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tamingthemuseTitle: Random Pages from the Histories, IV
Fandom: Original Fiction
Prompt: Arcade
Warnings: Mild Language
Rating: PG-13
Summary: An unwitting comment sets Declan to reminiscing.
Word Count: 1,939
Author’s Note:Finally, a story that (mostly) requires no explanation. I will say that this piece takes place between the conclusion of Invocatus Rex and the onset of Coadeyder. Thus, Declan has left England for Scotland, but the story told in Coadeyder hasn't yet begun. A reference is made in this piece to Declan's father, and I wouldn't want anyone to get the impression he doesn't have very strong, very positive feelings about the man. Here is a link to a brief piece written on Declan's father for another prompt in another comm. Also, much of this piece revolves around the boys' use of weaponry. Here is yet another brief piece written for another prompt where Declan talks about his first encounter with a broadsword (roughly a year and a half prior to when the memory in this one takes place).
Declan on his father
Declan on the broadsword
Random Pages from the Histories, IV
Declan frowned into the mirror above his bureau. He couldn’t decide whether to leave the top two buttons undone on his oxford or only the top one. With no tie and no reason for one, he shrugged his big shoulders and left them both open. A final check assured him the barber had done a passable job on the black curls, and his face was finally losing its looked of pinched exhaustion.
A few days in the country had done him a world of good.
It was nearly time for dinner. Well past time for a drink. Well past time for an hour or two of the torture of Colina Lindsay’s company. He loved her. Or so he thought. He wanted anything but to love her. He wanted to throw her lovely arse across the big bed in his room and possess her and never let her leave his sight. He never wanted to see her again. He was conflicted, obsessed, damned sick and tired of not giving in to the wanting of her. Pretty damned sure her brother Aleck, his only friend in all of Scotland, knew how he felt, and pretty embarrassed by the whole affair.
Well, and why shouldn’t he be embarrassed? He was acting like an effing schoolboy for all that.
Smiling at his own foolishness, he let himself out of the room and walked quietly into the salon where Colina stood at the sideboard pouring a drink. When she heard him enter, she turned with a brilliant smile and immediately turned another glass over on the tray.
“Whiskey?”
“Oh, Christ, yes, please,” he said with fervor, and she laughed. The sound was lovely, and her fingers were warm when, moments later, she handed him the drink.
“Where’s Aleck?”
“He’s waiting for you on the arcade,” she said, raising her glass in the direction of the veranda that ran along the rear of the house.
“Andrew’s waiting for you in la arcata, Declan. You’re tardy.”
The boy looked up – but not far – into the face of the young priest who was his warden for this particular day’s excursion in Rome. At thirteen, he was taller than several and only inches shorter than most of the priests he knew. At thirteen, despite his height and bulk, he was still a child.
His eyes narrowed in concentration, and the elder took pity on him, taking him by the arm and steering him toward the outer door of the ancient chapel, instructing gently, “La arcata, Declan, or arcus if you prefer.”
Declan groaned. “Italian’s bad enough, but if you start with the Latin, I’m marching straight back to St. Pete’s on foot, so help me God.”
“Very well then, my young friend with the language impediments. Andrew is waiting for you in the arcade… on the portico outside. He and Neil have some exercises for you and the other younger boys I believe. You, as I’ve said, are tardy, my young friend.”
Understanding now, Declan nodded, but he turned his head once more to the back of the chapel where he’d lit a candle and prayed for his mother just prior to the priest’s interruption. No, not so much an interruption he allowed, because he’d finished his prayers for her and he never lit the candle or prayed for his father. He didn’t know how. He loved the man in an abstract way, but it was easier, while at the feet of the Virgin, to make the effort for his mother.
This church was set back in the hills, not in the city proper, and its floors and rough pews creaked with centuries of absolution sought and gained. Declan felt the weight of it without understanding its source, and suddenly, the urge to be in the hot Mediterranean sun with his peers and even the hateful Andrew and Neil were more appealing than continuing his solitary prayers in that dim sanctuary of need.
Throwing a baleful grin at the priest, he walked down the center aisle but paused a half dozen steps from the door. The priest had said exercises, and Declan knew what that meant. Andrew was merciless. What had started as fun and games two years earlier had turned into less fun and no game at all somewhere down the line. Now, if he didn’t pay attention, he would get his arm sliced off by a replica broadsword or, worse, slice someone else’s arm off.
The ancient double wooden door with its carved top and tiny square panels of stained glass stood two yards in front of him. Outside, he could hear the impatient, regular thump of Andrew’s boots on the boards of the arcata. Christ, he’d never forget that word now. Behind him, the priest spoke softly.
“No use in delay, Declan. Best to go on out there.”
“Aye.”
Closing his eyes, he stepped forward. One pace. Two. He held out his right arm, ramrod straight and locked at the elbow. The palm of his hand touched the timeworn wood of the door, as smooth as the sand on the beaches in Ireland. He paused an instant before shoving the door open and striding into the open air as if he owned it and Andrew should pay him rent for the privilege of breathing.
To Declan’s right, Andrew whirled and grabbed him by the arm, close to the shoulder and gripped so tightly Declan wasn’t certain he could loose himself if he tried. He didn’t try. Keeping the green eyes carefully expressionless, he locked his gaze and waited for the older boy’s tirade.
“Where in hell have you been? We’ve all waited for you at least half an hour! It’s hot as Hades out here, and Father Kennedy will be coming soon to take us back to the city. We’ve got work to do, or did you forget?”
“Which question would you like me to answer?” Declan asked mildly, and one of the younger boys snickered somewhere behind him. He allowed a corner of his mouth to twitch in slight amusement but nothing more. It wouldn’t help him at all to irritate Andrew further. He’d learned that much.
“Why did you take so long in there? It’s just a fucking church.”
Andrew’s grip had loosened slightly, and Declan slowly withdrew his arm. As he turned to take his place with the other boys Andrew and Neil had the charge of training, he kept his gaze on Andrew’s angry face.
“I was praying for my dead mother, Andrew. I’m finished now. Shall we go?”
They took a foot-worn path leading from the side of the chapel into a small grove of trees to the rear. The day was bright and hot and so utterly alien from their native land in its fierce sun that the younger boys frolicked along the path and had trouble obeying Andrew’s orders to ‘fall in’ and ‘keep to the line.’ Eventually, they made their way into a clearing where Neil dropped the bag of swords and set about positioning pairs of boys to his liking.
Nothing was to Declan’s liking. The entire day felt wrong now. This was born out when it was discovered that all Andrew’s careful planning had resulted in an odd number of younger boys, and Declan was left without a partner. In a show of uncustomary good grace, Andrew paired him with Neil who, while older and certainly more experienced, was of a size with Declan and had sparred with him on enough occasions that Declan felt reasonably well matched.
Yet when they began, he was tentative. Unwilling to seem either arrogant or reckless, he allowed Neil to both set their pace and assume the offense. As Declan was accustomed to doing both in any match, it was difficult for him to respond with any degree of real skill, and Andrew was soon at his side, barking his shrill orders and generally making such a cock-up of the match that Declan was dreadfully glad it was only a training session.
“Get inside!” Andrew screamed. “You can’t attack from so far away! No, Declan, not under the blade… from the side now!” A pause and then, “Better… all right, now come back inside. Stop backpedaling! What kind of coward are you?”
On and on for long minutes. It felt interminable until the moment when, frustration apparently getting the better of him, Andrew snatched a spare sword from the ground and rudely shoved Neil to the side, saying, “See to the other lads!”
He ran on Declan like fury itself, and Declan, momentarily startled, nearly lost his footing. He recovered quickly and swung wildly at Andrew with the vengeance of adolescent retribution for slights minor and major and too often unnoticed by their guardians. Heedless now of the need to stay outside the circle of real danger, he moved with lethal and predatory speed to within Andrew’s reach and narrowly missed being sliced neatly in two before disarming the older boy on his return swing.
As Andrew’s sword flew to land harmlessly on the thick grass some ten feet away, Declan turned his back and dropped his own sword. Father Kennedy approached from the same path they’d walked scant minutes earlier, and his face was dark as he scowled at Declan.
“I believe an apology is in order, young man,” the priest said with authority when he was close enough to hear.
Declan stopped in his tracks. He was – had always been – both awed by and terrified of the man. But in a clearing on the outskirts of Rome, on the heels of a prayer for the soul of his beloved and unremembered mother, a boy had become a man. Squaring his shoulders, he looked at Father Kennedy directly and without shame or embarrassment.
“Aye, sir. I agree. I’ll be waiting in the nave when Andrew’s ready to deliver it.”
“Declan? Declan? Did you hear me? I said Aleck’s waiting for you on the arcade. There’s someone he’d like for you to meet.”
Shaking away the cobwebs of memory, Declan looked down.
There.
Just below his shoulder was the shining cap of mahogany hair framing the pixie face. Colina. Good Christ, how long had he been lost to the memory of Andrew McElroy? And how long before he lost the battle with stoicism and took the creature before him in his arms and plastered that endearing face with kisses until she couldn’t breathe?
“Aye. Sorry. A moment of déjà vu. Do you know who it is?”
She shook her head, and the hair swayed slightly with the motion. He wanted to reach out and run his hands over its smooth, well behaved protection of the lovely skull beneath it. Hadn’t he said he wanted a nice, quiet girl? Just someone ordinary and, above all, normal?
“No idea, love. He just said to send you out directly you’d come down. Well, and you have, no?”
She smiled, and suddenly the childhood memory was completely banished. He glanced briefly at the tweed trousers and recently starched white oxford. He supposed he’d do for most introductions. No tie, but then he hadn’t even brought one to their country house this time. His black hair had at least been recently trimmed, and he knew his eyes had lost their bloodshot look of sleeplessness.
With an air of lighthearted amusement, he moved away from her, taking with him the glass of whiskey she'd recently pressed into his hand, and approached the center set of French doors on the rear of the large salon. With a rapid twist of the knob, he shouldered the door open and walked into the twilight Scottish mist.
fin
Fandom: Original Fiction
Prompt: Arcade
Warnings: Mild Language
Rating: PG-13
Summary: An unwitting comment sets Declan to reminiscing.
Word Count: 1,939
Author’s Note:Finally, a story that (mostly) requires no explanation. I will say that this piece takes place between the conclusion of Invocatus Rex and the onset of Coadeyder. Thus, Declan has left England for Scotland, but the story told in Coadeyder hasn't yet begun. A reference is made in this piece to Declan's father, and I wouldn't want anyone to get the impression he doesn't have very strong, very positive feelings about the man. Here is a link to a brief piece written on Declan's father for another prompt in another comm. Also, much of this piece revolves around the boys' use of weaponry. Here is yet another brief piece written for another prompt where Declan talks about his first encounter with a broadsword (roughly a year and a half prior to when the memory in this one takes place).
Declan on his father
Declan on the broadsword
Random Pages from the Histories, IV
Declan frowned into the mirror above his bureau. He couldn’t decide whether to leave the top two buttons undone on his oxford or only the top one. With no tie and no reason for one, he shrugged his big shoulders and left them both open. A final check assured him the barber had done a passable job on the black curls, and his face was finally losing its looked of pinched exhaustion.
A few days in the country had done him a world of good.
It was nearly time for dinner. Well past time for a drink. Well past time for an hour or two of the torture of Colina Lindsay’s company. He loved her. Or so he thought. He wanted anything but to love her. He wanted to throw her lovely arse across the big bed in his room and possess her and never let her leave his sight. He never wanted to see her again. He was conflicted, obsessed, damned sick and tired of not giving in to the wanting of her. Pretty damned sure her brother Aleck, his only friend in all of Scotland, knew how he felt, and pretty embarrassed by the whole affair.
Well, and why shouldn’t he be embarrassed? He was acting like an effing schoolboy for all that.
Smiling at his own foolishness, he let himself out of the room and walked quietly into the salon where Colina stood at the sideboard pouring a drink. When she heard him enter, she turned with a brilliant smile and immediately turned another glass over on the tray.
“Whiskey?”
“Oh, Christ, yes, please,” he said with fervor, and she laughed. The sound was lovely, and her fingers were warm when, moments later, she handed him the drink.
“Where’s Aleck?”
“He’s waiting for you on the arcade,” she said, raising her glass in the direction of the veranda that ran along the rear of the house.
“Andrew’s waiting for you in la arcata, Declan. You’re tardy.”
The boy looked up – but not far – into the face of the young priest who was his warden for this particular day’s excursion in Rome. At thirteen, he was taller than several and only inches shorter than most of the priests he knew. At thirteen, despite his height and bulk, he was still a child.
His eyes narrowed in concentration, and the elder took pity on him, taking him by the arm and steering him toward the outer door of the ancient chapel, instructing gently, “La arcata, Declan, or arcus if you prefer.”
Declan groaned. “Italian’s bad enough, but if you start with the Latin, I’m marching straight back to St. Pete’s on foot, so help me God.”
“Very well then, my young friend with the language impediments. Andrew is waiting for you in the arcade… on the portico outside. He and Neil have some exercises for you and the other younger boys I believe. You, as I’ve said, are tardy, my young friend.”
Understanding now, Declan nodded, but he turned his head once more to the back of the chapel where he’d lit a candle and prayed for his mother just prior to the priest’s interruption. No, not so much an interruption he allowed, because he’d finished his prayers for her and he never lit the candle or prayed for his father. He didn’t know how. He loved the man in an abstract way, but it was easier, while at the feet of the Virgin, to make the effort for his mother.
This church was set back in the hills, not in the city proper, and its floors and rough pews creaked with centuries of absolution sought and gained. Declan felt the weight of it without understanding its source, and suddenly, the urge to be in the hot Mediterranean sun with his peers and even the hateful Andrew and Neil were more appealing than continuing his solitary prayers in that dim sanctuary of need.
Throwing a baleful grin at the priest, he walked down the center aisle but paused a half dozen steps from the door. The priest had said exercises, and Declan knew what that meant. Andrew was merciless. What had started as fun and games two years earlier had turned into less fun and no game at all somewhere down the line. Now, if he didn’t pay attention, he would get his arm sliced off by a replica broadsword or, worse, slice someone else’s arm off.
The ancient double wooden door with its carved top and tiny square panels of stained glass stood two yards in front of him. Outside, he could hear the impatient, regular thump of Andrew’s boots on the boards of the arcata. Christ, he’d never forget that word now. Behind him, the priest spoke softly.
“No use in delay, Declan. Best to go on out there.”
“Aye.”
Closing his eyes, he stepped forward. One pace. Two. He held out his right arm, ramrod straight and locked at the elbow. The palm of his hand touched the timeworn wood of the door, as smooth as the sand on the beaches in Ireland. He paused an instant before shoving the door open and striding into the open air as if he owned it and Andrew should pay him rent for the privilege of breathing.
To Declan’s right, Andrew whirled and grabbed him by the arm, close to the shoulder and gripped so tightly Declan wasn’t certain he could loose himself if he tried. He didn’t try. Keeping the green eyes carefully expressionless, he locked his gaze and waited for the older boy’s tirade.
“Where in hell have you been? We’ve all waited for you at least half an hour! It’s hot as Hades out here, and Father Kennedy will be coming soon to take us back to the city. We’ve got work to do, or did you forget?”
“Which question would you like me to answer?” Declan asked mildly, and one of the younger boys snickered somewhere behind him. He allowed a corner of his mouth to twitch in slight amusement but nothing more. It wouldn’t help him at all to irritate Andrew further. He’d learned that much.
“Why did you take so long in there? It’s just a fucking church.”
Andrew’s grip had loosened slightly, and Declan slowly withdrew his arm. As he turned to take his place with the other boys Andrew and Neil had the charge of training, he kept his gaze on Andrew’s angry face.
“I was praying for my dead mother, Andrew. I’m finished now. Shall we go?”
They took a foot-worn path leading from the side of the chapel into a small grove of trees to the rear. The day was bright and hot and so utterly alien from their native land in its fierce sun that the younger boys frolicked along the path and had trouble obeying Andrew’s orders to ‘fall in’ and ‘keep to the line.’ Eventually, they made their way into a clearing where Neil dropped the bag of swords and set about positioning pairs of boys to his liking.
Nothing was to Declan’s liking. The entire day felt wrong now. This was born out when it was discovered that all Andrew’s careful planning had resulted in an odd number of younger boys, and Declan was left without a partner. In a show of uncustomary good grace, Andrew paired him with Neil who, while older and certainly more experienced, was of a size with Declan and had sparred with him on enough occasions that Declan felt reasonably well matched.
Yet when they began, he was tentative. Unwilling to seem either arrogant or reckless, he allowed Neil to both set their pace and assume the offense. As Declan was accustomed to doing both in any match, it was difficult for him to respond with any degree of real skill, and Andrew was soon at his side, barking his shrill orders and generally making such a cock-up of the match that Declan was dreadfully glad it was only a training session.
“Get inside!” Andrew screamed. “You can’t attack from so far away! No, Declan, not under the blade… from the side now!” A pause and then, “Better… all right, now come back inside. Stop backpedaling! What kind of coward are you?”
On and on for long minutes. It felt interminable until the moment when, frustration apparently getting the better of him, Andrew snatched a spare sword from the ground and rudely shoved Neil to the side, saying, “See to the other lads!”
He ran on Declan like fury itself, and Declan, momentarily startled, nearly lost his footing. He recovered quickly and swung wildly at Andrew with the vengeance of adolescent retribution for slights minor and major and too often unnoticed by their guardians. Heedless now of the need to stay outside the circle of real danger, he moved with lethal and predatory speed to within Andrew’s reach and narrowly missed being sliced neatly in two before disarming the older boy on his return swing.
As Andrew’s sword flew to land harmlessly on the thick grass some ten feet away, Declan turned his back and dropped his own sword. Father Kennedy approached from the same path they’d walked scant minutes earlier, and his face was dark as he scowled at Declan.
“I believe an apology is in order, young man,” the priest said with authority when he was close enough to hear.
Declan stopped in his tracks. He was – had always been – both awed by and terrified of the man. But in a clearing on the outskirts of Rome, on the heels of a prayer for the soul of his beloved and unremembered mother, a boy had become a man. Squaring his shoulders, he looked at Father Kennedy directly and without shame or embarrassment.
“Aye, sir. I agree. I’ll be waiting in the nave when Andrew’s ready to deliver it.”
“Declan? Declan? Did you hear me? I said Aleck’s waiting for you on the arcade. There’s someone he’d like for you to meet.”
Shaking away the cobwebs of memory, Declan looked down.
There.
Just below his shoulder was the shining cap of mahogany hair framing the pixie face. Colina. Good Christ, how long had he been lost to the memory of Andrew McElroy? And how long before he lost the battle with stoicism and took the creature before him in his arms and plastered that endearing face with kisses until she couldn’t breathe?
“Aye. Sorry. A moment of déjà vu. Do you know who it is?”
She shook her head, and the hair swayed slightly with the motion. He wanted to reach out and run his hands over its smooth, well behaved protection of the lovely skull beneath it. Hadn’t he said he wanted a nice, quiet girl? Just someone ordinary and, above all, normal?
“No idea, love. He just said to send you out directly you’d come down. Well, and you have, no?”
She smiled, and suddenly the childhood memory was completely banished. He glanced briefly at the tweed trousers and recently starched white oxford. He supposed he’d do for most introductions. No tie, but then he hadn’t even brought one to their country house this time. His black hair had at least been recently trimmed, and he knew his eyes had lost their bloodshot look of sleeplessness.
With an air of lighthearted amusement, he moved away from her, taking with him the glass of whiskey she'd recently pressed into his hand, and approached the center set of French doors on the rear of the large salon. With a rapid twist of the knob, he shouldered the door open and walked into the twilight Scottish mist.
fin
