[Deaths] Eduard De'Ath
Title: professional courtesies
'Verse/characters: Deaths; Eduard De'Ath (Devil Death), a Hospitaller armourer-smith
Prompt: billradish: "Devil Death, shaking hands"
Word Count: 705
Notes: pre-campaign by a considerable number of years; the Councils are starting their major nesting/rise, but not yet solidified at all.
I have a great deal of reading to do. *cheerful* We appear to have started the skid with the Black Death, and properly diverged from ordinary history around the time the Ottomans took Constantinople. Hurrah, I get to research the Crusades. =P
"God's teeth!" a man said from the doorway, and Eduard looked up from the carefully-bound book he'd been perusing while waiting, face a mask of polite inquiry.
"Uh," the man paused, one hand clenching into an unconscious fist, then his rank and his experience caught up with him. "What in the name of Our Lord are you doing here, and who are you?" he demanded, and Eduard grinned.
"Malta?" he guessed aloud, which only got a frown in response. "Did you join them in Malta?" he clarified.
"Rhodes, as it happens, but that doesn't answer my question."
"Ah," he murmured as he replaced the book. "Well done, by the way."
The man nearly thanked him automatically, then frowned deeper, the sooty creases in his face shifting to a different configuration. "Well done what?"
"You do good work--far more of them lived than would have otherwise. We could have used a few like you in the Conquest."
The man blinked. "Which one?"
"England's--the campaign in 1066."
There was a pause. Then, disbelievingly, "Are you drunk?"
Eduard drew a pale line from the veins in his own wrist in response, twisted the thread around his fingers, his thumb, then let go, let it slither back into his skin. "I was over a hundred years old at Hastings, knight-armourer. You know it, or something like it, or you wouldn't have cursed when you saw me."
The smith's face was white beneath the marks of his profession. "You're paler than Henry--"
"And Henry's the palest of the ones you know?" Eduard let his mouth twitch in a brief one-sided smile. "Time tells. And fighting--you're all of you paler than your age would say you should be. I'm not here to take it from you."
After a visible mental battle, "Then why are you here?"
"Curiousity--the Order is famous Christendom over, and even among the Turks. And, more to the point, I've a difficult task I can't ask of an ordinary smith."
"Ordinary as in horse-shoes, or ordinary as in--" he hesitated, then, didn't bite his lip.
"Both," Eduard said mildly, before the poor man could navigate his way around the word 'human' without admitting his worry about that tangly little subject to a man who was even less so than he himself was.
The Councils hadn't come here, not yet, and if there was a trained death among the knights Eduard would eat his own shoes. They'd made an amazing job of it, considering the handicaps.
"... What do you want?"
"I need a sword repaired."
"And you came here."
Eduard waggled his hand in the gesture that meant yes-and-no. Or the shifting of the scales, to a few alchemists. "I was in the area on business anyway, and happened to shatter my sword into several pieces."
The smith suddenly frowned. "Did you have something to do with that--"
"I really don't want to talk about it. But yes."
A hand was thrust forward, and after a moment Eduard reached out, shook the smith's hand, watching with mild bemusement as the man grinned at him, the wrinkles in his face settling into what looked like their natural configuration as he did.
"Any man who can hold his own in a fight like that and only lose his sword deserves a bit of repair work. And maybe a drink, but all we've got is what Will set up in the stable and that's hardly fit for a guest."
"If it won't set my hair on fire, I'm game. Is Will one of--"
"No, no. I have to keep him away from the old gear." The smith pulled a face. "Not going to manage it forever, either."
"Mind him around any of the hammers you've used a long time, too--iron likes us."
The smith paused, then, carefully, "Are we--"
"No. Or if so Old Scratch likes bone-doctors, alchemists, nuns and miners as much as he likes soldiers and smiths. I heard a priest call it one of the Lord's quieter blessings once--we get longer to try."
"I--oh," the smith whispered, a long held worry wobbling suddenly, shaking him off balance.
Eduard clapped him gently on the shoulder. "Show me your smithy, old man. Time enough for those kinds of conversations over young Will's harvest."
'Verse/characters: Deaths; Eduard De'Ath (Devil Death), a Hospitaller armourer-smith
Prompt: billradish: "Devil Death, shaking hands"
Word Count: 705
Notes: pre-campaign by a considerable number of years; the Councils are starting their major nesting/rise, but not yet solidified at all.
I have a great deal of reading to do. *cheerful* We appear to have started the skid with the Black Death, and properly diverged from ordinary history around the time the Ottomans took Constantinople. Hurrah, I get to research the Crusades. =P
"God's teeth!" a man said from the doorway, and Eduard looked up from the carefully-bound book he'd been perusing while waiting, face a mask of polite inquiry.
"Uh," the man paused, one hand clenching into an unconscious fist, then his rank and his experience caught up with him. "What in the name of Our Lord are you doing here, and who are you?" he demanded, and Eduard grinned.
"Malta?" he guessed aloud, which only got a frown in response. "Did you join them in Malta?" he clarified.
"Rhodes, as it happens, but that doesn't answer my question."
"Ah," he murmured as he replaced the book. "Well done, by the way."
The man nearly thanked him automatically, then frowned deeper, the sooty creases in his face shifting to a different configuration. "Well done what?"
"You do good work--far more of them lived than would have otherwise. We could have used a few like you in the Conquest."
The man blinked. "Which one?"
"England's--the campaign in 1066."
There was a pause. Then, disbelievingly, "Are you drunk?"
Eduard drew a pale line from the veins in his own wrist in response, twisted the thread around his fingers, his thumb, then let go, let it slither back into his skin. "I was over a hundred years old at Hastings, knight-armourer. You know it, or something like it, or you wouldn't have cursed when you saw me."
The smith's face was white beneath the marks of his profession. "You're paler than Henry--"
"And Henry's the palest of the ones you know?" Eduard let his mouth twitch in a brief one-sided smile. "Time tells. And fighting--you're all of you paler than your age would say you should be. I'm not here to take it from you."
After a visible mental battle, "Then why are you here?"
"Curiousity--the Order is famous Christendom over, and even among the Turks. And, more to the point, I've a difficult task I can't ask of an ordinary smith."
"Ordinary as in horse-shoes, or ordinary as in--" he hesitated, then, didn't bite his lip.
"Both," Eduard said mildly, before the poor man could navigate his way around the word 'human' without admitting his worry about that tangly little subject to a man who was even less so than he himself was.
The Councils hadn't come here, not yet, and if there was a trained death among the knights Eduard would eat his own shoes. They'd made an amazing job of it, considering the handicaps.
"... What do you want?"
"I need a sword repaired."
"And you came here."
Eduard waggled his hand in the gesture that meant yes-and-no. Or the shifting of the scales, to a few alchemists. "I was in the area on business anyway, and happened to shatter my sword into several pieces."
The smith suddenly frowned. "Did you have something to do with that--"
"I really don't want to talk about it. But yes."
A hand was thrust forward, and after a moment Eduard reached out, shook the smith's hand, watching with mild bemusement as the man grinned at him, the wrinkles in his face settling into what looked like their natural configuration as he did.
"Any man who can hold his own in a fight like that and only lose his sword deserves a bit of repair work. And maybe a drink, but all we've got is what Will set up in the stable and that's hardly fit for a guest."
"If it won't set my hair on fire, I'm game. Is Will one of--"
"No, no. I have to keep him away from the old gear." The smith pulled a face. "Not going to manage it forever, either."
"Mind him around any of the hammers you've used a long time, too--iron likes us."
The smith paused, then, carefully, "Are we--"
"No. Or if so Old Scratch likes bone-doctors, alchemists, nuns and miners as much as he likes soldiers and smiths. I heard a priest call it one of the Lord's quieter blessings once--we get longer to try."
"I--oh," the smith whispered, a long held worry wobbling suddenly, shaking him off balance.
Eduard clapped him gently on the shoulder. "Show me your smithy, old man. Time enough for those kinds of conversations over young Will's harvest."