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"I'm a what?!?" he roared.
There've been two Solace threads going. One, an ongoing fiction between Solace and his friend the Bishop. The second is just whenever I feel like writing about him, and has mostly to do with my preparations for White Hart Ren Fest.
This is one of the latter.
Solace stared at the young man standing, shaking on his threshold.
"I'm a what?!?" he roared.
The messenger was sweating, though the sun hadn't yet breached the defenses of the surrounding trees and the morning was still quiet cool. At his feet, a small piece of parchment all but smoldered under the glare of the gravemaker's hostility, laying where it had been dropped. Of all the places that the page could have wished to be at that particular moment, he could have named at least a dozen he would have preferred, half of them prisons in foreign countries where the removing of fingernails was how guards passed the time.
"I-i-it s-s-says that you're...um...you're a..." he began, stuttering.
"I know what it bloody-well says, you imbecile, I read the bloody thing."
The page took a half step back, pointing the toe of his right boot at the open gate of the churchyard in preparation for panicked flight. His muscles tensed, but before he could move further, Solace pointed at the parchment message and barked, "What did you do wrong?"
The page was on the edge of needing a change of trousers. "Sir?" he said, in a voice that could have squeezed under a door.
"You obviously did something wrong, or you wouldn't have been given that message to give to me."
The page relaxed a little. If he played his cards right, he felt he just might survive this encounter. "I pinched a bit of leftover lamb from the kitchens."
Solace sat down, his rage giving way to disbelief. "Did you bring any with you?"
"No," the page said.
And added, "Your grace."
Solace shook his head, staring at the ground he knew so well. "Your Grace," he said, slowly, taking his time over the unfamiliar, at least as they applied to him, syllables. "Christ's wounds, that's going to take some getting used to. Un-bow for God's sake. The last time anyone did that to me, he'd died sitting and I had to wait a day for him to unbend. I felt like I was being genuflected at all night."
There was a long silence, in which neither man moved or spoke. Finally, the page cleared his throat.
"Pardon me, Your Grace, but..." he hesitated, "what will you do now?"
Solace looked him in the face. "Now?" He thought about it, then rose. "I supposed I'd better put on a clean shirt."
This is one of the latter.
Solace stared at the young man standing, shaking on his threshold.
"I'm a what?!?" he roared.
The messenger was sweating, though the sun hadn't yet breached the defenses of the surrounding trees and the morning was still quiet cool. At his feet, a small piece of parchment all but smoldered under the glare of the gravemaker's hostility, laying where it had been dropped. Of all the places that the page could have wished to be at that particular moment, he could have named at least a dozen he would have preferred, half of them prisons in foreign countries where the removing of fingernails was how guards passed the time.
"I-i-it s-s-says that you're...um...you're a..." he began, stuttering.
"I know what it bloody-well says, you imbecile, I read the bloody thing."
The page took a half step back, pointing the toe of his right boot at the open gate of the churchyard in preparation for panicked flight. His muscles tensed, but before he could move further, Solace pointed at the parchment message and barked, "What did you do wrong?"
The page was on the edge of needing a change of trousers. "Sir?" he said, in a voice that could have squeezed under a door.
"You obviously did something wrong, or you wouldn't have been given that message to give to me."
The page relaxed a little. If he played his cards right, he felt he just might survive this encounter. "I pinched a bit of leftover lamb from the kitchens."
Solace sat down, his rage giving way to disbelief. "Did you bring any with you?"
"No," the page said.
And added, "Your grace."
Solace shook his head, staring at the ground he knew so well. "Your Grace," he said, slowly, taking his time over the unfamiliar, at least as they applied to him, syllables. "Christ's wounds, that's going to take some getting used to. Un-bow for God's sake. The last time anyone did that to me, he'd died sitting and I had to wait a day for him to unbend. I felt like I was being genuflected at all night."
There was a long silence, in which neither man moved or spoke. Finally, the page cleared his throat.
"Pardon me, Your Grace, but..." he hesitated, "what will you do now?"
Solace looked him in the face. "Now?" He thought about it, then rose. "I supposed I'd better put on a clean shirt."