Whisper
04-02-07, 11:20 PM
This solo takes place between the two points in my character's history (eg where time passage is marked by the asterisks). Kudos to anyone who can name the artist of the song title I've used as a title, Without Googling it first ^_~
They did not go far. On military bred horses, they finished the climb before the sliver of moon, hidden by fibrous clouds, had arced but an inch across the Corone sky. At the steppes, Ben tethered the reins without being told and began watering, but he was forced to hurriedly strip bags from the saddles and scramble after a captain whose destinations were becoming increasingly opaque, and that much more difficult to predict. He slid on an incline, teetering beneath heavy, unbalanced weight, and caught his captain's attention. Josen turned, and without a word, took two mechanical steps and lifted half the burden away, then turned once more and proceeded.
The mesa he'd chosen was long and low, crescent, like the moon, and still held the remnants of last night's fire, when they had numbered a full unit and not just the captain and one. Josen shrugged the supplies from his shoulder and paced to the plateau's edge as Ben stroked a new fire. The sparsity of trees would have made this a problem if they hadn't adjusted days ago to collect any tinder which presented itself as they rode. Tonight, fire didn't matter to the captain, however. There would be a big enough one blazing soon, he knew, and he pictured those flames as he adjusted the sight then placed his eye to the glass once again.
The dwelling was there, still seemingly unoccupied. Only the captain and lieutenant knew of the dismembered body that lie within it, but Josen didn't think of that now. He never could allow himself to retain the images after performing the deeds. It distracted him from what he needed to do. Scanning the dirt path then the wider main byway it veined from, Josen discerned that he still a while, so instead of going back to the fire, he sat where he was, scope in his lap and hands on his knees, a well of endless patience.
Ben had tossed the last stick into the slowly expanding flames. He situated the saddlebags, grabbed two leathery sticks of jerky from one, and pondered his captain's closed back as he chewed. They had been in the eastern region of Radasanthia, near the Comb Mountains, for close to a month now. This would be their second consecutive night over the ruins of Old Eli, a garrison which unwisely had been placed too far south and was now reincarnated in the new, larger and better garrisoned Fort Eli up north. There, they had suffered a hold up which nearly cost them their target. Sitting amid the mess hall, at unease already from the uncharacteristically long break, the unit learned they were being held weeks beyond their conscription. They each blinked, but as their eyes met afterward the decision was unanimous and not one was absent the next morning when the captain called them to leave.
After all, this time it was his son, and not just some indiscriminate kid lost in the hills, that they searched for.
Grunting, missing his comrades, lieutenant Archer bundled his arms with oatcakes and waterskin, then lit one of the torches to take with him. As he started down the incline, his captain's voice followed him. "Leave the pale saddled," it said. He didn't bother to ask why. Both he and the other members of the unit had learned the best way to avoid hearing their captain's increasingly cryptic and disturbing replies was simply not to encourage them. All that mattered was that captain had a plan, and that plans meant there was hope, because in a man such as this, hope could be a very dangerous thing to have broken.
The mounts arrived in his view, one light like the captain, with pale mane ans tan body, the other standard Coronian red. Benjamin attended first to the chestnut, not because of favoritism, but because the stallion had found a minute sized clumping of weeds between rocks to chomp upon and the mare was not letting him have at it alone. Clucking his tongue, Ben pulled her away and attended her first with the oats then several handfuls of water before unsaddling her.
Here with the horses, the air was less heavy and breathable. The sadness was not thick around every gaze and syllable. Noses jostled him and muzzles still lipped at the pockets he had carried dried apples in. There was playfulness, something Benjamin had become starved for but was too heavy hearted to initiate by himself. He was accustomed to being the ringleader, the raucous one, not tending to a semi deranged, grieving father who was also friend and his superior who, sunup or sundown, would not be consoled - or pacified. And who, as well, was awaiting for his return by the fire.
"Wait for me here." It was a silhouette Josen spoke to, but he knew the recent permanent features of Ben's face. The gauntness beneath eyes that were dark but now even darker, and the absence of a grin that had been painted above his chin's cleft since his birth. But these were things that were just pebbles upon his mountain of guilt. He was aware of them, but he could feel them no more than a gnat on the back of his heel, though he wanted to. Perhaps more than anything else, if he could feel, he wanted to feel that for his friend. Ben deserved it, he thought, as he began to move purposefully.
"Captain-"
He stopped.
"Watch out for night stingers."
Josen returned. Night stingers, or moon scorpions, were thicker and tougher than their daytime counterparts, with their needles sometimes tough enough to pierce a soldier's leather. During mating season in summer, the males glowed with iridescent light. The rest of the time they were deadly and silent, and only scampered the mesas at night. But this was not the reason Josen had backpedaled. Unclipping the sighting rod from his belt, he handed it to Ben's chest.
"I will," he said, and then he departed.
word count: 1004
They did not go far. On military bred horses, they finished the climb before the sliver of moon, hidden by fibrous clouds, had arced but an inch across the Corone sky. At the steppes, Ben tethered the reins without being told and began watering, but he was forced to hurriedly strip bags from the saddles and scramble after a captain whose destinations were becoming increasingly opaque, and that much more difficult to predict. He slid on an incline, teetering beneath heavy, unbalanced weight, and caught his captain's attention. Josen turned, and without a word, took two mechanical steps and lifted half the burden away, then turned once more and proceeded.
The mesa he'd chosen was long and low, crescent, like the moon, and still held the remnants of last night's fire, when they had numbered a full unit and not just the captain and one. Josen shrugged the supplies from his shoulder and paced to the plateau's edge as Ben stroked a new fire. The sparsity of trees would have made this a problem if they hadn't adjusted days ago to collect any tinder which presented itself as they rode. Tonight, fire didn't matter to the captain, however. There would be a big enough one blazing soon, he knew, and he pictured those flames as he adjusted the sight then placed his eye to the glass once again.
The dwelling was there, still seemingly unoccupied. Only the captain and lieutenant knew of the dismembered body that lie within it, but Josen didn't think of that now. He never could allow himself to retain the images after performing the deeds. It distracted him from what he needed to do. Scanning the dirt path then the wider main byway it veined from, Josen discerned that he still a while, so instead of going back to the fire, he sat where he was, scope in his lap and hands on his knees, a well of endless patience.
Ben had tossed the last stick into the slowly expanding flames. He situated the saddlebags, grabbed two leathery sticks of jerky from one, and pondered his captain's closed back as he chewed. They had been in the eastern region of Radasanthia, near the Comb Mountains, for close to a month now. This would be their second consecutive night over the ruins of Old Eli, a garrison which unwisely had been placed too far south and was now reincarnated in the new, larger and better garrisoned Fort Eli up north. There, they had suffered a hold up which nearly cost them their target. Sitting amid the mess hall, at unease already from the uncharacteristically long break, the unit learned they were being held weeks beyond their conscription. They each blinked, but as their eyes met afterward the decision was unanimous and not one was absent the next morning when the captain called them to leave.
After all, this time it was his son, and not just some indiscriminate kid lost in the hills, that they searched for.
Grunting, missing his comrades, lieutenant Archer bundled his arms with oatcakes and waterskin, then lit one of the torches to take with him. As he started down the incline, his captain's voice followed him. "Leave the pale saddled," it said. He didn't bother to ask why. Both he and the other members of the unit had learned the best way to avoid hearing their captain's increasingly cryptic and disturbing replies was simply not to encourage them. All that mattered was that captain had a plan, and that plans meant there was hope, because in a man such as this, hope could be a very dangerous thing to have broken.
The mounts arrived in his view, one light like the captain, with pale mane ans tan body, the other standard Coronian red. Benjamin attended first to the chestnut, not because of favoritism, but because the stallion had found a minute sized clumping of weeds between rocks to chomp upon and the mare was not letting him have at it alone. Clucking his tongue, Ben pulled her away and attended her first with the oats then several handfuls of water before unsaddling her.
Here with the horses, the air was less heavy and breathable. The sadness was not thick around every gaze and syllable. Noses jostled him and muzzles still lipped at the pockets he had carried dried apples in. There was playfulness, something Benjamin had become starved for but was too heavy hearted to initiate by himself. He was accustomed to being the ringleader, the raucous one, not tending to a semi deranged, grieving father who was also friend and his superior who, sunup or sundown, would not be consoled - or pacified. And who, as well, was awaiting for his return by the fire.
"Wait for me here." It was a silhouette Josen spoke to, but he knew the recent permanent features of Ben's face. The gauntness beneath eyes that were dark but now even darker, and the absence of a grin that had been painted above his chin's cleft since his birth. But these were things that were just pebbles upon his mountain of guilt. He was aware of them, but he could feel them no more than a gnat on the back of his heel, though he wanted to. Perhaps more than anything else, if he could feel, he wanted to feel that for his friend. Ben deserved it, he thought, as he began to move purposefully.
"Captain-"
He stopped.
"Watch out for night stingers."
Josen returned. Night stingers, or moon scorpions, were thicker and tougher than their daytime counterparts, with their needles sometimes tough enough to pierce a soldier's leather. During mating season in summer, the males glowed with iridescent light. The rest of the time they were deadly and silent, and only scampered the mesas at night. But this was not the reason Josen had backpedaled. Unclipping the sighting rod from his belt, he handed it to Ben's chest.
"I will," he said, and then he departed.
word count: 1004