Lymond obsessed
You know, sometimes a phrase in a book would just catch your attention and become too vivid and stick.
For some reason, my mind has been trapped by this:
But Lymond was now in the cold sleep close to death. Experienced soldier and countryman, Lord Culter had faced the spilled blood, the spoiled muscle, the split bone with no qualms; and had washed, cleaned and bandaged with steady hands, missing nothing: the scarred hands, the old whippings; the last degradation of the brand.
Oh Lymond.
The fact that Richard is doing all this care just so Lymond would be awake enough to be tormented and then eventually taken to Edinburg to be hanged drawn and quartered is...
Nothing kills me as much as this though:
[Lymond has just tried to kill himself because Richard had broken him]
In that second, Lymond looked up. Blue eyes met grey, and Richard read in them a power and a determination that he suddenly knew were unassailable. Anger left him. He framed the word 'No' with his lips; read his rejection in the dedicated eyes, and with all his strength drove first his knee and then his foot through the stained bandaging and into the other's hurt body. The knife dropped like a discarded straw. Lymond screamed once with agony, and then screamed and screamed again.
With a dumb and breathless nature the sound exploded, addressing the arbour from its banks and gradients; bouncing; sticky-fingered; callowly-mocking. Culter, white as paper, picked up the knife and backed.
Lymond had stopped the noise with his hands. The long, cramped fingers hid his face as he crouched, the breath sobbing in his lungs and the blood flamboyant through the crushed bandages, welling between his rigid elbows, soaking into the trampled grass.
'Francis!' Excoriated by the shuddering, raucous sound, Richard spoke harshly. 'I can't let you take your own life.'
Lymond took his hands from his face. The blood was everywhere now; his torment of grief public, uncaring. 'Must I plead?' He stopped in extremity, beaten, shaken by pulses, and then struggled on. 'You claim your right of execution...May I not exercise mine? Could all the chains of Threave outweigh what I already bear, do you think? Or all the Tolbooth's pains be worse than this?...You can't relieve me of your weight, or help me, or free me...except in one way.'
Richard, his memory taken by the throat, was mute. With a bitter courage, Lymond raised his head.
'I beg you.'
Hell.
I am almost done with Game of Kings. I've gotten to the scenes at the dovecote and they always kill me so much. I think that is why I never was able to truly love Richard. When you mess up someone psychically so badly that they beg for the right to kill themselves? Nope. No excuse. Especially if, had he thought for a minute, he would have realized Lymond was not a traitor, avoided the opportunity to kill him when he disarmed him (!!!) etc etc. Poor you, your Mommy doesn't love you best. Get over it. (Interesting throwaway line in the middle of the book btw, about Sybilla who is so clever utterly misjudging the reactions of her own son (Richard). This is so true later with her and Lymond. With them there is a huge blind spot for her).
Richard is halway between someone like Jerrott, who learns from mistakes and uses his brain and will call Lymond out on his suicidal tendencies or inhuman drive or what not but will back him up awesomely, and Austin Grey who is a self-righteous pig, but yes, not loving Richard in this interlude at all.
And I've forgotten what a chivalric fool Lymond can be about people he thinks are dependents or stuck their neck out for him. I think it comes of being so thoroughly betrayed himself. But his willingness to endure torture (and he's been wounded!) rather than speak up because Christian Stewart is there and she will recognize his voice and expose herself, or his playing the lute as she is dying because he promised, even though the men to capture him are coming and can hear the music and know just where to go are just...guuuuh.
And it really kills me how young he is, after all.
For some reason, my mind has been trapped by this:
But Lymond was now in the cold sleep close to death. Experienced soldier and countryman, Lord Culter had faced the spilled blood, the spoiled muscle, the split bone with no qualms; and had washed, cleaned and bandaged with steady hands, missing nothing: the scarred hands, the old whippings; the last degradation of the brand.
Oh Lymond.
The fact that Richard is doing all this care just so Lymond would be awake enough to be tormented and then eventually taken to Edinburg to be hanged drawn and quartered is...
Nothing kills me as much as this though:
[Lymond has just tried to kill himself because Richard had broken him]
In that second, Lymond looked up. Blue eyes met grey, and Richard read in them a power and a determination that he suddenly knew were unassailable. Anger left him. He framed the word 'No' with his lips; read his rejection in the dedicated eyes, and with all his strength drove first his knee and then his foot through the stained bandaging and into the other's hurt body. The knife dropped like a discarded straw. Lymond screamed once with agony, and then screamed and screamed again.
With a dumb and breathless nature the sound exploded, addressing the arbour from its banks and gradients; bouncing; sticky-fingered; callowly-mocking. Culter, white as paper, picked up the knife and backed.
Lymond had stopped the noise with his hands. The long, cramped fingers hid his face as he crouched, the breath sobbing in his lungs and the blood flamboyant through the crushed bandages, welling between his rigid elbows, soaking into the trampled grass.
'Francis!' Excoriated by the shuddering, raucous sound, Richard spoke harshly. 'I can't let you take your own life.'
Lymond took his hands from his face. The blood was everywhere now; his torment of grief public, uncaring. 'Must I plead?' He stopped in extremity, beaten, shaken by pulses, and then struggled on. 'You claim your right of execution...May I not exercise mine? Could all the chains of Threave outweigh what I already bear, do you think? Or all the Tolbooth's pains be worse than this?...You can't relieve me of your weight, or help me, or free me...except in one way.'
Richard, his memory taken by the throat, was mute. With a bitter courage, Lymond raised his head.
'I beg you.'
Hell.
I am almost done with Game of Kings. I've gotten to the scenes at the dovecote and they always kill me so much. I think that is why I never was able to truly love Richard. When you mess up someone psychically so badly that they beg for the right to kill themselves? Nope. No excuse. Especially if, had he thought for a minute, he would have realized Lymond was not a traitor, avoided the opportunity to kill him when he disarmed him (!!!) etc etc. Poor you, your Mommy doesn't love you best. Get over it. (Interesting throwaway line in the middle of the book btw, about Sybilla who is so clever utterly misjudging the reactions of her own son (Richard). This is so true later with her and Lymond. With them there is a huge blind spot for her).
Richard is halway between someone like Jerrott, who learns from mistakes and uses his brain and will call Lymond out on his suicidal tendencies or inhuman drive or what not but will back him up awesomely, and Austin Grey who is a self-righteous pig, but yes, not loving Richard in this interlude at all.
And I've forgotten what a chivalric fool Lymond can be about people he thinks are dependents or stuck their neck out for him. I think it comes of being so thoroughly betrayed himself. But his willingness to endure torture (and he's been wounded!) rather than speak up because Christian Stewart is there and she will recognize his voice and expose herself, or his playing the lute as she is dying because he promised, even though the men to capture him are coming and can hear the music and know just where to go are just...guuuuh.
And it really kills me how young he is, after all.