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rmThis was the thing kicking my ass last night. And now it's done. Yay. A lot of work for a little story. Swordspoint.
http://community.livejournal.com/_riverside/10129.html
TITLE: Rhythms
AUTHOR:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rm
PAIRING: Richard/Alec
RATING: PG-13/R (I don't know, it's sort of smack in the middle)
NOTES: Swordspoint
DISCLAIMER: These lovely characters belong, of course, to Ellen Kushner
Richard has a routine if not a schedule, and Alec is fascinated by it. Mostly, he practices, but Alec isn't sure if this is to keep himself alive or if he simply loves his hand on a weapon best. Alec assumes that if he asked, Richard wouldn't know the answer either.
Daily, Richard also cleans his swords, polishisng the blades and checking the guards. Each one, every day, eventhough he dosn't use them all with any regularity. Some are decorative, some are old, some are just for the sorts of training he doesn't need anymore. This much Richard has explained. Alec likes that each weapon is kept and loved in some fashion or other -- a history, the way warriors have scars. Richard actually has very few of note: one on his wrist, another by his shoulder, a squiggle next to his spine, and a long one well hidden by the hair on his right calf.
Clothes destroyed in fights, shirts out of which the blood simply won't come or are slashed or torn beyond mending, are ripped into long strips and rolled for bandages. Marie cleans and mends, but Richard does this just as he cares for the blades. Sometimes, he sets Alec to it, and it's an easy task, especially if the scholar is already being strange or destructive.
In case I manage to get myself hurt instead of killed, Richard explains, as if he can think of no more appalling scenario.
But it does happen from time to time, and ready bandages mean a wound can be bound quickly, and that in turn means less ruined clothes and no need to call for doctors. Richard makes sure Alec understands he's only ever needed a doctor once because of a fight and doesn't expect to ever need one again; anyone good enough to beat him will be good enough to kill him fast if not clean, and Alec is not to be alarmed at the sight of Richard covered in blood; it will usually belong to someone else.
The weapons especially have to be cleaned after fights. The one thing steel wants is the worst thing for it, Richard often says quietly, half undressed, muscles faintly sore and rubbing a blade back to shine.
They're like people then, Alec notes, sitting cross-legged on the floor of their bedroom ripping a shirt while Richard tends to the objects even Alec has started to view as friends; he knows which sword he is to take for his own when Richard dies; the others, Richard doesn't care about as long as they see use.
But what will I do with a sword? Alec wails the first time it comes up; it's ridiculous.
Take care of it, then put it away. Every day. Just like now, just with different company.
Richard, Alec thinks, has too much quiet for someone their age. But then, if the swordsman is going to die for his trade, maybe he's not young at all; his years must move differently, like those of dogs or stars. Alec knows he should be frightened, but he also knows that Richard is like the men in books, the sort that live forever. As long as he is careful, as long as they both are, they will always occupy these Riverside rooms, legends enough to be left alone to sunlight and flesh. And the flesh is very good.
In the dark they talk and whisper and fuck, violent and needy and awed; mornings are languid, silent, careful and gentle. The scholar startles easily, and Richard hates to wake up to that sort of violent fear; Alec, in turn, lest Richard draw a weapon on him at the only time he's utterly certain that's not what he wants, always begins by moving his lips up Richard's arm, from scar to blood to bone. Hands and stcky kisses are enough for mornings, and after, one of them always vacates the bed: Richard to practice unless there was a job the night before, in which case Alec to read.
Why do you never wear these? Alec asks, examining the gloves meant to offer some small protection in a duel.
Richard shrugs at his friend and the fancy leather he's fingering. I suppose I would if I did weddings.
But wouldn't it be safer?
Not to be able to feel my weapon? Richard asks. Alec watches him. Not to be able to feel you?
Alec goes out after these conversations -- to buy food, to wander aimlessly; it doesn't matter. He feels like his heart is going to burst, and if it is going to, he doesn't want it to do such a thing in front of Richard because it seems like such a stupid way to die in a house full of steel.
http://community.livejournal.com/_riverside/10129.html
TITLE: Rhythms
AUTHOR:
rmPAIRING: Richard/Alec
RATING: PG-13/R (I don't know, it's sort of smack in the middle)
NOTES: Swordspoint
DISCLAIMER: These lovely characters belong, of course, to Ellen Kushner
Richard has a routine if not a schedule, and Alec is fascinated by it. Mostly, he practices, but Alec isn't sure if this is to keep himself alive or if he simply loves his hand on a weapon best. Alec assumes that if he asked, Richard wouldn't know the answer either.
Daily, Richard also cleans his swords, polishisng the blades and checking the guards. Each one, every day, eventhough he dosn't use them all with any regularity. Some are decorative, some are old, some are just for the sorts of training he doesn't need anymore. This much Richard has explained. Alec likes that each weapon is kept and loved in some fashion or other -- a history, the way warriors have scars. Richard actually has very few of note: one on his wrist, another by his shoulder, a squiggle next to his spine, and a long one well hidden by the hair on his right calf.
Clothes destroyed in fights, shirts out of which the blood simply won't come or are slashed or torn beyond mending, are ripped into long strips and rolled for bandages. Marie cleans and mends, but Richard does this just as he cares for the blades. Sometimes, he sets Alec to it, and it's an easy task, especially if the scholar is already being strange or destructive.
In case I manage to get myself hurt instead of killed, Richard explains, as if he can think of no more appalling scenario.
But it does happen from time to time, and ready bandages mean a wound can be bound quickly, and that in turn means less ruined clothes and no need to call for doctors. Richard makes sure Alec understands he's only ever needed a doctor once because of a fight and doesn't expect to ever need one again; anyone good enough to beat him will be good enough to kill him fast if not clean, and Alec is not to be alarmed at the sight of Richard covered in blood; it will usually belong to someone else.
The weapons especially have to be cleaned after fights. The one thing steel wants is the worst thing for it, Richard often says quietly, half undressed, muscles faintly sore and rubbing a blade back to shine.
They're like people then, Alec notes, sitting cross-legged on the floor of their bedroom ripping a shirt while Richard tends to the objects even Alec has started to view as friends; he knows which sword he is to take for his own when Richard dies; the others, Richard doesn't care about as long as they see use.
But what will I do with a sword? Alec wails the first time it comes up; it's ridiculous.
Take care of it, then put it away. Every day. Just like now, just with different company.
Richard, Alec thinks, has too much quiet for someone their age. But then, if the swordsman is going to die for his trade, maybe he's not young at all; his years must move differently, like those of dogs or stars. Alec knows he should be frightened, but he also knows that Richard is like the men in books, the sort that live forever. As long as he is careful, as long as they both are, they will always occupy these Riverside rooms, legends enough to be left alone to sunlight and flesh. And the flesh is very good.
In the dark they talk and whisper and fuck, violent and needy and awed; mornings are languid, silent, careful and gentle. The scholar startles easily, and Richard hates to wake up to that sort of violent fear; Alec, in turn, lest Richard draw a weapon on him at the only time he's utterly certain that's not what he wants, always begins by moving his lips up Richard's arm, from scar to blood to bone. Hands and stcky kisses are enough for mornings, and after, one of them always vacates the bed: Richard to practice unless there was a job the night before, in which case Alec to read.
Why do you never wear these? Alec asks, examining the gloves meant to offer some small protection in a duel.
Richard shrugs at his friend and the fancy leather he's fingering. I suppose I would if I did weddings.
But wouldn't it be safer?
Not to be able to feel my weapon? Richard asks. Alec watches him. Not to be able to feel you?
Alec goes out after these conversations -- to buy food, to wander aimlessly; it doesn't matter. He feels like his heart is going to burst, and if it is going to, he doesn't want it to do such a thing in front of Richard because it seems like such a stupid way to die in a house full of steel.
