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Post by Ladorak on Dec 5, 2010 22:37:22 GMT -5
"Right..." he murmured, quieting up in case he did start coughing up blood, though he doubted that would occur. When she let him down, he walked in silence, until she mentioned reviewing that battle. "Oh...I doubt they'll do that right now. They'll give you a rest...as we all need it. Colonel Mulgrave will be discussing it with the higher ups I'm sure, You'll probably be ordered to rest..." he said, giving her a smile in profile as they approached the fort.
It was a lot quieter back here. He liked it. He could sleep...maybe with her by his side, maybe not. It depended where they were set up. He hesitated as she asked if he would like her to find him. "Yes...please do." he said, nodding. "We'll share that drink, and get a well deserved rest." As strange as it feels...I want to celebrate this small victory with you. We both made it through...and that's victory enough for me.
"I'll see you soon then." he began to walk wearily over to the aid station, but gave her a parting look as he left, glancing over his shoulder and smiling with a nod. It was a friendly smile...not a loving one. He would need to work on it...see her as more than just his future mate not by his choice...but by his choice...if he could help it.
He sat down on a crate, pulling his jacket up tighter around him to keep out the cold. The doctor had a nice fire going in the courtyard of the fort, warming those around it with the orange tendrils. The least weasel was most certainly going into his winter coat, the white becoming very predominant now.
"And what is your problem?" the doctor asked in broken Common. Aside from needing a tailor to fix his Colonel's uniform, Saumarez motioned to his injuries. "Ahhh yes I see...I see." the raccoon rubbed his chin, nodding a bit as held Saumarez's arm out, and then dropped it to rip his shirt open.
"Hey that's...! Never mind..." the least weasel muttered, shaking his head.
"You need opium?"
"No...thank you." Saumarez replied, shaking his head for a second time. He cringed as the doctor washed his wounds, dumping water on both the arm and abdomen cuts. They may not have had much concept of bacteria, but they certainly knew dressings needed to be clean. Pushing a compress onto the slash in his side, the doctor wound some strips of gauze around his body, making sure to tie the compress in place.
"That cut on arm deep. You need to change bandages often."
"Fine." the Knight replied, holding his arm out for the raccoon to dress.
"You lucky. No internals hit on that other cut." he tapped the compress.
"No...didn't think so. I moved right as he struck." the weasel explained, biting down as the bandages were wound over his bleeding slash. Seeing the white of his bone had been unusual, but finding that an artery had been hit...it left him feeling weak and queasy. He might've bled to death had he not gotten back here...or maybe not, the doctor didn't say.
Gnashing his teeth, the weasel briefly considered taking some opium...but no...he wouldn't need it. The alcohol would help with that. Maybe Steep would too.
"OK...change that every six hours OK?" the doctor asked repetitively.
"Yep." the Captain acknowledged with a nod.
"Come back here in the morning to get bandages on that other one. Compress will come off." the weasel nodded again, and moved off the crate to wander closer to the fire. He needed some heat right now, and he dropped down in front of the flames, the bottom half of his shirt torn open and his sleeves concealing the arm wound.
He reached for a small stone in the ground, and began to trace some images as he waited for his mate. A circle in the dirt...a squiggly line here. He started to write his name, but stopped after James. Heh...sand...Saumarez could feel it under his paws and his toes as he crouched on the beach of his home island of Guernsey as a kit, building sand castles and drawing moats and ships and other things. His kithood had been all too short. Forced into school and then forced into the Navy, he had had very little time to himself to really enjoy his youth. But his father had needed to make ends meet back then, and he had little choice in the matter. Too many siblings and not enough family income...it was the age old story.
"So Priscilla..." he heard himself say, looking down at his lines in the dirt. "What did you do today?" He was speaking very lowly, under his breath almost, but he was picturing himself in his home in Guernsey, stepping in the front door and greeting his "wife" after he'd been gone on some errand perhaps. "Oh? Well I bought you some things today..." he replied to the fictitious response in his head.
Was he trying to prime himself for this? Was he trying to get used to the fact that he'd live with her from now? What did he really want? I bought you some things...but what things? What had he bought her?
He looked up to stare into the fire, completely lost in his daydream now as he waited for the real Priscilla Steep to arrive.
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Post by spender on Dec 13, 2010 7:21:05 GMT -5
Ordered to rest, indeed! Steep, in her prime, had only respect and reverence for her superiors and their orders. Even so, there was one order that never sat well with her, and that was any order given to her to sit on her haunches and wait. Waiting was just wasting time with patience. She needed facts, she needed to know... right now, not whenever whoever's job it was to find the facts finally got himself organized enough to inform someone else.
The weasel marched back to the battlefield—er, valley. Here and there, pockets of her troops were clustered, still organizing themselves to get back to safety. Her Lieutenants were at the head of this, taking stock of those under their command... Whether they wanted to or not. Steep smirked with pleasure to see them. Just the way she'd told them... Know a battle's outcome when it's over, not when some general or colonel tells you how it went. Know firstpaw the costs, the triumphs, the losses and victories on both sides.
"Maxwell... report?"
"All accounted for, Captain. A few casssualtiesss, but no deathsss."
"Devonshire?"
"Errr... One, Captain."
"One what?" Steep knew, but she had to ask.
"One dead. Private Perfinkle."
She stared at the sky as it brightened through the shades of salmon pink. Perfinkle... Wiry creature, narrow face, some kind of rodent—a species of mouse, there were so many of them. Born in Crittenden, father was a shoemaker. Enlisted last year. Wife and child at home. Emma was her name. Emma and... Eloise? Ella? Helen, that was it. Three years old.
Steep nodded.
"Do what needs to be done," she said. "I'm returning to the fort. Any wounded having trouble walking?"
A few minutes later, she was back on her way, a fox with a nasty gash in his leg hobbling alongside, using her for support. They entered the fort, and she saw him pawed off to the doctor. She retreated to the shade, away from the fires. She needed coldness right now. Smooth, freezing stone. One wall of the fort provided her what she needed, and she pressed her forehead against it, gently rubbing her blistered snout until she felt the transfer of temperatures. Her head was on fire. The battle had been too short. It felt like little more than a skirmish. Hardly a distraction at all! Where were the ditches, the fields, the rows and rows and flankings and—stupid bloody mountain! This was no place to fight! Stupid bloody Rosferians!
Steep sighed, turning around and letting her shoulders dig into the stone behind her. She slid down, landing with a thump on her rump, and stared at the rest of the courtyard. She spotted Saumarez...
She looked down at herself. Blood was everywhere. None of it was hers. Her uniform was ruined. Her beret... She dragged it off her head and examined it. It would need to be washed. Everything needed to be washed. With a growl, the weasel jill flung the beret aside. Washing! This was what her brain was concerned with! Getting clean! What kind of snob was she? She'd barely thought of baths at Gibraltar...
Perfinkle played the flute.
Gripping that thought, Steep stood up shakily, wandered over to her beret, put it back on her head, and stood there, paws clamped over her eye until they stopped hurting. She glanced over at the fires again, the figure of Saumarez still hunched over on his crate. She turned around and began to walk the other direction, back outside the fort. She couldn't do this, not now, not with him.
He'd played "Plaisir D'Amour" the other night, while some of the others sang. Steep had helped translate for the soldiers who didn't know Rosferian. Even Maxwell had shed tears.
[/]Plaisir d'amour ne dure qu'un moment. chagrin d'amour dure toute la vie.[/i]
The weasel jill stopped in the entrance. Then, slowly, she trudged back to Saumarez and sat down beside him.
"One," she said. "I thought... last night, that you were weak, when you said... But I think, now... I think one hurts more than many. Do you write letters? To their families? I... I don't know what to say to her." She blinked at the fire. "Or her daughter."
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Post by Ladorak on Dec 15, 2010 11:46:25 GMT -5
Saum played with the fur on his paw, twirling a claw around it and picking at a small scab that had formed from some minor injury or other. It had not been combat related. He was getting ready to give up and wander off to try and find a bed when all of a sudden she was beside him again. That had taken an inordinate amount of time. Where had she been? Some post-battle conference?
He listened to her explain that she thought he was weak...and then that one really could feel worse. Oh...she must have lost a soldier tonight too. He turned his claw to scratching his cheek as a sudden and random itch came on. "Hmm...do I write letters? Sometimes, if we didn't suffer too many casualties. It's a rather heavy business that, but I guess I'm too conscientious to completely ignore it. Normally the Admiralty will send out notices, but sometimes I'll add in my own thoughts and feelings on it in a personal letter."
He paused after this though, thinking about what she could say. "Hmm...by her I assume his wife? And daughter? Or mother and sister? Either way yes...you bring up a good question. It...would be difficult for me too." mostly because he was finding it difficult that Ferlusan and Welkin even shared common goals. That was a rarity in itself. And what were they fighting for? Welkin always fought to keep its naval enemies at bay, and prevent invasion of its tiny homeland. Ferlusan though? What was their stake in this? Rosferia had declared war on them, not the other way around. He died in defense of his country? Not really. He died occupying enemy soil.
"Well...we are securing Rosferia's second largest naval base...and the fact we won tonight helped ensure we hang on to it. You could perhaps mention that...we have thirty...one of their warships right now I think? That's a substantial chunk after all, an unprecedented scale One of the biggest coups of this century." he admitted, and then considered the next bit.
"Saying that might help reassure the family...but in reality our defensive perimeter was breached...we had to stem it...so we got sent in to do that. It wasn't by far a glamorous death...and in all honesty I'm not sure there is such a thing as a glamorous death. You're right...this is difficult. Would you...perhaps want my help in drafting it up at least? Don't have to do it right away either...I think it best sometimes to wait." Saumarez suggested.
He paused here, drumming his claws on his thigh, a tired fog enveloping his mind. The sun was just starting to rise...blast it all he needed sleep! He blinked a few times, trying to clear that bleary vision in his eyes. "I'd be more than happy to help you with that...oh yes...before I pass out from exhaustion...I wanted to ask...I know it's still in our future and not looming over us right now...but when we do...eventually get married." he stated, changing the subject uneasily. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "I...wouldn't mind taking your last name if it means that much to you. Call me the odd one out but...my father had plenty of kits before he died. I have five other brothers, and they all survived infancy. There's plenty to carry on our name...I guess I'm just...trying to make this easy on you." he said, shrugging.
"Your family is a bit more affluent than mine anyway so...I'll leave it up to you." he informed her, lazily twirling his claw through the dirt again as the fire played off his fur and jacket.
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Post by spender on Dec 18, 2010 4:53:03 GMT -5
Oh, God... he just won't shut up about it. Look around you, you loony jack! Is this the best time, really, to be trying to talk about this!
Steep stared into the fire. She wanted to reach into the flame, grab a coal, and roll it against her face. Real pain, that's what she needed now. Real pain to compliment the pain in her heart. Something had to be real—if everything was just phantom, then what was she doing in this world of solids?
She did it, surprising even herself. She reached out, gingerly yanking a stick out of the fire. She dropped it on the ground, scuffed dirt over it to cool down one end, and held it in both paws, elbows resting on her knees. She waggled it around in front of her, effectively obliterating her ability to see beyond the baby flame she now controlled.
This was good, she decided. It was better to be blinded by this than be tempted by that... succulent, downy, snow-white... She blinked, trying to get the image out of her head. Did you see the lines? So smooth! He's like a stoat...
"Alright," she said. "You can have my name... if our countries, and my father, allows it." The fire spun around in her paws. Jab it in my scab... no... jab it! ... no... not yet... "I've always thought of myself as... just Steep. When my mother died, I... I couldn't bring myself to call myself a princess. Princess Priscilla... it didn't sound right. In the military, everyone called me Steep. I like it. Private Steep... Lieutenant Steep... Captain Steep..."
She glanced up, then, staring blankly across at Saumarez, unable to focus on him.
"But you would be Captain Steep, too... it would be strange. I have to think of myself as... what... Priscilla again...?" Or Mrs. Steep? That was my mother. I could never...
"It would help, if you could show me how to write letters like that," she said, changing the subject back. "It needs to come from me, but I don't know where to begin. His widow isn't going to care why or when or what cause. When my mother died... none of it mattered. All the good she had been doing in her job, everything she accomplished on her journey—they kept saying how wonderful she had been. Had been!" The weasel spat. "I was eight. I knew how wonderful she was. But no one could just... tell me it was going to be okay. No one could tell me she wasn't coming back. It never mattered to me what she had done. These beasts, James, they won't care what we did here. A little mouse's father isn't coming back, and I can't say anything that will make anything right for her."
Steep growled, throwing the stick of fire away before she could do anything else with it. One soldier! Just one! Why did it have to be so hard?
... because if it was a dozen, or two dozen, or a hundred, she could wash her paws of it and say she was too busy to write every letter herself. Even two. If it was two, she could delegate it, somehow. Maxwell was good at keeping emotions out of his job. Devonshire was a pansy, but... Even two. One, though? That was down to her. Oh, sure, if he had a best mate, they could send his widow something. But the official notice... she couldn't let anyone else take that responsibility. The coldness of a clerk or the charm of a king's stamp wouldn't do, not for that one soldier. He deserved better. They all did, really. But here, at least, she had the power to make damn sure that one got the right treatment.
"How's your arm?"
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Post by Ladorak on Dec 19, 2010 20:24:53 GMT -5
Saumarez smiled in a knowing way as she agreed to him having her last name in marriage. "Well...if you're that worried about it...you could become Lady Steep by taking my title...the Knighthood...though of course it's considerably lower than a Princess. Or Lady Saumarez if you conversely took my name...but either way I don't intend at stopping at mere Knighthood. I'm going to be working my way to the top...for you...for us."
He stood up then to look down at her, the fire playing over the weasel's downy white chest fur...at least what was exposed of it. "I don't intend to stay a Captain for long if I can help it. I don't know how long it would take to make Commodore...but if I get a repeat performance like I had with the Reunion, it shouldn't be terribly difficult. And at that point, even if you get promoted, our ranks differ so much it wouldn't matter." His face fell a bit as she began talking about how it wouldn't matter to the deceased's widow, and deep within him...he knew she was absolutely right.
"Give me a moment...I'll be right back..." He stated, heading away from her for a minute or two at most, before returning with bedding and blankets in his paws...lots of blankets. He tossed some down before the fire, the dim orange glow of the rising sun streaking across the sky in dull hues, like an artist splashing his paints here and there.
He bent over, beginning to make his "bed". He had brought two sets over, one for her and one for himself. "Well...you're absolutely right Priscilla. It won't matter...because yes...like your mother...it didn't matter what they told me about my father...or how many lives he had saved. He couldn't ultimately save his own life, or at least that's how it looked to me at the time. It's worse when you're younger...and you were younger than I was...at least I think."
He heard about her from her father mostly, and he was trying to recall all that he'd learned back in June...almost half a year ago now. "I consoled myself to an extent saying he'd done good things for others. But ultimately...life does come to an end...and that is the natural way of the world. I would hope at least his widow knew that when he enlisted. Soldiers fight for a cause that is theirs and theirs alone. Whether to protect their families or because they have no other choice for income, it varies from beast to beast. Either way...death will strike us all, regardless of what we do in our profession. I'll help you compose it though so that at least it'll sound like you understand...and perhaps even throw in a personal anecdote or something. But yes...I couldn't agree more. Nothing is ever a cliche when it happens to you Priscilla...death in the family included."
He began sliding in under his blankets now, pushing himself snugly under the covers to stay warm, and winced as he accidentally touched his arm on the ground. "Ow...it...hurts." he said, shifting so that he wouldn't lay on it. "I'm sure it'll scar for life...something that deep rarely heals properly after all. The doctor I'm sure wants me to keep an eye out for gangrene...because if that sets in well...my arm will be finished. All I can hope..." his voice was remarkably calm as he spoke to her, almost as if he had an inner self-reliance that it wasn't gangrene. "Is that it didn't get infected. No vigorous swordfighting for a few days either." he laughed here briefly before resting his head on the pillow, looking up at the sky.
"For now...I'm not going to worry about it. I just want to rest. You're welcome to join me...for a few hours at least before you need to go back to work. I brought bedding over for you for that purpose. Oh and..." he raised his head to look at her. "Don't worry about that letter...or that lost soldier. Rest easy for now Priscilla...I promise that while others may drop around you or drift away with time or...whatever...I intend to keep my promise. I'm going to stay by you as long as I possibly can...and won't give up on that."
He lay back down, shutting his eyes as he placed his paws on his stomach, clasping them and letting them move up and down as he breathed. Why did he promise her that? Why was he so determined that she not be alone anymore? Because of her suffering, which clearly wasn't imaginary? Because he could only picture what sort of anguish she was tormented by...alone...every day...with no one even in proximity to her to at least share some of it. He just...wanted to give her companionship if nothing else...if she was going to be his wife...he wanted to be there for her like a true husband would...even if the shoots of his love were only just beginning to poke out of the ground.
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Post by spender on Dec 28, 2010 6:55:37 GMT -5
Someone had come along with a bag of grasshoppers while Saumarez had been getting bedding. Steep now had a fair little pawful scattered in the folds of her skirt, hammocked between her knees. Her skirt wasn't the best place to be putting food, but she didn't care; there was precious little harm a bit of Rosferian blood could to her that hadn't already been done. Any freakish disease she contracted by this, she felt, would simply be... distracting.
And she needed distractions.
She stared into the fire, munching solemnly away as Saumarez returned and rambled on. She found herself nodding, but not offering much in the way of replies. She wanted to think, and he needed to talk, it seemed. Different beasts had different ways of dealing with the stress of a wound. His was only mildly annoying—not, for instance, career-ending. Of course, he had the added advantage of a visible wound, and therefore, the advantage of sympathy...
Slowly, her grasshoppers dwindled. She didn't offer Saumarez any of her tainted ones; the bag came around again, passing him by. She didn't notice if he took any or not.
So, this was her first battle. Her first as a Captain, her first since re-joining the military, her first for a decade. Somehow she hadn't imagined it like this. This was too... peaceful. Idyllic. Comforting. She imagined more mud, more waiting, snow and rain, long, starving marches. Was that how it had really been before, or was her head so mangled up inside that her memories had been twisted from her own miserable hopes and dreams and the stories she'd picked up from books and ballads? Had she swam rivers, holding her shot packets in her teeth to keep them dry? Had she skulked in shrubbery for a week, waiting for that one target? Had she...
...ever been in Gibraltar?
Steep swallowed, her eyes flickering. Saumarez, lying down across from her, seemed to be inside the fire itself. The entire situation with him was so... so dream-like, so unreal, that it felt, at this moment, that everything was unreal. Her home palace, Pylaris, Crittenden, the grasshopper in her paw, the blood on her uniform, Pip's soft chestfeathers rubbing against her cheek as she cuddled him—it all paled in comparison to the realness of the knife in her brain.
Was she dead, and this was hell? Was she near death, thinking back on her life? Was she in a coma, dreaming? Was this her life? Could it be...?
If it was...
Then she needed to shape up. What was real or not, what she imagined or believed or thought or hoped or dreamed or didn't even notice, any and all of that, she had to step up and be the Priscilla Steep she knew she had been, somewhere, sometime. Not this simpering, self-pitying wretch of a weasel, hiding herself out of shame for some secret tryst. This was not she: Her country called for her, her King demanded this of her, and all she could do was second-guess and complain and pretend to tough it out while tearing herself apart inside?
Wick. That.
"I need to get cleaned up," she said quietly, standing up. Her last grasshopper had been eaten. She swept her beret off, laying it on the empty pillow beside Saumarez. She offered no explanation for this, and none was needed; she would be back.
It took a while. She had to find somewhere to wash up, and find someone to take her uniform to be cleaned, and find someone who could find her something else to wear, and find someone else who could confirm if she was needed or if she could be relieved of duty, and then find someone who could help her find a decent drink... And then, once all that was taken care of, she wobbled back to that fire as the noon sun rose over the fort.
The brightness didn't bother her. Her fur glistened in the sunlight, and she smelled like gardenias and Odde Tinge, and she had her beret, and her future mate, and she had an inkling in her heart, a stirring in her soul, that she might just be a good Captain after all.
And that was all she needed to know that she needed to continue in the face of everything else the world would throw at her.
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Post by Ladorak on Dec 29, 2010 23:18:10 GMT -5
Saumarez was barely awake by the time she returned to him, and was surprised that she had decided to set her bedding up next to him. That was most certainly admirable of her...and a bit endearing as well. He smiled, his eyes closed, and he slept, knowing that at least he was wasn't screwing up this relationship so far. She was willing to sleep next to him, and that was a start.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was two months and then some later now. The two hadn't been engaged in much larger than skirmishes here and there along the line. Steep had been transferred to the main Allied fort, Fort Mulgrave, a large earthwork that had been constructed back in September to protect the vital Point l'Eguillette. If the Rosferians captured that point, they could place guns there that could sweep the harbor and force the Allied fleet to withdraw.
The Rosferians weren't stupid either. Thanks to a young artillery Captain who soon found himself promoted to Lieutenant Colonel, the Rosferians were concentrating around the western side of the harbor, constructing batteries that were closer and closer to Fort Mulgrave. The Lieutenant Colonel, name of Boneparte Lantzer, had been keeping the fort under a heavy fire the past few days this week. It was incessant, making it difficult for anyone to sleep. Sometimes the bombardment would subside at night, other times it would be kept up around the clock.
On this particular day it had oddly stopped. Thunder rumbled off in the distance however, and that was telling Saumarez that a storm was on the way. Not many had been killed in the fort, despite the damage inflicted. A soldier here, a soldier there, but overall it was less than ten.
The weasel, who was now in white winter coat, sat atop a barrel composing a poem. He had gotten to know a bit more about Steep, his future mate, these past two months. Letters from home informed him he wouldn't be needed for some time, until Crescent was ready for sea again, and he didn't mind this. There were hardly any naval campaigns in the winter anyway.
He was no poet...but ever since he'd helped Steep write that letter she had wanted to write, the weasel Knight had become interested in the idea of trying to write a poem. It was something he had never been able to finish however. He would rewrite parts, put it down for days, and not come back to it until much later.
Sighing, he set the quill down on the barrel as he hopped off. This wouldn't do...He'd need inspiration somehow. He had resisted his desires to grow more intimate with his future wife, as it was clear she hadn't been extremely interested in the idea (or had done an expert job concealing it), so had instead simply been trying to get to know her better. Taking her for walks down to the hill to Fort Balaguier by the sea helped and sometimes they'd stroll all through the Caire Peninsula, though couldn't leave it, due to the Rosferians closing off the land entrance. Their only exit would be by water.
He folded the poem back up, placing it in his breast pocket. Now where was she? It wasn't a terribly massive fort. It was big...but took about five minutes to walk around. She would be here somewhere. Clasping his paws behind his back, Saumarez began to stroll around, looking right and left for his fiancee.
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Post by spender on Jan 2, 2011 9:03:01 GMT -5
Two months was not a long time to some beasts. To others, it was forever.
Steep's decision to change had not come as gradually as she would have liked. It was more difficult than she had pictured, to simply shrug off her years of inactivity and buck up and be the soldier she once had been. Yet with each bout of action, she grew more confident. Every day of training, her soldiers came to respect her more. She put more effort into learning the tiny details of their lives, to the point where she was practically writing Devonshire's letters to his father for him.
She was growing more fond of Saumarez, as well. Love, she decided, was certainly a possibility. She had never spent as much time with any previous suitor, but one. Saumarez still had some nine years of secret correspondence before he could beat that, however.
And therein was the problem: despite their walks, their talks, their moments together, she held back. The letters were still coming, seemingly faster than ever before. She replied as soon as she was able, overjoyed by the speed of it all. He was near, it was certainty. And every letter in and out opened a different kind of rift between her and her fiance. Every talk, she had to be on guard, making sure not to let slip her secret. Her desk was off-limits to him. She felt disgusted with herself, lying to him day after day, when she had even opened up to her nocturnal problems.
Reality was blurring. She would turn from a letter about Pylaris's molt and see Saumarez across the room, her shining white knight sitting in a sunbeam, smiling at her. Some nights, when she was sure he was asleep, she would reach over, brushing her paw along his arm, but not his arm—for her eyes, closed, pictured another. Some nights, when she'd had a bit too much to drink, she wondered if it was only pure exhaustion and drunkenness that saved her. It was too much to bear, to have him so close, so near, and not be able to have him. Stupid weasel! Taunting her! Ten years—did he really think she could wait?
But she had to.
This was not all that was on her mind as of late, however. Another, almost more dire problem, had surfaced.
Steep sat beside the small tub, one arm looped around Pip's neck, keeping him submerged, the other scrubbing gently at his plumage with a cloth. Dressed in simple white undergarments, Steep was half-soaked herself from Pip's flapping about.
"Well, if you would keep out of the mud, I wouldn't have to do this," she scowled. A bead of blood dripped down her face, causing her whiskers to twitch itchily. Her nosescab was cracked again; she would rub and scratch at it every so often, as a bespectacled creature might push up their glasses.
She pouted at the duck, gently wiping a soap bubble goatee off his bill.
"Pip... you're a scamp."
"Quack."
"Don't look at me like that."
"Quack?"
"I know... I haven't been taking care of you like I should be... it's my fault. But we'll pull through, alright?"
"Quack."
"Quack," Steep echoed, smiled sadly. "Quack-quack-qua—oh, good afternoon, James."
Dropping the cloth in the tub, she quickly pulled a dry towel and draped it over her shoulders as a shawl, to hide at least parts of where her dress was clinging to her fur.
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Post by Ladorak on Jan 2, 2011 23:49:16 GMT -5
It hadn't exactly been easy on him either. Pretending to be interested in her when his guilty thoughts were filled with Dorothea wasn't easy. As he gradually did grow interested in her (through some rather roundabout process; first sympathy for her pain, which led to empathic compassion, which led to genuinely caring about her plight, which led to trying to ease her suffering by becoming friendly with her, which led to actually being friendly with her), he found himself sucked between two worlds. The world he wanted to live...and the world he had to live.
But what future did he envisage for himself and Dorothea? She was a peasant...she was so socially below him that she didn't even register as a speck at the bottom of the ladder he was on. He had met her completely by accident...and how could he provide for her when society would completely look down on the marriage? He'd be doubly ostracized now for breaking off his engagement with a Princess for a pauper. No...he couldn't...he had to sever his ties with Dorothea. It was for his own good. If he even admitted to himself that he still loved her...he couldn't love Priscilla...and he wanted to love Priscilla. He wanted to love her because if he didn't love her his life would be worthless. In his mind at least.
He needed to love Priscilla because at least then he would have a fulfilling, loving mate who reciprocated his feelings (he hoped), and he would be completing his duty to his nation as well. It would be the best of both worlds. If there was a secret love in there...it would ruin his prospects with Priscilla. He couldn't look at her without seeing Dorothea if that occurred, and he didn't want that. He'd feel like his life was a mistake, and that he'd wallow in regret until the end of his days. If Priscilla had to come in...then Dorothea had to depart. But the heartbreak...the goodbyes...could he deal with that?
He would probably...no wanted to tell Priscilla this. He wanted her to know his inner pain...and his grief...but he wanted her to know that he was trying desperately to fall in love with her...and that so far, he was impressed with her, and was already considering her such an incredible individual that he harbored no doubts she would make an ideal mate. Of course...there were some hurdles to clear first. Tumultuous ones.
He found her in some secluded corner, behind the "officer's region". Being an earthwork, Fort Mulgrave didn't have any barracks or a citadel like a normal masonry fort. But regardless, it had relatively private tents for officers, and he found her in her designated one.
He turned as red as a rose upon realizing he'd walked in on her bathing however. Well not bathing...she was washing the duck...but she was only in her undergarment. "Ahem...I'm sorry." he said, quickly averting his gaze, but then...slowly turning back to look at her. No, no, it wasn't some lustful thing of his. She had already covered her upper body by that point. It was in fact to say something...a bit out of character for him, for he wasn't normally so direct with her. "You know...you don't have to worry about being modest around me. I know there's the whole 'rule set' that the nobility plays by...but really...if it's just me you don't have to worry. I won't report you to the immodesty patrol." he said, giving her a smile. "Still...I'm far too much of a gentlemammal to even contemplate walking in on you when you're...not fully dressed." he finally settled on that word choice. "I had just assumed...you were...so...I'm sorry." he spoke haltingly, trying to explain away his sudden appearance.
"Um...care to join me for a stroll? I had a few things I wanted...to say. It's sort of a tight spot I'm in...and well I don't get along much with Captain Elphinstone, the only other naval commander who's on shore...so I thought...maybe you could lend an ear...and give me...some advice?" he suggested, still in that halting manner of speech. "It's nothing serious mind you...just some things I want to get off my chest. Take what time you need to finish cleaning up and getting ready...I can wait..." all afternoon, he didn't add. He politely turned away from her, clasped his paws behind his back, and contented himself with studying the canvas wall of her tent.
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Post by spender on Jan 3, 2011 23:31:07 GMT -5
Oh, bother.
Couldn't he just... step outside? All it took was one quick snap of his head and he could see her changing!
Somehow that made it more exciting.
"Alright," she said simply.
Steep took her time, getting the last bits of grit out of Pip's plumage, toweling him off (though he was never truly wet to begin with, the lucky duck and his oily feathers!) and toweling herself off.
She'd been hoping to spend the day in her tent. Possibly sleeping, for the one day it seemed she might actually be able to. She'd woken up late, thanks to the lack of artillery alarm clocks. Groggy and messy, she'd gone through her usual rituals of sending her bedding out to be cleaned, having bathwater brought to her... only to have Pip come waddling in covered in mud. She'd only just washed herself off in the most basic of ways before plopping him in the water after.
But she was coming to enjoy these walks... So she selected from her clothes the skirt and top that Saumarez had liberated from town. The dark green and beige went well together. And the green beret. It wasn't her Captain's beret, but it didn't matter; she couldn't see it when it was on her head, and it made her feel secure... in charge. So it went on.
She kept her back to him as she changed. She didn't want to know if he would break and spy on her—although some silly part of her was secretly hoping he was, and enjoying the show. She waggled her rump for a moment as she pulled her skirt up over her tail, just in case. She yanked the stubby appendage through the slit in the fabric, wagged it happily to make sure it was situated right, and began work on buttoning her top. It was cold, so she did it up to the chin, thankful that Saumarez had chosen one with a long neck. So many suitors that tried to give her clothes seemed to forget, for some reason, that she was a mustelid as they were. Others just wanted her to wear things that showed off her bib.
"I'm almost ready. Can Pip come again?" she asked, as she fiddled last-minute with her boots.
"Quack." Pip perked up, waddling up to Saumarez and settling down between his legs.
Steep stood up from the edge of her bed, now fully dressed and prepared to go out. She dangled a little rope harness in her paws—the little bell on the end jingled.
The reason she asked at all was that the last walk they'd been on with Pip hadn't... been exactly... a very good walk for Saumarez. Pip had a tendency to waddle on ahead of them, and when Saumarez was busy looking at her, and not where he was stepping, well... She just wasn't sure if he wanted to risk that again.
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