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find a nail to hang your hat on, take the ribbons from your hair
The tall, slight new recruit has perfected the art of keeping out of the way of people who might be tempted to wonder about him, or indeed anyone whose interest in him is more than casual and fleeting. Since he signed in with King LeGuin he hasn't been near anyone with any authority -- like most of the people in the peace enforcement corps and army proper, he's now stationed in the Hall barracks, but he isn't often there unless there's work or drills to be done.
It's different with the low-tier staff. The quiet woman who works in the cellars with Lukyn, the handsome sunburned man who curries the horses, they've welcomed him without much comment or fuss into their beds and the course of their lives. It suits him. These days he isn't much for anything that doesn't have the sense of familiarity and companionship that marked his life before the War (he always hides it behind a capital letter when he thinks of it, which he often does, despite his best efforts; it was easy to come to terms with the way reality shifted, but harder to stand reliving what there was before).
So he takes his comfort, and in return gives the attention and affection he's always had in excess. He has a disease, but it doesn't matter now. The Alliance long ago developed vaccines and miracle drugs for most everything, known and unknown, and he gives himself a black-market syringe once a month that prevents his seizures with no side effects; the only real trouble is the cost, and he's saved up enough cred over the years to manage that.
It's three in the afternoon, and he's just come off the firing range, tucking his pistol back into its holster, buckling on the swordbelt he always sets gently aside when he's doing anything that involves exertion. Ordinarily he would go around the long way to avoid walking through the main corridor of the Hall, but the sun's hot and he's no more pleased about that than he ever was. One of the cleaning staff, a cheerful girl who's easily bored, catches him on his way and grins, kissing his cheek and whispering in his ear.
He lets her go and then stands for a moment with his fingers curled around the hilt of his sword, waiting for the disorientation to pass. He never had a wife; there's no one she reminds him of. But a wistfulness takes him anyway and he forgets to worry about getting noticed by someone he doesn't want to be noticed by.
With any luck, the man from the stables will have the time for him to-night.
He'll need the company.
It's different with the low-tier staff. The quiet woman who works in the cellars with Lukyn, the handsome sunburned man who curries the horses, they've welcomed him without much comment or fuss into their beds and the course of their lives. It suits him. These days he isn't much for anything that doesn't have the sense of familiarity and companionship that marked his life before the War (he always hides it behind a capital letter when he thinks of it, which he often does, despite his best efforts; it was easy to come to terms with the way reality shifted, but harder to stand reliving what there was before).
So he takes his comfort, and in return gives the attention and affection he's always had in excess. He has a disease, but it doesn't matter now. The Alliance long ago developed vaccines and miracle drugs for most everything, known and unknown, and he gives himself a black-market syringe once a month that prevents his seizures with no side effects; the only real trouble is the cost, and he's saved up enough cred over the years to manage that.
It's three in the afternoon, and he's just come off the firing range, tucking his pistol back into its holster, buckling on the swordbelt he always sets gently aside when he's doing anything that involves exertion. Ordinarily he would go around the long way to avoid walking through the main corridor of the Hall, but the sun's hot and he's no more pleased about that than he ever was. One of the cleaning staff, a cheerful girl who's easily bored, catches him on his way and grins, kissing his cheek and whispering in his ear.
He lets her go and then stands for a moment with his fingers curled around the hilt of his sword, waiting for the disorientation to pass. He never had a wife; there's no one she reminds him of. But a wistfulness takes him anyway and he forgets to worry about getting noticed by someone he doesn't want to be noticed by.
With any luck, the man from the stables will have the time for him to-night.
He'll need the company.