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lj idol - week 1 - here there be dragons
Nov. 5th, 2010 10:28 pmShe simply wouldn't slow down. That much was clear. He knew she had to be aware of the panting and wheezing coming from behind her amidst the rustling as they passed through cluster after cluster of trees, but for whatever reason, she was choosing to ignore him.
"Hey!"
Silence.
"I'm talking to you! I know you can hear me."
Still nothing.
Well, this was insane. He'd never been ignored before. This was unfamiliar territory. A week ago, he would have known how to deal with the situation. To be fair, a week ago he never would have been in a situation, period. Situations were for peasants and pregnant chambermaids. Honestly, how can you end up in any kind of predicament when your every move is decided for you by a vast network of advisors, noblemen, guards, and the like?
It occurred to him that there would be no such network on this journey. Like it or not, this was a party of two. And the other half of this illustrious duo wasn't about to fall at his feet any time soon - in fact, she didn't seem to care a bit about his feet, blistered and aching as they were. This would require some tact and diplomacy.
"Mistress Hunter, the sun is nearly down. I can barely see the path before me. I really do think we ought to find shelter soon."
A sound finally escaped her, but it wasn't the one he'd expected. Really. As if it was acceptable to snort at someone of his stature.
"Scared of the dark, are you? Shocking." Her deep voice drifted back to him on a wave of derision. Still, that was the most she'd spoken to him at one time since they'd left Bern this morning. That had to count for something.
The huntress stopped abruptly, causing Artan to stumble over his own feet once again and nearly collapse. "Fine. Here will do." She turned and looked directly into his eyes - also a first on the journey. Hers were narrowed, and she flicked them up and down the length of him once, then snorted again. "Don't get your hopes up regarding shelter on this journey. We have to cover as much ground as possible every day, which means we can't spend time finding inns full of booze and loose women for you to mess about with. We're talking cold, hard ground every night."
Well, he was no idiot, though she clearly thought him one. Not to mention she seemed to have little to no regard for his survival skills. He would just have to prove her wrong somehow. "I understand. I won't complain." Whatever else, he knew his life was in her hands. The thought made a ripple of cold pass through him, and he abruptly slumped to the ground against a nearby tree.
Nothing to be done. Whether he could get along with this strange woman or not, he couldn't return to Bern. Ever. Now he knew why Sanjar had once referred to exile as the cruelest of all fates. Oh, he could not let himself think of Sanjar now. He knew if he did, he would lose what little strength he had left to keep himself sane.
Her mouth did not soften, but her eyes did, just a touch. She loosened the buckle on the strap across her chest, setting her pack on the ground. Rummaging through it, she removed a small wooden box and held it out to him. "Salve. It'll do until we can get you better boots."
"Thank you." His voice was low, but calm. He stared at her arm as he took the box - it was the first good glimpse he'd gotten of it. The dragon tattoo wrapped around her forearm like a snake, swallowing its own tail.
Mitra noticed him staring, but didn't comment. Obviously, he'd be curious. He was royalty - he had to know that there was more to it than a simple bit of artwork. She wouldn't have to explain to him the significance. After all... it was the reason they were there, together.
"Hey!"
Silence.
"I'm talking to you! I know you can hear me."
Still nothing.
Well, this was insane. He'd never been ignored before. This was unfamiliar territory. A week ago, he would have known how to deal with the situation. To be fair, a week ago he never would have been in a situation, period. Situations were for peasants and pregnant chambermaids. Honestly, how can you end up in any kind of predicament when your every move is decided for you by a vast network of advisors, noblemen, guards, and the like?
It occurred to him that there would be no such network on this journey. Like it or not, this was a party of two. And the other half of this illustrious duo wasn't about to fall at his feet any time soon - in fact, she didn't seem to care a bit about his feet, blistered and aching as they were. This would require some tact and diplomacy.
"Mistress Hunter, the sun is nearly down. I can barely see the path before me. I really do think we ought to find shelter soon."
A sound finally escaped her, but it wasn't the one he'd expected. Really. As if it was acceptable to snort at someone of his stature.
"Scared of the dark, are you? Shocking." Her deep voice drifted back to him on a wave of derision. Still, that was the most she'd spoken to him at one time since they'd left Bern this morning. That had to count for something.
The huntress stopped abruptly, causing Artan to stumble over his own feet once again and nearly collapse. "Fine. Here will do." She turned and looked directly into his eyes - also a first on the journey. Hers were narrowed, and she flicked them up and down the length of him once, then snorted again. "Don't get your hopes up regarding shelter on this journey. We have to cover as much ground as possible every day, which means we can't spend time finding inns full of booze and loose women for you to mess about with. We're talking cold, hard ground every night."
Well, he was no idiot, though she clearly thought him one. Not to mention she seemed to have little to no regard for his survival skills. He would just have to prove her wrong somehow. "I understand. I won't complain." Whatever else, he knew his life was in her hands. The thought made a ripple of cold pass through him, and he abruptly slumped to the ground against a nearby tree.
Nothing to be done. Whether he could get along with this strange woman or not, he couldn't return to Bern. Ever. Now he knew why Sanjar had once referred to exile as the cruelest of all fates. Oh, he could not let himself think of Sanjar now. He knew if he did, he would lose what little strength he had left to keep himself sane.
Her mouth did not soften, but her eyes did, just a touch. She loosened the buckle on the strap across her chest, setting her pack on the ground. Rummaging through it, she removed a small wooden box and held it out to him. "Salve. It'll do until we can get you better boots."
"Thank you." His voice was low, but calm. He stared at her arm as he took the box - it was the first good glimpse he'd gotten of it. The dragon tattoo wrapped around her forearm like a snake, swallowing its own tail.
Mitra noticed him staring, but didn't comment. Obviously, he'd be curious. He was royalty - he had to know that there was more to it than a simple bit of artwork. She wouldn't have to explain to him the significance. After all... it was the reason they were there, together.
