[Fire Emblem 11] The Golden Mean
Mar. 8th, 2010 05:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
runicloreTitle: The Golden Mean
Author: Amber Michelle
Challenge: #003: yield
Game: 11: Shadow Dragon
Word Count: 790
Pairings/Characters: Horace
Warnings: this is a first draft!
Notes: too bad interaction with Camus is outside the scope of this ficbit. That could be interesting.
Also, seriously. I just finished this.
.........................................................................................
"Deil holds this side of the battlefield, Lord Horace." His agent, a man named Joel, knelt in the tall grass and spoke to the ground. "Menedy has regrouped to the west and hopes to intercept the Macedonian units before they leave the Gauntlet. Two thousand Lefcandy deserters have rallied under his banner."
Horace motioned for him to get up. His bannerman grasped Joel's shoulder and pulled him to his feet. "You heard this directly from the marquess?" Sweat streaked down from Horace's temple, soaked into his collar. Two thousand dead men wouldn't make a difference against half the Macedonian army.
"And confirmed it with my own eyes before leaving. 'I leave Pales to you,' were his last words."
Horace examined the bare blue sky and the small point of the sun overhead, hotter and heavier than a pinprick of light should be, twisting the reins into a mitten around his fingers. He'd hoped to be too late; the last he heard, the forest was burning and the Sable Order had taken the field like a swarm of locusts, while Dolhr promised reinforcements: dragons, with fire to raze fields, lightning to rend cities asunder. Horace tightened his grip on the haft of his spear, heard the leather of his gauntlet creak. Moisture trickled from the crook of his elbow.
They would crest two more hills before bearing down on the capitol; a deep breath brought the scents of smoke and char, the taste of ash - it was a wonder the sun didn't still burn red. "Take this news back to Dejanira and find yourself a hot meal and a bed. Aaron?"
"Sir." His bannerman climbed into his saddle, armor scraping, clanking, glinting in the sun. Their agent led his horse away. "Everyone signals ready."
Horace let the reins loosen and loop around his hand, righted them. Augustine shook out his mane, set the harness jingling. "Duke Cartas was injured during the famine, when putting down an uprising. Do you know the story?" Silence met his question. The banner flapped and snapped outward in a gust of air that ruffled Horace's hair, then vanished the next instant. "He took a spear through the shoulder rather than harm his own citizens. I learned in the practice yard that it never healed properly and took merciless advantage of him - force Cartas to draw his sword, and he is as good as finished."
He looked back, raised his hand, and gave the signal to move forward, nudging Augustine to a walk. They trampled the grass, kicked up black soil. The first of the Millennium Palace's slender minarets came into view as he ascended.
"My lord--" Aaron broke from his assigned position, his mount lurching forward. "Duke Cartas... sir, you've never bested his lance."
That was true. Horace had hoped earning that victory would be an occasion to celebrate-- with Cartas, over a glass of sparkling gold wine. "Make sure he draws his sword."
"But sir--"
At the crest of the first hill the valley spread out below him, brown, dirty, smudged by smoke and the black of Grust's force clashing against the silver of Archanea's defenders. He wanted to pause and watch, let the wave of ambient sound crash against him, wait for the turn of fortune to his mother country-- the turn that would never come. The King's arrogance left us friendless before the Shadow Dragon's forces. Lang's sneer, Lang's fingers in his hair, claws digging into his scalp and pulling his head back. If you want your townships to see the end of this, and Horace thought of Kandia, Messina - Elatria, where his mother was born. He knew what Aaron wanted to say: if you chose to turn our lances against Dolhr, we will follow you, even if their families paid the price.
They could ride halfway across the plain without changing course, and still turn in time to strike Grust's flank. It would not be ideal, but it could be done - and soon as the enemy sent word of his betrayal, all of Gaeta would be burned to the ground.
"You heard me." The field disappeared behind the slope of the last hill, and Horace closed his eyes. One could imagine the armies gone, the plain empty, and the shadow in the western sky gone. He braced his lance and leaned forward. The farmers of Kandia didn't offer their fields for burning; the elder of Messina wouldn't throw his family upon Dolhr spears. Horace would not do so either. "Today the land will drink Cartas's blood. Now be silent and ride!"
.................................................................................
This took me three hours. THREE HOURS. And there are problems. I don't know why I decided to try for the deadline. This being my first attempt at Horace (which I keep wanting to spell 'Horus'), it is probably inadequate and pathetic.
I'm not very happy with my work lately, though. It's time to crack open the textbook again.
Also, wow, it's hailing outside. It almost looks like snow, it's coming down so hard. >_>
ETA 03.10.10 - minor tweaks to sentence structure in a few places, but no major changes were made.
Author: Amber Michelle
Challenge: #003: yield
Game: 11: Shadow Dragon
Word Count: 790
Pairings/Characters: Horace
Warnings: this is a first draft!
Notes: too bad interaction with Camus is outside the scope of this ficbit. That could be interesting.
Also, seriously. I just finished this.
.........................................................................................
"Deil holds this side of the battlefield, Lord Horace." His agent, a man named Joel, knelt in the tall grass and spoke to the ground. "Menedy has regrouped to the west and hopes to intercept the Macedonian units before they leave the Gauntlet. Two thousand Lefcandy deserters have rallied under his banner."
Horace motioned for him to get up. His bannerman grasped Joel's shoulder and pulled him to his feet. "You heard this directly from the marquess?" Sweat streaked down from Horace's temple, soaked into his collar. Two thousand dead men wouldn't make a difference against half the Macedonian army.
"And confirmed it with my own eyes before leaving. 'I leave Pales to you,' were his last words."
Horace examined the bare blue sky and the small point of the sun overhead, hotter and heavier than a pinprick of light should be, twisting the reins into a mitten around his fingers. He'd hoped to be too late; the last he heard, the forest was burning and the Sable Order had taken the field like a swarm of locusts, while Dolhr promised reinforcements: dragons, with fire to raze fields, lightning to rend cities asunder. Horace tightened his grip on the haft of his spear, heard the leather of his gauntlet creak. Moisture trickled from the crook of his elbow.
They would crest two more hills before bearing down on the capitol; a deep breath brought the scents of smoke and char, the taste of ash - it was a wonder the sun didn't still burn red. "Take this news back to Dejanira and find yourself a hot meal and a bed. Aaron?"
"Sir." His bannerman climbed into his saddle, armor scraping, clanking, glinting in the sun. Their agent led his horse away. "Everyone signals ready."
Horace let the reins loosen and loop around his hand, righted them. Augustine shook out his mane, set the harness jingling. "Duke Cartas was injured during the famine, when putting down an uprising. Do you know the story?" Silence met his question. The banner flapped and snapped outward in a gust of air that ruffled Horace's hair, then vanished the next instant. "He took a spear through the shoulder rather than harm his own citizens. I learned in the practice yard that it never healed properly and took merciless advantage of him - force Cartas to draw his sword, and he is as good as finished."
He looked back, raised his hand, and gave the signal to move forward, nudging Augustine to a walk. They trampled the grass, kicked up black soil. The first of the Millennium Palace's slender minarets came into view as he ascended.
"My lord--" Aaron broke from his assigned position, his mount lurching forward. "Duke Cartas... sir, you've never bested his lance."
That was true. Horace had hoped earning that victory would be an occasion to celebrate-- with Cartas, over a glass of sparkling gold wine. "Make sure he draws his sword."
"But sir--"
At the crest of the first hill the valley spread out below him, brown, dirty, smudged by smoke and the black of Grust's force clashing against the silver of Archanea's defenders. He wanted to pause and watch, let the wave of ambient sound crash against him, wait for the turn of fortune to his mother country-- the turn that would never come. The King's arrogance left us friendless before the Shadow Dragon's forces. Lang's sneer, Lang's fingers in his hair, claws digging into his scalp and pulling his head back. If you want your townships to see the end of this, and Horace thought of Kandia, Messina - Elatria, where his mother was born. He knew what Aaron wanted to say: if you chose to turn our lances against Dolhr, we will follow you, even if their families paid the price.
They could ride halfway across the plain without changing course, and still turn in time to strike Grust's flank. It would not be ideal, but it could be done - and soon as the enemy sent word of his betrayal, all of Gaeta would be burned to the ground.
"You heard me." The field disappeared behind the slope of the last hill, and Horace closed his eyes. One could imagine the armies gone, the plain empty, and the shadow in the western sky gone. He braced his lance and leaned forward. The farmers of Kandia didn't offer their fields for burning; the elder of Messina wouldn't throw his family upon Dolhr spears. Horace would not do so either. "Today the land will drink Cartas's blood. Now be silent and ride!"
.................................................................................
This took me three hours. THREE HOURS. And there are problems. I don't know why I decided to try for the deadline. This being my first attempt at Horace (which I keep wanting to spell 'Horus'), it is probably inadequate and pathetic.
I'm not very happy with my work lately, though. It's time to crack open the textbook again.
Also, wow, it's hailing outside. It almost looks like snow, it's coming down so hard. >_>
ETA 03.10.10 - minor tweaks to sentence structure in a few places, but no major changes were made.
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no subject
Date: 2010-03-12 03:53 am (UTC)He could suck, though. That would break my heart.
Thank you. XD