TM Challenge 187
They're arguing again.
This time, as always, it's over something stupid, something unimportant: over the All Soul's bonfires, and what day they'll be. Lot promised the five of them they would all be there (none of them have forgotten the year before, when at their mother's command Mordred stayed back, and Gaheris, who worshipped him, sulked in the stable instead of going with the others); they will walk in the shadow of the fires from the high meadow to the shore, watching all about them folk and spirits.
Gaheris swears it's five days off, Agravain says six.
They're out behind the castle, talking it over. Both of them are young--Gaheris is seven, and Agravain just turned nine two weeks ago. They never look as though they're going to come to blows until they do. They hang back from one another carelessly, speaking without much anger, until suddenly Agravain lunges forward, catches Gaheris by his tunic, and Gaheris kicks his feet out from under him and sends them both into the long grass. Agravain's stronger. They wrestle for a while and then he hits Gaheris in the face and makes his mouth and nose bleed, and is going to hit him again when Mordred comes upon them and jerks Agravain up.
"What are you doing?" He's the sharpest boy in the family, eyes nearly laughless, hair darker than the sea at storm.
"He's wrong."
"I am not," Gaheris says, spitting blood. "All Soul's is five days."
"Six," Agravain says. Stubborn, rough.
"Five," says Mordred. "I'll get Gawain the next time you start hitting each other over something so stupid."
Gaheris hardly hears. Five days. He was right. He's seldom right, and seldom has anything to console him for his bruises and cuts when he and Agravain fight, but this time--. He gets up, wipes his nose on his tunic, and smiles his crinkly child's smile at Mordred, who only shakes his head and starts picking the heather out of Gaheris' hair.
This time, as always, it's over something stupid, something unimportant: over the All Soul's bonfires, and what day they'll be. Lot promised the five of them they would all be there (none of them have forgotten the year before, when at their mother's command Mordred stayed back, and Gaheris, who worshipped him, sulked in the stable instead of going with the others); they will walk in the shadow of the fires from the high meadow to the shore, watching all about them folk and spirits.
Gaheris swears it's five days off, Agravain says six.
They're out behind the castle, talking it over. Both of them are young--Gaheris is seven, and Agravain just turned nine two weeks ago. They never look as though they're going to come to blows until they do. They hang back from one another carelessly, speaking without much anger, until suddenly Agravain lunges forward, catches Gaheris by his tunic, and Gaheris kicks his feet out from under him and sends them both into the long grass. Agravain's stronger. They wrestle for a while and then he hits Gaheris in the face and makes his mouth and nose bleed, and is going to hit him again when Mordred comes upon them and jerks Agravain up.
"What are you doing?" He's the sharpest boy in the family, eyes nearly laughless, hair darker than the sea at storm.
"He's wrong."
"I am not," Gaheris says, spitting blood. "All Soul's is five days."
"Six," Agravain says. Stubborn, rough.
"Five," says Mordred. "I'll get Gawain the next time you start hitting each other over something so stupid."
Gaheris hardly hears. Five days. He was right. He's seldom right, and seldom has anything to console him for his bruises and cuts when he and Agravain fight, but this time--. He gets up, wipes his nose on his tunic, and smiles his crinkly child's smile at Mordred, who only shakes his head and starts picking the heather out of Gaheris' hair.