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lord-alexander.livejournal.com posting in monaboyd Sep. 10th, 2004 10:09 am)Title: The Wanderer - Part IX/?
Author: Serpentis![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lord_alexander
Pairing: Impossibly AU and historical Arthurian!Monaboyd with a few other pairings thrown in for some good measure, aye?
Rating: Depressive PG13
Summary: Dominic hates Saxons, but then who doesn't? Driven out of his home by the invaders, he is a lowly and rather bored young knight at the court of Arthur. William is of the Kingdom of Dal Riada, and comes to the court of Arthur to fulfil his personal destiny. But then what does this matter when death is just a swordblade away?
Disclaimer: Not mine. Even in AU.
Feedback: Almost as precious as my history.
Author's Notes: It's still very sad, really. Not as awfully tragic as the last part, but it's rather...yeah.
Previous parts - [I][II][III][IV][V][VI][VII][VIII]
Upon the still banks of the slow moving Wye, a small knot of men clustered before a small boat, each saying a final goodbye, a final prayer to the one who lay within.
Andrew, at peace, hands crossed over his chest which was covered in fresh linens, the strangely peaceful look of one who knew he was to die curving the corners of his mouth into a wistful version of his smile. In his arms, from sternum to pelvis, lay his chipped sword. Under the shroud he had been dressed not in his usual slightly worn but well-made attire, but in the guise of a knight.
One who perished in battle was afforded that small luxury, at least.
In the devastation and absence of any other influence, it had been Viggo who had organised this little ceremony. It was he who had dressed the body, brushing the blood-matted hair back into the usual tangle of thick black waves and cleansing the filth from the skin. In lieu of Andrew's armour - he had one complete set, and that had been removed at Badonbury so he could be brought home - the Dane had given his beautiful, intricate armour to the man. A loss materially, of course, but nothing compared to the dark hole that the loss had speared into their hearts and lives.
Viggo had planned this because action was what he was most comfortable with in these situations - it was not a time for philosophy. There was no room for ruminations upon the nature of death, and the passing into the next life, or the ether, or simply to be devoured by worms in the soil. The others couldn't have stood that, not in their state.
It showed, that this ceremony was the work of one not Christian and not Celtic. The funeral barge, in which Andrew lay as sleep-taken as a newborn child - though this of a more everlasting and final nature. There was straw surrounding him, and kindling, and when it was pushed from the shore the torch would be set to the dry wood, and the flame would take. A fiery, pagan ritual, alien in those Christian times, but they had all agreed.
Far better for Andrew's spirit to be lifted into the air with the smoke than dissolve into the earth in a grave.
*****
Silence, for there was no room for talking lightly, no merry voiced Kentaii bartering and selling, curled around Elijah, his bright pale eyes like fading stars in his face.
Sean carved; he had placed one of those wonderfully organic horses into the barge with Andrew, for it was not the custom to place real horses into graves. It was a representation in yew, that tree of death, of the fat merry cob that had been so much like his master, who Elijah spoke to now, worrying those who thought that grief was affecting him in the mind.
Every one of their little clan had given something for the man to take with him to wherever he found himself. A ring from Elijah - what else could it be? - placed on the ring finger of Andrew's right hand which Dominic was sure was the marriage rite of the Romans. He, himself, had relinquished a silver tankard and a bottle of mead, tucking them near the man's hand so he could reach it when he opened his eyes in Heaven. Viggo, of course, gave the armour. Andrew had his steed, and jewels, and armour. He had his sword to fight with, and the mead to toast the life of those he would meet.
They had pushed the boat into the current, Viggo lighting the straw which spittered into life.
It had taken Sean and Dominic their full strength to hold Elijah back, who was screaming as the vessel slipped properly into the river, the flames taking hold. Screaming so loudly, in such agony, that he ruined his throat and lost all ability to speak until it healed. He could sob, though. Strange, keening cries of pain that shuddered out of him, parting his cracked lips, more pointed by the loss and grief that poured from him. He'd lost friends before, in Jerusalem, but never had he lost someone that he truly loved with such clarity and depth - it ripped the young man to bloody shreds, and not even those closest to him could comfort his shattered heart.
*****
"It is Dominic who bears the brunt," came the comment, Viggo's cheeks still sallow and sunken from hard battle and grief. His fleshless, ageless face seemed a little more careworn, a little more lined with suffering. Not like Elijah, of course, who had aged a century in the space of a few days, but still affected. They all were.
Sean gave a grunt, knife whittling the piece of bark, before he threw the work onto the dying fire. The knots gave that noise, a miniature whipcrack, before crumbling slowly to ash, and melted into the rest of the kindling.
"Elijah does not come to you, and he will therefore not approach me. Dominic has it upon his shoulders, and it is a matter of time before he breaks.
He'd seen it before. Grief-stricken men attaching themselves to their friends who became so exhausted by the arduous task of nursing the hurt that they themselves fractured and buckled under the stress. How can one man contain his own grief and that of another? It was not possible, even with the strongest of men, and Dominic, dear Dominic, who had known Andrew almost longer than the rest of them, was in no fit state to keep holding the youth afloat in the lake of his pain. Viggo had tried, his stoicism more equipped for the needs of Elijah, but the young man returned always to Dominic's sympathy, and allowance of tears. Viggo suspected that because of his own nature, that very stability that could have helped them all, Elijah didn't wish to turn to him - the embarrassment at breaking down on the shoulder of one who could cope, perhaps. Dominic sobbed with the other, he broke his heart with the garbled aching love that had been lost by his friend and himself, and it was the millstone about his neck that could kill him just as easily as an axe blade.
"What are we going to do?"
They remained there in silence, the fire flickering vague silhouettes over the dense trees behind them. It was selfish of them, but they had escaped Camelot, had come to their shingled shore for some peace from the blackness of mourning that had descended upon the fortress. A fire lit, and wine by their sides, and some sort of sanity that only men such as Sean and Viggo could attain. By his very philosophy the Dane was like this, his ideals of the nature of life and to bear what it brought with such dignity of spirit that he seemed an oasis in the storm of pain. Sean had forced himself into his blunt state, experience and self-taught detachment managing to cocoon him from the rest of the men.
Sean picked another piece of wood, examining it, using it as a shield as he spoke so he would not have to look into his friend's expressive eyes.
"We never finished out little chat about you wanting my arse."
Always bringing it down, making the noble grubby, just as Sean wasn't a knight but a warrior - he was blood, and grime, and hard work, he had no perfectionist idea of the world. Once, of course, when he was young, he did love, and laugh, but he'd surrounded himself with brusqueness and spines that would impale those who tried to get too close. And of course he would decry Viggo's frustrated words of love that were spat in anger at him in the middle of battle.
Viggo gave a sigh, and chewed at his lip, watching Sean begin to shape the familiar curving flank of a horse in the wood.
"Always you lash at me, always you wish to destroy me with your words. Why do this to a brother, someone who professes to love you, or is it because of that? You tell me that you wish to protect yourself from the pain of loss and death, but you are as shaken by Andrew's passing as us all! You cannot live a life where there is nothing but death on your mind, Sean, it will drive you half-mad, if it has not done already! You live, no, you exist. And that is because you are the one that is still living, and you should not live for those who are not, Sean, because it is not fair on their memories, or yourself. To be in thrall to ghosts and graves and never to feel again? Who would wish such a life on an enemy, let alone one who was beloved of you? You try to be above this humanity, a something that does not feel, and can you not see that you are still affected by worldly reality?"
The new carving thrown into the dying embers caused a sudden flare that half-blinded them both. Sean hadn't completed a horse since the one that had decorated Andrew's barge, his hands denying him the mindless pleasure of the task.
"To protect you..."
"We do not need protection!"
The Dane was almost laughing now, the circularity of the conversation always back to protecting someone, either Sean himself or the rest of them. Protection from the pain of loss.
"We love you, you fool. However much you wish to discourage us, it will not work because we already love you. Can you not see? However noble your intention to break from us all so not to destroy our hearts when you die on that fools errand to avenge your wife who I am convinced would slaughter you if she was alive for you entertaining such thoughts - it will not happen! To Dominic and Elijah you are a warrior of repute, a father figure, a man to admire and emulate, someone who is respected by all. To Andrew, you were not just a foregone winner of a duel, but a real creature, flesh and blood. And to me...you are my brother, and I would throw myself before a sword and take the death blow for you. I would give you all I had for a word of praise from your mouth. I love you as an equal in warriorship, and as my kindred, and the one who has the greatest love of all for you."
Sean had chosen another piece of wood, and Viggo realised it was no use.
It was like fish-hooks through his head as he made his way to the edge of the rippling ink-black water, that bearing of his thoughts in that strangely psychological manner of his, discussing all angled of the situation. Sean would not listen; he was deaf to all imploring. Stubborn as marble, of course, never changing under that iron exterior, the inner core as cold and metal as the outer. A fool.
"I cannot return that."
The voice with the flat northern inflection came from behind Viggo, and, shockingly, a hand laid on his shoulder. A masculine gesture, though there was a slight tremor to the palm and fingers.
"I am afraid. If I let go again, what happens when you all fucking well go and die?"
"Life is chance. There is the change that we will live for our lifespan and then expire, or be killed in battle or through illness. Whatever happens is not our own to shape. It is the way of things, or of the God or Gods, the essence of life. Who knows what will happen tomorrow? One of us may fall to the ground and never rise again. We might survive. You cannot plan what will happen next, you cannot live thinking that you will never do something, because if the opportunity arose, you might change your mind."
The fingers, over the woollen tunic, flexed, and Viggo was aware that Sean was behind him, almost touching, that same need as arose in sleep coursing through his veins.
Silently, he turned, raw-boned and angular and fair in the waning moon, and took the northerner into an embrace. And, for the first time in his conscious knowledge, Sean did not pull away.
*****
Elijah slept, finally, and Dominic was able to leave the room where they slept and take in a little of the cool night air.
Exhausted was not nearly strong enough a word. He was feeling like Death watched him closely, the glint of His sword waiting for the opportune time to take the life of the man. Much of it was because of having to cope with Elijah, calm his hysterics, soothe him from the nightmares of seeing Andrew's pale face in the barge and then the all-consuming flame. The youth could not bear the cooking fires, and had taken to remaining in their chamber, the others bringing him food and desperately entertaining him. Sometimes he slipped from the pallet at night and disappeared, and it took all three of them to locate him. He visited old haunts, or talked to Andrew's cob, or just hid in some strange place that took so long to find that it was nearly sunrise when he was discovered, cold and stiff and mercifully just asleep.
Combined with the strain of being the one who cared most for the shadow of Elijah's form was a black and savage streak of guilt. Dominic had berated himself over and over, accusing himself of neglecting a friend; he should have been there, at Andrew's side, should have protected him. Perhaps, in his most dark moments of despair, perhaps he should have taken that blow himself. Of them all, Dominic was convinced that he was the one who could have died with the least fuss caused. If Elijah had perished, Andrew would have been inconsolable. Sean would not have functioned without Viggo. As much as the Dane could cope with his emotions in that logical manner, Dominic knew that the death of Sean would have been the one event in Viggo's life that would have broken him. But he had no one who thought of him, loved him as they loved each other.
He was dwelling upon it then, when there was the soft approach of footsteps, and a soft, wild-accented voice came from out of the darkness.
"Dominic of the Northern Lands, I come to see you."
William still spoke with that mildly archaic speech pattern, based on his own differing branch of Celtic, but spoken in the tongue of the southern race. It sounded pretty upon his tongue, poetic yet savage on that oddness of tone.
"What about?"
He didn't mean to be so short, his voice clipped and tense, but the sandy haired man didn't stalk off - Dominic would have been surprised if he had, for William seemed to be the sort able to cope with the sharpness. After all, he bore the rumours of his Pictish blood and wild past with ease.
"I came to ask about the boy Elijah and how he fares."
Blue eyes met green, and the emotion there staggered them both though they were loathe to show it. The sympathetic softness that underlay the bright gaze of the Scotti seemed alien to Dominic, while the surprise almost made William say something sarcastic. Why would he not ask after the boy of the man he could not protect? But they made their peace there, without a word, both still too dazed by battle and death and guilt to exchange harshness.
"He's screwed up, really fucked in the head. Viggo thinks he's gone a bit mad in there somewhere, but we're just hoping that it'll stop when he starts coming to terms with Andrew being gone, you know? And thanks. For trying to protect him."
William gave a small wave of the hand to try and play down his role, though both of them were perfectly aware that if the man from Dal Riada had not plunged into the battle and fought for Andrew, the dark-haired river man would have been long dead before his beloved friends had said goodbye.
"You're a good man, William."
"Andrew was a good man. Everything I heard about him was generous. I have prayed for his soul and asked our Lord to grant him the peace and light that he deserves for bringing such joy into the lives of others."
The slightly faltering formality of the language made Dominic smile, and he reached out, touching the other man's arm, a thanking gesture. Formal speech dictated a decent eulogy, and by Christ they had heard enough of them over the last days, but there was something rather touching about the words of this foreign man who had battled to try and save the life of a man he hardly knew.
"Thank you."
A soft, curved lip smile from the pretty mouth of the Scotti, and his small and rather delicate hand pressed over Dominic's. The skin was scratched, and bruised from the thumping pain of a shield slamming into his wrist, but warm and still faintly stained with the blue woad that William had worn into the battle. He'd been both a visible target but one that inspired fear in both Saxon and Celtic sides, and it was because he remained unmolested that he had been able to fling himself into the fight between Andrew and his killers.
The fingers tightened as William's name was called, and, with a gentle squeeze on Dominic's hand, the man melted again into the darkness.
*****
In the dawn light, Viggo and Sean discovered him still staring at the spot where the night had swallowed William whole.
Author: Serpentis
lord_alexanderPairing: Impossibly AU and historical Arthurian!Monaboyd with a few other pairings thrown in for some good measure, aye?
Rating: Depressive PG13
Summary: Dominic hates Saxons, but then who doesn't? Driven out of his home by the invaders, he is a lowly and rather bored young knight at the court of Arthur. William is of the Kingdom of Dal Riada, and comes to the court of Arthur to fulfil his personal destiny. But then what does this matter when death is just a swordblade away?
Disclaimer: Not mine. Even in AU.
Feedback: Almost as precious as my history.
Author's Notes: It's still very sad, really. Not as awfully tragic as the last part, but it's rather...yeah.
Previous parts - [I][II][III][IV][V][VI][VII][VIII]
Upon the still banks of the slow moving Wye, a small knot of men clustered before a small boat, each saying a final goodbye, a final prayer to the one who lay within.
Andrew, at peace, hands crossed over his chest which was covered in fresh linens, the strangely peaceful look of one who knew he was to die curving the corners of his mouth into a wistful version of his smile. In his arms, from sternum to pelvis, lay his chipped sword. Under the shroud he had been dressed not in his usual slightly worn but well-made attire, but in the guise of a knight.
One who perished in battle was afforded that small luxury, at least.
In the devastation and absence of any other influence, it had been Viggo who had organised this little ceremony. It was he who had dressed the body, brushing the blood-matted hair back into the usual tangle of thick black waves and cleansing the filth from the skin. In lieu of Andrew's armour - he had one complete set, and that had been removed at Badonbury so he could be brought home - the Dane had given his beautiful, intricate armour to the man. A loss materially, of course, but nothing compared to the dark hole that the loss had speared into their hearts and lives.
Viggo had planned this because action was what he was most comfortable with in these situations - it was not a time for philosophy. There was no room for ruminations upon the nature of death, and the passing into the next life, or the ether, or simply to be devoured by worms in the soil. The others couldn't have stood that, not in their state.
It showed, that this ceremony was the work of one not Christian and not Celtic. The funeral barge, in which Andrew lay as sleep-taken as a newborn child - though this of a more everlasting and final nature. There was straw surrounding him, and kindling, and when it was pushed from the shore the torch would be set to the dry wood, and the flame would take. A fiery, pagan ritual, alien in those Christian times, but they had all agreed.
Far better for Andrew's spirit to be lifted into the air with the smoke than dissolve into the earth in a grave.
*****
Silence, for there was no room for talking lightly, no merry voiced Kentaii bartering and selling, curled around Elijah, his bright pale eyes like fading stars in his face.
Sean carved; he had placed one of those wonderfully organic horses into the barge with Andrew, for it was not the custom to place real horses into graves. It was a representation in yew, that tree of death, of the fat merry cob that had been so much like his master, who Elijah spoke to now, worrying those who thought that grief was affecting him in the mind.
Every one of their little clan had given something for the man to take with him to wherever he found himself. A ring from Elijah - what else could it be? - placed on the ring finger of Andrew's right hand which Dominic was sure was the marriage rite of the Romans. He, himself, had relinquished a silver tankard and a bottle of mead, tucking them near the man's hand so he could reach it when he opened his eyes in Heaven. Viggo, of course, gave the armour. Andrew had his steed, and jewels, and armour. He had his sword to fight with, and the mead to toast the life of those he would meet.
They had pushed the boat into the current, Viggo lighting the straw which spittered into life.
It had taken Sean and Dominic their full strength to hold Elijah back, who was screaming as the vessel slipped properly into the river, the flames taking hold. Screaming so loudly, in such agony, that he ruined his throat and lost all ability to speak until it healed. He could sob, though. Strange, keening cries of pain that shuddered out of him, parting his cracked lips, more pointed by the loss and grief that poured from him. He'd lost friends before, in Jerusalem, but never had he lost someone that he truly loved with such clarity and depth - it ripped the young man to bloody shreds, and not even those closest to him could comfort his shattered heart.
*****
"It is Dominic who bears the brunt," came the comment, Viggo's cheeks still sallow and sunken from hard battle and grief. His fleshless, ageless face seemed a little more careworn, a little more lined with suffering. Not like Elijah, of course, who had aged a century in the space of a few days, but still affected. They all were.
Sean gave a grunt, knife whittling the piece of bark, before he threw the work onto the dying fire. The knots gave that noise, a miniature whipcrack, before crumbling slowly to ash, and melted into the rest of the kindling.
"Elijah does not come to you, and he will therefore not approach me. Dominic has it upon his shoulders, and it is a matter of time before he breaks.
He'd seen it before. Grief-stricken men attaching themselves to their friends who became so exhausted by the arduous task of nursing the hurt that they themselves fractured and buckled under the stress. How can one man contain his own grief and that of another? It was not possible, even with the strongest of men, and Dominic, dear Dominic, who had known Andrew almost longer than the rest of them, was in no fit state to keep holding the youth afloat in the lake of his pain. Viggo had tried, his stoicism more equipped for the needs of Elijah, but the young man returned always to Dominic's sympathy, and allowance of tears. Viggo suspected that because of his own nature, that very stability that could have helped them all, Elijah didn't wish to turn to him - the embarrassment at breaking down on the shoulder of one who could cope, perhaps. Dominic sobbed with the other, he broke his heart with the garbled aching love that had been lost by his friend and himself, and it was the millstone about his neck that could kill him just as easily as an axe blade.
"What are we going to do?"
They remained there in silence, the fire flickering vague silhouettes over the dense trees behind them. It was selfish of them, but they had escaped Camelot, had come to their shingled shore for some peace from the blackness of mourning that had descended upon the fortress. A fire lit, and wine by their sides, and some sort of sanity that only men such as Sean and Viggo could attain. By his very philosophy the Dane was like this, his ideals of the nature of life and to bear what it brought with such dignity of spirit that he seemed an oasis in the storm of pain. Sean had forced himself into his blunt state, experience and self-taught detachment managing to cocoon him from the rest of the men.
Sean picked another piece of wood, examining it, using it as a shield as he spoke so he would not have to look into his friend's expressive eyes.
"We never finished out little chat about you wanting my arse."
Always bringing it down, making the noble grubby, just as Sean wasn't a knight but a warrior - he was blood, and grime, and hard work, he had no perfectionist idea of the world. Once, of course, when he was young, he did love, and laugh, but he'd surrounded himself with brusqueness and spines that would impale those who tried to get too close. And of course he would decry Viggo's frustrated words of love that were spat in anger at him in the middle of battle.
Viggo gave a sigh, and chewed at his lip, watching Sean begin to shape the familiar curving flank of a horse in the wood.
"Always you lash at me, always you wish to destroy me with your words. Why do this to a brother, someone who professes to love you, or is it because of that? You tell me that you wish to protect yourself from the pain of loss and death, but you are as shaken by Andrew's passing as us all! You cannot live a life where there is nothing but death on your mind, Sean, it will drive you half-mad, if it has not done already! You live, no, you exist. And that is because you are the one that is still living, and you should not live for those who are not, Sean, because it is not fair on their memories, or yourself. To be in thrall to ghosts and graves and never to feel again? Who would wish such a life on an enemy, let alone one who was beloved of you? You try to be above this humanity, a something that does not feel, and can you not see that you are still affected by worldly reality?"
The new carving thrown into the dying embers caused a sudden flare that half-blinded them both. Sean hadn't completed a horse since the one that had decorated Andrew's barge, his hands denying him the mindless pleasure of the task.
"To protect you..."
"We do not need protection!"
The Dane was almost laughing now, the circularity of the conversation always back to protecting someone, either Sean himself or the rest of them. Protection from the pain of loss.
"We love you, you fool. However much you wish to discourage us, it will not work because we already love you. Can you not see? However noble your intention to break from us all so not to destroy our hearts when you die on that fools errand to avenge your wife who I am convinced would slaughter you if she was alive for you entertaining such thoughts - it will not happen! To Dominic and Elijah you are a warrior of repute, a father figure, a man to admire and emulate, someone who is respected by all. To Andrew, you were not just a foregone winner of a duel, but a real creature, flesh and blood. And to me...you are my brother, and I would throw myself before a sword and take the death blow for you. I would give you all I had for a word of praise from your mouth. I love you as an equal in warriorship, and as my kindred, and the one who has the greatest love of all for you."
Sean had chosen another piece of wood, and Viggo realised it was no use.
It was like fish-hooks through his head as he made his way to the edge of the rippling ink-black water, that bearing of his thoughts in that strangely psychological manner of his, discussing all angled of the situation. Sean would not listen; he was deaf to all imploring. Stubborn as marble, of course, never changing under that iron exterior, the inner core as cold and metal as the outer. A fool.
"I cannot return that."
The voice with the flat northern inflection came from behind Viggo, and, shockingly, a hand laid on his shoulder. A masculine gesture, though there was a slight tremor to the palm and fingers.
"I am afraid. If I let go again, what happens when you all fucking well go and die?"
"Life is chance. There is the change that we will live for our lifespan and then expire, or be killed in battle or through illness. Whatever happens is not our own to shape. It is the way of things, or of the God or Gods, the essence of life. Who knows what will happen tomorrow? One of us may fall to the ground and never rise again. We might survive. You cannot plan what will happen next, you cannot live thinking that you will never do something, because if the opportunity arose, you might change your mind."
The fingers, over the woollen tunic, flexed, and Viggo was aware that Sean was behind him, almost touching, that same need as arose in sleep coursing through his veins.
Silently, he turned, raw-boned and angular and fair in the waning moon, and took the northerner into an embrace. And, for the first time in his conscious knowledge, Sean did not pull away.
*****
Elijah slept, finally, and Dominic was able to leave the room where they slept and take in a little of the cool night air.
Exhausted was not nearly strong enough a word. He was feeling like Death watched him closely, the glint of His sword waiting for the opportune time to take the life of the man. Much of it was because of having to cope with Elijah, calm his hysterics, soothe him from the nightmares of seeing Andrew's pale face in the barge and then the all-consuming flame. The youth could not bear the cooking fires, and had taken to remaining in their chamber, the others bringing him food and desperately entertaining him. Sometimes he slipped from the pallet at night and disappeared, and it took all three of them to locate him. He visited old haunts, or talked to Andrew's cob, or just hid in some strange place that took so long to find that it was nearly sunrise when he was discovered, cold and stiff and mercifully just asleep.
Combined with the strain of being the one who cared most for the shadow of Elijah's form was a black and savage streak of guilt. Dominic had berated himself over and over, accusing himself of neglecting a friend; he should have been there, at Andrew's side, should have protected him. Perhaps, in his most dark moments of despair, perhaps he should have taken that blow himself. Of them all, Dominic was convinced that he was the one who could have died with the least fuss caused. If Elijah had perished, Andrew would have been inconsolable. Sean would not have functioned without Viggo. As much as the Dane could cope with his emotions in that logical manner, Dominic knew that the death of Sean would have been the one event in Viggo's life that would have broken him. But he had no one who thought of him, loved him as they loved each other.
He was dwelling upon it then, when there was the soft approach of footsteps, and a soft, wild-accented voice came from out of the darkness.
"Dominic of the Northern Lands, I come to see you."
William still spoke with that mildly archaic speech pattern, based on his own differing branch of Celtic, but spoken in the tongue of the southern race. It sounded pretty upon his tongue, poetic yet savage on that oddness of tone.
"What about?"
He didn't mean to be so short, his voice clipped and tense, but the sandy haired man didn't stalk off - Dominic would have been surprised if he had, for William seemed to be the sort able to cope with the sharpness. After all, he bore the rumours of his Pictish blood and wild past with ease.
"I came to ask about the boy Elijah and how he fares."
Blue eyes met green, and the emotion there staggered them both though they were loathe to show it. The sympathetic softness that underlay the bright gaze of the Scotti seemed alien to Dominic, while the surprise almost made William say something sarcastic. Why would he not ask after the boy of the man he could not protect? But they made their peace there, without a word, both still too dazed by battle and death and guilt to exchange harshness.
"He's screwed up, really fucked in the head. Viggo thinks he's gone a bit mad in there somewhere, but we're just hoping that it'll stop when he starts coming to terms with Andrew being gone, you know? And thanks. For trying to protect him."
William gave a small wave of the hand to try and play down his role, though both of them were perfectly aware that if the man from Dal Riada had not plunged into the battle and fought for Andrew, the dark-haired river man would have been long dead before his beloved friends had said goodbye.
"You're a good man, William."
"Andrew was a good man. Everything I heard about him was generous. I have prayed for his soul and asked our Lord to grant him the peace and light that he deserves for bringing such joy into the lives of others."
The slightly faltering formality of the language made Dominic smile, and he reached out, touching the other man's arm, a thanking gesture. Formal speech dictated a decent eulogy, and by Christ they had heard enough of them over the last days, but there was something rather touching about the words of this foreign man who had battled to try and save the life of a man he hardly knew.
"Thank you."
A soft, curved lip smile from the pretty mouth of the Scotti, and his small and rather delicate hand pressed over Dominic's. The skin was scratched, and bruised from the thumping pain of a shield slamming into his wrist, but warm and still faintly stained with the blue woad that William had worn into the battle. He'd been both a visible target but one that inspired fear in both Saxon and Celtic sides, and it was because he remained unmolested that he had been able to fling himself into the fight between Andrew and his killers.
The fingers tightened as William's name was called, and, with a gentle squeeze on Dominic's hand, the man melted again into the darkness.
*****
In the dawn light, Viggo and Sean discovered him still staring at the spot where the night had swallowed William whole.
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*cries*
Yes, very, very good. Am enjoying this muchly.
*cries*
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*pets you gently*
There, there, I might be nice and have it be okay.
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Can't wait for more.
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There, there, I might be nice and have it be okay
I may hold you to this.
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Hell of a send off mind.
I got plans for Lij...
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*supplies with Endless!LooRoll for all your nose blowing needs*
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I said might. Not that I would
*curses eeevil fic writers*
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Does this mean I'm the blond dude?
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You can be the blond dude if you want but doesn't he end up having the day from hell?
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Ah, now to track you down with my uber1337 tracking lazer shark devices...
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*plans to raise defensive shields*
*realises that that's a plan with only two drawbacks...*
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*uses heat seeking butterflies instead*
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I loved the funeral, too. Definitely the way to go.
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You never know.
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*pets*
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*snifflesmutters*
ev0l h0r*clings**consoles self with mental image of Billy in blue woad*
*looks a little more cheerful at the possibility of some monaboyd*
I'll consider forgiving you again.
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*snuggles you to my decreasing bosom*
Now shush, and think of naked!Billy in woad, bitchfighting with Dommie, okay?
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** crying** So sad, Elijah going mad, I hope he comes out OK.
Thanks Dear I soooo look forward to you posting this!! **huggles**
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