[Wild Roses] The Wars
Title: crossroads
'Verse/characters: Wild Roses Wars; Isael, Ruadhan
Prompt: 44D "two roads"
Word Count: 1081
Notes: approximately concurrent with language for thieves and liars (christ, that was really five years ago?), early stages of the first war.
Ruadhan's singing a bit of a Great Big Sea song, in case you're curious.
---------
They'd stopped for a mid-afternoon meal, stepping off the dusty track to open carry-cases and sit down for a while. Isael'd spent more time stretching his legs--and his vocabulary, but that was less voluntary--than eating, but Ruadhan hadn't argued for once. They'd fought at the noon meal, Isael saying truth that he was still full from the mid-morning, and the bard arguing that he needed the energy. In french, because he was a bastard like that.
They'd moved on--with frequent backtracking--to french from the far worse english nearly a week before. It was getting easier, not that he'd admit it aloud, and the bard's tendency to sing to the rhythm of his pace was actually oddly useful. Vocabulary-expanding, in all three languages they were using; Isael hadn't bothered to protest the misuse of the words of the liturgy since Ruadhan had calmly explained that where he'd grown up it was the language of the secular court and the mage community, and if Isael honestly expected the nobility not to make dirty jokes he obviously hadn't been paying attention the last few years.
He'd conceded the point with a nod and a grimace, not even bothering to pretend offense. The bard-his-father had acknowledged that by letting the argument go, for the day at least, and had lapsed back into english instead, and the resonances of the ground.
Which had seemed like purest nonsense when Ruadhan first brought it up, but he was starting to get a grasp on the idea. He thought, anyway, and noticed the way dust swirled beneath his father's feet as they walked. They'd been kindly calling the path they were walking a 'road' because Isael didn't yet have the french vocabulary to accurately describe the damned thing. It was rutted, pocked with holes that would fill with mud at the slightest excuse, and in current conditions they were coated with a thin film of dust nearly from boots to hair. He still wasn't sure what Ruadhan was using to keep it out of the food, but he wished he'd had access to it years ago.
Switching to his other hamstring, feeling it creak along the back of his leg, Isael tried not to sneeze as he disturbed some of the dirt clinging to his pant leg. Glaring from close range at the dun-dulled blue material--he'd been forbidden black, which he still resented--he huffed a breath out at it, trying to clear a space to breathe. It wasn't until the dust fled, curling and swirling away in a close-quarters wind that he realised he'd timed it to his heartbeat.
His pant leg was clear from mid-thigh to shin, the material clear and dark as when they'd bought it. He blinked. Then, in a spirit of experimentation, tried it again, turning his head a little to aim at the other leg.
That breeze ruffled his hair, and spread farther, enough so that Ruadhan cut off whatever he was humming around an apple by sneezing violently.
Another breeze built, then, ruffling his hair the other way and accompanied by something muttery from the bard's direction, cursing the dust for getting into his apple and his nose. He couldn't help grinning down into his leg.
"Your knee's not a meal," Ruadhan remarked after another moment. Isael couldn't tell if the timing was deliberate courtesy or unconscious awareness that he'd just finished a symmetrical stretch. Uncurling, he flopped backwards until his head hit the dusty grass, and held up a hand lazily.
An apple smacked into his palm; he dropped it onto his chest in time to catch the wrapped wedge of cheese and the semi-dried broad sausage that followed the fruit. "Pomme?" he confirmed, holding the apple up again, and Ruadhan's laughter curled around his fingers, all but visible in the air.
"Oui--and if you don't finish the cheese throw it back," came back to him, and he didn't need to be able to see the bard to know he'd gone back to his own apple. Wet crunching sounds came in counterpoint to his apple, the rustle of the cheese wrapping in a faint breeze, still aimed towards the road instead of towards them.
He ate more when he wasn't paying attention, which he knew. Considering the fight they'd had earlier, he suspected the bard-his-father would prefer it if the cheese didn't come back, so he deliberately watched the clouds scud around in the sky while he alternated bites of cheese and apple, core included, and then switched to the sausage when he ran out of apple. He didn't bother eating the stem of the apple or the very end of the heel of the sausage, just flicked them off his fingers towards the scrub-break beyond the grass he was lying on.
The bard had started singing again by the time Isael had decided he'd had enough of a rest and sat up, wadding the cheese-wrapper up in his hand to put with the rest of the detritus. He grinned up as Isael tucked the wrapper away, then hauled himself to his own feet and let Isael take the rucksack with the food. "A bord le barque elle a saut-nous irons jouer sur le bord de l'eau," he sang, then dropped back into english to say "We'll take the road going that way," as he pointed, then went back to french.
Isael let him lead the way, settling the pack securely across his spine before he began to head back for the track. Then he paused, staring, and looked again.
Squinting against the glare of the wintery-pale, low sun--and two days ago it had been the high bright gold of summer, he was never going to get used to this--he eventually raised a hand to shield his eyes and look as well as he could.
"Which road?" he asked, and watched the bard-his-father's back tense up. To untrained eyes it would have been near-invisible, obscured by long coat and guitar case, but his eyes weren't untrained. Not for that, anyway, though he was starting to wonder about the other things the man demanded of him.
"Why do you ask?" Ruadhan asked, turning just enough to see him out of the corner of a blue eye.
"I see two," he explained, hunching his shoulders in and waiting for the complaint, the correction.
Instead a broad grin spread across his father's face, and he dropped back to stand next to Isael. "Tell me about them--I see five, but only one's going the right direction."
'Verse/characters: Wild Roses Wars; Isael, Ruadhan
Prompt: 44D "two roads"
Word Count: 1081
Notes: approximately concurrent with language for thieves and liars (christ, that was really five years ago?), early stages of the first war.
Ruadhan's singing a bit of a Great Big Sea song, in case you're curious.
---------
They'd stopped for a mid-afternoon meal, stepping off the dusty track to open carry-cases and sit down for a while. Isael'd spent more time stretching his legs--and his vocabulary, but that was less voluntary--than eating, but Ruadhan hadn't argued for once. They'd fought at the noon meal, Isael saying truth that he was still full from the mid-morning, and the bard arguing that he needed the energy. In french, because he was a bastard like that.
They'd moved on--with frequent backtracking--to french from the far worse english nearly a week before. It was getting easier, not that he'd admit it aloud, and the bard's tendency to sing to the rhythm of his pace was actually oddly useful. Vocabulary-expanding, in all three languages they were using; Isael hadn't bothered to protest the misuse of the words of the liturgy since Ruadhan had calmly explained that where he'd grown up it was the language of the secular court and the mage community, and if Isael honestly expected the nobility not to make dirty jokes he obviously hadn't been paying attention the last few years.
He'd conceded the point with a nod and a grimace, not even bothering to pretend offense. The bard-his-father had acknowledged that by letting the argument go, for the day at least, and had lapsed back into english instead, and the resonances of the ground.
Which had seemed like purest nonsense when Ruadhan first brought it up, but he was starting to get a grasp on the idea. He thought, anyway, and noticed the way dust swirled beneath his father's feet as they walked. They'd been kindly calling the path they were walking a 'road' because Isael didn't yet have the french vocabulary to accurately describe the damned thing. It was rutted, pocked with holes that would fill with mud at the slightest excuse, and in current conditions they were coated with a thin film of dust nearly from boots to hair. He still wasn't sure what Ruadhan was using to keep it out of the food, but he wished he'd had access to it years ago.
Switching to his other hamstring, feeling it creak along the back of his leg, Isael tried not to sneeze as he disturbed some of the dirt clinging to his pant leg. Glaring from close range at the dun-dulled blue material--he'd been forbidden black, which he still resented--he huffed a breath out at it, trying to clear a space to breathe. It wasn't until the dust fled, curling and swirling away in a close-quarters wind that he realised he'd timed it to his heartbeat.
His pant leg was clear from mid-thigh to shin, the material clear and dark as when they'd bought it. He blinked. Then, in a spirit of experimentation, tried it again, turning his head a little to aim at the other leg.
That breeze ruffled his hair, and spread farther, enough so that Ruadhan cut off whatever he was humming around an apple by sneezing violently.
Another breeze built, then, ruffling his hair the other way and accompanied by something muttery from the bard's direction, cursing the dust for getting into his apple and his nose. He couldn't help grinning down into his leg.
"Your knee's not a meal," Ruadhan remarked after another moment. Isael couldn't tell if the timing was deliberate courtesy or unconscious awareness that he'd just finished a symmetrical stretch. Uncurling, he flopped backwards until his head hit the dusty grass, and held up a hand lazily.
An apple smacked into his palm; he dropped it onto his chest in time to catch the wrapped wedge of cheese and the semi-dried broad sausage that followed the fruit. "Pomme?" he confirmed, holding the apple up again, and Ruadhan's laughter curled around his fingers, all but visible in the air.
"Oui--and if you don't finish the cheese throw it back," came back to him, and he didn't need to be able to see the bard to know he'd gone back to his own apple. Wet crunching sounds came in counterpoint to his apple, the rustle of the cheese wrapping in a faint breeze, still aimed towards the road instead of towards them.
He ate more when he wasn't paying attention, which he knew. Considering the fight they'd had earlier, he suspected the bard-his-father would prefer it if the cheese didn't come back, so he deliberately watched the clouds scud around in the sky while he alternated bites of cheese and apple, core included, and then switched to the sausage when he ran out of apple. He didn't bother eating the stem of the apple or the very end of the heel of the sausage, just flicked them off his fingers towards the scrub-break beyond the grass he was lying on.
The bard had started singing again by the time Isael had decided he'd had enough of a rest and sat up, wadding the cheese-wrapper up in his hand to put with the rest of the detritus. He grinned up as Isael tucked the wrapper away, then hauled himself to his own feet and let Isael take the rucksack with the food. "A bord le barque elle a saut-nous irons jouer sur le bord de l'eau," he sang, then dropped back into english to say "We'll take the road going that way," as he pointed, then went back to french.
Isael let him lead the way, settling the pack securely across his spine before he began to head back for the track. Then he paused, staring, and looked again.
Squinting against the glare of the wintery-pale, low sun--and two days ago it had been the high bright gold of summer, he was never going to get used to this--he eventually raised a hand to shield his eyes and look as well as he could.
"Which road?" he asked, and watched the bard-his-father's back tense up. To untrained eyes it would have been near-invisible, obscured by long coat and guitar case, but his eyes weren't untrained. Not for that, anyway, though he was starting to wonder about the other things the man demanded of him.
"Why do you ask?" Ruadhan asked, turning just enough to see him out of the corner of a blue eye.
"I see two," he explained, hunching his shoulders in and waiting for the complaint, the correction.
Instead a broad grin spread across his father's face, and he dropped back to stand next to Isael. "Tell me about them--I see five, but only one's going the right direction."