(no subject)
so, occasionally, i feel the need to indulge and write badfluff.
baldwin/balian not-quite-fic. (thanks to jan for beta.)
Light
When he wakes up, it is to a cold room and a coming dawn. The windows are thrown open for the cool desert air to carry away the stench of his disease, and the chill clenches around his lungs, until he coughs hoarsely into the quiet of the morning.
He rises, shakily, and limps to a corner where the walls and curtains shield him from the light. There is a metal basin on the edge of the table, a cotton washcloth folded neatly beside it, and he cautiously eases himself onto a cushioned seat. The dressing around his hands is stained; in the faint light, he can make out the pale, sickly brown of blood diluted with pus, and he winces as he slowly peels the wrappings off open sores, washes, then swathes a new layer of linen around them. In a few silent minutes, he is finished. There are no mirrors to check his appearance - the servants have carefully hidden them, tucked them into dusty nooks and crannies that he will never have the strength to find, and so all he has is the muddied ripples of water reflecting still, silvered perfection.
He lowers his head tiredly, and pushes the basin away.
With halting, jerky steps, he walks into the hallway. The guards, dark and ominous under the tall arches, bow slightly as he passes; the maidservants skitter away into the shadows, almost as if they’re afraid to be seen. Just a distance further - he estimates, twenty shuffling paces - and he steps into the milky glow of a Judean daybreak. Spread out in front of him, illuminated by the watery sun, he sees Balian sparring with another soldier in the dusty, barren courtyard. His strokes are powerful and economical, not always the most agile, but with a surety and steadiness that wears down slowly on his opponent until the other combatant surrenders, sword flung to the ground. Baldwin blinks at the scene, wondering when this man came, and where the young, uncertain boy went.
Balian looks up as he leans against the wall to steady himself, and smiles a clean, sharp delight. He wants to smile back, but manages only a small, wary nod in the general direction of the other man. As he straightens, Balian strides over, an easy loping that brings him to his knees in front of Baldwin.
My Lord, he murmurs, slightly breathless, head bent and deferential.
Baldwin reaches out to place a bandaged hand on the tan cheek, and it is almost fragile as it nudges Balian’s head up to face him. There are dark circles under the other’s eyes, a worry that seeps through his vitality and marks his skin harshly. The politics of court do not suit him.
It is cold out in the open; Baldwin sighs, tired - and he seems always to be weary, these days - before pulling his hand away, careful not to undo the bandages. But Balian grasps at it; there is something dark in his eyes as he cradles palm and fingers gently in both hands, presses his lips against the signet ring, and then brushes his cheek lightly against the back of Baldwin’s hand, until he breathes -
Enough. That is - that is enough.
Balian looks up once more, and his eyes are soft again, neutral and expressionless even in the cruelly transparent morning. He stands, hands leaving Baldwin’s, and gives a short, perfunctory bow.
As Baldwin turns back to the dark corridor, he smells the dryness of summer in the desert air, and he thinks that when he wakes up the next day, it might be a little warmer.
baldwin/balian not-quite-fic. (thanks to jan for beta.)
Light
When he wakes up, it is to a cold room and a coming dawn. The windows are thrown open for the cool desert air to carry away the stench of his disease, and the chill clenches around his lungs, until he coughs hoarsely into the quiet of the morning.
He rises, shakily, and limps to a corner where the walls and curtains shield him from the light. There is a metal basin on the edge of the table, a cotton washcloth folded neatly beside it, and he cautiously eases himself onto a cushioned seat. The dressing around his hands is stained; in the faint light, he can make out the pale, sickly brown of blood diluted with pus, and he winces as he slowly peels the wrappings off open sores, washes, then swathes a new layer of linen around them. In a few silent minutes, he is finished. There are no mirrors to check his appearance - the servants have carefully hidden them, tucked them into dusty nooks and crannies that he will never have the strength to find, and so all he has is the muddied ripples of water reflecting still, silvered perfection.
He lowers his head tiredly, and pushes the basin away.
With halting, jerky steps, he walks into the hallway. The guards, dark and ominous under the tall arches, bow slightly as he passes; the maidservants skitter away into the shadows, almost as if they’re afraid to be seen. Just a distance further - he estimates, twenty shuffling paces - and he steps into the milky glow of a Judean daybreak. Spread out in front of him, illuminated by the watery sun, he sees Balian sparring with another soldier in the dusty, barren courtyard. His strokes are powerful and economical, not always the most agile, but with a surety and steadiness that wears down slowly on his opponent until the other combatant surrenders, sword flung to the ground. Baldwin blinks at the scene, wondering when this man came, and where the young, uncertain boy went.
Balian looks up as he leans against the wall to steady himself, and smiles a clean, sharp delight. He wants to smile back, but manages only a small, wary nod in the general direction of the other man. As he straightens, Balian strides over, an easy loping that brings him to his knees in front of Baldwin.
My Lord, he murmurs, slightly breathless, head bent and deferential.
Baldwin reaches out to place a bandaged hand on the tan cheek, and it is almost fragile as it nudges Balian’s head up to face him. There are dark circles under the other’s eyes, a worry that seeps through his vitality and marks his skin harshly. The politics of court do not suit him.
It is cold out in the open; Baldwin sighs, tired - and he seems always to be weary, these days - before pulling his hand away, careful not to undo the bandages. But Balian grasps at it; there is something dark in his eyes as he cradles palm and fingers gently in both hands, presses his lips against the signet ring, and then brushes his cheek lightly against the back of Baldwin’s hand, until he breathes -
Enough. That is - that is enough.
Balian looks up once more, and his eyes are soft again, neutral and expressionless even in the cruelly transparent morning. He stands, hands leaving Baldwin’s, and gives a short, perfunctory bow.
As Baldwin turns back to the dark corridor, he smells the dryness of summer in the desert air, and he thinks that when he wakes up the next day, it might be a little warmer.