Sam tossed and turned. It hurt so, so badly. His head was on fire - he could feel it, burning behind his forehead, his eyelids and eyesockets, even above his teeth, his entire skull and under his hair.
He moaned and tried to claw the heat away, but someone smoothed his hands down, hushed him gently.
Mother.
“It’s all right, dear,” she whispered. “We’ll get you some medicine soon, okay?”
The pain abated a little when she placed a damp cloth on his forehead, but he hated the way it dripped, the wan the droplets ran down his overheated skin, heating as they went, making the itching worse.
“What the hell are you doing, wench?” his father demanded from the other room. “You’re supposed to be out hear fixin’ my supper --”
“Sammy’s sick,” his mother said.
“Let the brat die. I’ve been workin’ all day so you can eat bon-bons and sit around in his fine house. Man needs sustenance. Get that stove on!”
“He has a bad fever. I just need to run to the corner store to get some aspirin --”
“I said get into the kitchen.”
The thundering footsteps made Sam’s head hurt worse, and he whimpered.
He could hear his father’s anger, the rage and the jealousy and exhaustion. He could hear his mother’s terror, her love for her son and her desperation to just run away. He could hear the neighbors next door, their tiredness and frustration at another job loss.
He could hear them all, and they made his head hurt.
He rolled onto his side and threw up.
Through the haze of his burning throat and his burning head, he could hear his mother scream.
(281 words)
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Friday, February 12, 2010
Well
“Well?” the physician asked.
Christian tested his wrist gingerly. There was no pain when he rotated it. His face lit up. Then he remembered his father was in the room and he schooled his expression into one of noble longsuffering. “Thank you for your services, good doctor.”
“Of course, Sir Christian.” The physician bowed and then backed out of the room.
“Do you feel well enough to fight?” Sir Geoffrey asked.
Christian reached for his sword, but the weight made his wrist twinge. He reached for one of his wooden practice swords instead. He glanced up, but he knew he’d see the disappointment in his father’s face before he really looked. “Not in this tournament, My Lord.”
Sir Geoffrey’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Of course.” Then he spun on his heel and swept out of the room, his cape swirling dramatically.
Christian sighed and sank against his bed post. He would never match up to his brother’s memory. For one moment he wanted to hate Ranolfe for being so difficult, for being so perfect all his life, but then he remembered that it was rude to speak - or think - ill of the dead. Besides, he’d more or less healed from the injury. He was supposed to be grateful.
After contemplating the flagstones some more, Christian picked up the wooden sword, his old practice shield, and headed for the tilting yard. He had to be ready for the next tournament, then.
(241 words)
Christian tested his wrist gingerly. There was no pain when he rotated it. His face lit up. Then he remembered his father was in the room and he schooled his expression into one of noble longsuffering. “Thank you for your services, good doctor.”
“Of course, Sir Christian.” The physician bowed and then backed out of the room.
“Do you feel well enough to fight?” Sir Geoffrey asked.
Christian reached for his sword, but the weight made his wrist twinge. He reached for one of his wooden practice swords instead. He glanced up, but he knew he’d see the disappointment in his father’s face before he really looked. “Not in this tournament, My Lord.”
Sir Geoffrey’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Of course.” Then he spun on his heel and swept out of the room, his cape swirling dramatically.
Christian sighed and sank against his bed post. He would never match up to his brother’s memory. For one moment he wanted to hate Ranolfe for being so difficult, for being so perfect all his life, but then he remembered that it was rude to speak - or think - ill of the dead. Besides, he’d more or less healed from the injury. He was supposed to be grateful.
After contemplating the flagstones some more, Christian picked up the wooden sword, his old practice shield, and headed for the tilting yard. He had to be ready for the next tournament, then.
(241 words)
Thursday, February 11, 2010
The Deception
“Do you even eat enough?” Joe asked.
Chase paused mid-pump and considered his coworker. “What makes you say that?” He continued for five more reps, then set the weight back on the stand. He rolled off the bench and let Jade take his place, acting as spotter.
Joe looked Chase up and down. “Just - you’re so skinny.”
“It’s all muscle,” Jade said, jumping to his friend’s defense. “Jace’s really strong. Right?”
“Right,” Chase said. He rolled his eyes patiently at Joe. “I eat more than enough. I just have a very fast metabolism is all.”
“I’m pretty sure that if you turned sideways you’d vanish,” Joe said.
Chase shrugged. “Yes, well, it means I can get out of tight spots, doesn’t it?”
Joe snorted. “We sing and dance every night. What kind of tight spots do you get into?”
Chase didn’t tell Joe that every night after the singing and dancing was done, he had to keep up with a parkour runner of a thief to make sure he made his mark, and that escaping snarling doberman was a tight spot indeed.
Joe was probably right, though. Considering how much Chase burned every day, he probably didn’t eat enough.
The illusion of weakness in his slender form just added to the deception.
(213 words)
Chase paused mid-pump and considered his coworker. “What makes you say that?” He continued for five more reps, then set the weight back on the stand. He rolled off the bench and let Jade take his place, acting as spotter.
Joe looked Chase up and down. “Just - you’re so skinny.”
“It’s all muscle,” Jade said, jumping to his friend’s defense. “Jace’s really strong. Right?”
“Right,” Chase said. He rolled his eyes patiently at Joe. “I eat more than enough. I just have a very fast metabolism is all.”
“I’m pretty sure that if you turned sideways you’d vanish,” Joe said.
Chase shrugged. “Yes, well, it means I can get out of tight spots, doesn’t it?”
Joe snorted. “We sing and dance every night. What kind of tight spots do you get into?”
Chase didn’t tell Joe that every night after the singing and dancing was done, he had to keep up with a parkour runner of a thief to make sure he made his mark, and that escaping snarling doberman was a tight spot indeed.
Joe was probably right, though. Considering how much Chase burned every day, he probably didn’t eat enough.
The illusion of weakness in his slender form just added to the deception.
(213 words)
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Sick Day
“Would you stop rattlin’ the table, kid?” Uncle Zach growled.
Tobias cursed under his breath and hunkered down under the mass of threadbare blankets he’d gathered. “’M cold,” he said.
“Well we don’t got no money for heat, so hold still already. ‘M tryin’ t’sleep.” Uncle Zach was still slurring, still drunk.
Tobias resisted the urge to tell the man that his alcoholism was the reason they had no money for heat. He closed his eyes, but the throbbing behind his eyes wasn’t going away. Based on what little knowledge he’d picked up from biology class, headache plus fever plus runny nose meant he had a cold. Thanks to Uncle Zach’s dipsomaniac tendencies, they had no money for medicine, not that Tobias thought he needed a prescription. Just some cough medicine would help.
Sometime around three a.m., Uncle Zach yelled at him for coughing so loudly. Tobias coughed into his pillow for the rest of the night.
His head was swimming and when he woke up the next morning, his world was filled with a heavy fog and his head felt like it weighed more than the rest of his body combined. He managed to dress and fix some sort of breakfast and then his legs carried him to school. During first period he could feel the other students glaring at him as he sniffled, so he just ducked his head down and tried to take notes.
The last thing he remembered was puzzling over a quadratic equation.
Then he woke up in the nurse’s office. Veronica was sitting next to his cot reading a history book. She looked up and smiled at him.
He realized his head didn’t hurt anymore, even though his throat ached, and something about her smile made him feel even better.
“You should have stayed home,” she said. “I think the nurse is trying to call your parents.”
“Don’t have parents,” Tobias croaked.
Veronica frowned. “Oh. Well.” She closed her book and leaned in, pressed her hand to his forehead to check for a fever. “Sleep more okay?”
“Okay,” he said, and slid into dreams again.
When he woke a second time, he felt much better, but Veronica was gone.
(366 words)
Tobias cursed under his breath and hunkered down under the mass of threadbare blankets he’d gathered. “’M cold,” he said.
“Well we don’t got no money for heat, so hold still already. ‘M tryin’ t’sleep.” Uncle Zach was still slurring, still drunk.
Tobias resisted the urge to tell the man that his alcoholism was the reason they had no money for heat. He closed his eyes, but the throbbing behind his eyes wasn’t going away. Based on what little knowledge he’d picked up from biology class, headache plus fever plus runny nose meant he had a cold. Thanks to Uncle Zach’s dipsomaniac tendencies, they had no money for medicine, not that Tobias thought he needed a prescription. Just some cough medicine would help.
Sometime around three a.m., Uncle Zach yelled at him for coughing so loudly. Tobias coughed into his pillow for the rest of the night.
His head was swimming and when he woke up the next morning, his world was filled with a heavy fog and his head felt like it weighed more than the rest of his body combined. He managed to dress and fix some sort of breakfast and then his legs carried him to school. During first period he could feel the other students glaring at him as he sniffled, so he just ducked his head down and tried to take notes.
The last thing he remembered was puzzling over a quadratic equation.
Then he woke up in the nurse’s office. Veronica was sitting next to his cot reading a history book. She looked up and smiled at him.
He realized his head didn’t hurt anymore, even though his throat ached, and something about her smile made him feel even better.
“You should have stayed home,” she said. “I think the nurse is trying to call your parents.”
“Don’t have parents,” Tobias croaked.
Veronica frowned. “Oh. Well.” She closed her book and leaned in, pressed her hand to his forehead to check for a fever. “Sleep more okay?”
“Okay,” he said, and slid into dreams again.
When he woke a second time, he felt much better, but Veronica was gone.
(366 words)
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Stubborn Pride
“I wouldn’t--!” Angel began, but it was too late.
DJ heaved himself off the cot, bit back a curse when pain lanced through his shoulder. “You set it?”
“You dislocated it,” Angel said. “You also have three cracked ribs, a black eye, and a split lip, and possibly a concussion. Why the hell are you moving?”
DJ growled, scooted toward the edge of the cot so he could toe on his shoes. “I’m not staying here.” He had to wriggle and squirm several times, trying to bend at the waist so he could reach his shirt to pull it on.
“You’re not going home in the condition either,” Angel said. “If you have a concussion, someone has to watch over you--”
DJ glared with his one good eye. “I’m fine. I don’t need your help.”
“That’s what they all say,” someone else said, and DJ lifted his head.
Celia swept into the room. She had a tray of hot tea and a dish of something pungent-smelling. “Get back on that bed,” she said firmly.
DJ stared at her. “What are you doing here?”
“Did Angel not tell you?”
DJ slewed a glance at Angel, then turned back to her. “Tell me what?”
“We’re cousins,” Celia said easily. “Now get back on that bed and take your shirt off.”
“What for?” DJ made no move to obey.
“So I can rub some of this ointment on your shoulder - it’ll help with the pain.” Celia set down the tray and poured some tea in a mug. She handed one to Angel, then one to DJ. “It’s medicinal. It’ll help, too.”
It tasted foul.
Celia dipped two fingers into the dish of ointment and gestured. “Take off your shirt already.”
DJ tugged on the hem of his shirt in what he new was a maidenly gesture. “I don’t want you to touch me.”
Celia sighed. “Fine. Do it yourself.” She held out the dish.
“You’ll regret it,” Angel said.
DJ did, but he refused to admit it.
(335 words)
DJ heaved himself off the cot, bit back a curse when pain lanced through his shoulder. “You set it?”
“You dislocated it,” Angel said. “You also have three cracked ribs, a black eye, and a split lip, and possibly a concussion. Why the hell are you moving?”
DJ growled, scooted toward the edge of the cot so he could toe on his shoes. “I’m not staying here.” He had to wriggle and squirm several times, trying to bend at the waist so he could reach his shirt to pull it on.
“You’re not going home in the condition either,” Angel said. “If you have a concussion, someone has to watch over you--”
DJ glared with his one good eye. “I’m fine. I don’t need your help.”
“That’s what they all say,” someone else said, and DJ lifted his head.
Celia swept into the room. She had a tray of hot tea and a dish of something pungent-smelling. “Get back on that bed,” she said firmly.
DJ stared at her. “What are you doing here?”
“Did Angel not tell you?”
DJ slewed a glance at Angel, then turned back to her. “Tell me what?”
“We’re cousins,” Celia said easily. “Now get back on that bed and take your shirt off.”
“What for?” DJ made no move to obey.
“So I can rub some of this ointment on your shoulder - it’ll help with the pain.” Celia set down the tray and poured some tea in a mug. She handed one to Angel, then one to DJ. “It’s medicinal. It’ll help, too.”
It tasted foul.
Celia dipped two fingers into the dish of ointment and gestured. “Take off your shirt already.”
DJ tugged on the hem of his shirt in what he new was a maidenly gesture. “I don’t want you to touch me.”
Celia sighed. “Fine. Do it yourself.” She held out the dish.
“You’ll regret it,” Angel said.
DJ did, but he refused to admit it.
(335 words)
Glassy Eyes
Steve stumbled as he took the last turn in the obstacle course and fell to the ground in a heap. Seconds later he was on his feet again racing towards the finish; breathing labored and ragged.
"Time. Two minutes forty-three seconds," David's voice called out.
Steve bent over his knees, huffing and struggling not to throw up. David approached from where he had been observing the course.
"You feel alright Blackwood?" he asked a trifle gruffly; there were other teams around.
Steve looked up at his commander from glassy feverish eyes and forced himself to stand up straight; his vision blurring and threatening to go black.
"Fine sir."
David took a step closer so that none could overhear them. "How long have you been sick Steve?"
Steve glanced around quickly, "a few days sir. This is the worst that its been."
David brought his hand up with a towel in it. To anyone looking on it would look like he was wiping some sweat from his soldiers brow, but David ran his wrist over his friends forehead.
"You're burning up Steve," David said quietly, and with a little disapproval.
"It's not that bad Boss," Steve said.
David leveled a look at his subordinate officer.
"Steve, I want you to go back to base and wait for me to get there. I will write you a week pass so that you can get well," David said as he pushed Steve's shoulder, steering him back toward the bunker.
It was a testament to how poor he felt that Steve didn't even argue; just turned and walked wearily back to base.
"Time. Two minutes forty-three seconds," David's voice called out.
Steve bent over his knees, huffing and struggling not to throw up. David approached from where he had been observing the course.
"You feel alright Blackwood?" he asked a trifle gruffly; there were other teams around.
Steve looked up at his commander from glassy feverish eyes and forced himself to stand up straight; his vision blurring and threatening to go black.
"Fine sir."
David took a step closer so that none could overhear them. "How long have you been sick Steve?"
Steve glanced around quickly, "a few days sir. This is the worst that its been."
David brought his hand up with a towel in it. To anyone looking on it would look like he was wiping some sweat from his soldiers brow, but David ran his wrist over his friends forehead.
"You're burning up Steve," David said quietly, and with a little disapproval.
"It's not that bad Boss," Steve said.
David leveled a look at his subordinate officer.
"Steve, I want you to go back to base and wait for me to get there. I will write you a week pass so that you can get well," David said as he pushed Steve's shoulder, steering him back toward the bunker.
It was a testament to how poor he felt that Steve didn't even argue; just turned and walked wearily back to base.
Monday, February 8, 2010
What It Felt Like
“Quit moving,” Holly said.
Keith hissed, impatient, and resisted the urge to bat her hand aside when she mopped his brow with a cool, damp cloth. “I’m not a bloody child.”
Holly cast a pointed glance over his stuffed tiger hot water bottle, his nest of fuzzy blankets, and the mountain of pillows making him comfortable. He’d pleaded for them bit by bit over the past few hours, blue eyes big and guileless, voice small and suspiciously child-like. Now he was decked out like an Arabic Sheikh and had Holly waiting on him hand and foot.
Duffy, Shannon, and Ste were out at the newsagents securing an army’s worth of tinned chicken noodle soup.
“You could’ve fooled me,” Holly said.
Keith felt his nose begin to run. He sniffled. Holly cast him another pointed look. He sniffled again, mutinously, but when it did no good he used the back of his wrist. Holly sighed and handed him a box of kleenex.
“You really were raised in a barn, weren’t you?” she said.
Keith blew his nose, loudly, and glared at her. She ignored his glare and reached out, brushed his hair aside gently to feel his forehead, check his temperature.
“It’s gone down a bit,” she said. “You ought to kick this fever in the next four to six hours.”
“I want to be better.” Keith knew he sounded whiny, but he knew as soon as the others were done dropping off the soup they’d be out on the streets, planning the next big strike. He was supposed to be with them. He was a warrior for the Glorious Cause.
Who couldn’t fight off a common cold.
“I know you do.” Holly kissed him on the cheek. Then she pulled back, tilted her head to listen. “The others are back. I’ll fix up a bowl of soup.”
When she left, Keith sank back on his bed of pillows and sighed. He wondered if this was what it felt like, when a mother watched over her sick child. He was so used to his father just thrusting a box of tissues and a packet of lozenges at him and telling him to get over it.
The lads came in to tell jokes and clown about while Holly cooked. When she returned, they left, and it was just the two of them. Keith fell asleep to Holly reading him Yeats.
(399 words)
Keith hissed, impatient, and resisted the urge to bat her hand aside when she mopped his brow with a cool, damp cloth. “I’m not a bloody child.”
Holly cast a pointed glance over his stuffed tiger hot water bottle, his nest of fuzzy blankets, and the mountain of pillows making him comfortable. He’d pleaded for them bit by bit over the past few hours, blue eyes big and guileless, voice small and suspiciously child-like. Now he was decked out like an Arabic Sheikh and had Holly waiting on him hand and foot.
Duffy, Shannon, and Ste were out at the newsagents securing an army’s worth of tinned chicken noodle soup.
“You could’ve fooled me,” Holly said.
Keith felt his nose begin to run. He sniffled. Holly cast him another pointed look. He sniffled again, mutinously, but when it did no good he used the back of his wrist. Holly sighed and handed him a box of kleenex.
“You really were raised in a barn, weren’t you?” she said.
Keith blew his nose, loudly, and glared at her. She ignored his glare and reached out, brushed his hair aside gently to feel his forehead, check his temperature.
“It’s gone down a bit,” she said. “You ought to kick this fever in the next four to six hours.”
“I want to be better.” Keith knew he sounded whiny, but he knew as soon as the others were done dropping off the soup they’d be out on the streets, planning the next big strike. He was supposed to be with them. He was a warrior for the Glorious Cause.
Who couldn’t fight off a common cold.
“I know you do.” Holly kissed him on the cheek. Then she pulled back, tilted her head to listen. “The others are back. I’ll fix up a bowl of soup.”
When she left, Keith sank back on his bed of pillows and sighed. He wondered if this was what it felt like, when a mother watched over her sick child. He was so used to his father just thrusting a box of tissues and a packet of lozenges at him and telling him to get over it.
The lads came in to tell jokes and clown about while Holly cooked. When she returned, they left, and it was just the two of them. Keith fell asleep to Holly reading him Yeats.
(399 words)
Beast
Joe curled tighter into a ball as the nausea reached its peak; groaned at the thought of anything making an appearance, but knowing at the same time that there was nothing in his stomach to come back up. A metal bowl rested on the floor next to his bed, just in case. He had sacrificed the convenience of the bathroom floor for the comfort of his own bed. And he hadn't been able to eat for three days.
Joe poked his head out of the covers when he heard the door to his room open and felt a fresh breath of clean air stir the close stuffy confines of the room and suddenly recoiled in agony as the light snapped on, illuminating it from shadowy to stark brightness. Joe hissed in displeasure and drew the covers over his head again.
"Joe?" Jen's voice drifted to him under the layers of covers where he lay shivering, "Joe. Come out."
"You can't make me," Joe called out in a muffled voice as he pulled the covers tighter around himself.
"You can either come out or I can come in after you," Jen threatened.
Joe cracked the covers just slightly, "what do you want?" he asked petulantly. He knew he was being childish, but he didn't care at the moment.
"To make you feel better," Jen said brightly. She waved a plastic sleeve full of saltine crackers in front of him. "I also have chicken noodle soup."
"I don't think I can eat anything," Joe muttered.
"Well, it's either that or I can give you a shot," Jen threatened again, this time brandishing a needle.
Joe hissed again in displeasure. "All right," he wheezed as he reached for the crackers, "but I don't think this is a good idea."
"Just do it," Jen said, "I'll go run you a warm bath while you work your way through those."
As Jen stood to leave the room Joe laid a hand on her wrist, "thank you Jen. I know I'm a beast when I'm sick."
Jen sat back down next to him and ran a hand through his hair. She cracked a smile, "I've dealt with worse," she said and winked at him, standing again to go start the water running.
Joe poked his head out of the covers when he heard the door to his room open and felt a fresh breath of clean air stir the close stuffy confines of the room and suddenly recoiled in agony as the light snapped on, illuminating it from shadowy to stark brightness. Joe hissed in displeasure and drew the covers over his head again.
"Joe?" Jen's voice drifted to him under the layers of covers where he lay shivering, "Joe. Come out."
"You can't make me," Joe called out in a muffled voice as he pulled the covers tighter around himself.
"You can either come out or I can come in after you," Jen threatened.
Joe cracked the covers just slightly, "what do you want?" he asked petulantly. He knew he was being childish, but he didn't care at the moment.
"To make you feel better," Jen said brightly. She waved a plastic sleeve full of saltine crackers in front of him. "I also have chicken noodle soup."
"I don't think I can eat anything," Joe muttered.
"Well, it's either that or I can give you a shot," Jen threatened again, this time brandishing a needle.
Joe hissed again in displeasure. "All right," he wheezed as he reached for the crackers, "but I don't think this is a good idea."
"Just do it," Jen said, "I'll go run you a warm bath while you work your way through those."
As Jen stood to leave the room Joe laid a hand on her wrist, "thank you Jen. I know I'm a beast when I'm sick."
Jen sat back down next to him and ran a hand through his hair. She cracked a smile, "I've dealt with worse," she said and winked at him, standing again to go start the water running.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Overview #58: Non-canon
Okay. Total fail this week. But I have been toxic, and my brain has not been functioning. I did enjoy tweaking Jen and Joe's relationship. Age wise at least.
Project #59: In Sickness and in Health
100-500 words. What are your characters like when they're sick? What do they do to stay healthy? What kinds of weird family or traditional remedies to they have lying around that they recommend to others? Explore your characters some more and see how they'd hold up to the old wedding vow.
Overview #58: Non-canon
I love James as a character a lot, and there are all sorts of things I want to do with him that really won't help the overall Dagaz arc, so this week, trying out some things between him and Asia was a lot of fun. I was sloppy and unrealistic, I realize, because a boy as good-looking as James is would definitely have had his first kiss by fifteen, and even if he hadn't, he'd remember the face of his first kiss forever, so when seventeen, nineteen, and twenty-three rolled around, he'd definitely recognize Asia's face. Still, I thought it might be fun to have Asia watch him growing up.
I think, making James another incarnation of Arcturus might be an injustice to him. Especially if Asia recognizes him. I liked watching the way her relationship played out with James, but the undercurrent of Arcturus angst got tiring pretty quickly, at least for me, and faces fade over time, so maybe it's plausible that Asia, though she remembers her once and future king, doesn't properly remember his face? It's something to think about.
I don't know. This was a good learning experience for the plot and characters, though.
I think, making James another incarnation of Arcturus might be an injustice to him. Especially if Asia recognizes him. I liked watching the way her relationship played out with James, but the undercurrent of Arcturus angst got tiring pretty quickly, at least for me, and faces fade over time, so maybe it's plausible that Asia, though she remembers her once and future king, doesn't properly remember his face? It's something to think about.
I don't know. This was a good learning experience for the plot and characters, though.
Page Mallory (Reprise)
Two weeks before shooting was supposed to begin, James turned up at the studio for training. He paused outside the door and watched, awed, at two knights in full armor jousting in the distance. On closer examination, one knight was much smaller than the other, but both were riding full tilt.
A groan and a cheer rose up when the smaller knight’s lance knocked the other knight off his horse, and then a whole cadre of horse wranglers were in the middle of the jousting grounds, soothing the horses.
“Well?” one of the producers - Simon - asked.
The smaller knight hopped off the horse, tugged off the bucket-like helmet - and shook out long, dark, curly hair.
“It’s sturdy enough,” she said. “You’ve chosen a good smith. Now you just have to make it period, hm?”
James could only stare. The victorious knight was a girl? Sure, James had read his fair share of historical fiction novels with their anachronistic heroines, but that was fiction. To actually see a girl win a jousting bout was unreal. James narrowed his eyes, shaded his gaze to see better. Something about the girl was oddly familiar.
Simon spotted him. “James! There you are. Just in time - come meet our combat coordinator.”
James trotted over, curious. As he drew closer, his memory stirred, and he realized that he recognized the girl. “Asia Kash,” he said.
Simon raised his eyebrows. “You know each other?”
A smile blossomed on Asia’s face. “James Mallory! I’d heard a DC boy had been cast as a principal, but I never thought it’d be you.”
“I thought if I saw anyone from my DC days around here it’d be your brother, not you.” James grinned back at her, feeling something warm bloom in his chest.
“Tobias has a gig teaching drama to wayward youth,” Asia said. “The one who made it in the business is me.”
James clapped her on the shoulder. He said to Simon, “Her brother was my roommate at drama school. We know each other well.”
“Good,” Simon said. “She’s going to be teaching you how to wield a sword.”
Asia grinned up at him. “Prince you may play, but under my tutelage, you are Page Mallory until further notice.”
James cast her an appraising look. “That’s not the first time someone’s called me that,” he said.
(389 words)
A groan and a cheer rose up when the smaller knight’s lance knocked the other knight off his horse, and then a whole cadre of horse wranglers were in the middle of the jousting grounds, soothing the horses.
“Well?” one of the producers - Simon - asked.
The smaller knight hopped off the horse, tugged off the bucket-like helmet - and shook out long, dark, curly hair.
“It’s sturdy enough,” she said. “You’ve chosen a good smith. Now you just have to make it period, hm?”
James could only stare. The victorious knight was a girl? Sure, James had read his fair share of historical fiction novels with their anachronistic heroines, but that was fiction. To actually see a girl win a jousting bout was unreal. James narrowed his eyes, shaded his gaze to see better. Something about the girl was oddly familiar.
Simon spotted him. “James! There you are. Just in time - come meet our combat coordinator.”
James trotted over, curious. As he drew closer, his memory stirred, and he realized that he recognized the girl. “Asia Kash,” he said.
Simon raised his eyebrows. “You know each other?”
A smile blossomed on Asia’s face. “James Mallory! I’d heard a DC boy had been cast as a principal, but I never thought it’d be you.”
“I thought if I saw anyone from my DC days around here it’d be your brother, not you.” James grinned back at her, feeling something warm bloom in his chest.
“Tobias has a gig teaching drama to wayward youth,” Asia said. “The one who made it in the business is me.”
James clapped her on the shoulder. He said to Simon, “Her brother was my roommate at drama school. We know each other well.”
“Good,” Simon said. “She’s going to be teaching you how to wield a sword.”
Asia grinned up at him. “Prince you may play, but under my tutelage, you are Page Mallory until further notice.”
James cast her an appraising look. “That’s not the first time someone’s called me that,” he said.
(389 words)
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