[Deaths] early campaign
Title: calling cards and gifts
'Verse/characters: Deaths; Eduard De'Ath, the Morrigan, Azrael
Prompt: 97B "family"
Word Count: 1069
Notes: expanded from the comment-snip a cheshire grin. On campaign, somewhere in eastern europe.
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There was nothing quite like waking from a sound sleep to find the Morrigan grinning at you from close range with at least one of her hands out of sight to get the blood and brain going. Who needed coca or tea?
"Good morning?" he said after he swallowed his heart again.
She leaned back, straightening her spine as he sat up, keeping her face roughly as far-distant as it had been when he woke--just slightly too close for comfort. He set his feet on the floor anyway, shoved the bedclothes aside, ignored the silly picture he cut in old-fashioned sleeping layers.
"I have a present for you," she announced, grin still splitting her face, then brought her hand out from behind her back, flipped the sheathed blade sideways to rest the hilt in her open, gentle palm as she presented it.
He'd been expecting some assassin's decapitated head or a goblet made of a silver-lined skull or something, but that was a sword. Old design, too big for her, though her hands didn't tremble at the weight.
He accepted it from her by the scabbard, turned it back and forth several times to get an idea of it. It really did appear to be only a sword, and a moderately plain one at that, the scabbard gently embellished with blackened siver wire and the grip wound with new cord.
Plain, that was, until he touched the blacked pommel with his free hand and the entire thing started glowing.
"This can't be--" he began, looking up from the blade at her and stopped when her grin widened. "This is the Horseman's?"
"The Horseman's Son's," she corrected delicately, waving a finger at him in mock-sober fashion. "You know your history better than to make that mistake."
"This is beautiful," he told her, sincerely. Well balanced, well taken care of . . . and she was grinning at him again.
"Oh, that's not your present," she said. "Think of it as a calling card."
He stared at her, shocked speechless for a long moment, then very carefully handed her the sword back and stood up, jerking the long shirt off over his head.
"He's settled in the parlour with a cup of tea," the Morrigan called from the doorway, laughing at him now, "I told him I'd go fetch you, and I have, haven't I."
"Out!" he growled as he went for yesterday's clothes, still in sleep-hose, and the door clicked closed on her giggling.
He hadn't expected it to work--the Horseman's Son was an old story, old when he and Edmund had been growing up and older now. Really hadn't expected the legend to show up on his doorstep, instead of him paying a visit to where rumour had the legend last located, again, asking again, as he had before he went East.
The Morrigan had left him a shallow clay bowl filled with warm water and a comb he didn't recognise, but no razor, and he supposed she was right--no time for a proper shave right now and anything less would be uglier than yesterday's beard.
He wasn't going to think about the fact that he hadn't woken up while she made what had to have been at least two trips in and out of his room, because she wouldn't have carried water with the sword. Too much risk of spilling.
Five minutes of hasty grooming saw him presentable, if one overlooked the lightly wrinkled fabric and the beginnings of a beard, and he left the room carrying his own sheathed sword and harness in his hand, not at his hip.
The Morrigan was perched in the bolster of a chaise lounge opposite the loveseat the Horseman's Son was occupying, looking a trifle uncomfortable. They both looked up as Eduard entered the parlour, and the Morrigan grinned at him again as their guest began to rise, teacup and saucer held in one palm.
The Horseman's Son looked younger than he'd expected, with hair as dark as Eduard's own skimmed neatly back from his face in a short queue. His clothes were soot black and indigo blue, and for all their simple cut were probably expensive--they fit him well in the way a swordsman's things should.
Eduard set his own sword at the end table by the door--next to the sword the Morrigan had brought him--and stepped forward, began a bow. "My lord."
"You know better than that, Eduard De'Ath," the Horseman's Son told him in a young man's voice, one that matched his face. When Eduard glanced up he found a mild frown waiting for him, and straightened quickly.
"You sent your sword," Eduard protested, and his many times removed uncle handed his tea off to the Morrigan, who'd appeared at his elbow, and held out his hand.
"You know what I meant when I gave it," was the reply as Eduard clasped his hand, felt callouses like his own scratch his skin, as his scratched back.
"As the oldest living De'Ath--"
"--of a cadet branch." His uncle gave a tiny smile at Eduard's expression, let go his hand, went to lean against the sturdy side table that the teapot occupied with a sullen silver gleam.
"You could lead this," Eduard told him.
"No, I can't," he replied. "I know nothing of the terrain, the opposition, or the quarry, beyond what you told me on the hill."
The Morrigan lifted her eyebrows inquiringly in his direction, but Eduard ignored her. "Sir--"
"Azrael," the Horseman's Son corrected. "It's as good a name as any, and gives no false pretext of what I speak as."
Eduard crossed his arms over his chest, gave the other death a sour look.
Azrael stuck his thumbs through his belt loops, gave another tiny smile. "You have my sword, nephew. What use is a legend if you find out the truth too fast?"
Eduard eyed him, then chuckled, shook his head. "We've always been cats then, I take it."
The Morrigan clapped her hand over her mouth, nearly spat a mouthful of her own tea out anyway.
Azrael's laugh was rusty as a soaked bolt, but he laughed, smiled with his eyes at them both. "I can't deny the charge, lord."
Eduard let his head tilt to one side, considering the legend, considering the partial truth he'd been presented with, then let a crooked smile out. "Welcome, lord. I appreciate it."
Azrael smiled. "You picked a good cause."
'Verse/characters: Deaths; Eduard De'Ath, the Morrigan, Azrael
Prompt: 97B "family"
Word Count: 1069
Notes: expanded from the comment-snip a cheshire grin. On campaign, somewhere in eastern europe.
---------
There was nothing quite like waking from a sound sleep to find the Morrigan grinning at you from close range with at least one of her hands out of sight to get the blood and brain going. Who needed coca or tea?
"Good morning?" he said after he swallowed his heart again.
She leaned back, straightening her spine as he sat up, keeping her face roughly as far-distant as it had been when he woke--just slightly too close for comfort. He set his feet on the floor anyway, shoved the bedclothes aside, ignored the silly picture he cut in old-fashioned sleeping layers.
"I have a present for you," she announced, grin still splitting her face, then brought her hand out from behind her back, flipped the sheathed blade sideways to rest the hilt in her open, gentle palm as she presented it.
He'd been expecting some assassin's decapitated head or a goblet made of a silver-lined skull or something, but that was a sword. Old design, too big for her, though her hands didn't tremble at the weight.
He accepted it from her by the scabbard, turned it back and forth several times to get an idea of it. It really did appear to be only a sword, and a moderately plain one at that, the scabbard gently embellished with blackened siver wire and the grip wound with new cord.
Plain, that was, until he touched the blacked pommel with his free hand and the entire thing started glowing.
"This can't be--" he began, looking up from the blade at her and stopped when her grin widened. "This is the Horseman's?"
"The Horseman's Son's," she corrected delicately, waving a finger at him in mock-sober fashion. "You know your history better than to make that mistake."
"This is beautiful," he told her, sincerely. Well balanced, well taken care of . . . and she was grinning at him again.
"Oh, that's not your present," she said. "Think of it as a calling card."
He stared at her, shocked speechless for a long moment, then very carefully handed her the sword back and stood up, jerking the long shirt off over his head.
"He's settled in the parlour with a cup of tea," the Morrigan called from the doorway, laughing at him now, "I told him I'd go fetch you, and I have, haven't I."
"Out!" he growled as he went for yesterday's clothes, still in sleep-hose, and the door clicked closed on her giggling.
He hadn't expected it to work--the Horseman's Son was an old story, old when he and Edmund had been growing up and older now. Really hadn't expected the legend to show up on his doorstep, instead of him paying a visit to where rumour had the legend last located, again, asking again, as he had before he went East.
The Morrigan had left him a shallow clay bowl filled with warm water and a comb he didn't recognise, but no razor, and he supposed she was right--no time for a proper shave right now and anything less would be uglier than yesterday's beard.
He wasn't going to think about the fact that he hadn't woken up while she made what had to have been at least two trips in and out of his room, because she wouldn't have carried water with the sword. Too much risk of spilling.
Five minutes of hasty grooming saw him presentable, if one overlooked the lightly wrinkled fabric and the beginnings of a beard, and he left the room carrying his own sheathed sword and harness in his hand, not at his hip.
The Morrigan was perched in the bolster of a chaise lounge opposite the loveseat the Horseman's Son was occupying, looking a trifle uncomfortable. They both looked up as Eduard entered the parlour, and the Morrigan grinned at him again as their guest began to rise, teacup and saucer held in one palm.
The Horseman's Son looked younger than he'd expected, with hair as dark as Eduard's own skimmed neatly back from his face in a short queue. His clothes were soot black and indigo blue, and for all their simple cut were probably expensive--they fit him well in the way a swordsman's things should.
Eduard set his own sword at the end table by the door--next to the sword the Morrigan had brought him--and stepped forward, began a bow. "My lord."
"You know better than that, Eduard De'Ath," the Horseman's Son told him in a young man's voice, one that matched his face. When Eduard glanced up he found a mild frown waiting for him, and straightened quickly.
"You sent your sword," Eduard protested, and his many times removed uncle handed his tea off to the Morrigan, who'd appeared at his elbow, and held out his hand.
"You know what I meant when I gave it," was the reply as Eduard clasped his hand, felt callouses like his own scratch his skin, as his scratched back.
"As the oldest living De'Ath--"
"--of a cadet branch." His uncle gave a tiny smile at Eduard's expression, let go his hand, went to lean against the sturdy side table that the teapot occupied with a sullen silver gleam.
"You could lead this," Eduard told him.
"No, I can't," he replied. "I know nothing of the terrain, the opposition, or the quarry, beyond what you told me on the hill."
The Morrigan lifted her eyebrows inquiringly in his direction, but Eduard ignored her. "Sir--"
"Azrael," the Horseman's Son corrected. "It's as good a name as any, and gives no false pretext of what I speak as."
Eduard crossed his arms over his chest, gave the other death a sour look.
Azrael stuck his thumbs through his belt loops, gave another tiny smile. "You have my sword, nephew. What use is a legend if you find out the truth too fast?"
Eduard eyed him, then chuckled, shook his head. "We've always been cats then, I take it."
The Morrigan clapped her hand over her mouth, nearly spat a mouthful of her own tea out anyway.
Azrael's laugh was rusty as a soaked bolt, but he laughed, smiled with his eyes at them both. "I can't deny the charge, lord."
Eduard let his head tilt to one side, considering the legend, considering the partial truth he'd been presented with, then let a crooked smile out. "Welcome, lord. I appreciate it."
Azrael smiled. "You picked a good cause."