Productive day
You know I said, 100 years ago this morning, that I would be on here less because I was making a big push towards finishing "Art of Forgetting"? And, since then, I've been all over the internet like a nasty case of shingles. Yeah, so much for that.
BUT I did produce 2000+ words today, wrote a battle scene, which was bitchin', and a death, which was, frankly, sadder than I anticipated considering who's death it was. More deaths tomorrow. Two of them, I think, if I have a day as productive as todays was. We'll see. I doubt it will be, but I feel I've made real progress today.
Drusain lay still, staring at the sky, the last feeble pulses of life dripping to the ground, the mud around him soaked black with his blood. His throat, his face, torn open, reduced to rags by the fury of Rhodri’s assault. His right eye was open, the bright blue fading, the left still closed in a perpetual, mocking wink.
The strength rushed from Rhodri like water spilling from a bucket. He slumped across Dru’s body, overwhelmed with exhaustion and horror. He couldn’t move, couldn’t fight. Only the constant throbbing pain in his shoulder told him he was still alive. He clung on to that, focussed on it, let it fill him up until he was nothing but a pain-filled shell, a hollow man.
Rhodri didn’t know how long he lay there, cradling his enemy’s body as if they slept like lovers, his head on Drusain’s still, silent breast. When he forced himself to look up, there was no standing man in sight. The battle had tumbled over him and left him behind, alone with the dead and dying.
He sat up. There was no movement without pain, but the motion disturbed the crows feasting nearby and they took off shrieking into the cloudy sky. The shower had passed, and golden shafts of afternoon sunlight shone down on tattered mail and sticky pools of blood. The gleam made Rhodri’s eyes sting.
He kicked away the broken remains of Dru’s shield and retrieved his sword, wiping it automatically on his shirt before he returned it to its sheath, although his shirt was caked with mud and blood, and cleaning it there achieved nothing. The crows circled above his head, cawing, furious at being disturbed. Rhodri took Dru’s helm and covered his face with it. His former friend did not deserve to lose his eyes so easily.
“Goodbye, Dru,” he whispered. He would not be walking in the Spirit Realm to make peace with the man he had killed, not this time.
Leaving Drusain’s body for the eager crows, he stumbled away across the battlefield, towards the distant clash of arms. His arms and legs felt heavy and dull, and every step jarred his shoulder. Senses battered by the fight, by exhaustion, he stared around at the ruins of the field, seeing everything, remembering it all, but taking nothing in. He needed Nasira, his children, to make him feel human again. He needed his horse.
Going to have chilled-out evening now. Some TV, some guitar hero, possibly some chilli. Going to see the Vaselines tomorrow night, looking forward to that!
Ok, back into my hermit shell now. I just wanted to share :)
BUT I did produce 2000+ words today, wrote a battle scene, which was bitchin', and a death, which was, frankly, sadder than I anticipated considering who's death it was. More deaths tomorrow. Two of them, I think, if I have a day as productive as todays was. We'll see. I doubt it will be, but I feel I've made real progress today.
Drusain lay still, staring at the sky, the last feeble pulses of life dripping to the ground, the mud around him soaked black with his blood. His throat, his face, torn open, reduced to rags by the fury of Rhodri’s assault. His right eye was open, the bright blue fading, the left still closed in a perpetual, mocking wink.
The strength rushed from Rhodri like water spilling from a bucket. He slumped across Dru’s body, overwhelmed with exhaustion and horror. He couldn’t move, couldn’t fight. Only the constant throbbing pain in his shoulder told him he was still alive. He clung on to that, focussed on it, let it fill him up until he was nothing but a pain-filled shell, a hollow man.
Rhodri didn’t know how long he lay there, cradling his enemy’s body as if they slept like lovers, his head on Drusain’s still, silent breast. When he forced himself to look up, there was no standing man in sight. The battle had tumbled over him and left him behind, alone with the dead and dying.
He sat up. There was no movement without pain, but the motion disturbed the crows feasting nearby and they took off shrieking into the cloudy sky. The shower had passed, and golden shafts of afternoon sunlight shone down on tattered mail and sticky pools of blood. The gleam made Rhodri’s eyes sting.
He kicked away the broken remains of Dru’s shield and retrieved his sword, wiping it automatically on his shirt before he returned it to its sheath, although his shirt was caked with mud and blood, and cleaning it there achieved nothing. The crows circled above his head, cawing, furious at being disturbed. Rhodri took Dru’s helm and covered his face with it. His former friend did not deserve to lose his eyes so easily.
“Goodbye, Dru,” he whispered. He would not be walking in the Spirit Realm to make peace with the man he had killed, not this time.
Leaving Drusain’s body for the eager crows, he stumbled away across the battlefield, towards the distant clash of arms. His arms and legs felt heavy and dull, and every step jarred his shoulder. Senses battered by the fight, by exhaustion, he stared around at the ruins of the field, seeing everything, remembering it all, but taking nothing in. He needed Nasira, his children, to make him feel human again. He needed his horse.
Going to have chilled-out evening now. Some TV, some guitar hero, possibly some chilli. Going to see the Vaselines tomorrow night, looking forward to that!
Ok, back into my hermit shell now. I just wanted to share :)