NaNoWriMo: Fade To Silver 01.11.07 [cealach, aithne, eideann]
Word Count: 1594/50,000
With one impact they stir into life, this compacted earth brushed aside with one boot as it brings the familiar touch of combat with one sliding footstep. Buckles clink together as the whisper soft brush of a cloak caresses the settling dirt with the familiarity of a lover’s promise…a fickle thing to pledge battle built only on a foundation of dust. The dirt is restless beneath the worn leather, a shifting touch of impatience against the boots settled within grains of stand. The touch of sole against ground promised freedom and now they hang in anticipation for the next movement, the next slide of that boot clad foot releasing them from their earth bound prison to send clouds of brick-red skyward.
The air hangs thick but there is no sounds of laboured breathing, nothing but the shift of settling dirt and the slip of cloth against cloth. The midnight hues of the cloak twist and tangle…a living thing at those boot clad feet that twines about legs like a beloved cat will rub against her master’s calves. Blink twice and one might believe the cloak was the very Shadows themselves, cast long by the sinking sun as the day makes way for the night to come.
There’s no passage of time…not now, not in this place where the fabric of space takes a single breath and waits for this warrior to strike forward. A pregnant pause, the Shadows impatient as the now still dust as they flicker and weave, waiting and ready to heed their Lord’s call should it come. The barest shift, the play of muscle over bone and beneath flesh as the movement makes passage from thought to action…step forward, defense becomes offense and blood will be shed.
“There’s a hundred younglings that would give their right arms to train with you and you’re out here dancing with Shadows.”
With voice comes movement and the moment passes for another to take its place. The interruption, clad in dark and leather and red, is greeted with an unimpressed violet gaze, even as the slight curve of lips betray the amusement the cool look disguises.
“The concept of privacy is completely lost on you, isn’t it?”
“I understand it.” Ebony polish catches the dwindling sunlight as fingers card through braids of red dyed black, a playful flick of the woven strands like wiggling fingers in the others direction. “I just choose to ignore it.”
Heaving a sigh, a praticed pretense of patience forgotten, he wanders over to the woman with the air of a disgruntled cat having lost its prey due to a fool who didn’t understand the hunt.
“Is there a reason you’re here?”
“Manners, Ceallach.” She chides, one finger waggling. “I’m just the messenger.”
Eyebrow creeping towards his hairline, Ceallach gives that finger a pointed look…a look summarily ignored as the barer of said finger reaches forward to prod at one cheek.
“Remove it or lose it, Aithne.”
She chuckles, low and soft but still the fingertip retreats and she ducks behind the painted smile curving the bow of her lips. They could continue this dance until the sun finally dipped below the horizon and the shadows are cast from a different light…bow to your partner, one-two-three…but time is of essence and no one keeps the King waiting.
“You’re summoned.”
There’s no snap to attention, no move towards the stone walls of the Royal House as Ceallach regards Aithne with a strange mixture of indifference and curiosity few could make credible. A languid stretch of shoulders, pop-crackle-snap as muscle, tendon and ligament shift and settle into place is all the movement her words receive and she huffs a sigh in return. It might be another chuckle but it’s most likely not.
“You love to keep him waiting.”
“I can get away with it.” There’s a smirk lingering there, mischief in those cat-like eyes.
“You think you can get away with it.”
“Semantics.” Ceallach brushes at the dirt lingering on his shoulder, a slight puff of red as the dirt slips free only to settle on some other part of his clothing. “He always interrupts me when I’m sparring.”
“Dancing about like a fairy all on your lonesome is not sparring.” Aithne snorts, boot-clad toe poking at a Shadow reaching out to curl about ankle to send it skittering back to its master. “Stop your prancing and go do whatever it is he wants you to do.”
“Bosy.” Ceallach rolls his eyes but moves away from the dirt of the practice yard and towards the King’s chambers. “Go flutter somewhere else, Butterfly.”
“I hope he makes you babysit the younglings again.” Aithne calls cheerfully, wiggling her fingers in a jovial, little wave as Ceallach presents his back and strides off towards the Royal House. “You look much better covered in vomit.”
A single finger is her only reply and Aithne ever so graciously returns it, watching his retreating back with endless amusement before turning her own attentions to the now empty training yard left ready and waiting for someone to step forward and take the space Ceallach left behind.
Aithne cracks he knuckles, shoulders rolling and bouncing one, twice atop her toes before she steps forward. No use letting a moments solitude left unclaimed, now is there?
* * * * * *
When Eideann Braith D’Scaith calls one comes running no matter what he or she happens to be leaving behind. No rain, nor wind, nor snow or storm should prevent one from answering the King of the Scaithe’s summons and while a benevolent smile will greet you upon entry, a mild expression of amusement is only belying the torture such tardiness will inevitably incur.
There are far worse things then pain or death. Eideann should know…the book resting comfortably on the shelf of one of the many bookshelves lining his rooms contains many such interesting punishments that had little to do with physical suffering and everything to do with public humiliation.
Ceallach remembers the young noble who offered that book as his gift of appreciation and delights in the wonderful imaginings of what he’d like to do should their paths ever have opportunity to cross again.
It’s the only reason he pauses outside that heavy door…the carved designs staring down at him with all the amusement the young warrior knows to expect once he pushes past and meets the dark gaze of the one inside. A brief moment of indulgence, of planned retribution before he needs to step up and face the music.
“Do you think one minute more will make little difference, Ceallach?”
He prides himself on the fact his feet stay on the ground, no outward sign of surprise at the voice calling through the wooden barrier that cannot disguise the laughter tangled within that mild tone. Resisting the urge to give birth to the sigh resting in the back of his throat, Ceallach presses palms flat against the carved surface and pushes his way into the room. Ignoring the brief caress of familial power as it kisses his skin, pressing past as the Lock grants him access he greets the King’s midnight gaze with chagrin tainted defiance…his own masquerade of amusement settled with practiced ease on his features.
“How high, Third Born?” Ceallach demurs, dropping a courtly bow which does little to disguise the twitch of a smirk threatening to curl his lips.
“Your manner is atrocious as usual.”
“Someone should speak to my Father about that.”
“Brat.” Affection cannot be disguised and Eideann has no stomach for harsh words where patience can just a well stand in their stead. Still there are greater matters to be discussed and should Ceallach believe he can arrive whenever his fancy dictates, Eideann would be short one less general and have to deal with a firstborn son constantly underfoot.
The Maker save him from a bored son…he’ll prefer this insolent, young Princeling on any given day than a restless Ceallach with nothing to capture his attentions.
“Sit.” He doesn’t bother to gesture to one of the empty chairs that sit before his fireplace and Ceallach hadn’t bothered to wait for an invitation…already throwing himself down with little of the natural grace he displays outside these walls. The boneless sprawl is as inelegant as it is comfortable and Eideann only spares a raised eyebrow and a slight shake of his head before turning to the issues at hand.
“I’ve received word of Raidon’s plans to send his son to spend time at the Deardriu Court.”
Ceallach snorts. “I’m sure the Sunflower will have a wonderful time blending in with the other pillars of marble.”
Eideann chuckled, even as he schooled his features to resemble something like rebuke. “Badmouthing the Teihmnae heir? Again?”
“It never gets old.” Ceallach yawned, lulled by the warmth of the fire and the flames dancing across the charred logs safe behind the grate. “He shouldn’t make it so easy.”
“Still, a little…” Actually Eideann found it mildly difficult to reprimand Ceallach for something he’d often do himself, if one would replace the son for the Father. “…try some tact for once, Ceallach. It won’t hurt you.”
The Scaithe Prince makes a non-committal noise…something that might once of been assent but tastes a little too much like defiance on a tongue to used to favouring the plainly stated language of warrior over the practiced tongue of a Prince.
“I’m sending you to be our representative at Court for as long as the Teihmnae heir remains.”
“Wonderful.”
“I have little use for sarcasm unless it’s from my own mouth.”