Humors [2/3]
anonymous
April 15 2009, 08:55:13 UTC
Lovino had spirit and exuberance on his side, though all his tutors had privately told his guardian that the boy did have this skill in his blood. Nonetheless, spirit and exuberance meant nothing in face of an experienced duelist, who knew all the foul tricks of experience and treachery. Weapons were not merely cast from steel or carved of wood, after all. Antonio won three bouts of every five; this was a considerable difference from when Lovino was lucky to win one out of every ten.
Both of them circled each other, both upon their second wind. Their soft shoes carefully treaded the packed earth and their eyes studied each other. Then, Lovino struck, lunging for a seemingly unprotected chest with a cry. Antonio almost lazily stepped aside, bringing his blade under the smaller man’s to make a counter. But this trick had not been forgotten just yet. His ward pivoted, sharply, dancing backwards and bringing his hand up in the process.
Unable to arrest the progress of his sword, Antonio could only watch as the razor sharp steel slashed through that upraised hand.
“Enough!” he barked, putting down his blade and going instantly to Lovino, who looked ready to pounce before looking at his wounded hand. Seeing the slash likely reminded his delayed and sluggish nerves of the pain as he instantly hissed. Toledo steel lived up to its reputation; it had a cruel bite. Sheathing his sword, Antonio seized Lovino’s wounded hand.
“The wound is not deep,” he proclaimed after a few moment’s examination. “It is in the fleshy part of your palm. Nonetheless…” He forgot his words as he stared at the blood pooling rapidly in the boy’s hand. A small lake of crimson had formed in the cup of the palm. His mouth felt drier than Moroccan sands and he felt a fever rise in his flesh.
“Antonio?” a querulous voice interrupted him, as if from a distance. He jumped and looked into a pair of petulant dark eyes.
“The- the lesson is over for today,” he said, his eyes traveling downwards again. “We- we should get this cleaned.”
He pulled a clean kerchief from his pocket and wrapped the palm quickly in it as a make shift bandage. Seeing crimson immediately dye the white cloth made his heart race; he tried very hard not to whine like a dog. Then he gripped the boy’s wrist in his hand, pulling him along mostly unresisting to his private chambers.
The maid knew to leave water for him in a covered pitcher. By this time, Lovino had kept up a litany of infuriating complaints, mostly about Antonio’s clumsiness and refusal to continue with the bouts, even as the makeshift bandage was removed. “Well?” he asked cantankerously. “Aren’t you going to clean it?”
This time, Antonio could not keep his eyes away from the cut. He bit the inside of his cheek, gnawed at it as the world seemed to shrink to the sight of a plump, calloused hand dripping with blood. His crucifix, tucked under layers of shirt and doublet, seemed to weight him down inexorably. Temptation, such a terrible thing.
‘The mind is willing but the flesh is weak.’
“Forgive me,” he murmured as his lips descended and his tongue extended.
The first taste nearly made him swoon. The taste- the sheer wicked ecstasy of doing such a thing, lapping up the essence and heat and temper of another, particularly his ward- It exhilarated him more than the finest sherry. Sin could not have tasted so sweet as this.
“What are you doing?” Antonio could dimly hear the boy yelp.
Both of them circled each other, both upon their second wind. Their soft shoes carefully treaded the packed earth and their eyes studied each other. Then, Lovino struck, lunging for a seemingly unprotected chest with a cry. Antonio almost lazily stepped aside, bringing his blade under the smaller man’s to make a counter. But this trick had not been forgotten just yet. His ward pivoted, sharply, dancing backwards and bringing his hand up in the process.
Unable to arrest the progress of his sword, Antonio could only watch as the razor sharp steel slashed through that upraised hand.
“Enough!” he barked, putting down his blade and going instantly to Lovino, who looked ready to pounce before looking at his wounded hand. Seeing the slash likely reminded his delayed and sluggish nerves of the pain as he instantly hissed. Toledo steel lived up to its reputation; it had a cruel bite. Sheathing his sword, Antonio seized Lovino’s wounded hand.
“The wound is not deep,” he proclaimed after a few moment’s examination. “It is in the fleshy part of your palm. Nonetheless…” He forgot his words as he stared at the blood pooling rapidly in the boy’s hand. A small lake of crimson had formed in the cup of the palm. His mouth felt drier than Moroccan sands and he felt a fever rise in his flesh.
“Antonio?” a querulous voice interrupted him, as if from a distance. He jumped and looked into a pair of petulant dark eyes.
“The- the lesson is over for today,” he said, his eyes traveling downwards again. “We- we should get this cleaned.”
He pulled a clean kerchief from his pocket and wrapped the palm quickly in it as a make shift bandage. Seeing crimson immediately dye the white cloth made his heart race; he tried very hard not to whine like a dog. Then he gripped the boy’s wrist in his hand, pulling him along mostly unresisting to his private chambers.
The maid knew to leave water for him in a covered pitcher. By this time, Lovino had kept up a litany of infuriating complaints, mostly about Antonio’s clumsiness and refusal to continue with the bouts, even as the makeshift bandage was removed. “Well?” he asked cantankerously. “Aren’t you going to clean it?”
This time, Antonio could not keep his eyes away from the cut. He bit the inside of his cheek, gnawed at it as the world seemed to shrink to the sight of a plump, calloused hand dripping with blood. His crucifix, tucked under layers of shirt and doublet, seemed to weight him down inexorably. Temptation, such a terrible thing.
‘The mind is willing but the flesh is weak.’
“Forgive me,” he murmured as his lips descended and his tongue extended.
The first taste nearly made him swoon. The taste- the sheer wicked ecstasy of doing such a thing, lapping up the essence and heat and temper of another, particularly his ward- It exhilarated him more than the finest sherry. Sin could not have tasted so sweet as this.
“What are you doing?” Antonio could dimly hear the boy yelp.
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