tu_vas_triompher | (no subject)

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hotspur

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It turns out that you can't actually just lie around in the grass forever; for one thing, bugs start biting you, and other residents come strolling by or want to visit the stable, and the day wears on. So Feuilly had gone to his work--belatedly--and Harry had gone about whatever Harry does--presumably horse things? Knight things?

And Feuilly had set himself to start his painting and his translation work an hour earlier the next morning. He'd fit more hours into the day if he could, but until Joly or Combeferre discovers something along those lines, he'll just sleep less! It's a workable plan!

So Feuilly has circles under his eyes as well as bruises under his shirt when he wanders to the stable in the late afternoon. With his practice sword! With his practice sword held rather awkwardly, because he's not sure if he and Percy actually have a...scheduled...arrangement to meet...? But, you know, he's just. Wandering over to the stables. With a sword.

Like you do.

Well, also a basket of food. He'd been hungry after their training session.

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After a morning endeavoring to socialize in the bar, Percy did indeed retreat to the stables, where everything just makes that little bit more sense. He's out giving Duncan a turn around the paddock, but when he spies Feuilly approaching, he guides him over towards the fence and dismounts.

By the time Feuilly is close enough to greet, Hotspur is perched on the fence, feeding Duncan some bits of apple (so, you know, looking casual and not over-eager at all).

Feuilly brightens a little and hurries over. "I brought a carrot for him!"

That's also a thing people do, right?

"Thou'rt well spoiled," Percy says to Duncan with a grin. "How dost thou? Thou look'st tired."

"Oh--" He waves this off, going predictably pink at the ears. "No, no, I'm not tired-- hullo, Duncan, hullo." Feuilly has the carrot out already for him, and it's true, Duncan is getting spoiled.

Duncan is of course more than happy to see anyone who is bringing food. He's a gentle sort of soul (not the type Hotspur would choose for himself, unsurprisingly, but what can you do) and when the carrot is gone he gently nibbles at Feuilly's hand with his lips.

"Art well, then?" Hotspur asks, watching this.

Feuilly looks over at him sideways, around the curve of Duncan's long nose, and smiles ruefully. "Sore," he admits. "And not just bruises. That sword is a little heavier than a paintbrush."

"O! I have a salve, if thou wouldst like to try it." He gestures back forwards the stable. "I was all this morning up in the bar. I confess I know not if it will aid thy arm," he adds. "'Tis a feeling I remember well, I promise thee."

Edited 2015-07-01 00:08 (UTC)

"Oh! Well--yes--thanks. I'd like to try it. --I mean, I'm not too tired to, to practice. If you'd like to--"

Truly he had a cunning and well-thought plan, coming out here.

"I would like it well," he says at once. He climbs down from the fence (a bit gingerly still) and says, "Let me but see this fellow fed and watered-- it will be but a moment."

Feuily nod-nod-nods; he'd offer to help, but Percy can very likely do it faster and better alone. And Feuilly could use a few minutes to stretch and swing the practice sword around without anyone looking, to see if he can find the right grip again.

Percy and Duncan make for the stables, then, and when Harry returns alone a few minutes later, he tosses a little jar of salve to Feuilly in lieu of a greeting.

He'd managed to hear Hotspur coming and put the sword down casually, and he catches the jar without dropping it. Feuilly is doing well!

He opens the jar and gives it a curious sniff. Herbs? That's not so bad. "From someone at the bar?"

Good job, Feuilly!

"Ay, from Athelstan. Thou know'st him, I think. He said, oh sure, good Percy, thou know'st what such a salve is made of, and I did nod and say ay-- but in truth, I know not." He grins.

Sooner or later he's going to miss a throw or something like that and reveal that he really is just a useless indoorsy tradesman--

oh, right, back to denial and earnest hope!

He gives the salve anther sniff, and pronounces "Herbs," with a solemn face. "--Oh, of course, Athelstan is from your part of the country. Or he was. I know him." And because Feuilly is now feeling really quite guilty about his discomfort with the Viking raids (and really what's he doing any better, lurking around warlike English peers with swords), he makes sure to add, "He's a good man."

"He is! My countryman, after a fashion," he agrees. "And a good man-- and passing patient, too. I spoke ill of his lord, I fear, and he bore it with greater patience than I would do."

Feuilly pushes a hand through his hair. "Yes--Athelstan is very loyal to him-- Have you met Ragnar Lothbrok? He's a very intelligent man--"

He should probably just stop talking. "Was it very busy at the bar?" he finishes, somewhat clumsily.

"We had some brief talk," he says. Hotspur seems equally content to leave the topic-- and the troubling thoughts his conversation with Athelstan raised-- behind.

"'Twas fair busy," he says with a nod. "Some I had seen before, and others I had not. How passed you the morning?"

"Oh, I was up early working. Painting--translating." He's about to move away from the topic, which he doubts interests Hotspur in the slightest, but--no, you know what, that's a little too self-effacing. Feuilly sets his chin stubbornly and unconsciously. "I've started painting the leaf for the fan I want to enter in the fair. It's a painting of a, a world where some of the people who come here live--Fawkes, and Ellen Park. Everything in their world was destroyed but now they're building again."

"Ellen Park! I have met her just today, she told me of this," he cries. "I can scarce imagine it-- war as I know it can waste a castle or a field, but a country?"

He straightens a little, still without quite being conscious of his momentary tension. "Yes! I've seen their world myself and even--even having seen it, I can hardly believe. Think of, of London, razed to the ground, just the bones of some buildings and bridges remaining. And then sitting untouched a hundred years. But--they are building a school now--they have little towns--they are trying to bring back some order and justice--"

"And thou-- thou wilt--" He makes a vague gesture that is possibly meant to imitate a brush stroke. "Thou wilt paint what thou didst see there?"

Look, he's trying!

He is trying! He's trying, and Feuilly feels weirdly pleased about it, and he nods extra earnestly. "I want to show--um. The way that--there were little things starting to grow there, the, the world trying to fix what was wrong. And the people were doing the same. I thought after the fair maybe I'd--I don't know. Give it to them or something--"

So much blushing. He fidgets in the direction of the practice sword.

Harry laughs and gives Feuilly's shoulder a Very Manly smack. "Thou'rt blushing like a maiden! 'Tis a goodly gift, methinks they will like it well."

Feuilly laughs ruefully and goes redder. He can't help it! His complexion just--does that.

"Well. I hope so. Anyway. Should we--" Swords? "Might as well get more bruised before I try that, that salve."

He grins and nods. "A worthy plan. Come-- show me what thou dost remember."