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Title: echos of home
’Verse/characters: Wild Roses; Isael, (Ruadhan, Conall, Hernén)
Prompt: 026 "Teammates"
Word Count: 336
Rating: G
Notes: First war, trending towards the beginning. First-person pov experiment.
I sit, drinking the King's tea--though none around him nor he himself admits the title, he is King all the same. In the privacy of my own head I may call my friend's father King, and I do so.
I have nothing to add to the conversation around me--the King and the Bard are not quite arguing again. I may sit, here, my friend in four-legged form flopped across the threshold of the room. I have no watch to stand.
The King offered pale honey with the mug, and I accepted it--sweets still precious to my mind and so unable to be turned away yet, for all I know that they are plentiful enough here to be stocked in every cranny. I think next time I will use none, or only a little--this tea is lighter than those I used to drink to warm body and hands, coming in from the cold. His tea is water-borne--tribute from traders and gifts from the ship-lord his brother--but that can't be all of it.
Our tea came by land, or by sea, wrapped tight in paper and cloth and sealed with soft metals or wax to keep it from the air. Brewed thick in small batches, kept hot by fires and mixed with water to make it drinkable--we took milk and sweets when we had them, and drank it for the warmth without. Our gloves were never thick enough to stand the cold--or if they were, they were too thick to do what else needed doing, as well.
My friend--my father, too, though that name for the Bard still lies strange across my tongue--says that I have not yet seen winter, here. I wonder if it will be worth the effort to find a tea like that of home, to brew too-thick and water down.
And it is time to rise again--my last swallows of tea hurried so there is no waste, as we go out, the Bard, the wolf, and I, to argue something else.
’Verse/characters: Wild Roses; Isael, (Ruadhan, Conall, Hernén)
Prompt: 026 "Teammates"
Word Count: 336
Rating: G
Notes: First war, trending towards the beginning. First-person pov experiment.
I sit, drinking the King's tea--though none around him nor he himself admits the title, he is King all the same. In the privacy of my own head I may call my friend's father King, and I do so.
I have nothing to add to the conversation around me--the King and the Bard are not quite arguing again. I may sit, here, my friend in four-legged form flopped across the threshold of the room. I have no watch to stand.
The King offered pale honey with the mug, and I accepted it--sweets still precious to my mind and so unable to be turned away yet, for all I know that they are plentiful enough here to be stocked in every cranny. I think next time I will use none, or only a little--this tea is lighter than those I used to drink to warm body and hands, coming in from the cold. His tea is water-borne--tribute from traders and gifts from the ship-lord his brother--but that can't be all of it.
Our tea came by land, or by sea, wrapped tight in paper and cloth and sealed with soft metals or wax to keep it from the air. Brewed thick in small batches, kept hot by fires and mixed with water to make it drinkable--we took milk and sweets when we had them, and drank it for the warmth without. Our gloves were never thick enough to stand the cold--or if they were, they were too thick to do what else needed doing, as well.
My friend--my father, too, though that name for the Bard still lies strange across my tongue--says that I have not yet seen winter, here. I wonder if it will be worth the effort to find a tea like that of home, to brew too-thick and water down.
And it is time to rise again--my last swallows of tea hurried so there is no waste, as we go out, the Bard, the wolf, and I, to argue something else.
