[Deaths] on a battlefield
Title: unlikely reinforcements
'Verse/characters: Deaths; Ricard, Edmund De'Ath
Prompt: celeloriel: "by any other name"
Word Count: 1210
Notes: after Julian went West, before Edmund was reported dead. Sometime between thick, heavy air full of warm earth smells and a message from the front, closer to the former.
If anyone has lines on a list of minor to middling nobility in the Crown of Aragon in the 1400s, I'd be delighted; I borrowed two Chancellors' surnames for the interim.
---------
There was a persistent rumour about a couple of De'Aths in the ranks. Old ones, at that, not just the usual run of the mill blond kid trying to make a name for himself before going to carve himself out a territory.
The first time Ricard'd heard the rumour he'd snorted. There was better fighting farther East, under one of Venice's flags, or up at the sharp end of the border between the Turk and Christianity. De'Aths bothering to join in on a campaign this small when there were better pickings elsewhere was a little absurd. He'd only bothered because the bandits liked to raid down the mountains, and he remembered the hospitality some of the foothill-villages had shown him and his, a long, long time ago.
So Ricard hadn't really paid much mind to the rumours. Soldiers gossiped like mountain widows, with just about as much fact leavening the theories, and he had better things to worry about.
Better things, that was, until his line was being pushed to breaking, the bandits reinforcing themselves as they smelled weakness, and Ricard's side spread too-thin to respond in kind.
The bandits were poorly armed, hardly a sword to match his among the lot, but--Ricard flinched, head automatically dropping as the boy he'd hit went to sky-blue light--they were older than they looked, determined, and knew what they were doing with their hammers, their knives, their axes. He dropped his buckler to deflect another knife from his side, surging forward a pace to throw the man off balance, then had to retreat two as more knives came for him.
He'd managed to put that man down and was trying to get an angle on another one armed with a woodcutter's axe, when an accented voice said "Mi scusi" from just behind his left shoulder. He startled, ducking right on pure reflex, and watched the butt of a scythe go through the space he'd just vacated and punch his axeman in the chest. Another step forward on the scytheman's part, a swing, and the axe was clattering to the ground as its owner went to light.
Ricard had never actually had the opportunity before to watch a man with a scythe fight, and didn't now, not really. He caught glimpses from the corner of his eyes, flashes of movement and the light of the blade winking in the sunlight, and had the vague impression the scythe's owner was tall and blond enough to be unmistakably foreign.
Ricard wished he had the breathing space to just stand there and watch. But the knives hadn't backed off, and now there was a target whose effective range was even longer than Ricard's own--Ricard bled more in a quarter-hour than he had in the four hours previous trying to keep knives from scythe.
The scytheman was very, very good, he thought as the pressure began to lessen. Also crazy as a Crusader, going by the man's tendency to throw himself into the thickest crushes, pry himself some space to work with the weighted butt of his weapon or his fist, and then harvest bandits like they were durum wheat.
The bandits--who weren't as stupid as Ricard's fellows always seemed to like to think--were retreating, their reinforcements fading back towards other portions of the line or back into the woods they'd emerged from. Which didn't keep the man right in front of Ricard from feinting with one knife and trying to open him up like a hog with the other when Ricard blocked the feint with his buckler.
His good Castilian always went first, followed by his long-practiced Italian, so it was Aragonés curses he hissed through his teeth at the white-hot pain. Standing much too close to stab the man, he snarled another curse, bunched his fingers tighter around the hilt of his sword, and punched the man in his smirking face as hard as he could. A scream, a stumble, and there was his space for a response, belly screaming as he raised his arm to strike.
Moments later, his buckler-arm wrapped tightly across his torso to try to hold himself together until he'd soaked up enough energy to heal, he shook his head once at the corpse. The man had been young--too young to go to light as he died, just small flickers of dark blue in his blood--and not yet aware of all of what he was. Too late now, Ricard thought, then looked up, wondering why he hadn't been tackled yet.
It was the light reflecting off the scythe's blade that drew his eye. Still, for once, butt propped on the ground and handle cradled in its owner's arm as he dabbed at his split lip with his other hand. When the man caught Ricard looking, he grinned, lip splitting again, and ambled over.
"Appears we're done for the moment," he said, and it took a moment for Ricard to identify the accent as Latin. Older than he looked, then. Too tall and much too blond to be Roman, though--and Ricard was staring. He dropped his buckler on the ground by his feet, but couldn't help the grunt as he transferred his sword to his buckler-hand and held out his sword-hand to offer a polite greeting.
"Ricard de Vallseca y de Malferit," he said, as much because he was still bleeding as because the blond was giving him a concerned look. He hadn't bothered with adding his grandmother's name to his father's in years; everyone who'd recognise it either already knew him or wouldn't care.
"You're a lot less Italian than I thought," the blond replied, grinning as they gripped bloody, calloused hands. "Edmund De'Ath."
Ricard blinked.
Edmund's grin widened, then he winced and swiped at his lip again. "Ow. I hate when someone gets in a lucky swing. You all right?" he asked, nodding to Ricard's sword, still held against his belly.
"Much the same," he answered, tone a little blank. "Man with a knife forgot what he was fighting. Are you actually--"
"It'd be a stupid name to try borrowing, considering my brother's less than a league that way," Edmund said cheerfully, pointing downhill. "Come on, I owe you a drink for keeping the knives out of my kidneys. He'll have wine--or know where to find it."
Ricard gingerly pulled his sticky arm away from his belly, examined the edges of his shirt and the clotted cut beneath it, then glanced back up at what he was almost forced to assume was damn near the most famous De'Ath walking. Who'd just invited him for a drink with the other one.
He still hurt too much to be having a particularly vivid dream. "I haven't had good wine in weeks," he admitted. "Village homebrew at best."
Edmund resplit his lip for the third time. "We can fix that. Want me to get your buckler for you?"
Ricard eyed it, then considered bending over to get it himself. " . . Please."
Edmund crouched to fetch it, hand sliding down his scythe with the ease of long familiarity and absolutely no fear of splinters, then rose. Ricard took it back after transferring his filthy sword back to its proper hand, nodded his thanks.
He was going to have to pay better attention to rumours, next time.
'Verse/characters: Deaths; Ricard, Edmund De'Ath
Prompt: celeloriel: "by any other name"
Word Count: 1210
Notes: after Julian went West, before Edmund was reported dead. Sometime between thick, heavy air full of warm earth smells and a message from the front, closer to the former.
If anyone has lines on a list of minor to middling nobility in the Crown of Aragon in the 1400s, I'd be delighted; I borrowed two Chancellors' surnames for the interim.
---------
There was a persistent rumour about a couple of De'Aths in the ranks. Old ones, at that, not just the usual run of the mill blond kid trying to make a name for himself before going to carve himself out a territory.
The first time Ricard'd heard the rumour he'd snorted. There was better fighting farther East, under one of Venice's flags, or up at the sharp end of the border between the Turk and Christianity. De'Aths bothering to join in on a campaign this small when there were better pickings elsewhere was a little absurd. He'd only bothered because the bandits liked to raid down the mountains, and he remembered the hospitality some of the foothill-villages had shown him and his, a long, long time ago.
So Ricard hadn't really paid much mind to the rumours. Soldiers gossiped like mountain widows, with just about as much fact leavening the theories, and he had better things to worry about.
Better things, that was, until his line was being pushed to breaking, the bandits reinforcing themselves as they smelled weakness, and Ricard's side spread too-thin to respond in kind.
The bandits were poorly armed, hardly a sword to match his among the lot, but--Ricard flinched, head automatically dropping as the boy he'd hit went to sky-blue light--they were older than they looked, determined, and knew what they were doing with their hammers, their knives, their axes. He dropped his buckler to deflect another knife from his side, surging forward a pace to throw the man off balance, then had to retreat two as more knives came for him.
He'd managed to put that man down and was trying to get an angle on another one armed with a woodcutter's axe, when an accented voice said "Mi scusi" from just behind his left shoulder. He startled, ducking right on pure reflex, and watched the butt of a scythe go through the space he'd just vacated and punch his axeman in the chest. Another step forward on the scytheman's part, a swing, and the axe was clattering to the ground as its owner went to light.
Ricard had never actually had the opportunity before to watch a man with a scythe fight, and didn't now, not really. He caught glimpses from the corner of his eyes, flashes of movement and the light of the blade winking in the sunlight, and had the vague impression the scythe's owner was tall and blond enough to be unmistakably foreign.
Ricard wished he had the breathing space to just stand there and watch. But the knives hadn't backed off, and now there was a target whose effective range was even longer than Ricard's own--Ricard bled more in a quarter-hour than he had in the four hours previous trying to keep knives from scythe.
The scytheman was very, very good, he thought as the pressure began to lessen. Also crazy as a Crusader, going by the man's tendency to throw himself into the thickest crushes, pry himself some space to work with the weighted butt of his weapon or his fist, and then harvest bandits like they were durum wheat.
The bandits--who weren't as stupid as Ricard's fellows always seemed to like to think--were retreating, their reinforcements fading back towards other portions of the line or back into the woods they'd emerged from. Which didn't keep the man right in front of Ricard from feinting with one knife and trying to open him up like a hog with the other when Ricard blocked the feint with his buckler.
His good Castilian always went first, followed by his long-practiced Italian, so it was Aragonés curses he hissed through his teeth at the white-hot pain. Standing much too close to stab the man, he snarled another curse, bunched his fingers tighter around the hilt of his sword, and punched the man in his smirking face as hard as he could. A scream, a stumble, and there was his space for a response, belly screaming as he raised his arm to strike.
Moments later, his buckler-arm wrapped tightly across his torso to try to hold himself together until he'd soaked up enough energy to heal, he shook his head once at the corpse. The man had been young--too young to go to light as he died, just small flickers of dark blue in his blood--and not yet aware of all of what he was. Too late now, Ricard thought, then looked up, wondering why he hadn't been tackled yet.
It was the light reflecting off the scythe's blade that drew his eye. Still, for once, butt propped on the ground and handle cradled in its owner's arm as he dabbed at his split lip with his other hand. When the man caught Ricard looking, he grinned, lip splitting again, and ambled over.
"Appears we're done for the moment," he said, and it took a moment for Ricard to identify the accent as Latin. Older than he looked, then. Too tall and much too blond to be Roman, though--and Ricard was staring. He dropped his buckler on the ground by his feet, but couldn't help the grunt as he transferred his sword to his buckler-hand and held out his sword-hand to offer a polite greeting.
"Ricard de Vallseca y de Malferit," he said, as much because he was still bleeding as because the blond was giving him a concerned look. He hadn't bothered with adding his grandmother's name to his father's in years; everyone who'd recognise it either already knew him or wouldn't care.
"You're a lot less Italian than I thought," the blond replied, grinning as they gripped bloody, calloused hands. "Edmund De'Ath."
Ricard blinked.
Edmund's grin widened, then he winced and swiped at his lip again. "Ow. I hate when someone gets in a lucky swing. You all right?" he asked, nodding to Ricard's sword, still held against his belly.
"Much the same," he answered, tone a little blank. "Man with a knife forgot what he was fighting. Are you actually--"
"It'd be a stupid name to try borrowing, considering my brother's less than a league that way," Edmund said cheerfully, pointing downhill. "Come on, I owe you a drink for keeping the knives out of my kidneys. He'll have wine--or know where to find it."
Ricard gingerly pulled his sticky arm away from his belly, examined the edges of his shirt and the clotted cut beneath it, then glanced back up at what he was almost forced to assume was damn near the most famous De'Ath walking. Who'd just invited him for a drink with the other one.
He still hurt too much to be having a particularly vivid dream. "I haven't had good wine in weeks," he admitted. "Village homebrew at best."
Edmund resplit his lip for the third time. "We can fix that. Want me to get your buckler for you?"
Ricard eyed it, then considered bending over to get it himself. " . . Please."
Edmund crouched to fetch it, hand sliding down his scythe with the ease of long familiarity and absolutely no fear of splinters, then rose. Ricard took it back after transferring his filthy sword back to its proper hand, nodded his thanks.
He was going to have to pay better attention to rumours, next time.