Robin of Sherwood: Son of Wind (1/1)
Title: Son of Wind
By:
vehemently
Fandom: Robin of Sherwood
For:
mundane_bingo (this card)
Wordcount: 800
Two days on, Nasir went to Marian to ask her for a comb. A hundred things were different in this country, a hundred times a hundred, but women still combed their hair even in England. She looked at him strangely, but handed over her rough wooden comb without any meanness.
"I will make you another," Nasir told her, with a small bow. She always smiled when he did such things. He did not know the proper way to address her or even if his English was intelligible, but a smile was a smile. Perhaps she would not smile when she saw what he was doing with her comb. The English felt differently about their animals than normal people do.
And so it was practically in secret that Nasir stole away, early in the morning, to comb the mane and tail of the pony they had captured along with a brown-robed friar three days ago. The friar they sent walking, considerably relieved of the burden of earthly riches, but the pony stayed, hobbled in a small clearing. Nasir was half-afraid that Robin meant to kill the creature for meat.
He was a short and stocky animal, thick-necked and with a wide blunt head like a thumb or like a peasant's tool. Long ears and yellow whiskers about the muzzle gave him the air of an ass, though he made no bray or indeed any protest of his change in ownership. His hooves were long and unshod, legs caked with forest mud well up the fetlocks. Shaggy and uneven, his coat was the shade that Will Scarlet called sorrel, although it looked scarlet enough for Nasir. The long, ragged mane, and thus the reason for the comb, was straw-colored, and straw in texture too.
It was slow work, and the five wooden teeth in Marian's comb pushed but poorly through the snarls and burrs in the pony's mane. The animal did not seem to mind, only shifting his weight from one heel to the other at times, while Nasir sang in a low voice. He sang of home, and of flying a-gallop in the wind, and of the dainty faces and curved necks of glossy creatures far to the south and east of here. The pony clearly was not listening, and munched contentedly with no idea of the desert horses to which he was compared. The sun came higher in the sky and the mist rose up and disappeared and on worked Nasir, smoothing the forelock down a white-blazed face. He breathed into the pony's nostrils, and got an amused snuffle in return.
The birds sang high in the trees and the shade dappled down on newly-combed hair. The poor thing's coat was long enough that the comb was useful there too, and uncovered more than one old sore from a bad saddle or harness. Nasir clucked at this neglect, but the pony's only reply was to lift his tail and break wind at length.
"Aha," Nasir told him, "and how shall I neaten the latter half of you, if you threaten me so?" He laughed as he said it, and it was a long time since he had laughed.
"It can't understand you," came a voice like a bell from above him and behind. Nasir spun at once, comb pointed outward as if it were a weapon. But it was only Marian, high on the hill and with one hand on the giant oak on whose root she stood. Her face was pinked and fresh: she was just back from a wash in the creek. She held a laugh about her: not quite so forward as to give it sound in front of a man she still knew so little, but not so demure as to look away from a steady gaze. Marian smiled and said, "It is only a poor English pony, and knows nothing of the languages of the Levant."
"I am sorry," said Nasir, switching back into English himself. He proffered her the comb. "This is unclean for you now?"
"Keep it," said Marian. She shook out a light-colored cloth and tied it over her hair. "For the moment. Robin says we shall barter the horse to Wickham and be fed all winter long."
"He will be eaten?" Nasir asked gravely.
"No!" she cried, and this time she did laugh. "A horse is labor, not supper. And perhaps a playmate to be plaited, now and then."
Nasir did not know that word, plaited. He gave a little bow in lieu of an answer, and paused on the point of turning away.
"I will make you another," he said, comb still in hand.
"I know you shall," Marian told him, and they went their separate ways.
The pony, left behind in the clearing, signified his opinion with more wind.
END
This entry was originally posted at http://vehemently.dreamwidth.org/18223.html. Comment wherever you like.
By:
vehemently
Fandom: Robin of Sherwood
For:
mundane_bingo (this card)
Wordcount: 800
Two days on, Nasir went to Marian to ask her for a comb. A hundred things were different in this country, a hundred times a hundred, but women still combed their hair even in England. She looked at him strangely, but handed over her rough wooden comb without any meanness.
"I will make you another," Nasir told her, with a small bow. She always smiled when he did such things. He did not know the proper way to address her or even if his English was intelligible, but a smile was a smile. Perhaps she would not smile when she saw what he was doing with her comb. The English felt differently about their animals than normal people do.
And so it was practically in secret that Nasir stole away, early in the morning, to comb the mane and tail of the pony they had captured along with a brown-robed friar three days ago. The friar they sent walking, considerably relieved of the burden of earthly riches, but the pony stayed, hobbled in a small clearing. Nasir was half-afraid that Robin meant to kill the creature for meat.
He was a short and stocky animal, thick-necked and with a wide blunt head like a thumb or like a peasant's tool. Long ears and yellow whiskers about the muzzle gave him the air of an ass, though he made no bray or indeed any protest of his change in ownership. His hooves were long and unshod, legs caked with forest mud well up the fetlocks. Shaggy and uneven, his coat was the shade that Will Scarlet called sorrel, although it looked scarlet enough for Nasir. The long, ragged mane, and thus the reason for the comb, was straw-colored, and straw in texture too.
It was slow work, and the five wooden teeth in Marian's comb pushed but poorly through the snarls and burrs in the pony's mane. The animal did not seem to mind, only shifting his weight from one heel to the other at times, while Nasir sang in a low voice. He sang of home, and of flying a-gallop in the wind, and of the dainty faces and curved necks of glossy creatures far to the south and east of here. The pony clearly was not listening, and munched contentedly with no idea of the desert horses to which he was compared. The sun came higher in the sky and the mist rose up and disappeared and on worked Nasir, smoothing the forelock down a white-blazed face. He breathed into the pony's nostrils, and got an amused snuffle in return.
The birds sang high in the trees and the shade dappled down on newly-combed hair. The poor thing's coat was long enough that the comb was useful there too, and uncovered more than one old sore from a bad saddle or harness. Nasir clucked at this neglect, but the pony's only reply was to lift his tail and break wind at length.
"Aha," Nasir told him, "and how shall I neaten the latter half of you, if you threaten me so?" He laughed as he said it, and it was a long time since he had laughed.
"It can't understand you," came a voice like a bell from above him and behind. Nasir spun at once, comb pointed outward as if it were a weapon. But it was only Marian, high on the hill and with one hand on the giant oak on whose root she stood. Her face was pinked and fresh: she was just back from a wash in the creek. She held a laugh about her: not quite so forward as to give it sound in front of a man she still knew so little, but not so demure as to look away from a steady gaze. Marian smiled and said, "It is only a poor English pony, and knows nothing of the languages of the Levant."
"I am sorry," said Nasir, switching back into English himself. He proffered her the comb. "This is unclean for you now?"
"Keep it," said Marian. She shook out a light-colored cloth and tied it over her hair. "For the moment. Robin says we shall barter the horse to Wickham and be fed all winter long."
"He will be eaten?" Nasir asked gravely.
"No!" she cried, and this time she did laugh. "A horse is labor, not supper. And perhaps a playmate to be plaited, now and then."
Nasir did not know that word, plaited. He gave a little bow in lieu of an answer, and paused on the point of turning away.
"I will make you another," he said, comb still in hand.
"I know you shall," Marian told him, and they went their separate ways.
The pony, left behind in the clearing, signified his opinion with more wind.
END
This entry was originally posted at http://vehemently.dreamwidth.org/18223.html. Comment wherever you like.