Losing at Dice
Story: one-shot
Rating: G
Word Count: 217
Summary: A one-shot using characters from a way old fantasy story. Using the prompt "Where were you last night?"
“Where were you last night?”
Where were you, and why were you dripping wet at the door, last night - Maksim amended in his head. He grinned, knowing it would piss her off. He had nothing to hide.
“Pulling your son out of the lake,” Maksim said.
Leda's eyebrows came together sharply. “So I'd gathered,” was the dry response. “How much did he drink?”
There was a moment, a weak, frail moment, when Maksim considered denying that they'd been at the inn. His wife's hard eyes chased the foolish notion away.
“He kept losing at dice, so they bought a couple of pints out of sympathy.” It sounded a hollow excuse, even to him.
“He - kept - losing - at - dice,” Leda echoed dangerously.
And that was it; Maksim could feel it brewing. 'Oh yes, and what, please, was Yosha doing playing at dice?' - it would be. 'Encouraging your son to gamble now, are we?' With a cruel emphasis on the 'your'. Maksim had made a mistake earlier, that fatal error again. Because Yosha was always 'your son', and never 'my son'. A personal affront, a living remnant of the woman before, of Maksim's love for another. And Leda would be damned if she let anyone forget it.
(Story Index)
Rating: G
Word Count: 217
Summary: A one-shot using characters from a way old fantasy story. Using the prompt "Where were you last night?"
“Where were you last night?”
Where were you, and why were you dripping wet at the door, last night - Maksim amended in his head. He grinned, knowing it would piss her off. He had nothing to hide.
“Pulling your son out of the lake,” Maksim said.
Leda's eyebrows came together sharply. “So I'd gathered,” was the dry response. “How much did he drink?”
There was a moment, a weak, frail moment, when Maksim considered denying that they'd been at the inn. His wife's hard eyes chased the foolish notion away.
“He kept losing at dice, so they bought a couple of pints out of sympathy.” It sounded a hollow excuse, even to him.
“He - kept - losing - at - dice,” Leda echoed dangerously.
And that was it; Maksim could feel it brewing. 'Oh yes, and what, please, was Yosha doing playing at dice?' - it would be. 'Encouraging your son to gamble now, are we?' With a cruel emphasis on the 'your'. Maksim had made a mistake earlier, that fatal error again. Because Yosha was always 'your son', and never 'my son'. A personal affront, a living remnant of the woman before, of Maksim's love for another. And Leda would be damned if she let anyone forget it.
(Story Index)