Yes, but were you there?
From how far back was his one question and Ned stood by it, it wasn't a bad question, not at all, not with Keel-who-wasn't-Keel looking at him like some creature from the Dark Days and all hell about to break loose in front of them. Didn't get answer though, so Ned just nodded and pulled his helmet down more firmly.
"Now let's show Snapcase where the line's drawn, shall we? Let's finish it-"
They charged. Ned lost sight of Keel almost immediately but he tried to keep sight of the others, tried to keep his head above water. It wasn't a battle or a war or even a skirmish...what it was was a rout and a bloody shame, and Ned couldn't help but remember what he'd said to Keel-who-wasn't-Keel about the men who shouldn't have been there, who SHOULD NOT have been there, but they were, they all were, and the purple was in the corners of his eyes like sparks.
And he lost sight.
When a Watchman ran at him, Ned didn't see any purple and he cut him down without stopping. He felt blood hot and foul on his face and saw the look on Carcer's face when he'd asked if Ned was just along for the ride? No, he wasn't. This wasn't like any ride that he'd ever been on, not now. What this was was a run-away, and they were all going to die in a pile of splinter and spark. It only occurred to him after the man had gone down how easy it would be for a small thing, a sprig of lilac, say, to slip in the crush and get lost under all of the boots, running and be gone, just like that. It occured to him, and then Ned put that entirely from his mind because you couldn't think like that. Ned Coates was dangerous because he could be that rational. Ned Coates was dangerous because he believed.
Something made him look up, tall enough to see above the heads to where Keel had Carcer by the throat. The world vibrated like it had before and a body fell but it wasn't the body and, anyway, it was only one, and Ned had this brief, fleeting glimpse of a much older Ankh Morpork, the river cleaner but the city darker and everything, but everything, was drenched in blood.
He felt the pain but couldn't see it. It was almost funny...Ned Coates was a young man and, up until that moment, he hadn't really expected to die. It all went dark very quickly after that.
And everything was drenched in blood.
NED COATES? LANCE CORPORAL, WOULD YOU COME THI-...WHAT? OH. OH, I SEE. VERY WELL.
And Ned could have sworn that he heard the sound of dice, and somebody kissed him.
He opened his eyes.
He was on his feet. A good watchman could sleep on his feet (it'd kill him by the third night, but he COULD), and Ned Coates had always been a good Copper. He was on his feet and what he saw was not Treacle Mine Road. What he saw was water, miles of water, more water than could be believed and the sun in the sky. His sword was still in his numb hand and his head hurt like bloody murder and there was blood sticky on his neck but no wound. Ned turned around in a half circle and realised.
Death was another country, the poets said. Apparently, they weren't wrong.
Bugger.
Ned sat down heavily in the sand, dragging his helmet off of his head, the lilac fluttering free. He picked it up, meaning to crush it, but, in the end, he lay back with it still curled in his fingers, his hand on his chest. Eyes closed, he started to sing to himself.
"How do they rise up, rise up, rise up? How do they rise up, rise up high?"
His voice cracked, wobbled but, in the end, held.
Nobody could have blamed him, anyway.
OOC: One revolutionary, slightly worn, departing one 25th May for another. There's a lot of blood on his neck, but no discernable wound.
"Now let's show Snapcase where the line's drawn, shall we? Let's finish it-"
They charged. Ned lost sight of Keel almost immediately but he tried to keep sight of the others, tried to keep his head above water. It wasn't a battle or a war or even a skirmish...what it was was a rout and a bloody shame, and Ned couldn't help but remember what he'd said to Keel-who-wasn't-Keel about the men who shouldn't have been there, who SHOULD NOT have been there, but they were, they all were, and the purple was in the corners of his eyes like sparks.
And he lost sight.
When a Watchman ran at him, Ned didn't see any purple and he cut him down without stopping. He felt blood hot and foul on his face and saw the look on Carcer's face when he'd asked if Ned was just along for the ride? No, he wasn't. This wasn't like any ride that he'd ever been on, not now. What this was was a run-away, and they were all going to die in a pile of splinter and spark. It only occurred to him after the man had gone down how easy it would be for a small thing, a sprig of lilac, say, to slip in the crush and get lost under all of the boots, running and be gone, just like that. It occured to him, and then Ned put that entirely from his mind because you couldn't think like that. Ned Coates was dangerous because he could be that rational. Ned Coates was dangerous because he believed.
Something made him look up, tall enough to see above the heads to where Keel had Carcer by the throat. The world vibrated like it had before and a body fell but it wasn't the body and, anyway, it was only one, and Ned had this brief, fleeting glimpse of a much older Ankh Morpork, the river cleaner but the city darker and everything, but everything, was drenched in blood.
He felt the pain but couldn't see it. It was almost funny...Ned Coates was a young man and, up until that moment, he hadn't really expected to die. It all went dark very quickly after that.
And everything was drenched in blood.
NED COATES? LANCE CORPORAL, WOULD YOU COME THI-...WHAT? OH. OH, I SEE. VERY WELL.
And Ned could have sworn that he heard the sound of dice, and somebody kissed him.
He opened his eyes.
He was on his feet. A good watchman could sleep on his feet (it'd kill him by the third night, but he COULD), and Ned Coates had always been a good Copper. He was on his feet and what he saw was not Treacle Mine Road. What he saw was water, miles of water, more water than could be believed and the sun in the sky. His sword was still in his numb hand and his head hurt like bloody murder and there was blood sticky on his neck but no wound. Ned turned around in a half circle and realised.
Death was another country, the poets said. Apparently, they weren't wrong.
Bugger.
Ned sat down heavily in the sand, dragging his helmet off of his head, the lilac fluttering free. He picked it up, meaning to crush it, but, in the end, he lay back with it still curled in his fingers, his hand on his chest. Eyes closed, he started to sing to himself.
"How do they rise up, rise up, rise up? How do they rise up, rise up high?"
His voice cracked, wobbled but, in the end, held.
Nobody could have blamed him, anyway.
OOC: One revolutionary, slightly worn, departing one 25th May for another. There's a lot of blood on his neck, but no discernable wound.