Dragon Journal (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dragonjournal) wrote2012-02-11 08:21 pm
dragonjournal) wrote2012-02-11 08:21 pm
Entry tags:
Orig Fic Bingo #5
Title: Waiting
Fandom or Original Universe: Original
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1873
Brief Summary: Geoffrey reads letters and waits.
Brief Warnings: None
Writing Prompt: First Time
Beta: None
Notes: Geoffrey/Guinevere story
The paper crinkled in his hand. Geoffrey stared down at the words in faded ink that rested there. His head dropped back against the cold stone of Descant Keep. He could feel the frost seeping through his heavy winter cloak. He dragged it closer around him, shrugging deeper into the fur lining.
Ice stung his cheeks, pelting against his frozen skin like tiny daggers. His hands clenched, forcing the joints to move. The ice on his gloves creaked and cracked, showering pieces of snow to the ground.
He raised his eyes, staring at the slate grey pregnant sky. It disgorged thick white flakes onto his head. Forcing himself up, he took a deep breath and turned for the stable.
The weak winter light was fading into gloomy twilight and an early dark. Stomping his feet, he forced feeling back into them. Horses in their stalls whickered in greeting, their breaths pluming into the air. The stable contained the warmth of their bodies and a lack of wind.
He walked down the aisle, carrying the lantern. The farthest stall was empty save for a deep pile of hay, put there at his order. Geoffrey sank down into the hay, putting the lantern on a hook.
My Beloved Husband,
With you in the capitol, and the keep in my hands, I feel I should write you more often and tell you of the things that transpire here. There are foals cavorting in the fields, tolerant dams with them. The lambs are growing apace, and the few calves that survived the mud of spring have become strong.
I wish the Emperor would allow you to return home quickly. Not only do the people of Descant miss you, I must confess to a rather unladylike desperation for your company. The priests of the Gods say that I should not say such things, but to whom else would I say them, except my husband?
Come home quickly, my lord, and be well.
Written by my hand,
Your Beloved Wife.
He folded the paper and put it into the waterproof pouch he carried all her letters in, whenever he was away from Descant. Somewhere, a horse shifted, snorting. Then came the high sharp cry of a rat and the deep growl of a cat. He wished the feline good hunting.
He unfolded another letter.
My Beloved Husband,
You understand you are being perfectly ridiculous, do you not? I am healthy and hale and perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Yes, I miss you horribly and wish you to come safe home, but I’m not a simpering ninny to not know that you cannot be here right now.
I am not the only one to have claim on your time, and I do not speak of the Emperor. Your villeins have need of you, as do all your other vassals.
I know what you fear, and please, Beloved, understand that I fear the same. It clenches my heart in a cold grip that no amount of prayer or comfort can allay. But, I am assured, not only by the herbwomen, but by my mother that such fears are natural and while they should be heeded, they should not rule.
Be the Earl, and come home. All will be well.
Written by my hand,
Your Beloved Wife.
Geoffrey leaned his head back against the cold stone of the stable and drew the blanket a little bit tighter around himself. The temperature was dropping as the sun left the sky. He could hear the stableboys moving about the stalls, taking care of their charges. They’d leave him be, just as he’d asked.
His hand crinkled the letter and tucked it back into the pouch. His marriage to Guinevere had not been as silent as he’d thought. She was rather potent with her looks and even lacking a tongue, she could give him a good lashing with just a look and a few hand movements.
Closing his eyes, he tried to get some rest. Eventually, he should probably go into the keep, but he just couldn’t bring himself to. Not yet. Maybe after some sleep.
Except, his conscience kept pricking at him. He was hiding out here, like a coward, while things happened in his keep. He had no control over what happened, and he knew that, but Geoffrey felt like he should be in there doing something, anything. He’d probably just get in the way, though. Honestly, there was nothing for him to do.
He pulled out the precious papers in his pouch and sorted through them, reading yet another one.
My Beloved Husband,
While the Emperor is occupying your time and company in the capitol, things here are being righted slowly. The damage done to the keep was rather extensive, but can be returned to their former glory with some hard work and long days – things not only I am willing to do, but also all the people that dwell here.
The fields are in a rather sad shape, and we missed the initial planting, though some were done without the occupiers’ knowledge, or consent. Your Seneschal will be writing to you detailing the plan we have devised to keep the serfs and vassals from going hungry. A few things will need your approval, but he agreed that they were the best course of action.
Your cousin has been writing, insisting on a visit, whether you are in residence or not. I know you trust him implicitly, but I am uncomfortable with the thought of him here without you. I cannot imagine his hurry to visit, but it sits ill with me. Especially as I understand he cannot read and that would negate most of my ability to communicate.
I hope the Emperor does not hold you too long. I understand it is tradition for the MidSummer Festival to be lead by the Earl, and it would be a shame if the newly named Earl was forced to miss his first.
I miss you, my Beloved Husband. Come safe home.
Written by my hand,
Your Beloved Wife.
He let out a heavy sigh, his breath pluming into the air. He was tired and freezing, but he couldn’t sleep just yet. Maybe if he stayed up just a little longer…
Geoffrey snorted at his own ridiculousness. Staying up or sleeping wouldn’t make a difference. Not to anyone but him. In the pair of years he’d been home, he’d gotten out of the habit of sleeping when he could. Keep life was making him soft.
Closing his eyes, he sent up a prayer that he not have to wait the entire night. He doubted that his nerves could take it. Perhaps he should have taken the advice he’d been given: spending the night roaring drunk had to be better than this interminable waiting.
“My Lord Earl?”
He blinked in the weak light of the lantern at one of the stableboys. The boy couldn’t be any more than ten or twelve. “What is it?” His muscles clenched, hoping for some sort of word from the keep. Something, anything.
“Me Ma sent this for you.” The boy held out a steaming, wrapped package. “Said, ye’d be needin’ it.”
Geoffrey smiled and reached for the package. “She’s probably right. I’ve noticed mothers usually are.” He barely remembered his mother. She’d died giving birth to a little sister that had only lasted a few hours longer than their mother. He unwrapped the warm loaf of bread, soft cheese and steaming piece of meat. He pulled his eating knife. “Any word?”
The boy shook his head, dark hair falling across his face. “No My Lord. Ma said it might not be til dawn.”
Geoffrey really, really hoped not. He couldn’t take –
“My Lord Earl!”
Geoffrey was on his feet and dashing for the doorway. The poor lad had to jump out of his way. He ran across the frozen courtyard, ignoring his footing but somehow making it to the door of the kitchen without mishap. “What is it?” He panted big plumes into the frozen air.
“Drink this.” His cook shoved a warm mug of ale into his hand.
He opened his mouth to protest and she crossed massive arms over an equally massive bosom.
“My Lord, I wiped your nose and other things. Drink it.” She ordered. The order wasn’t unkind, but it was definitely an order.
He started drinking it. The warm liquid almost burned down his throat, curling in his gut and churning it sickeningly. When he’d drunk half of it, she nodded in satisfaction.
“Good. Now, before you go barreling off and making a nuisance of yourself,” she grabbed him and dragged him into the warm kitchen. “Get your filthy things off and wash up.”
He began obeying just because he wasn’t sure what else he was supposed to do. He washed in the warm water by the fire, staring into the flames, wondering what was going on. “I –“
“Your Lady is fine, but you’re in a right state and not going to bother her in it.” The cook shook her head and clucked her tongue. “It’s always the men. Every single time. Think everything rests on your shoulders and then one little thing doesn’t and you fall apart.”
He had no response for that. “The –“
“Wash up now!” She flapped her hands at him and then turned back to something on the sideboard, muttering to herself about men.
Geoffrey obeyed. He pulled on a clean tunic and ran his hand through his damp hair. Then, he stepped into the Great Hall, hoping that someone could tell him what the hell was going on.
There, standing near the great fire was one of the maids and his mother by marriage. They both looked tired. Guinevere’s mother hummed a soft song her back to him.
“My Lord!” The maid noticed him first and curtsied awkwardly. “I didn’t know you’d returned.”
He just nodded a bit dumbly. He wanted to know everything. His wife, where was she? Was she alright? Had everything gone well?
“Come here, Geoffrey.”
He stepped over to the fire, next to his wife’s mother and stared in shock as she laid a bundle in his arms. The baby grunted, and its face screwed up for a moment, but it settled into his arms, silent.
“Guinevere said for you to read this.” She placed an open letter into his hand and then turned in a swish of skirts and silk.
The writing was shakier than normal, but it was definitely her handwriting.
My Beloved Geoffrey,
I would like to present to you, your heir. It was my thought to name him Michael Joseph, after your father and brother.
Mother says he’s utterly perfect. I told you, you worried for nothing. I will be fine and need only rest.
Guinevere.
Geoffrey looked down at the bundle in his arms. His son. He sat down in the great chair by the fire. His large fingers touched the soft face and the little one stretched but didn’t wake.
“The first is always the hardest. On everyone.” Guinevere’s mother smiled and settled into a chair near him. “Congratulations, Geoffrey.”
He just nodded dumbly and looked down at his son, unable to form coherent thoughts.
Fandom or Original Universe: Original
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1873
Brief Summary: Geoffrey reads letters and waits.
Brief Warnings: None
Writing Prompt: First Time
Beta: None
Notes: Geoffrey/Guinevere story
The paper crinkled in his hand. Geoffrey stared down at the words in faded ink that rested there. His head dropped back against the cold stone of Descant Keep. He could feel the frost seeping through his heavy winter cloak. He dragged it closer around him, shrugging deeper into the fur lining.
Ice stung his cheeks, pelting against his frozen skin like tiny daggers. His hands clenched, forcing the joints to move. The ice on his gloves creaked and cracked, showering pieces of snow to the ground.
He raised his eyes, staring at the slate grey pregnant sky. It disgorged thick white flakes onto his head. Forcing himself up, he took a deep breath and turned for the stable.
The weak winter light was fading into gloomy twilight and an early dark. Stomping his feet, he forced feeling back into them. Horses in their stalls whickered in greeting, their breaths pluming into the air. The stable contained the warmth of their bodies and a lack of wind.
He walked down the aisle, carrying the lantern. The farthest stall was empty save for a deep pile of hay, put there at his order. Geoffrey sank down into the hay, putting the lantern on a hook.
My Beloved Husband,
With you in the capitol, and the keep in my hands, I feel I should write you more often and tell you of the things that transpire here. There are foals cavorting in the fields, tolerant dams with them. The lambs are growing apace, and the few calves that survived the mud of spring have become strong.
I wish the Emperor would allow you to return home quickly. Not only do the people of Descant miss you, I must confess to a rather unladylike desperation for your company. The priests of the Gods say that I should not say such things, but to whom else would I say them, except my husband?
Come home quickly, my lord, and be well.
Written by my hand,
Your Beloved Wife.
He folded the paper and put it into the waterproof pouch he carried all her letters in, whenever he was away from Descant. Somewhere, a horse shifted, snorting. Then came the high sharp cry of a rat and the deep growl of a cat. He wished the feline good hunting.
He unfolded another letter.
My Beloved Husband,
You understand you are being perfectly ridiculous, do you not? I am healthy and hale and perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Yes, I miss you horribly and wish you to come safe home, but I’m not a simpering ninny to not know that you cannot be here right now.
I am not the only one to have claim on your time, and I do not speak of the Emperor. Your villeins have need of you, as do all your other vassals.
I know what you fear, and please, Beloved, understand that I fear the same. It clenches my heart in a cold grip that no amount of prayer or comfort can allay. But, I am assured, not only by the herbwomen, but by my mother that such fears are natural and while they should be heeded, they should not rule.
Be the Earl, and come home. All will be well.
Written by my hand,
Your Beloved Wife.
Geoffrey leaned his head back against the cold stone of the stable and drew the blanket a little bit tighter around himself. The temperature was dropping as the sun left the sky. He could hear the stableboys moving about the stalls, taking care of their charges. They’d leave him be, just as he’d asked.
His hand crinkled the letter and tucked it back into the pouch. His marriage to Guinevere had not been as silent as he’d thought. She was rather potent with her looks and even lacking a tongue, she could give him a good lashing with just a look and a few hand movements.
Closing his eyes, he tried to get some rest. Eventually, he should probably go into the keep, but he just couldn’t bring himself to. Not yet. Maybe after some sleep.
Except, his conscience kept pricking at him. He was hiding out here, like a coward, while things happened in his keep. He had no control over what happened, and he knew that, but Geoffrey felt like he should be in there doing something, anything. He’d probably just get in the way, though. Honestly, there was nothing for him to do.
He pulled out the precious papers in his pouch and sorted through them, reading yet another one.
My Beloved Husband,
While the Emperor is occupying your time and company in the capitol, things here are being righted slowly. The damage done to the keep was rather extensive, but can be returned to their former glory with some hard work and long days – things not only I am willing to do, but also all the people that dwell here.
The fields are in a rather sad shape, and we missed the initial planting, though some were done without the occupiers’ knowledge, or consent. Your Seneschal will be writing to you detailing the plan we have devised to keep the serfs and vassals from going hungry. A few things will need your approval, but he agreed that they were the best course of action.
Your cousin has been writing, insisting on a visit, whether you are in residence or not. I know you trust him implicitly, but I am uncomfortable with the thought of him here without you. I cannot imagine his hurry to visit, but it sits ill with me. Especially as I understand he cannot read and that would negate most of my ability to communicate.
I hope the Emperor does not hold you too long. I understand it is tradition for the MidSummer Festival to be lead by the Earl, and it would be a shame if the newly named Earl was forced to miss his first.
I miss you, my Beloved Husband. Come safe home.
Written by my hand,
Your Beloved Wife.
He let out a heavy sigh, his breath pluming into the air. He was tired and freezing, but he couldn’t sleep just yet. Maybe if he stayed up just a little longer…
Geoffrey snorted at his own ridiculousness. Staying up or sleeping wouldn’t make a difference. Not to anyone but him. In the pair of years he’d been home, he’d gotten out of the habit of sleeping when he could. Keep life was making him soft.
Closing his eyes, he sent up a prayer that he not have to wait the entire night. He doubted that his nerves could take it. Perhaps he should have taken the advice he’d been given: spending the night roaring drunk had to be better than this interminable waiting.
“My Lord Earl?”
He blinked in the weak light of the lantern at one of the stableboys. The boy couldn’t be any more than ten or twelve. “What is it?” His muscles clenched, hoping for some sort of word from the keep. Something, anything.
“Me Ma sent this for you.” The boy held out a steaming, wrapped package. “Said, ye’d be needin’ it.”
Geoffrey smiled and reached for the package. “She’s probably right. I’ve noticed mothers usually are.” He barely remembered his mother. She’d died giving birth to a little sister that had only lasted a few hours longer than their mother. He unwrapped the warm loaf of bread, soft cheese and steaming piece of meat. He pulled his eating knife. “Any word?”
The boy shook his head, dark hair falling across his face. “No My Lord. Ma said it might not be til dawn.”
Geoffrey really, really hoped not. He couldn’t take –
“My Lord Earl!”
Geoffrey was on his feet and dashing for the doorway. The poor lad had to jump out of his way. He ran across the frozen courtyard, ignoring his footing but somehow making it to the door of the kitchen without mishap. “What is it?” He panted big plumes into the frozen air.
“Drink this.” His cook shoved a warm mug of ale into his hand.
He opened his mouth to protest and she crossed massive arms over an equally massive bosom.
“My Lord, I wiped your nose and other things. Drink it.” She ordered. The order wasn’t unkind, but it was definitely an order.
He started drinking it. The warm liquid almost burned down his throat, curling in his gut and churning it sickeningly. When he’d drunk half of it, she nodded in satisfaction.
“Good. Now, before you go barreling off and making a nuisance of yourself,” she grabbed him and dragged him into the warm kitchen. “Get your filthy things off and wash up.”
He began obeying just because he wasn’t sure what else he was supposed to do. He washed in the warm water by the fire, staring into the flames, wondering what was going on. “I –“
“Your Lady is fine, but you’re in a right state and not going to bother her in it.” The cook shook her head and clucked her tongue. “It’s always the men. Every single time. Think everything rests on your shoulders and then one little thing doesn’t and you fall apart.”
He had no response for that. “The –“
“Wash up now!” She flapped her hands at him and then turned back to something on the sideboard, muttering to herself about men.
Geoffrey obeyed. He pulled on a clean tunic and ran his hand through his damp hair. Then, he stepped into the Great Hall, hoping that someone could tell him what the hell was going on.
There, standing near the great fire was one of the maids and his mother by marriage. They both looked tired. Guinevere’s mother hummed a soft song her back to him.
“My Lord!” The maid noticed him first and curtsied awkwardly. “I didn’t know you’d returned.”
He just nodded a bit dumbly. He wanted to know everything. His wife, where was she? Was she alright? Had everything gone well?
“Come here, Geoffrey.”
He stepped over to the fire, next to his wife’s mother and stared in shock as she laid a bundle in his arms. The baby grunted, and its face screwed up for a moment, but it settled into his arms, silent.
“Guinevere said for you to read this.” She placed an open letter into his hand and then turned in a swish of skirts and silk.
The writing was shakier than normal, but it was definitely her handwriting.
My Beloved Geoffrey,
I would like to present to you, your heir. It was my thought to name him Michael Joseph, after your father and brother.
Mother says he’s utterly perfect. I told you, you worried for nothing. I will be fine and need only rest.
Guinevere.
Geoffrey looked down at the bundle in his arms. His son. He sat down in the great chair by the fire. His large fingers touched the soft face and the little one stretched but didn’t wake.
“The first is always the hardest. On everyone.” Guinevere’s mother smiled and settled into a chair near him. “Congratulations, Geoffrey.”
He just nodded dumbly and looked down at his son, unable to form coherent thoughts.