Reflections
a scene study
He held the edges of the stone water font, fingers wrapping on the edges, his lies laid bare. She told him not to ride out, told him there were others younger, better, and his wisdom was needed within their halls.
Sir Guilamme Dondalo called his loving wife, mother of three strong sons, two of which sallied forth with him against the woodland rebels, a fool. His sons disagreed with her as young sons do.
Together they’d strike their foe’s camp tomorrow, sworn knights all platted and ready to die for their homes threatened by these brigands.
He had thought himself ready, but there it was–from just below his earlobe to his chin, a vein of gray ran prominently through his black beard. In the reflection, his eyes appeared gaunt, hollow. It was false. All false. Guilamme dunked a goblet into the water, drank once, and splashed the rest over his head. The surface of the water resolved into the same reflection.
Despite the hour, he drew his sword and held the polished steel before his face. For good measure, he sharpened the edge again. His new squire kept the weapon in excellent order, but there was something divine about sharpening the weapon himself on the eve of battle. The routine kept him safe long before he had a squire, and it felt foolish to change it now.
Sleep evaded him, and he flowed into some practice stances. Even without armor, the most basic poses strained his knees. A stickiness fought his muscles, from the base of his skull, through his shoulder, and into the hand near the pommel tingling with numbness. None of it prevented the motions, but by the end of a short routine Guliamme sat winded.
He sheathed his sword and wondered foolishly if it should stay sheathed.
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A/N:
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About the Creator
Matthew J. Fromm
Full-time nerd, history enthusiast, and proprietor of arcane knowledge.
Here there be dragons, knights, castles, and quests (plus the occasional dose of absurdity).
I can be reached at [email protected]
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