continuing with the Lymond snippets
This Lymond Chronicles kick got started because I was looking for a notebook in which to work out some plot ideas for Staring at the Sun, and found some old drafts of my Lymond story. This one almost directly follows yesterday's post. I'd call this story a blatant example of what I guess you'd call Lymond!Torture; but the notion of Lymond!Torture is canon, so what the hell? I doubt anything I do to him could be any worse than what happens in Dunnett's novels.
I realize my Lymondfic style is somewhat akin to A Knight's Tale - earnest but anachronistic. I apologize. I just don't have the patience to try and replicate Dunnett's prose.
Northern England 1563
Richard sat up, gently shifted Katie from his lap to the floor. Kuzum's eyes were bright in the dim light of the cell. Two guards emerged from the darkness of the passageway, a third figure held between them. Once inside the doorway they shoved their captive to the floor and exited, laughing.
"Daddy!" Katie cried and started toward the figure sprawled on the stone floor. Richard scooped her up before she could reach her target and turned to his nephew.
"Mind your sister." Kuzum nodded, his eyes huge; he might believe himself no relation to the Culters but he wasn't ready to let go of the little girl who adored him.
Francis had rolled onto his side and was attempting to lift himself, hindered by a bone deep shaking. Richard caught him under the arms and hauled him upright. His brother reeked of wine. His eyes were wildly dilated and refused to focus on Richard's face.
"Francis." His head lolled back drunkenly, so Richard shook him. "Francis, what happened?"
Lymond pulled away from Richard's grip, able to sit under his own power if he leaned against the stone wall. They hadn't returned his clothes to him. "Nothing," he sighed, "Nothing."
"Did she-" Richard broke off. "Will she keep her word?"
Lymond shook his head, his eyelids falling closed. It didn't seem an answer to Richard's question, more a rejection of their surroundings, of the bargain he'd been forced to make.
"What did she do? Where have you been all these hours?"
His brother gave a bleak laugh. "Where you left me."
Kneeling, in the center of the cold hall. Naked, watched by Margaret Lennox's men. Mother of God. Before he could ask about the wine Lymond lurched away, pulled himself a few feet to the farthest corner of the cell and was noisily ill. When it was over he slumped back to his side and lay shivering, his scarred back turned to them. Richard let him be for a long moment before stripping off his own outer shirt. Lymond flinched at the touch, eyes tightly closed in a pinched face.
"Comeon," Richard coaxed. His brother's skin was clammy and chilled beneath his hands, and he could feel each quick, shallow breath. He managed to lever Lymond upright again but couldn't move him farther. Lymond's legs lay still and useless. Oh God. "You knelt the entire time?"
Lymond nodded, eyes still closed.
I realize my Lymondfic style is somewhat akin to A Knight's Tale - earnest but anachronistic. I apologize. I just don't have the patience to try and replicate Dunnett's prose.
Northern England 1563
Richard sat up, gently shifted Katie from his lap to the floor. Kuzum's eyes were bright in the dim light of the cell. Two guards emerged from the darkness of the passageway, a third figure held between them. Once inside the doorway they shoved their captive to the floor and exited, laughing.
"Daddy!" Katie cried and started toward the figure sprawled on the stone floor. Richard scooped her up before she could reach her target and turned to his nephew.
"Mind your sister." Kuzum nodded, his eyes huge; he might believe himself no relation to the Culters but he wasn't ready to let go of the little girl who adored him.
Francis had rolled onto his side and was attempting to lift himself, hindered by a bone deep shaking. Richard caught him under the arms and hauled him upright. His brother reeked of wine. His eyes were wildly dilated and refused to focus on Richard's face.
"Francis." His head lolled back drunkenly, so Richard shook him. "Francis, what happened?"
Lymond pulled away from Richard's grip, able to sit under his own power if he leaned against the stone wall. They hadn't returned his clothes to him. "Nothing," he sighed, "Nothing."
"Did she-" Richard broke off. "Will she keep her word?"
Lymond shook his head, his eyelids falling closed. It didn't seem an answer to Richard's question, more a rejection of their surroundings, of the bargain he'd been forced to make.
"What did she do? Where have you been all these hours?"
His brother gave a bleak laugh. "Where you left me."
Kneeling, in the center of the cold hall. Naked, watched by Margaret Lennox's men. Mother of God. Before he could ask about the wine Lymond lurched away, pulled himself a few feet to the farthest corner of the cell and was noisily ill. When it was over he slumped back to his side and lay shivering, his scarred back turned to them. Richard let him be for a long moment before stripping off his own outer shirt. Lymond flinched at the touch, eyes tightly closed in a pinched face.
"Comeon," Richard coaxed. His brother's skin was clammy and chilled beneath his hands, and he could feel each quick, shallow breath. He managed to lever Lymond upright again but couldn't move him farther. Lymond's legs lay still and useless. Oh God. "You knelt the entire time?"
Lymond nodded, eyes still closed.