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And another one.
Title: Greener Pastures
Rating: PG-13
Universe: Spindlebone
Characters/Pairings: Spindlebone, Carthian, Alest, Brist. Past Carthian/other
Summary: There are risks involved, in revealing certain things to demons. To anyone, really
Wordcount: 1831
Warnings/Notes: Implied/threatened homophobia (I don't think I've ever used that warning before), some ageism
Claimer: Mine!
Greener Pastures
The silence as the other Commanders left the war tent was deadly. Spindlebone was fully aware of this fact, having made it so. So, it seemed, was Carthian. The Commander's pose as he watched the retreating backs of his colleagues, leaning back against his desk with his hands in plain view, was deliberately relaxed. Far too much so.
Oddly, of the others, it was the Mechanist, the woman Alest, who lingered long enough to look back, to glare warningly at Spindle, and glance a silent offer of aid to the War Servant. Not the boisterous war-mage, the man who had engendered the threat in the first place. Spindle found that ... curious. But he had another matter to deal with first.
"I'll be across for inspection later, Alest," Carthian said softly. Optimistically, with a wry little flicker of a smile in her direction. She frowned, eyes still fixed on Spindle, obviously not buying this. But, as Spindle was rapidly beginning to learn, few enough in this Gods' army actually questioned the older man, once he had made his wishes clear. Interestingly. So, after a moment, she left. With ill grace.
And Spindlebone was left alone with his prey.
"So," he murmured, into the heavy silence a few moments later, watching the almost-invisible thrum of tension through his companion's frame. Not moving. Not just yet. Save that threat for a little later. "Do your subordinates ... often greet you with a kiss?"
Carthian turned his head to look at him, otherwise motionless, flashing Spindle a small and somewhat weary smile. "Well, Brist has never suffered overmuch from a sense of decorum. Or, really, much of a sense of anything. But to answer the question you're actually asking ... Yes. He is an old lover." A crinkle about his eyes, that creased grin. "Or, should I say, a young, and brief, lover, who has long since left for greener and less wizened pastures."
"Then you are ...?" Spindle asked, slowly, the implication heavy.
"Obviously so," the man answered. Lightly, just for contrast. But not unaware.
... There was silence, for a moment. Spindle left it, content for now to watch the man, the line of his shoulders, still loose and easy. To see ... if silence should weigh on him, and break that calm readiness. To see if knowledge of the threat of Spindle's reaction should nudge some shiver of fear from him.
Carthian, for his part, simply watched him back, green eyes clear as glass, and a small smile on his lips. Spindle ... almost admired that. Just a little.
"And your gods?" he asked, very quietly. Allowing himself to prowl forward a little, footfalls light as air. Enjoying, briefly, the threat of it, for all his prey didn't react. "How do they feel about this?"
The War Servant raised his eyebrows, appearing mildly amused, as if the question had no bearing at all. Spindle enjoyed that. Oh, he did. "Well," Carthian answered, "Jaelmud and Telmat aren't fond of the thought, but then I don't serve them. Not directly, anyway. And the Lady Malat, of course, has been courting The Sobrona for the past two hundred years. Difficult to decry something when one of your most powerful allies engages in it, isn't it?" Then he smiled, rather more cynically, and shrugged. "At least openly, that is."
Spindle smiled, at that. A glitter of metallic teeth. "And your god," he pressed, stalking closer. Looming close.
Carthian let his eyebrows beetle down, a frown, as if to ask why it concerned him. But he answered readily enough, and without fear. "The Danfar has never raised the matter with me one way or another," he said, frankly. "If it matters to him at all, I suspect he has chalked it up to a necessary price for dealing with me in the first place."
That ... Spindle laughed, briefly, at that. Just for that answer. "A tolerant god indeed," he murmured, wondering briefly if the Danfar had sent him this, of all humans, to see which of them should eke an uncontrolled reaction from the other first. He was beginning to suspect that among the 'prices' for dealing with this man, as Carthian put it, was a certain degree of frustrated annoyance, be you god, demon or man.
It was probably why, despite himself, Spindle somewhat liked him.
"Hmm," Carthian agreed, mildly. Tilting his head back to smile up at Spindle, still propped casually against the desk. "And you?" A vague smile, to disguise the fact that he had tensed, just slightly, the canted boot pressed back against the leg of the desk to better propel the man in his lunge. Should he need it to. Neither fear nor much distrust was showing. Simply ... a waiting readiness for any eventuality. Marvellous. "Does it trouble you?"
Spindle tilted his head, licking his lips absently. Did it? Did it trouble him? He could see why it would be thought. All those he had lost, to his father's cruelty, all those he had loved, had been female, or friend only. He could see ... why it might be thought. Oh yes.
"And if it did?" he asked, with a gleam of teeth, and the shifting of a silver arm. Just to watch the stillness become absolute, and the glass-green eyes become serene. Just for that.
"Then that would be a pity," Carthian murmured, eyes fixed to Spindle's and nothing, absolutely nothing, in his expression. "And here I had thought you almost didn't dislike me." A grin, just the edge of teeth, tension perfectly leashed, and Spindle thought, suddenly, how many of his kind must have seen it, seen this, just before the end, just before the man struck. How many demons, and dark-servants, and the odd black mage, might have looked into glass-green eyes, and not seen the knife coming, for the stillness of the man.
"I don't," he said, into that bladed stillness, into the knife-edge behind the man's eyes. Carthian ... blinked. Only once. Uncertain, but not unready. Spindle grinned, then. Real and without threat, standing back a little. "Dislike you. I don't."
And there, just there. A vague frown, beneath the mildness of the expression. A little confusion in that so-confident gaze. Hah. Yes. Oh yes. He did like this man. But, he thought, he was also in agreement with the Danfar. Someone must startle something from him, at least once in a while, or there could be no enduring him. None at all.
"That is ... good?" Carthian said, slowly, not quite disguising the question in it. He was still poised, still ready. A wise distrust, maybe. Or possibly simply habit. "I aim to please, my lord demon." Hah! "But it does not ... quite answer my question?"
Still so wary, and not unconcerned. Spindle had heard that the War Servants were more ... tolerant, of such things, out of sheer pragmatism if nothing else - secrets were more deadly than any dislike, when your enemies sought to set you upon each other, so they endeavoured to have none. But it was obvious Carthian was not unused to defending himself because of it.
Or, perhaps, that Carthian was simply not unused to defending himself against demons, whose reasons for assault could be most anything, and it was Spindlebone himself he feared, not the mistrust and violence towards his nature. Either way, though.
"I am not troubled," Spindle said quietly. A small assurance, one he could well afford. For pragmatism's sake, if nothing else. And he did, he truly did, like the man. Mild as milk, and so very deadly. The oldest War Servant yet standing. Oh yes. He did like Carthian. But, as he said. The man deserved the occasional perturbation. Nothing serious, but ... "Though ... if you would permit a question?"
And now, there was visible wariness. Not for his life, for which the man seemed to feel little to no fear at all. But for ... something else. Something not yet discovered. Spindle repressed a smile.
"You said yon mage left you for 'greener pastures'," he noted, tilting his head and letting prurient curiosity filter into his tone. Prurient, but genuine. Forty-eight was no age at all, even for humans. And though weathered, the man was far from 'wizened', with only a feathering of grey through russet hair, and no sign of a failing body. He would not last long as a warrior, against the things he fought, if there were. "You are not so old as that."
A little disappointingly, the wariness disappeared, at that. Though the wry amusement that filtered in to replace it, with just a faint touch of bitterness, maybe a little resignation, was certainly interesting enough itself.
"I'm a War Servant," Carthian explained, with a dark little twist of his mouth. "We don't live past forty, remember? And I ... I am eight years overdue my death at the hands of darkness." A faint little smile. "More, really, if you count from when I first fought. I was a little younger than most." He looked up at Spindle, then. Bright humour in calm eyes, clear and unadorned. "There will only be so much longer I may dodge fate, and no partner I might take who would not know it. So. Do you blame them, for seeking greener, and less dangerous, pastures?"
Spindlebone tilted his head, looking down at him. At ease, for now, but always only a moment from that calm, deadly stillness. Always only a moment from the blade. "And yet," he said softly. Musingly. "You do not seem resigned to death."
Carthian laughed. Rough and amused, and with that so tantilising edge of darkness. "Oh, no indeed," he grinned, standing suddenly, fluidly, tapping lightly at his hip. One weapon. The most visible, at least. "No, sir demon, not just yet." Watching him warily, laughingly, dangerously. "Whoever wants me can see how far they get, never fear." And then, a long, slow darkening, something grim slipping forward. "And, to that end ..."
Spindle smiled darkly in echo. "He did not look back," he murmured softly, delighted, in that part of him so used to treachery, that the man had noticed. "None who knows of me would expect me to react differently. And he did not look back."
Carthian nodded. Sighed, as though terribly disappointed. "Brist's band is marching guard on Alest's war-battery. Heading for the High Plains, and some of the more critical engagements. Even if he did not succeed in placing me, personally, in danger ..." A small smile for Spindle then, nodded acknowledgement. "Well. At least not for the moment ..."
"Treachery from that quarter might still cost far too much," Spindle finished, nodding. "You know you have no proof?" A depreciating grin of his own. "Only the agreement of a demon that it is likely. That will not get you very far."
Carthian smiled at him, and it promised such danger, Spindle could not help but delight. "Well, I promised Alest an inspection. How about we start from there, and ... see what happens."
Spindle grinned, tapping his weapon hand against his thigh, and followed the man out of the tent.
Hmm. Yes. How about, indeed.
Title: Greener Pastures
Rating: PG-13
Universe: Spindlebone
Characters/Pairings: Spindlebone, Carthian, Alest, Brist. Past Carthian/other
Summary: There are risks involved, in revealing certain things to demons. To anyone, really
Wordcount: 1831
Warnings/Notes: Implied/threatened homophobia (I don't think I've ever used that warning before), some ageism
Claimer: Mine!
Greener Pastures
The silence as the other Commanders left the war tent was deadly. Spindlebone was fully aware of this fact, having made it so. So, it seemed, was Carthian. The Commander's pose as he watched the retreating backs of his colleagues, leaning back against his desk with his hands in plain view, was deliberately relaxed. Far too much so.
Oddly, of the others, it was the Mechanist, the woman Alest, who lingered long enough to look back, to glare warningly at Spindle, and glance a silent offer of aid to the War Servant. Not the boisterous war-mage, the man who had engendered the threat in the first place. Spindle found that ... curious. But he had another matter to deal with first.
"I'll be across for inspection later, Alest," Carthian said softly. Optimistically, with a wry little flicker of a smile in her direction. She frowned, eyes still fixed on Spindle, obviously not buying this. But, as Spindle was rapidly beginning to learn, few enough in this Gods' army actually questioned the older man, once he had made his wishes clear. Interestingly. So, after a moment, she left. With ill grace.
And Spindlebone was left alone with his prey.
"So," he murmured, into the heavy silence a few moments later, watching the almost-invisible thrum of tension through his companion's frame. Not moving. Not just yet. Save that threat for a little later. "Do your subordinates ... often greet you with a kiss?"
Carthian turned his head to look at him, otherwise motionless, flashing Spindle a small and somewhat weary smile. "Well, Brist has never suffered overmuch from a sense of decorum. Or, really, much of a sense of anything. But to answer the question you're actually asking ... Yes. He is an old lover." A crinkle about his eyes, that creased grin. "Or, should I say, a young, and brief, lover, who has long since left for greener and less wizened pastures."
"Then you are ...?" Spindle asked, slowly, the implication heavy.
"Obviously so," the man answered. Lightly, just for contrast. But not unaware.
... There was silence, for a moment. Spindle left it, content for now to watch the man, the line of his shoulders, still loose and easy. To see ... if silence should weigh on him, and break that calm readiness. To see if knowledge of the threat of Spindle's reaction should nudge some shiver of fear from him.
Carthian, for his part, simply watched him back, green eyes clear as glass, and a small smile on his lips. Spindle ... almost admired that. Just a little.
"And your gods?" he asked, very quietly. Allowing himself to prowl forward a little, footfalls light as air. Enjoying, briefly, the threat of it, for all his prey didn't react. "How do they feel about this?"
The War Servant raised his eyebrows, appearing mildly amused, as if the question had no bearing at all. Spindle enjoyed that. Oh, he did. "Well," Carthian answered, "Jaelmud and Telmat aren't fond of the thought, but then I don't serve them. Not directly, anyway. And the Lady Malat, of course, has been courting The Sobrona for the past two hundred years. Difficult to decry something when one of your most powerful allies engages in it, isn't it?" Then he smiled, rather more cynically, and shrugged. "At least openly, that is."
Spindle smiled, at that. A glitter of metallic teeth. "And your god," he pressed, stalking closer. Looming close.
Carthian let his eyebrows beetle down, a frown, as if to ask why it concerned him. But he answered readily enough, and without fear. "The Danfar has never raised the matter with me one way or another," he said, frankly. "If it matters to him at all, I suspect he has chalked it up to a necessary price for dealing with me in the first place."
That ... Spindle laughed, briefly, at that. Just for that answer. "A tolerant god indeed," he murmured, wondering briefly if the Danfar had sent him this, of all humans, to see which of them should eke an uncontrolled reaction from the other first. He was beginning to suspect that among the 'prices' for dealing with this man, as Carthian put it, was a certain degree of frustrated annoyance, be you god, demon or man.
It was probably why, despite himself, Spindle somewhat liked him.
"Hmm," Carthian agreed, mildly. Tilting his head back to smile up at Spindle, still propped casually against the desk. "And you?" A vague smile, to disguise the fact that he had tensed, just slightly, the canted boot pressed back against the leg of the desk to better propel the man in his lunge. Should he need it to. Neither fear nor much distrust was showing. Simply ... a waiting readiness for any eventuality. Marvellous. "Does it trouble you?"
Spindle tilted his head, licking his lips absently. Did it? Did it trouble him? He could see why it would be thought. All those he had lost, to his father's cruelty, all those he had loved, had been female, or friend only. He could see ... why it might be thought. Oh yes.
"And if it did?" he asked, with a gleam of teeth, and the shifting of a silver arm. Just to watch the stillness become absolute, and the glass-green eyes become serene. Just for that.
"Then that would be a pity," Carthian murmured, eyes fixed to Spindle's and nothing, absolutely nothing, in his expression. "And here I had thought you almost didn't dislike me." A grin, just the edge of teeth, tension perfectly leashed, and Spindle thought, suddenly, how many of his kind must have seen it, seen this, just before the end, just before the man struck. How many demons, and dark-servants, and the odd black mage, might have looked into glass-green eyes, and not seen the knife coming, for the stillness of the man.
"I don't," he said, into that bladed stillness, into the knife-edge behind the man's eyes. Carthian ... blinked. Only once. Uncertain, but not unready. Spindle grinned, then. Real and without threat, standing back a little. "Dislike you. I don't."
And there, just there. A vague frown, beneath the mildness of the expression. A little confusion in that so-confident gaze. Hah. Yes. Oh yes. He did like this man. But, he thought, he was also in agreement with the Danfar. Someone must startle something from him, at least once in a while, or there could be no enduring him. None at all.
"That is ... good?" Carthian said, slowly, not quite disguising the question in it. He was still poised, still ready. A wise distrust, maybe. Or possibly simply habit. "I aim to please, my lord demon." Hah! "But it does not ... quite answer my question?"
Still so wary, and not unconcerned. Spindle had heard that the War Servants were more ... tolerant, of such things, out of sheer pragmatism if nothing else - secrets were more deadly than any dislike, when your enemies sought to set you upon each other, so they endeavoured to have none. But it was obvious Carthian was not unused to defending himself because of it.
Or, perhaps, that Carthian was simply not unused to defending himself against demons, whose reasons for assault could be most anything, and it was Spindlebone himself he feared, not the mistrust and violence towards his nature. Either way, though.
"I am not troubled," Spindle said quietly. A small assurance, one he could well afford. For pragmatism's sake, if nothing else. And he did, he truly did, like the man. Mild as milk, and so very deadly. The oldest War Servant yet standing. Oh yes. He did like Carthian. But, as he said. The man deserved the occasional perturbation. Nothing serious, but ... "Though ... if you would permit a question?"
And now, there was visible wariness. Not for his life, for which the man seemed to feel little to no fear at all. But for ... something else. Something not yet discovered. Spindle repressed a smile.
"You said yon mage left you for 'greener pastures'," he noted, tilting his head and letting prurient curiosity filter into his tone. Prurient, but genuine. Forty-eight was no age at all, even for humans. And though weathered, the man was far from 'wizened', with only a feathering of grey through russet hair, and no sign of a failing body. He would not last long as a warrior, against the things he fought, if there were. "You are not so old as that."
A little disappointingly, the wariness disappeared, at that. Though the wry amusement that filtered in to replace it, with just a faint touch of bitterness, maybe a little resignation, was certainly interesting enough itself.
"I'm a War Servant," Carthian explained, with a dark little twist of his mouth. "We don't live past forty, remember? And I ... I am eight years overdue my death at the hands of darkness." A faint little smile. "More, really, if you count from when I first fought. I was a little younger than most." He looked up at Spindle, then. Bright humour in calm eyes, clear and unadorned. "There will only be so much longer I may dodge fate, and no partner I might take who would not know it. So. Do you blame them, for seeking greener, and less dangerous, pastures?"
Spindlebone tilted his head, looking down at him. At ease, for now, but always only a moment from that calm, deadly stillness. Always only a moment from the blade. "And yet," he said softly. Musingly. "You do not seem resigned to death."
Carthian laughed. Rough and amused, and with that so tantilising edge of darkness. "Oh, no indeed," he grinned, standing suddenly, fluidly, tapping lightly at his hip. One weapon. The most visible, at least. "No, sir demon, not just yet." Watching him warily, laughingly, dangerously. "Whoever wants me can see how far they get, never fear." And then, a long, slow darkening, something grim slipping forward. "And, to that end ..."
Spindle smiled darkly in echo. "He did not look back," he murmured softly, delighted, in that part of him so used to treachery, that the man had noticed. "None who knows of me would expect me to react differently. And he did not look back."
Carthian nodded. Sighed, as though terribly disappointed. "Brist's band is marching guard on Alest's war-battery. Heading for the High Plains, and some of the more critical engagements. Even if he did not succeed in placing me, personally, in danger ..." A small smile for Spindle then, nodded acknowledgement. "Well. At least not for the moment ..."
"Treachery from that quarter might still cost far too much," Spindle finished, nodding. "You know you have no proof?" A depreciating grin of his own. "Only the agreement of a demon that it is likely. That will not get you very far."
Carthian smiled at him, and it promised such danger, Spindle could not help but delight. "Well, I promised Alest an inspection. How about we start from there, and ... see what happens."
Spindle grinned, tapping his weapon hand against his thigh, and followed the man out of the tent.
Hmm. Yes. How about, indeed.
