Blooded (Sharpe, R, Sharpe/Harper)
Title: Blooded
Author: Galadriel caras_galadhon
Fandom: Sharpe
Rating: R (for violence)
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: I may march over the hills and far away alongside Richard Sharpe, but Bernard Cornwell, the lucky, lucky man, owns the rogue, not me.
Summary: The battlefield, blood, and lust.
Notes: Book based, although my Richard Sharpe has always been blonde and green-eyed. Occurs at a non-specific battle after Richard has been promoted to Major, but before the end of Sharpe's Enemy. Written for contrelamontre dialogue challenge. The story must contain realistic dialogue, and the following lines:
"Want you."
S/he laughed airily. "Doesn't anyone say 'please' anymore?"
Time limit: 45 minutes.
"The measure of [a soldier] is not known until [he] has been blooded." ~Tom Clancy
Blooded
By Galadriel
Load. Fire. Load. Fire. The automatic movements, so much a part of a soldier's life, took hold of the men of the South Essex. The French column approached, drums beating a path to victory, "Vive L'Empereur!" always on their lips. The South Essex fired one last volley. One volley was all there was time for before the British line and French ranks would collide. The smoke blew across the gap between enemies, momentarily obscuring rank and file.
"Fix bayonets!" Sharpe bellowed the order, his own sword held high, and as honed steel clicked into place on a flock of guns, he felt the familiar battlefield lust come over him. Bullets, meant to hit home, whipped uselessly past his face, singing in his ears. He released the battalion, allowing chaos to overwhelm order.
Kicking his way through the French, Sharpe thrust the huge heavy cavalry sword into a tangle of bodies, metal sliding through yielding flesh. A French Captain, seeing the opportunity to take down an enemy officer, drove his own, lighter sword forward through the crush of bodies, and Sharpe clumsily parried his thrust. Sharpe shoved another soldier aside, stepped in close to the Captain and hammered the hilt into his temple. The man crumpled beneath the onslaught.
Harper fought a stone's throw from his Major, the strange Gaelic war cries on his lips. The huge man was terrifying, clubbing down with the butt of his seven-barrelled gun onto the fingers of a wounded man scrabbling at his legs. Sharpe could not tell if the man was English or French; the uniform was soaked beyond recognition in blood. Another thudding blow to the skull and the clawing stopped.
The fight raged on, and the world slowed down. British and French died in droves around the two men, the circle of bodies widening with each moment. Thrust. Slam. Twist. Thrust.
A small band of horsed Partisans, their voices high and thin over the noise of the battle, swept through the broken column, slashing with sword, knife, and bayonet. A tall, slim woman at their head, hair lashing across her face, screamed Spanish obscenities at the French as they fell. Flesh and blood splashed up from her victims, coating the sides of her horse, her boots, her legs.
The French tide broke upon the British ranks and was turned.
Drenched in sweat and blood, Sharpe placed a booted foot on a torso, twisting his sword hilt before tugging the blade free of bone and sinew. He looked up, anticipating an attack by his next enemy, but found no one standing near. No one except Patrick.
The battlefield, quiet now except for the cries of the wounded, stretched into the distance. Sharpe's pulse slowed, and he realized that he was breathing erratically. A warm fluid trickled from his shoulder down his sword arm, black against the steel. He grinned, a wild look in his eyes, the bloodlust not diminished by the lack of aggressors. He ran his free hand through his hair and it came away stained and sticky.
Harper grinned back at him, his chest heaving up and down, heart still racing with the pure joy of the fight. He was no less of a sight; his hair was matted to his head with sweat, and one of the side seams on his green jacket had ripped.
The men stared at each other, the air between them crackling with potential.
***
In the aftermath, Lieutenant Price made his way over to Sharpe and Harper. He found them standing alone, one facing the other, a companionable silence stretching between them. They were covered from head to foot with mud, blood and sweat.
"You're wanted at the encampment, sir. The Partisans..." Price trailed off, tried again, "Your wife wishes to see you, sir... Sir?"
Sharpe gave no sign that he'd heard the lad. Sergeant and Major continued to gaze at each other, weapons still held at the ready as if the fight would, at any moment, begin again. Sharpe's knuckles turned white as he gripped the hilt of his butcher's blade ever tighter.
The air pulsed heat.
At a loss as to what to do, Price waited for some sign, some indication that he had been heard. Uncomfortable in the silence, he looked beyond the men to the rest of the battlefield.
The wind whistled across the grass, shredding the smoke twining from the remnants of burning wadding.
Price waited.
Eventually, a lone horsewoman made her way over to the tiny group. Once she was a few feet from the men she dismounted, leaving her horse to graze on the close-cropped, dry grass. A triumphant smile graced her lips, her eyes sparkling in the fading light.
"Sir." This time, Price imbued his words with more force as the woman stopped behind the Major.
Nothing.
Shrugging his shoulders, Price nodded at the woman and excused himself.
The woman cocked her head, listening for the unspoken words that passed between the Riflemen.
Finally, a growl rumbled up from Sharpe's chest. He locked eyes with Harper. "Want you."
She laughed airily. "Doesn't anyone say 'please' anymore? Really, Richard."
Sharpe whipped around, a guilty look on his face. "Teresa." It was a plea as much as a greeting. He slipped his blade back in the scabbard, opening empty arms to his wife.
She smiled easily at the Rifleman as she stepped forward and circled his neck with her arms, heedless of the gore that covered them both. Sharpe winced as her arm brushed his shoulder.
"You're hurt." Teresa let go of her husband and half-turned him to inspect the damage. After a moment she looked at Harper. "Would your woman have a needle and thread I could use, Sergeant?"
The big man nodded.
Teresa smiled gratefully and turned Sharpe towards the British encampment. Suddenly bereft of purpose, he allowed himself to be led back to her horse, guilt overwhelming the burning heat in his eyes.
The couple walked a few feet before Teresa stopped short. She turned back to Harper, suspicion on her face as if she had just now understood the meaning of Sharpe's words to his Sergeant. Patrick braced himself. The Major did not turn around.
"Harper?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Do you still have your cache of leeches?"
"Aye." Tension he did not know he was fostering drained out of Harper.
"Good. He'll need them, and you, later." The side of Sharpe's neck reddened.
The conversation over, man and wife walked on.
Harper watched them walk away, the bloodlust dimmed, the ancestral cries no longer ringing in the air. No longer pinned under the heat of Sharpe's gaze, Harper turned his back on the bodies littering the field and tilted his face to the sky.
High above him, a lone kite circled. Alone. He shouldered his seven-barrelled gun and watched as it dipped and soared on currents and eddies. The first hints of the cold night to come cut deeply into the Sergeant, and he reflexively crossed his arms over his chest, attempting to rub warmth back into his sides.
Eventually, a second kite joined the first. Harper watched the birds swoop and wheel around one another.
He smiled.
END
(January 10, 2003)
Author: Galadriel caras_galadhon
Fandom: Sharpe
Rating: R (for violence)
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: I may march over the hills and far away alongside Richard Sharpe, but Bernard Cornwell, the lucky, lucky man, owns the rogue, not me.
Summary: The battlefield, blood, and lust.
Notes: Book based, although my Richard Sharpe has always been blonde and green-eyed. Occurs at a non-specific battle after Richard has been promoted to Major, but before the end of Sharpe's Enemy. Written for contrelamontre dialogue challenge. The story must contain realistic dialogue, and the following lines:
"Want you."
S/he laughed airily. "Doesn't anyone say 'please' anymore?"
Time limit: 45 minutes.
"The measure of [a soldier] is not known until [he] has been blooded." ~Tom Clancy
Blooded
By Galadriel
Load. Fire. Load. Fire. The automatic movements, so much a part of a soldier's life, took hold of the men of the South Essex. The French column approached, drums beating a path to victory, "Vive L'Empereur!" always on their lips. The South Essex fired one last volley. One volley was all there was time for before the British line and French ranks would collide. The smoke blew across the gap between enemies, momentarily obscuring rank and file.
"Fix bayonets!" Sharpe bellowed the order, his own sword held high, and as honed steel clicked into place on a flock of guns, he felt the familiar battlefield lust come over him. Bullets, meant to hit home, whipped uselessly past his face, singing in his ears. He released the battalion, allowing chaos to overwhelm order.
Kicking his way through the French, Sharpe thrust the huge heavy cavalry sword into a tangle of bodies, metal sliding through yielding flesh. A French Captain, seeing the opportunity to take down an enemy officer, drove his own, lighter sword forward through the crush of bodies, and Sharpe clumsily parried his thrust. Sharpe shoved another soldier aside, stepped in close to the Captain and hammered the hilt into his temple. The man crumpled beneath the onslaught.
Harper fought a stone's throw from his Major, the strange Gaelic war cries on his lips. The huge man was terrifying, clubbing down with the butt of his seven-barrelled gun onto the fingers of a wounded man scrabbling at his legs. Sharpe could not tell if the man was English or French; the uniform was soaked beyond recognition in blood. Another thudding blow to the skull and the clawing stopped.
The fight raged on, and the world slowed down. British and French died in droves around the two men, the circle of bodies widening with each moment. Thrust. Slam. Twist. Thrust.
A small band of horsed Partisans, their voices high and thin over the noise of the battle, swept through the broken column, slashing with sword, knife, and bayonet. A tall, slim woman at their head, hair lashing across her face, screamed Spanish obscenities at the French as they fell. Flesh and blood splashed up from her victims, coating the sides of her horse, her boots, her legs.
The French tide broke upon the British ranks and was turned.
Drenched in sweat and blood, Sharpe placed a booted foot on a torso, twisting his sword hilt before tugging the blade free of bone and sinew. He looked up, anticipating an attack by his next enemy, but found no one standing near. No one except Patrick.
The battlefield, quiet now except for the cries of the wounded, stretched into the distance. Sharpe's pulse slowed, and he realized that he was breathing erratically. A warm fluid trickled from his shoulder down his sword arm, black against the steel. He grinned, a wild look in his eyes, the bloodlust not diminished by the lack of aggressors. He ran his free hand through his hair and it came away stained and sticky.
Harper grinned back at him, his chest heaving up and down, heart still racing with the pure joy of the fight. He was no less of a sight; his hair was matted to his head with sweat, and one of the side seams on his green jacket had ripped.
The men stared at each other, the air between them crackling with potential.
***
In the aftermath, Lieutenant Price made his way over to Sharpe and Harper. He found them standing alone, one facing the other, a companionable silence stretching between them. They were covered from head to foot with mud, blood and sweat.
"You're wanted at the encampment, sir. The Partisans..." Price trailed off, tried again, "Your wife wishes to see you, sir... Sir?"
Sharpe gave no sign that he'd heard the lad. Sergeant and Major continued to gaze at each other, weapons still held at the ready as if the fight would, at any moment, begin again. Sharpe's knuckles turned white as he gripped the hilt of his butcher's blade ever tighter.
The air pulsed heat.
At a loss as to what to do, Price waited for some sign, some indication that he had been heard. Uncomfortable in the silence, he looked beyond the men to the rest of the battlefield.
The wind whistled across the grass, shredding the smoke twining from the remnants of burning wadding.
Price waited.
Eventually, a lone horsewoman made her way over to the tiny group. Once she was a few feet from the men she dismounted, leaving her horse to graze on the close-cropped, dry grass. A triumphant smile graced her lips, her eyes sparkling in the fading light.
"Sir." This time, Price imbued his words with more force as the woman stopped behind the Major.
Nothing.
Shrugging his shoulders, Price nodded at the woman and excused himself.
The woman cocked her head, listening for the unspoken words that passed between the Riflemen.
Finally, a growl rumbled up from Sharpe's chest. He locked eyes with Harper. "Want you."
She laughed airily. "Doesn't anyone say 'please' anymore? Really, Richard."
Sharpe whipped around, a guilty look on his face. "Teresa." It was a plea as much as a greeting. He slipped his blade back in the scabbard, opening empty arms to his wife.
She smiled easily at the Rifleman as she stepped forward and circled his neck with her arms, heedless of the gore that covered them both. Sharpe winced as her arm brushed his shoulder.
"You're hurt." Teresa let go of her husband and half-turned him to inspect the damage. After a moment she looked at Harper. "Would your woman have a needle and thread I could use, Sergeant?"
The big man nodded.
Teresa smiled gratefully and turned Sharpe towards the British encampment. Suddenly bereft of purpose, he allowed himself to be led back to her horse, guilt overwhelming the burning heat in his eyes.
The couple walked a few feet before Teresa stopped short. She turned back to Harper, suspicion on her face as if she had just now understood the meaning of Sharpe's words to his Sergeant. Patrick braced himself. The Major did not turn around.
"Harper?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Do you still have your cache of leeches?"
"Aye." Tension he did not know he was fostering drained out of Harper.
"Good. He'll need them, and you, later." The side of Sharpe's neck reddened.
The conversation over, man and wife walked on.
Harper watched them walk away, the bloodlust dimmed, the ancestral cries no longer ringing in the air. No longer pinned under the heat of Sharpe's gaze, Harper turned his back on the bodies littering the field and tilted his face to the sky.
High above him, a lone kite circled. Alone. He shouldered his seven-barrelled gun and watched as it dipped and soared on currents and eddies. The first hints of the cold night to come cut deeply into the Sergeant, and he reflexively crossed his arms over his chest, attempting to rub warmth back into his sides.
Eventually, a second kite joined the first. Harper watched the birds swoop and wheel around one another.
He smiled.
END
(January 10, 2003)