Knight Captain's Epitaph

The ground was hard and cold beneath her- that much was familiar. That and the smell of mouldering leaves, and iron rich dirt. It smelled like a forest floor- smelled like a grave. Not a grave though. She wasn’t dead. If she were, there wouldn’t be so much pain. There wasn’t an inch, she thought, that didn’t ache, or throb, or burn. She opened her mouth to draw a slow deep breath, and knew it immediately to be a mistake as broken ribs screamed their complaint. The half-breath escaped instead in a little convulsive cough, which hurt even worse.
    “Well. Good morning, ‘Captain’, nice of you to join me among the living.”
    Bishop wore a sneer as he crouched beside her- she couldn’t see him, but she knew it was there. It was always there. It was oddly comforting, in a way, as if nothing had changed. But everything had changed, and she knew it.
    “Don’t bother trying to talk- you’re in no shape, and you’re likely to do yourself more damage.” Beneath his typically derisive tone, he sounded almost concerned. “I guess you owe me one now. Or is it two? One for saving your pretty skin, and one for killing you.”
    Her eyes, swollen and sore, snapped open- she wasn’t dead yet, so she wasn’t going to lie still while the traitor took what was left of her bleeding little life either. As her body tensed, lances of pain shot through every nerve, and she couldn’t suppress the sharp cry that sprang to her lips.
    “What did I say about damaging yourself? Lie still. If I were going to actually kill you, you’d be dead, wouldn't you.”  It wasn’t a question, and she didn’t answer, except by laying still on the rocky ground.
    “It was supposed to be a joke, harborman. Don’t tell me that now that you’ve saved the world, you’ve lost your sense of humor. That wouldn’t be a fair trade at all. I meant I killed the Knight Captain for you. Soaked up your blood with that rag of a cloak and left it where it couldn’t be missed. You’re free, stupid girl- well, once I’m done stitching you back together, that is. You and I both know you didn’t belong in that keep.”
    She did know it. She steeled herself for the pain and drew enough breath for a whisper.
    “What about… the others?”
   “Casavir, you mean,” he sneered, as if she’d slapped him, “That’s what you really want to know, isn’t it? If your tarnished knight made it through?”
    “Any of them…”  She couldn’t see him shake his head, or set his lips tightly.
    “You were the only one in one piece. And as for owing me- forget I said it. That was a joke as well. I’ll patch you up enough to hold a blade, then you’re on your own. If that’s what you really want. Go back to your stinking charred village for all I care. Tell your uncle… tell him you killed me. Then we’ll be even.”
    She winced as he used a wet rag to wipe blood from under one swollen brow, feeling the agitation in his hands.
    “It’ll be a while though,” he muttered, “You’re a bag of broken bones. So I guess you’re stuck here for now. I’ll keep my thoughts to myself from now on.”
    “Don’t.”
    She managed to open her eyes enough to look at him squarely.
    “You think if Duncan didn’t trust you, he’d have asked you to look after me? You know better,” she winced, drawing another cautious breath before continuing in a rasp of a whisper, and he held still, watching her eyes, and listening carefully to her words. “I’m no better than you, Bishop- and you’re no worse than me. We’re village rats. We do the best we can. You think I didn’t notice you pulling my ass from the fire over and over again? If we’re counting debts, then you pretty much own me,  for what ever’s left of my life.”
    “Quiet," he smirked, "Or I swear I’ll use you for a shield.” 
    But he was a lot more gentle with her wounds after that. He knew she’d forgiven him. Now if she could just get him to forgive himself…

No comments:

Post a Comment