[Deaths] Eduard De'Ath
Title: shadow-boxing
'Verse/characters: Deaths; Eduard De'Ath
Prompt: 27B "fun"
Word Count: 1030
Notes: obliquely references play. Sometime after sharpening things, before he started traveling.
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The Morrigan was out of town for the next few days--she'd received a message at her hotel room and had sent one to his flat on her way to the milestone. He wondered who'd challenged, or if it was something else, but hadn't asked and wouldn't when she came back again.
Instead he deliberately took advantage of her absence to hie himself to the courtyard of his complex one early morning. From his memory, the courtyard was mostly paving tiles, which proved true, excepting the picnic table and chairs someone had left where the sun hit best in summer. This late in the year the hour left the courtyard just barely light enough to see, and he dragged the furniture well out of his way, just in case.
There were no other deaths in the complex, and with the Morrigan absent for at least another day, he felt safe relaxing, letting himself fade from human eyes.
She would have happily volunteered herself as a sparring partner; he'd spent too long simply reacting when others took a swing at him, instead of planning or properly sparring, and had no wish to embarrass himself further in her eyes with his lack of finesse.
And God, but this was embarrassing, footwork once as easy as breathing or counting his heartbeat coming stumblingly slow, and he nearly fell more than once as body weight carried him past where his feet were supported. Holding the sword steady in his hand was harder than he'd hoped, too, the unfamiliar burn of working muscles in his upper arms as embarrassing as his footwork.
He was not going to think about sparring with his brother after being given the first of many challenges by his niece. He was not. He'd been fighting every other day, then, the footwork and the breathing and the blade easy as his heartbeat, as the knowledge of his own name.
Wasn't going to think about his partner then--the same one he imagined now, giving easy and complex passes and openings to dodge or block or use for his own advantage--because that still hurt, even knowing the man was actually alive, not long since dead and faded.
His boot skidded on a patch of moss between two flags, and he barely caught himself before he smashed hip, shoulder and sword on the unforgiving stone. Sighing, he shifted to a half-kneel, ripped out the patch of moss by the growing light over the eastern wall of flats, and threw it over towards the curled-iron chairs.
"Yeah, yeah, alright, it's funny," he muttered out loud to his brother's non-existant ghost, secure in the knowledge that none of his neighbours could see him, let alone hear him, and the Morrigan was somewhere far away. Took a deep breath as he heaved himself back to his feet, went back to work, this time reviewing basic footwork, the shift of his weight over his feet to power a lunge or a parry, sword just held out from his arm, doing his best to keep the point still.
He stopped for lunch eventually, ate heavily, drank just enough that the headache faded back a little, took water down to the courtyard when he returned because the water now was far, far cleaner than that he'd grown up with, even if he'd never gotten sick off it.
He couldn't quite go back to what he'd been doing before; there were kicking, shouting children playing a ball game, occupying the whole of the yard except for the top of the table itself, and they'd stacked the chairs there to make more space.
They hadn't spotted him, he didn't think, and faded back while still in the arched shadow of the doorway. He'd automatically been human-visible through the hallways and the stairs of the complex, nodding greetings to his neighbours and reflecting that it was probably time to mention a long business trip so they wouldn't wonder.
He hopped sideways as the ball came careening in towards him, bounced off a wall, and was still rolling his eyes at himself when a towheaded girl came running over to retrieve it. The girl kicked it viciously back out to the other children, insulting the older boy who'd sent the ball towards the wall in the first place as she did.
Well, he'd worked in worse conditions before, though he didn't really want to think about doing footwork drills through an entire troop of sleeping Crusaders again. Something still human in him expected people to wake up when he put a foot through their chests, slid his toes along their ankles or stepped through their kits.
He wandered back out into the middle of the courtyard again, ignoring the children who streamed by like schools of yelling fish, and went back to his practice, carefully keeping the sword sheathed, just in case. Old swords sometimes had more opinions than they had any right to, and the one on his hip was no exception.
By the time the Morrigan showed up again--a week later than she'd expected and bearing apology gifts of baking-spice infused tea--he was moving easier than he had in years, and wondering why he'd ever stopped.
" . . . This tea parcel is stamped 'property of the Council of Bern'," he was saying ten minutes later, eying the package in question in lieu of eying the Morrigan, who was no doubt grinning. Yeah, that would be why he'd stopped. The damned Councils and their twice-damned 'special projects'.
"They send their regards," she replied mock-solemnly, "or, rather, the contingent assigned escort duty for several of their orders send their involuntary regards." She put her fingers to her chin, rubbing in false meditation. "You'd think they'd have circulated my name or photograph through the carriages by now."
He lowered the package, to properly eye her.
She struggled to hold onto the innocent eyes, then broke pose, grinned up at him, eyes sparkling and her cheeks faintly flushed with health. "I'm hardly going to decline a challenge."
Covering his eyes with one hand, "Yes, you'd think they'd have learned by now. Have a good time?"
"I'll know when I've tried their tea," she told him cheerfully. "Ginger can be such a tricky flavour."
'Verse/characters: Deaths; Eduard De'Ath
Prompt: 27B "fun"
Word Count: 1030
Notes: obliquely references play. Sometime after sharpening things, before he started traveling.
---------
The Morrigan was out of town for the next few days--she'd received a message at her hotel room and had sent one to his flat on her way to the milestone. He wondered who'd challenged, or if it was something else, but hadn't asked and wouldn't when she came back again.
Instead he deliberately took advantage of her absence to hie himself to the courtyard of his complex one early morning. From his memory, the courtyard was mostly paving tiles, which proved true, excepting the picnic table and chairs someone had left where the sun hit best in summer. This late in the year the hour left the courtyard just barely light enough to see, and he dragged the furniture well out of his way, just in case.
There were no other deaths in the complex, and with the Morrigan absent for at least another day, he felt safe relaxing, letting himself fade from human eyes.
She would have happily volunteered herself as a sparring partner; he'd spent too long simply reacting when others took a swing at him, instead of planning or properly sparring, and had no wish to embarrass himself further in her eyes with his lack of finesse.
And God, but this was embarrassing, footwork once as easy as breathing or counting his heartbeat coming stumblingly slow, and he nearly fell more than once as body weight carried him past where his feet were supported. Holding the sword steady in his hand was harder than he'd hoped, too, the unfamiliar burn of working muscles in his upper arms as embarrassing as his footwork.
He was not going to think about sparring with his brother after being given the first of many challenges by his niece. He was not. He'd been fighting every other day, then, the footwork and the breathing and the blade easy as his heartbeat, as the knowledge of his own name.
Wasn't going to think about his partner then--the same one he imagined now, giving easy and complex passes and openings to dodge or block or use for his own advantage--because that still hurt, even knowing the man was actually alive, not long since dead and faded.
His boot skidded on a patch of moss between two flags, and he barely caught himself before he smashed hip, shoulder and sword on the unforgiving stone. Sighing, he shifted to a half-kneel, ripped out the patch of moss by the growing light over the eastern wall of flats, and threw it over towards the curled-iron chairs.
"Yeah, yeah, alright, it's funny," he muttered out loud to his brother's non-existant ghost, secure in the knowledge that none of his neighbours could see him, let alone hear him, and the Morrigan was somewhere far away. Took a deep breath as he heaved himself back to his feet, went back to work, this time reviewing basic footwork, the shift of his weight over his feet to power a lunge or a parry, sword just held out from his arm, doing his best to keep the point still.
He stopped for lunch eventually, ate heavily, drank just enough that the headache faded back a little, took water down to the courtyard when he returned because the water now was far, far cleaner than that he'd grown up with, even if he'd never gotten sick off it.
He couldn't quite go back to what he'd been doing before; there were kicking, shouting children playing a ball game, occupying the whole of the yard except for the top of the table itself, and they'd stacked the chairs there to make more space.
They hadn't spotted him, he didn't think, and faded back while still in the arched shadow of the doorway. He'd automatically been human-visible through the hallways and the stairs of the complex, nodding greetings to his neighbours and reflecting that it was probably time to mention a long business trip so they wouldn't wonder.
He hopped sideways as the ball came careening in towards him, bounced off a wall, and was still rolling his eyes at himself when a towheaded girl came running over to retrieve it. The girl kicked it viciously back out to the other children, insulting the older boy who'd sent the ball towards the wall in the first place as she did.
Well, he'd worked in worse conditions before, though he didn't really want to think about doing footwork drills through an entire troop of sleeping Crusaders again. Something still human in him expected people to wake up when he put a foot through their chests, slid his toes along their ankles or stepped through their kits.
He wandered back out into the middle of the courtyard again, ignoring the children who streamed by like schools of yelling fish, and went back to his practice, carefully keeping the sword sheathed, just in case. Old swords sometimes had more opinions than they had any right to, and the one on his hip was no exception.
By the time the Morrigan showed up again--a week later than she'd expected and bearing apology gifts of baking-spice infused tea--he was moving easier than he had in years, and wondering why he'd ever stopped.
" . . . This tea parcel is stamped 'property of the Council of Bern'," he was saying ten minutes later, eying the package in question in lieu of eying the Morrigan, who was no doubt grinning. Yeah, that would be why he'd stopped. The damned Councils and their twice-damned 'special projects'.
"They send their regards," she replied mock-solemnly, "or, rather, the contingent assigned escort duty for several of their orders send their involuntary regards." She put her fingers to her chin, rubbing in false meditation. "You'd think they'd have circulated my name or photograph through the carriages by now."
He lowered the package, to properly eye her.
She struggled to hold onto the innocent eyes, then broke pose, grinned up at him, eyes sparkling and her cheeks faintly flushed with health. "I'm hardly going to decline a challenge."
Covering his eyes with one hand, "Yes, you'd think they'd have learned by now. Have a good time?"
"I'll know when I've tried their tea," she told him cheerfully. "Ginger can be such a tricky flavour."