i so productive
Nov. 2nd, 2005 01:46 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dragonlady7Good. I'm almost on track for halfway through the weekend now. If only I had another day...
Words can't express how bitterly disappointed I am that a better new job didn't fall into my lap. I hadn't realized how trapped I felt. But I digress. November is a time of change and examination, I guess. God preserve me from a November like '02.
This continues after a break for more shit I already wrote: pretty much, she comes back and they assess her injuries and she's not hurt too badly, so they go on with their evening and she asks Our Protagonist if he'll please be the one to guard her while she sleeps because she's traumatized. I promise it's not that cheesy in the draft.
I came to the door about an hour after she retired, once I had seen to the disposition of guards for the night. I knocked, and she called out, so I opened the door and came in. Sheets rustled as she turned over, and I pushed the door of the wagon closed. She had a small lamp burning in a holder by the partition of the bed, and it cast enough flickering light that I could see most of the interior of the wagon.
"Callonia," I said, "I am here."
"Good," she said, and her voice was thick either from crying or from sleep, I didn't know which. She sat up on her elbow, looking up at me, and her eyes gleamed in the dark.
"I will need a few hours' sleep," I said. "But I will stay awake until you have fallen asleep, if you like."
"Knowing you are here is enough," she said. "Where will you sleep?"
I unslung my bedroll from over my shoulder and put it down. "By the door," I said. I stretched, and yawned, cracking my back and sighing. It had been a long day and I had pulled one of the muscles in my back a little bit harder than it liked, and it was sore now. I surveyed the space in the wagon. "There isn't another entrance, is there?"
"No," she said. She sighed. "Sit with me a while, here," she said, and patted the edge of the wide bench that served as her bed.
I must have given her a quizzical look, but recovered. "If you like," I said carefully. I didn't want to hurt her feelings by holding her too much at a distance but I was most eager not to make her feel threatened. I sat carefully on the edge of the bed, and she laughed, a soft and throaty laugh.
"I won't stab you again," she said. "Did I hurt you, before?"
"A scratch," I said, "although I'm peeved that you damaged my glove. It lets the cold in."
"I am sorry," she said, sitting up and leaning over to look. I had left my gloves with my saddle, so when she took my hand it was my bare skin against hers. Her hand was warm and uncallused: whatever she did, it was not physical labor. The scratch was encrusted with a tender new scab, and I had wrapped a bit of cloth around the deepest part just at the base of my thumb, which had kept bleeding irritatingly. She ran her finger very delicately along the edge of the dark line of the scab. She looked up, her face very close to mine, and her teeth were bright in the lamplight. "Will you recover?"
I laughed, a little disconcerted by her proximity. She smelled of some sort of dark sweet spice, and one of her braids swung forward and clicked against my leather backplate. "I believe I have survived worse in my day," I said. But I sobered quickly. "What about you?"
She shrugged. "I have not often been hurt but I do think I will survive this. It was not terribly deep." She turned her hand over, and the bandage across her palm was unspotted with blood. "I don't know what I was thinking, trying to block his knife with my bare hand."
"He was holding the hand that had the knife in it," I said. "What baffles me is that he seemed to think you a greater threat than me. Why he was attacking you rather than me is something I still cannot understand."
She sat back, and hitched herself up to lean against the wall. "Sit back," she said, waving at me. I pushed myself back across the bed to lean my back against the wall beside her, and she rearranged the blankets around herself. The bed was better spread than she had been dressed-- there were blankets of wool and linen on it, and furs spread over the top. She was obviously well-off, or equipped by a rich master. "I think there might be a few things I should tell you."
"This sounds serious," I said.
"It is," she said. "You posted a good guard tonight, yes?"
"Yes," I said slowly.
"The reason the man was so intent on killing me was, I believe, that killing me was his mission and he was just then realizing what a poor idea it had been to try to make sport of me before doing so." She pulled her knees up to her chest and looked thoughtfully out into the darkness of the wagon. "I do not believe they were just… normal bandits."
I nodded slowly, frowning at the scratch on my wrist. "I… we had been wondering. This is not the season for them."
"No," she said. "We had a mission that there are many who would prefer to see fail. I would prefer if you did not discuss this, if at all possible, with anyone who does not need to know. Do you understand?"
I nodded absently. "You, ah," I said, "we assumed you were diplomats."
"Yes," she said. "We were Imperial diplomats enroute to Saxeus. I am no tactician, so I could not say who hired those bandits or why. But I am certain their mission was not to loot our wagons. We have little enough of value, as I am sure you noticed." She shook her head, and I could see a flash of her teeth. "I do not know whether their mission succeeded. The bandit's actions in attacking me suggest to me that they had been ordered to kill me. I had thought perhaps they were merely meant to damage me, but I am not sure. And to be frank I am having trouble in thinking about it very hard." She shivered.
"I do not blame you," I said. She pulled her knees more tightly against her chest and put her head down on her arms. In a moment I could hear that she was crying.
"There, there," I said, and hesitated. Should I embrace her? Would she be comforted or frightened? "Perhaps it's best not to think about such things in the dark. Wait until you feel better."
"I don't like not knowing," she said tightly. "Not understanding means I'm in more danger. I wish I knew if Fidelus were alive. Then maybe I'd know if they'll try again. I don't know if we're in danger now, or if we'll be left alone."
"Now?" I thought about it a moment. "I have thirty men, and thirty horse. There are few forces that could cross this terrain in these conditions that would present much of a threat to us."
"What if they attack at night while you are dismounted and scattered?" she asked.
"There is a pair of mounted sentries on each road's approach," I answered, "and I assure you we are well-situated. We are used to being ambushed."
"You're certainly intimidating," she said, and to my surprise reached out and took my hand with hers. "I like you, Martinus. I've never met anybody like you."
I grinned at her. "I don't know whether that's reassuring or disappointing. Has Rome no cavalry captains?"
"You are not like a Roman soldier," she said. "I know soldiers and you are not like one. You are far more frightening but I would not let a soldier sit on my bed with me."
"I am a protector," I said. I had happily weathered my share of flirting; I was a young man, of a very well-connected family, and knew I was not unhandsome. I knew now was not a time to flirt, but it was more than her exotic strangeness that attracted me: she was an excellent conversationalist after all. And I knew she expected me to respond, and did not want to be cold to her. "I am not a soldier, really. I have been taught since I was a small child that it would be my role to protect my people. Martins is the god who protects our horses during the winter, and that's why I am called by that name."
"Have you hereditary positions, then?" she asked, her interest cracking through her coy veneer. "I confess I was given only the briefest introduction to the ways of your people. You knew since you were a boy that you would be in the army?"
I laughed softly. "Everyone is in the army," I said. "Every boy will serve at some point during his life." She was tracing one of the calluses on my palm, which distracted me somewhat. I had been about to add something about being born to my rank, about being raised to be the captain of the forces that protected the land my brother would rule, but decided against it. Something urged me to keep the conversation light.
"Roman noblemen have soft hands," she said. "Many of them have servants pare their nails for them, and apply ointments so that their hands will be soft."
"No one I know has soft hands," I said. "I do not remember my mother but I am confident her hands were not soft. The King himself has hands as hard as horn. Even my brother the scholar has rough hands. I suppose that is because we are barbarians."
She laughed. "Barbarians," she said, and reached up with her other hand to brush at my beard. "Bearded savages. With impeccable manners and perfect grammar."
"I taught Feliks his Latin," I said, "and I will have you know that his Latin is much, much better than his accent in our native tongue."
She giggled quietly. "Has he a bad accent?"
"Terrible," I said. "He is a rube, from the back of beyond, and there are some at the king's court who cannot listen to him give a report without laughing up their sleeves. Which is unforgivable snobbery, but you would too if you could hear how he sounds. And some of the expressions he uses. He sounds like there is something wrong with him, but all his folk talk like that."
"And yet his Latin is perfect," she said. "That is funny. I had not thought of that."
"I am glad you are here to be a reason for him to have to speak Latin," I said. "I am used to him, almost, but it is nice to have a respite."
She sniffled, and wiped her face with the back of her damaged hand. "So your mother is dead?" she asked after a moment. I blinked, and traced my way back through the conversation, trying to remember when I had mentioned her.
"Yes," I said. "I was a small child when she died, so I do not remember."
"Has your father remarried?"
I made a wry face. "Yes," I answered. "It would be unusual for a widow or widower not to do so."
"But you do not like your stepmother," she said.
"I said nothing of the sort," I answered. "Perhaps I have an argument with her now and again, but I have never said I disliked her."
"Then it is the step-siblings you dislike," she guessed.
"I love my step-sister," I said. "She is truly a sister to me. If you come to our home you will meet her, and if you like me you will like her as well. And she will teach you how to dress properly in this climate."
She laughed, a genuine laugh although quiet. "You dislike the Roman fashion?"
"I think the Roman fashion will have you dead of cold within a week," I answered. "That is all I have to say about that."
She squeezed my hand. "I am touched by your concern," she said, although I could not tell whether she were teasing.
"It is my business to be concerned," I said.
"Of course," she said. "You are a protector."
She sounded a little sad. I squeezed her hand in return. "I take my duties personally," I said, teasing a little, but made my tone more serious before going on. "I am truly upset by what happened today, not just because of how much trouble I will be subject to when I get home, but also because I am sorry that you have suffered, now that I know you. I don't know how badly you were manhandled but I wish with all my heart that I had arrived in time to save you the worst of it."
"You are sweet," she said.
"Of course I wish I could have saved all your escort from being killed, but that is more a selfish wish, I admit." I tried to think of where I was trying to go with the statement, but could think of nothing suitably noble and self-denigrating. "Still I am glad you do not seem much hurt. I hope you recover quickly from the horror of it."
2,151 words, this segment.
Whole thing's at 4565.
stopped not at a scene ending but rather at a i'm-sleepy-moment.
Yeah, I admit, they're just talking to fill up words, and reveal backstory, pretty much. Whatever. Sometimes writing's just like masturbation: you do it cuz it feels good, not cuz it's going to produce anything you can show somebody. I mean, ew. But anyhow. That was rather more disgusting a metaphor than I intended, so perhaps it is time for bed after all.
Unrelated:
This is one of those songs I can quote bits of but have no idea what the hell it's about.
I'm an indisguisable shade of twilight
The cut title's a random quote too. I've no idea what it's referring to.
I dream a highway back to you.
This novel will become a very wistful denied-love-story at some point, if you hang in there. If I hang in there.
edit: whoops. I meant to post this to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
treigylgweith. Meh, I am now lazy. Sorry. My NaNo stuff'll be over there. Personal stuff'll still be over here. I'll fix this someday, maybe.
Words can't express how bitterly disappointed I am that a better new job didn't fall into my lap. I hadn't realized how trapped I felt. But I digress. November is a time of change and examination, I guess. God preserve me from a November like '02.
This continues after a break for more shit I already wrote: pretty much, she comes back and they assess her injuries and she's not hurt too badly, so they go on with their evening and she asks Our Protagonist if he'll please be the one to guard her while she sleeps because she's traumatized. I promise it's not that cheesy in the draft.
I came to the door about an hour after she retired, once I had seen to the disposition of guards for the night. I knocked, and she called out, so I opened the door and came in. Sheets rustled as she turned over, and I pushed the door of the wagon closed. She had a small lamp burning in a holder by the partition of the bed, and it cast enough flickering light that I could see most of the interior of the wagon.
"Callonia," I said, "I am here."
"Good," she said, and her voice was thick either from crying or from sleep, I didn't know which. She sat up on her elbow, looking up at me, and her eyes gleamed in the dark.
"I will need a few hours' sleep," I said. "But I will stay awake until you have fallen asleep, if you like."
"Knowing you are here is enough," she said. "Where will you sleep?"
I unslung my bedroll from over my shoulder and put it down. "By the door," I said. I stretched, and yawned, cracking my back and sighing. It had been a long day and I had pulled one of the muscles in my back a little bit harder than it liked, and it was sore now. I surveyed the space in the wagon. "There isn't another entrance, is there?"
"No," she said. She sighed. "Sit with me a while, here," she said, and patted the edge of the wide bench that served as her bed.
I must have given her a quizzical look, but recovered. "If you like," I said carefully. I didn't want to hurt her feelings by holding her too much at a distance but I was most eager not to make her feel threatened. I sat carefully on the edge of the bed, and she laughed, a soft and throaty laugh.
"I won't stab you again," she said. "Did I hurt you, before?"
"A scratch," I said, "although I'm peeved that you damaged my glove. It lets the cold in."
"I am sorry," she said, sitting up and leaning over to look. I had left my gloves with my saddle, so when she took my hand it was my bare skin against hers. Her hand was warm and uncallused: whatever she did, it was not physical labor. The scratch was encrusted with a tender new scab, and I had wrapped a bit of cloth around the deepest part just at the base of my thumb, which had kept bleeding irritatingly. She ran her finger very delicately along the edge of the dark line of the scab. She looked up, her face very close to mine, and her teeth were bright in the lamplight. "Will you recover?"
I laughed, a little disconcerted by her proximity. She smelled of some sort of dark sweet spice, and one of her braids swung forward and clicked against my leather backplate. "I believe I have survived worse in my day," I said. But I sobered quickly. "What about you?"
She shrugged. "I have not often been hurt but I do think I will survive this. It was not terribly deep." She turned her hand over, and the bandage across her palm was unspotted with blood. "I don't know what I was thinking, trying to block his knife with my bare hand."
"He was holding the hand that had the knife in it," I said. "What baffles me is that he seemed to think you a greater threat than me. Why he was attacking you rather than me is something I still cannot understand."
She sat back, and hitched herself up to lean against the wall. "Sit back," she said, waving at me. I pushed myself back across the bed to lean my back against the wall beside her, and she rearranged the blankets around herself. The bed was better spread than she had been dressed-- there were blankets of wool and linen on it, and furs spread over the top. She was obviously well-off, or equipped by a rich master. "I think there might be a few things I should tell you."
"This sounds serious," I said.
"It is," she said. "You posted a good guard tonight, yes?"
"Yes," I said slowly.
"The reason the man was so intent on killing me was, I believe, that killing me was his mission and he was just then realizing what a poor idea it had been to try to make sport of me before doing so." She pulled her knees up to her chest and looked thoughtfully out into the darkness of the wagon. "I do not believe they were just… normal bandits."
I nodded slowly, frowning at the scratch on my wrist. "I… we had been wondering. This is not the season for them."
"No," she said. "We had a mission that there are many who would prefer to see fail. I would prefer if you did not discuss this, if at all possible, with anyone who does not need to know. Do you understand?"
I nodded absently. "You, ah," I said, "we assumed you were diplomats."
"Yes," she said. "We were Imperial diplomats enroute to Saxeus. I am no tactician, so I could not say who hired those bandits or why. But I am certain their mission was not to loot our wagons. We have little enough of value, as I am sure you noticed." She shook her head, and I could see a flash of her teeth. "I do not know whether their mission succeeded. The bandit's actions in attacking me suggest to me that they had been ordered to kill me. I had thought perhaps they were merely meant to damage me, but I am not sure. And to be frank I am having trouble in thinking about it very hard." She shivered.
"I do not blame you," I said. She pulled her knees more tightly against her chest and put her head down on her arms. In a moment I could hear that she was crying.
"There, there," I said, and hesitated. Should I embrace her? Would she be comforted or frightened? "Perhaps it's best not to think about such things in the dark. Wait until you feel better."
"I don't like not knowing," she said tightly. "Not understanding means I'm in more danger. I wish I knew if Fidelus were alive. Then maybe I'd know if they'll try again. I don't know if we're in danger now, or if we'll be left alone."
"Now?" I thought about it a moment. "I have thirty men, and thirty horse. There are few forces that could cross this terrain in these conditions that would present much of a threat to us."
"What if they attack at night while you are dismounted and scattered?" she asked.
"There is a pair of mounted sentries on each road's approach," I answered, "and I assure you we are well-situated. We are used to being ambushed."
"You're certainly intimidating," she said, and to my surprise reached out and took my hand with hers. "I like you, Martinus. I've never met anybody like you."
I grinned at her. "I don't know whether that's reassuring or disappointing. Has Rome no cavalry captains?"
"You are not like a Roman soldier," she said. "I know soldiers and you are not like one. You are far more frightening but I would not let a soldier sit on my bed with me."
"I am a protector," I said. I had happily weathered my share of flirting; I was a young man, of a very well-connected family, and knew I was not unhandsome. I knew now was not a time to flirt, but it was more than her exotic strangeness that attracted me: she was an excellent conversationalist after all. And I knew she expected me to respond, and did not want to be cold to her. "I am not a soldier, really. I have been taught since I was a small child that it would be my role to protect my people. Martins is the god who protects our horses during the winter, and that's why I am called by that name."
"Have you hereditary positions, then?" she asked, her interest cracking through her coy veneer. "I confess I was given only the briefest introduction to the ways of your people. You knew since you were a boy that you would be in the army?"
I laughed softly. "Everyone is in the army," I said. "Every boy will serve at some point during his life." She was tracing one of the calluses on my palm, which distracted me somewhat. I had been about to add something about being born to my rank, about being raised to be the captain of the forces that protected the land my brother would rule, but decided against it. Something urged me to keep the conversation light.
"Roman noblemen have soft hands," she said. "Many of them have servants pare their nails for them, and apply ointments so that their hands will be soft."
"No one I know has soft hands," I said. "I do not remember my mother but I am confident her hands were not soft. The King himself has hands as hard as horn. Even my brother the scholar has rough hands. I suppose that is because we are barbarians."
She laughed. "Barbarians," she said, and reached up with her other hand to brush at my beard. "Bearded savages. With impeccable manners and perfect grammar."
"I taught Feliks his Latin," I said, "and I will have you know that his Latin is much, much better than his accent in our native tongue."
She giggled quietly. "Has he a bad accent?"
"Terrible," I said. "He is a rube, from the back of beyond, and there are some at the king's court who cannot listen to him give a report without laughing up their sleeves. Which is unforgivable snobbery, but you would too if you could hear how he sounds. And some of the expressions he uses. He sounds like there is something wrong with him, but all his folk talk like that."
"And yet his Latin is perfect," she said. "That is funny. I had not thought of that."
"I am glad you are here to be a reason for him to have to speak Latin," I said. "I am used to him, almost, but it is nice to have a respite."
She sniffled, and wiped her face with the back of her damaged hand. "So your mother is dead?" she asked after a moment. I blinked, and traced my way back through the conversation, trying to remember when I had mentioned her.
"Yes," I said. "I was a small child when she died, so I do not remember."
"Has your father remarried?"
I made a wry face. "Yes," I answered. "It would be unusual for a widow or widower not to do so."
"But you do not like your stepmother," she said.
"I said nothing of the sort," I answered. "Perhaps I have an argument with her now and again, but I have never said I disliked her."
"Then it is the step-siblings you dislike," she guessed.
"I love my step-sister," I said. "She is truly a sister to me. If you come to our home you will meet her, and if you like me you will like her as well. And she will teach you how to dress properly in this climate."
She laughed, a genuine laugh although quiet. "You dislike the Roman fashion?"
"I think the Roman fashion will have you dead of cold within a week," I answered. "That is all I have to say about that."
She squeezed my hand. "I am touched by your concern," she said, although I could not tell whether she were teasing.
"It is my business to be concerned," I said.
"Of course," she said. "You are a protector."
She sounded a little sad. I squeezed her hand in return. "I take my duties personally," I said, teasing a little, but made my tone more serious before going on. "I am truly upset by what happened today, not just because of how much trouble I will be subject to when I get home, but also because I am sorry that you have suffered, now that I know you. I don't know how badly you were manhandled but I wish with all my heart that I had arrived in time to save you the worst of it."
"You are sweet," she said.
"Of course I wish I could have saved all your escort from being killed, but that is more a selfish wish, I admit." I tried to think of where I was trying to go with the statement, but could think of nothing suitably noble and self-denigrating. "Still I am glad you do not seem much hurt. I hope you recover quickly from the horror of it."
2,151 words, this segment.
Whole thing's at 4565.
stopped not at a scene ending but rather at a i'm-sleepy-moment.
Yeah, I admit, they're just talking to fill up words, and reveal backstory, pretty much. Whatever. Sometimes writing's just like masturbation: you do it cuz it feels good, not cuz it's going to produce anything you can show somebody. I mean, ew. But anyhow. That was rather more disgusting a metaphor than I intended, so perhaps it is time for bed after all.
Unrelated:
This is one of those songs I can quote bits of but have no idea what the hell it's about.
I'm an indisguisable shade of twilight
The cut title's a random quote too. I've no idea what it's referring to.
I dream a highway back to you.
This novel will become a very wistful denied-love-story at some point, if you hang in there. If I hang in there.
edit: whoops. I meant to post this to
treigylgweith. Meh, I am now lazy. Sorry. My NaNo stuff'll be over there. Personal stuff'll still be over here. I'll fix this someday, maybe.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-11-02 03:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-02 03:26 pm (UTC)Also, bear in mind that this is my fourth NaNo. :/
no subject
Date: 2005-11-02 03:34 pm (UTC)From what I recall last year, you had no problem making 50K, didn't you double that? I think you weren't working, but I would think you could make 50K with work on top of it. You seem awfully prolific...
Meanwhile, I'm writing by the seat of my pants, and coherent? Not really. But I have to say that I've never written without an outline before, and it's a heck of a lot of fun.
no subject
Date: 2005-11-02 03:47 pm (UTC)What you're doing does sound like fun-- I hope it works out for you. I often write without a real outline and I love it; last year was my experiment at adhering to an outline and while it got me a finished product, it didn't get me a finished finished product, so I'm still on the fence as to which works better. I shall be interested to see your results when the dust settles. :)
no subject
Date: 2005-11-02 03:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-02 03:56 pm (UTC)I'm currently struggling with how narrative to make the first person character's voice. Who is he telling the story to? My castoff first paragraph was a chattier version that more or less broke the fourth wall, and I don't think it's effective-- not for a fantasy novel that I don't want to tell all in that style.
I hadn't written in first person before, so I'm enjoying that too. I mean, I had, in shorter pieces, but never a novel. What bothers me is how on earth I'm going to tell a crucial bit of the action from this character's point of view when he is necessarily unconscious for it. I don't want to alternate POVs but I've no idea what else to do.