelot had picked up some new things lately. Tristan would be sure to remember them for later.
It was a good half hour before Lancelot began to wind down and the shadows around them had grown long with the retreating sun. The dark shadows lent hollows to Lancelot’s face, giving him the illusion of a maturity that he might not live to reach. The constant motion finally stopped and Lancelot stood still, hands fisted, jaw clenched. His dark tunic had a suspicious darker stain spreading on the back.
“I should go and cut that man’s beating heart from his chest.” The words, the first actually directed at Tristan, were a sign that Lancelot was moving from mindless, animal rage back to merely very, very angry.
“Do you think Romans have hearts?” Tristan asked.
The corner of Lancelot’s lip lifted in a snarl. “We could find out.”
Tristan shrugged. It would be messy and he was not really that curious.
“They dragged us here away from our home and then do not even bother to spend our lives to a purpose. Is this then the might of Rome? That its resources are so infinite that it need not even value them?” Lancelot pronounced the words like each had its own sharp edge. “At this rate none of us will live to see five years of our term served out, much less fifteen.”
Tristan did not bother to answer. He left these types of thoughts to Lancelot. Tristan himself had no expectation of ever seeing home again. He, like all of them, had been cast forth to die in this foreign land. He barely even felt that longing feeling anymore.
Tristan was not surprised when Lancelot abruptly spun and stalked away. He unhurriedly uncoiled from his crouch. There was no need to follow now. The danger that Lancelot would go after their new commander in the rash interest of detaching his life from his body was past.
Squinting briefly up at the darkening sky, Tristan went in search of supper.
As he ate his meal, Tristan endured Gareth's concerned scolding without paying much mind. Tristan had little doubt that Lancelot had slipped out of the fort, but Gareth worried too much. Lancelot would reappear when he was good and ready, and to go after him now was foolish. Tristan was not that type of fool, although Gareth was. Galehaut did not speak, although he watched with wide, distressed eyes. Tristan ignored his gaze. Lancelot had been bleeding, but the whipping had not been that bad--as furious as the Roman had been, he was not quite stupid enough to disable one of his best fighters when there were woads gathering near the Wall.
It sometimes struck Tristan as funny that these two's reactions to Lancelot were so often unproductive. Lancelot was like one of the legendary great cats that had once hunted across the steppe. You left such a creature to lick its wounds in solitude. You did not pet and coddle it. It would rip out your throat for your trouble.
As was his wont, Tristan was up well before dawn the next day. He slipped out of his room, noticing that Dinaden woke briefly, as he always did, when Tristan left. There had once been two other boys who had shared this room, but they had not lived past their first summer in Britain. It was just Tristan and Dinaden now.
He was unsurprised to find Lancelot in the deserted stables, sitting sideways against his horse's stall door. Nor was he surprised by the jug of ale by Lancelot's foot, nor by few leaves tangled in Lancelot's hair. But he was surprised at the odd sounding cheep that seemed to come from Lancelot himself. He gave Lancelot a long, considering glance as he passed, but other than the flicker of one eyelid that told Tristan that he had been noticed, Lancelot did not move. Tristan's horse nickered in greeting, and Tristan produced the apple he had secreted under his tunic. He had turned away to fetch some grain when he heard it again. It was a cheep. Like that a baby chick might make. But the hens were kept on the other side of the fort, well away from the reach of hungry Sarmatian boys.
The third time he heard it, Tristan was already walking toward Lancelot. He crouched in front of the other knight and waited. "What?" Lancelot demanded, tone belligerent, although he did not bother to open his eyes. In addition to the three leaves Tristan counted in Lancelot’s hair, there were a number of small twigs. Tristan blinked at the unruly mass of curls. Lancelot could not somehow have gotten a baby bird lost in there could he? Tristan quickly dismissed the thought as fanciful, and stared hard at Lancelot's face. There was a faint hint of color across Lancelot's cheekbones. Intrigued, Tristan leaned closer. He nearly leaped back in surprise when Lancelot's half laced jerkin seemed to bulge out and writhe about on its own.
Lancelot let out a curse. His eyes snapped open and his long fingers cupped before him just in time to catch a small bundle of fluff that tumbled free of his jerkin. Tristan stared, for a moment truly baffled at the sight. Lancelot looked up to glare at Tristan, but his hands were gentle as he cupped the tiny creature. The fluff ball cocked its head to the side and then seemed to stare straight back at Tristan with fierce, gold eyes. It was a baby hawk. Maybe a few days old.
Tristan said nothing, only looked back as the creature watched him. Sounding very nearly defensive, Lancelot said, "I found him in the forest. He must have fallen out of his nest.” Lancelot shrugged and then winced a little, but he was careful to keep his hands steady. "I should have just left him. He won’t survive anyway." His mouth twisted.
Tristan cupped his own hands and held them out. Lancelot gave him a surprised glance but carefully transferred the chick to Tristan’s hands. Tristan let his thumb brush over the chick's downy fur. The chick did not seem perturbed, only tilting its head the opposite way as it continued to regard him. Staring into the wild thing's fearless eyes, Tristan felt a flare of something. It might have been recognition.
"Her." Tristan corrected absently. She was an ugly thing, really, her head too big for her body, awkward and ungainly, but with her dark beak, already sharply curved, and her fierce eyes, a closer look beyond the downy feathers hinted at the promise of predatory strength.
"What?"
"Her. It's female."
"How can you tell?" But then Lancelot shrugged, and winced again. "Whatever." He rose to his feet, the long, coltish limbs of adolescence barely awkward despite the pain he had to be in. He stood poised for a moment, and Tristan again was reminded of the great felines that legend said had once been the hunting companions of the ancestors, but then Lancelot shifted, and he was only a boy—tired, dirty, hurt, too thin, with hands and feet that were still a little too big for his body.
Lancelot continued to watch the chick, but then his face hardened. "I suppose I should let one of the cats have it. It'll serve some use that way at least."
Tristan did not think before answering. "No.”
Lancelot only looked at Tristan before nodding, but something dark and heavy seemed to lift from his eyes. A moment later, his lips twisted into a familiar smirk. “I’m going. I thought of something last night.”
Tristan’s attention was diverted from the young hawk and he gave Lancelot an interested look. “What are you going to do?”
Lancelot’s smirk widened, and his eyes gleamed unpleasantly. “You’ll see.” Tristan watched him stride out of the stables. Well, he would find out soon enough. He had no doubt that Lancelot would find a way to make the new commander pay dearly. Tristan would have preferred the clean solution of a stray arrow the next time they left the fort, but Lancelot had a twisty brain and he had proved himself quite adequately inventive.
Tristan was jolted out of his thoughts by the feel a sharp pain and, he looked down, startled, to find that the chick had put her sharp beak to use. There was blood welling up on Tristan's thumb. The chick gazed up at him unabashed.
Tristan let a smile break through. This creature had promise. Tristan would make sure that she lived to grow and to fly. And one day, unlike the rest of them, she would fly free.
