(no subject)
Chocolate #12. Understanding with Hot Fudge
Rating : G/PG-ish
Timeframe : winter 1260-1261 - sometime after Rope
Without a word, Sethan turned the knife blade down and slammed it into the shelf. The smug grin that settled itself upon his lips was echoed in his eyes as he turned and stalked back towards his captive. He brought a hand to rest on Tristan’s shoulder and tipped his head to look him in the eye.
“I'm more than willing to let you cut yourself loose,” he said before stepping away.
Tristan flexed his arms and pulled at the ropes that held him as he gauged the distance. The bonds were more than sufficient to hold him. Any further struggle would only cause them to tear at his wrists and he did not fancy another dose of what Sethan considered healing.
“You’re mad.”
“While I can hardly deny your accusations, I do grow tired of their repetition.”
“You wha-?” He looked in open-mouthed confusion at the man. Sethan stood, quietly composed, aside from the narrow lines traced by his furrowed brow across his pallid face. Tristan shook his head and wondered at the fact that he’d been left room to do that much.
Thick, coarse rope was wound about both his wrists, pinning the backs of his hands firmly against his rear. The cord trailed to the floor, where a sturdy iron ring held its end, permitting him a span of little more than a foot to move in. “When do we get to a place where you stop feeling the need to tie me up?”
The corner of Sethan’s mouth rose. “When you cease to restrain your mind, I will see fit not to restrain your body.”
Tristan glowered at the man, wondering if there was any question that might earn him a simple answer. He thought better than to say as much, continuing to examine his bonds instead. He had room to run a finger a few inches down the rope, which he quickly found to be lacking any weakness.
“What you are looking for is not in the rope.” Tristan opened his mouth to respond, but kept silent. “Your hand found me. It can find the knife.”
He had tried to explain that he hadn’t a clue how he’d managed to hit him, that there must have been something lacking in his bonds. Sethan would have none of it, returning his every excuse with the firm belief that he had some sort of magical powers. Tristan had seen enough of magic to know that wasn’t the case, but it seemed of little use to try to tell him so.
Sethan sighed, leaving Tristan to wonder again if the man‘s abilities extended to reading thoughts. “Close your eyes.”
“How is that-” The grin vanished and dark brows knit. Tristan swallowed his words and did as he was told.
“Quiet your thoughts,” Sethan continued. “Slow your breath. Feel for your pulse.” A moment passed in silence as Tristan focused his attention on the flow of his own blood. “Do you have it?” He bobbed his chin. “Now reach past it.”
One eye flew open. “Do what?”
Sethan gave another exasperated sigh. “The gods do make some odd choices.” Sharp blue eyes looked him up and down while his voice took on an edge. “Beyond your breath, beyond your pulse,” he jabbed a finger into his stomach, between the jagged scars, “buried to the depths that an oaf such as yourself could fail to see it at all for so long. Reach for it and tell me that I am not wasting my time.”
Tristan pressed his eyes shut and turned his focus inward, blindly groping through the throbbing and the churning of flesh and fluid, the slow passage of breath, the dull tingle taking hold of limbs pinned to his back. Near the tip of his spine something flickered, something he couldn’t attribute to the workings of his body. He opened his eyes to find Sethan grinning once more.
Bright blue eyes held his, the voice that accompanied them silky once more. “Draw it out,” he said.
That took little effort. As if whatever it was had simply been waiting to be found, it came roaring to life, racing up his spine, flooding him with raw, hot energy like a rush of adrenaline in the midst of battle. His jaw dropped as the force swept through his body. It found its way to his arms, rekindling feeling in the stiff muscles.
“What do I do with it?” he asked as the sensation pooled in his hands and a dull hum took up residence in his head.
“The knife,” Sethan said, indicating the shelf. “Wrap your hand around it.”
“But it’s clear across the room.”
“Bring it closer,” Sethan said, as if it were that simple.
Tristan gritted his teeth against the pain in his hand and the sound that had risen to a roar. The knife swam in and out of his vision and his fingers clenched and stretched, seemingly of their own accord. The tips brushed metal and he wondered if it was another side effect of the magic.
What was he to do with it? He strained against the rope. It still held tight; the magic had no effect on it. The knife, whatever it was he was supposed to do involved the knife. What if there wasn’t a whole room between him and his goal? What if it was right in front of him? The knife came into sharp focus, as if it were right before his eyes. He made to reach for it and felt the bite of the rope. He didn’t need it in front of him. He needed it behind, no more than an inch from his hand. There was a violent thunderclap, a painful jolt as the power slipped away, and his fingers wrapped around metal.
Tristan’s legs shook and he fell to his knees, the knife clutched in his grasp. Too spent to cut the rope, he waited on the floor while Sethan peeled his fingers from the hilt and severed his bonds.
“Do you see now?” he asked, as Tristan pitched forward onto his hands.
“Give me a moment.” he said, struggling to find his breath.
“The gods have chosen you. You’ve ignored it thus far, called it skill and luck. Harness what they have granted you and your powers may well rival those of your friends.” He laid a hand on Tristan’s shoulder and Tristan felt energy return to his body through the man’s fingers. “I will teach you how.”
Tristan rocked back on his knees and seated himself on the floor, studying his captor warily. “No more ropes?” he said.
“I think you have progressed beyond the need.”
Tristan could neither explain nor resist the sudden urge to laugh. “Not that I’m in a position to argue, but you have a deal.”
“Splendid. Let us see to those wrists of yours and then we may continue.”
Rating : G/PG-ish
Timeframe : winter 1260-1261 - sometime after Rope
Without a word, Sethan turned the knife blade down and slammed it into the shelf. The smug grin that settled itself upon his lips was echoed in his eyes as he turned and stalked back towards his captive. He brought a hand to rest on Tristan’s shoulder and tipped his head to look him in the eye.
“I'm more than willing to let you cut yourself loose,” he said before stepping away.
Tristan flexed his arms and pulled at the ropes that held him as he gauged the distance. The bonds were more than sufficient to hold him. Any further struggle would only cause them to tear at his wrists and he did not fancy another dose of what Sethan considered healing.
“You’re mad.”
“While I can hardly deny your accusations, I do grow tired of their repetition.”
“You wha-?” He looked in open-mouthed confusion at the man. Sethan stood, quietly composed, aside from the narrow lines traced by his furrowed brow across his pallid face. Tristan shook his head and wondered at the fact that he’d been left room to do that much.
Thick, coarse rope was wound about both his wrists, pinning the backs of his hands firmly against his rear. The cord trailed to the floor, where a sturdy iron ring held its end, permitting him a span of little more than a foot to move in. “When do we get to a place where you stop feeling the need to tie me up?”
The corner of Sethan’s mouth rose. “When you cease to restrain your mind, I will see fit not to restrain your body.”
Tristan glowered at the man, wondering if there was any question that might earn him a simple answer. He thought better than to say as much, continuing to examine his bonds instead. He had room to run a finger a few inches down the rope, which he quickly found to be lacking any weakness.
“What you are looking for is not in the rope.” Tristan opened his mouth to respond, but kept silent. “Your hand found me. It can find the knife.”
He had tried to explain that he hadn’t a clue how he’d managed to hit him, that there must have been something lacking in his bonds. Sethan would have none of it, returning his every excuse with the firm belief that he had some sort of magical powers. Tristan had seen enough of magic to know that wasn’t the case, but it seemed of little use to try to tell him so.
Sethan sighed, leaving Tristan to wonder again if the man‘s abilities extended to reading thoughts. “Close your eyes.”
“How is that-” The grin vanished and dark brows knit. Tristan swallowed his words and did as he was told.
“Quiet your thoughts,” Sethan continued. “Slow your breath. Feel for your pulse.” A moment passed in silence as Tristan focused his attention on the flow of his own blood. “Do you have it?” He bobbed his chin. “Now reach past it.”
One eye flew open. “Do what?”
Sethan gave another exasperated sigh. “The gods do make some odd choices.” Sharp blue eyes looked him up and down while his voice took on an edge. “Beyond your breath, beyond your pulse,” he jabbed a finger into his stomach, between the jagged scars, “buried to the depths that an oaf such as yourself could fail to see it at all for so long. Reach for it and tell me that I am not wasting my time.”
Tristan pressed his eyes shut and turned his focus inward, blindly groping through the throbbing and the churning of flesh and fluid, the slow passage of breath, the dull tingle taking hold of limbs pinned to his back. Near the tip of his spine something flickered, something he couldn’t attribute to the workings of his body. He opened his eyes to find Sethan grinning once more.
Bright blue eyes held his, the voice that accompanied them silky once more. “Draw it out,” he said.
That took little effort. As if whatever it was had simply been waiting to be found, it came roaring to life, racing up his spine, flooding him with raw, hot energy like a rush of adrenaline in the midst of battle. His jaw dropped as the force swept through his body. It found its way to his arms, rekindling feeling in the stiff muscles.
“What do I do with it?” he asked as the sensation pooled in his hands and a dull hum took up residence in his head.
“The knife,” Sethan said, indicating the shelf. “Wrap your hand around it.”
“But it’s clear across the room.”
“Bring it closer,” Sethan said, as if it were that simple.
Tristan gritted his teeth against the pain in his hand and the sound that had risen to a roar. The knife swam in and out of his vision and his fingers clenched and stretched, seemingly of their own accord. The tips brushed metal and he wondered if it was another side effect of the magic.
What was he to do with it? He strained against the rope. It still held tight; the magic had no effect on it. The knife, whatever it was he was supposed to do involved the knife. What if there wasn’t a whole room between him and his goal? What if it was right in front of him? The knife came into sharp focus, as if it were right before his eyes. He made to reach for it and felt the bite of the rope. He didn’t need it in front of him. He needed it behind, no more than an inch from his hand. There was a violent thunderclap, a painful jolt as the power slipped away, and his fingers wrapped around metal.
Tristan’s legs shook and he fell to his knees, the knife clutched in his grasp. Too spent to cut the rope, he waited on the floor while Sethan peeled his fingers from the hilt and severed his bonds.
“Do you see now?” he asked, as Tristan pitched forward onto his hands.
“Give me a moment.” he said, struggling to find his breath.
“The gods have chosen you. You’ve ignored it thus far, called it skill and luck. Harness what they have granted you and your powers may well rival those of your friends.” He laid a hand on Tristan’s shoulder and Tristan felt energy return to his body through the man’s fingers. “I will teach you how.”
Tristan rocked back on his knees and seated himself on the floor, studying his captor warily. “No more ropes?” he said.
“I think you have progressed beyond the need.”
Tristan could neither explain nor resist the sudden urge to laugh. “Not that I’m in a position to argue, but you have a deal.”
“Splendid. Let us see to those wrists of yours and then we may continue.”