Not a Drop to Drink
This year's ficathon is underway at bujold_fic. This is my entry, based on The Curse of Chalion. Written for philomytha, who asked for Cazaril at Gotorget.
Not a Drop to Drink
Two days before Cazaril renounced the Brother, the well in the courtyard at Gotorget collapsed.
It was late, and very cold. Wind was whipping through the battlements, and along all the narrow ways and passages of the castle. Cazaril, having completed his nightly round, and with no sign from the enemy beyond their cheerful fires and the smell of their cooking - the smell of their cooking - took himself off to bed.
He lay awake in the dark, listening to the mocking of the wind. Since he was by no means keen to think back over supper, he began instead to count other ways in which sieges try the soul. Take these long periods of boredom, for example - waiting anxiously for the next assault; going about the day’s routine half-listening for some giveaway sound of sappers; lying awake at night thinking about everything and nothing. If it had been only boredom, Cazaril thought, that would have been better. Any prisoner gets used to the dungeon in time. But this waiting game - this was boredom served up with fear. It was as bad as trying to sleep on a cold night with an empty stomach, a very empty stomach...
Cazaril rolled off his side onto his front, groaned into his pillow, then tried to settle on his other side. Sweet, blessed sleep continued to elude him. After half-an-hour’s twisting and turning, the effort became irrelevant. Someone started hammering on his door.
It was Palli. “Caz,” he called. “There’s trouble.”
Cazaril pressed his face into the pillow for a long moment. Then he heaved a deep quiet sigh, pulled himself together, and swung up from the bed. One day, he thought, he would learn to be more cautious with his prayers. The boredom, after all, was the reward for moments like this. Moments of genuine gut-gnawing terror. As he pulled on his clothes, he called back through the door, trying to keep his voice light, “Would that be real trouble, Palli, or just the everyday kind?”
“Real trouble.”
Cazaril grasped his father’s sword, wearily buckling it on as he made for the door. Given the choice, he would have stopped dragging the thing around months ago, but it seemed to cheer people up, seeing the commander make the effort to go around armed. It was almost as if the sword endowed him with an air of competence. Well, something had to, and if the sword did that particular job so that Cazaril didn’t have worry about it, then he would keep on carrying it along with everything else.
He opened the door. Palli was leaning against the wall, unkempt and frantic. He looked - five gods, he looked close to tears. “It’s the well, Caz. The well.”
***
Cazaril strove to prevent his fright showing as he went down with Palli to the courtyard. The well was the only supply of fresh water within Gotorget’s walls. With no gaps in the fortifications through which an external source like a stream could enter, the fortress was more impregnable. Nor could the well be as easily tampered with. And while they were dependent on it, it had so far been wholly reliable. Lacking food, lacking warmth, lacking any proper gear to continue their fight - it had been the one thing they could always depend on. At least, they would say, as they forced down unspeakable meals, at least there’s water.
Down in the courtyard, the wind was trapped and howling like a demon. A small group of men had gathered around the remains of the well, like mourners. Cazaril rested his hand on his sword, straightened himself up, and went to take a look.
It was not hard to work out what had happened. After seven months, and countless assaults, the whole place was crumbling around them. Any spare material went to shore up the battlements. Nobody had thought - no, Cazaril berated himself, I failed to think - about shoring up the well. It had, after all, been so very reliable. And then came a single windy night, and it had caved in as they had not. He envied the well.
Cazaril stared down into the blackness. He was aware, very aware, that all of the men standing there - Palli included - were looking at him. Looking to see what he would do. He kept on peering into the well until finally he had to admit that he couldn’t actually see anything useful in this light. He rubbed his finger along his nose, slowly, and then he reached out and patted some of the remaining wall - carefully, he hardly wanted to send more of it down there. “Poor old stone,” he said. He even managed to sound affectionate. “Worn out as the rest of us. Well, we’d best shore her up too, hadn’t we?”
Then, in his most measured tone, he began to issue instructions about how they would go about clearing it. But they would start in the morning, he said, when they had enough light again to see properly what had to be done. He dismissed anyone who was not on duty with orders to get a good night’s sleep before work began on the repairs the next day. And then he took himself back off to bed. Palli, walking back with him to his chamber, said, “I don’t know how you do it, Caz. Day after day. How do you not... panic?”
Cazaril couldn’t answer that. He patted Palli on his back, and sent him to his bed. Later, disobeying his own command and lying awake contemplating the darkness, he finally came up with a reply. He did it, he thought, because when people looked at him in fear for their lives, he had to do something. He did it because someone had to carry them. But anyone could do it. He just happened to be there.
***
Two days later, Cazaril was a great deal closer to panicking. The problem was that famished, frightened men made poor labourers. Repairing the well was easily going to take them over than a week, and perhaps even longer. They had some water stored, but if the work dragged on it would be nowhere near enough. And when it was gone? What would they do then? All of them - the men, Palli, Cazaril himself - acquired a new nervous habit, glancing up, all the time, at the sky.
Which stayed stubbornly dry. On the second afternoon after the well collapsed, the sun even came out for an hour or two. Had it been earlier in the week, they would have welcomed the sight, after all the cold grey days. That evening, however, Cazaril forced himself to begin considering that on top of everything else, they might have to contend with thirst. It was too cruel to contemplate. In despair, he went up on the walls, renounced his god, and when his futile rage and wasteful tears were all gone, he pulled himself up, dusted himself down, and waited - empty and silent - for the change of watch.
But the rain came first. Cazaril, feeling a few wet spots on his face, assumed at first that they were more tears. And then, from down below, he heard a ragged cheer. It had to be the most heartening sound he had heard in months. He sat, exhausted, with his head in his hands, and all the while the rain got steadily heavier. He heard Palli shouting, rousing everyone up from their beds to drag out cisterns, pitchers, containers, anything they could lay their hands on in which they could collect rain water. When the watch changed, Cazaril went down to help. They all got drenched, but everyone was in high spirits. Which was lucky, since Cazaril was drained dry. He could not have carried a single one of them, that night. His soul was parched.
Later - it was still raining, hard - Cazaril overheard several of the men offering up their prayers of thanks. After his display on the walls, Cazaril no longer knew who to thank. So he didn’t thank anyone. But the Lady of Spring had been listening to Cazaril as he cried out from the depths. She had listened to him, her new servant, listened well, and was set on making good his lack. Soon Cazaril would be blessed with a whole ocean of water. He did indeed need to learn caution, in his prayers.
Not a Drop to Drink
Two days before Cazaril renounced the Brother, the well in the courtyard at Gotorget collapsed.
It was late, and very cold. Wind was whipping through the battlements, and along all the narrow ways and passages of the castle. Cazaril, having completed his nightly round, and with no sign from the enemy beyond their cheerful fires and the smell of their cooking - the smell of their cooking - took himself off to bed.
He lay awake in the dark, listening to the mocking of the wind. Since he was by no means keen to think back over supper, he began instead to count other ways in which sieges try the soul. Take these long periods of boredom, for example - waiting anxiously for the next assault; going about the day’s routine half-listening for some giveaway sound of sappers; lying awake at night thinking about everything and nothing. If it had been only boredom, Cazaril thought, that would have been better. Any prisoner gets used to the dungeon in time. But this waiting game - this was boredom served up with fear. It was as bad as trying to sleep on a cold night with an empty stomach, a very empty stomach...
Cazaril rolled off his side onto his front, groaned into his pillow, then tried to settle on his other side. Sweet, blessed sleep continued to elude him. After half-an-hour’s twisting and turning, the effort became irrelevant. Someone started hammering on his door.
It was Palli. “Caz,” he called. “There’s trouble.”
Cazaril pressed his face into the pillow for a long moment. Then he heaved a deep quiet sigh, pulled himself together, and swung up from the bed. One day, he thought, he would learn to be more cautious with his prayers. The boredom, after all, was the reward for moments like this. Moments of genuine gut-gnawing terror. As he pulled on his clothes, he called back through the door, trying to keep his voice light, “Would that be real trouble, Palli, or just the everyday kind?”
“Real trouble.”
Cazaril grasped his father’s sword, wearily buckling it on as he made for the door. Given the choice, he would have stopped dragging the thing around months ago, but it seemed to cheer people up, seeing the commander make the effort to go around armed. It was almost as if the sword endowed him with an air of competence. Well, something had to, and if the sword did that particular job so that Cazaril didn’t have worry about it, then he would keep on carrying it along with everything else.
He opened the door. Palli was leaning against the wall, unkempt and frantic. He looked - five gods, he looked close to tears. “It’s the well, Caz. The well.”
***
Cazaril strove to prevent his fright showing as he went down with Palli to the courtyard. The well was the only supply of fresh water within Gotorget’s walls. With no gaps in the fortifications through which an external source like a stream could enter, the fortress was more impregnable. Nor could the well be as easily tampered with. And while they were dependent on it, it had so far been wholly reliable. Lacking food, lacking warmth, lacking any proper gear to continue their fight - it had been the one thing they could always depend on. At least, they would say, as they forced down unspeakable meals, at least there’s water.
Down in the courtyard, the wind was trapped and howling like a demon. A small group of men had gathered around the remains of the well, like mourners. Cazaril rested his hand on his sword, straightened himself up, and went to take a look.
It was not hard to work out what had happened. After seven months, and countless assaults, the whole place was crumbling around them. Any spare material went to shore up the battlements. Nobody had thought - no, Cazaril berated himself, I failed to think - about shoring up the well. It had, after all, been so very reliable. And then came a single windy night, and it had caved in as they had not. He envied the well.
Cazaril stared down into the blackness. He was aware, very aware, that all of the men standing there - Palli included - were looking at him. Looking to see what he would do. He kept on peering into the well until finally he had to admit that he couldn’t actually see anything useful in this light. He rubbed his finger along his nose, slowly, and then he reached out and patted some of the remaining wall - carefully, he hardly wanted to send more of it down there. “Poor old stone,” he said. He even managed to sound affectionate. “Worn out as the rest of us. Well, we’d best shore her up too, hadn’t we?”
Then, in his most measured tone, he began to issue instructions about how they would go about clearing it. But they would start in the morning, he said, when they had enough light again to see properly what had to be done. He dismissed anyone who was not on duty with orders to get a good night’s sleep before work began on the repairs the next day. And then he took himself back off to bed. Palli, walking back with him to his chamber, said, “I don’t know how you do it, Caz. Day after day. How do you not... panic?”
Cazaril couldn’t answer that. He patted Palli on his back, and sent him to his bed. Later, disobeying his own command and lying awake contemplating the darkness, he finally came up with a reply. He did it, he thought, because when people looked at him in fear for their lives, he had to do something. He did it because someone had to carry them. But anyone could do it. He just happened to be there.
***
Two days later, Cazaril was a great deal closer to panicking. The problem was that famished, frightened men made poor labourers. Repairing the well was easily going to take them over than a week, and perhaps even longer. They had some water stored, but if the work dragged on it would be nowhere near enough. And when it was gone? What would they do then? All of them - the men, Palli, Cazaril himself - acquired a new nervous habit, glancing up, all the time, at the sky.
Which stayed stubbornly dry. On the second afternoon after the well collapsed, the sun even came out for an hour or two. Had it been earlier in the week, they would have welcomed the sight, after all the cold grey days. That evening, however, Cazaril forced himself to begin considering that on top of everything else, they might have to contend with thirst. It was too cruel to contemplate. In despair, he went up on the walls, renounced his god, and when his futile rage and wasteful tears were all gone, he pulled himself up, dusted himself down, and waited - empty and silent - for the change of watch.
But the rain came first. Cazaril, feeling a few wet spots on his face, assumed at first that they were more tears. And then, from down below, he heard a ragged cheer. It had to be the most heartening sound he had heard in months. He sat, exhausted, with his head in his hands, and all the while the rain got steadily heavier. He heard Palli shouting, rousing everyone up from their beds to drag out cisterns, pitchers, containers, anything they could lay their hands on in which they could collect rain water. When the watch changed, Cazaril went down to help. They all got drenched, but everyone was in high spirits. Which was lucky, since Cazaril was drained dry. He could not have carried a single one of them, that night. His soul was parched.
Later - it was still raining, hard - Cazaril overheard several of the men offering up their prayers of thanks. After his display on the walls, Cazaril no longer knew who to thank. So he didn’t thank anyone. But the Lady of Spring had been listening to Cazaril as he cried out from the depths. She had listened to him, her new servant, listened well, and was set on making good his lack. Soon Cazaril would be blessed with a whole ocean of water. He did indeed need to learn caution, in his prayers.