Six Conflicts: II

Character

She screamed first,
A maiden confronted by a dragon.
But he raised his hands,
The age-old gesture of surrender,
And spoke slowly, softly.

Her words were a tumble of vowels,
Foreign, incomprehenisble,
The song of water over rock.
She wore nearly nothing,
Boldened to show knees, elbows, throat,
And she carried
A man’s tools,
Metal, massive,
Cave-breaking.

He tried other languages
Rusty from disuse,
Infrequent use,
Disdain for boyhood tutors.

Her French was accented,
Awkward, filled with
Foreign sounds,
But the trip-hammer of his heart
Against his hauberk calmed
At her first, Je m’appelle Celine.

The hunger that overtook him –
Ripped through his limbs
Like lightning across the sky –
Overthrew any doubt
- guilt, awkwardness –
Of walking with a woman unchaperoned.

He followed her,
Wobbling fawn-like on legs
Unused to the smooth, stony black
She called road.

Her food was bright,
Soft, too sweet,
Too light,
And he fumbled at the shiny-smooth
Packages, at the parchment-thin glass
That crackled like popping fire.
But the hunger in his belly subsided.

Hands on skin
Made him shiver, blush
Like a lad at his first tumble,
But she was clinical, neat,
As she peeled his hauberk away from
His skin, eased the weight of battle
From his aching shoulders.

The things she called clothes –
And the whispering voice in the
Back of his skull that
Prodded at his thoughts
And curled at his ear
Like a lover's caress
Taught him words
Phrases,
Hello and jeans –
Were sturdy, strong,
Ill-fitting as if he were
Attempting his father's garb
Attempting his father's crown
When still just a boy.

Aquae Sulis
He was looking for.
Complete with scrubbing and
Praying motions,
Clumsy by his fighters' hands.

She pressed a map –
Shiny, colorful,
Roman tiles polished to gleaming
In sky-grass-earth
Blue-green-brown.

Bath, she called it.
Goodbye. She hugged him.
Good luck. She waved.
My King. She bowed.
He bowed.

No one's King.

Not yet.

I'm coming.