The Captain and the Boy [September 3010] [Meludir]
Dec 27, 2018 17:08:21 GMT -5
Post by Ceolmund on Dec 27, 2018 17:08:21 GMT -5
The pumpkin pie had been the lightest and fluffiest thing that Ceolmund had ever consumed. After his fourth slice he would not have even been able to eat the supper Runa had offered to prepare, letting the warmth of hot pumpkin lull him nearly to sleep in his chair. Runa had shown Mel to his bed, and by the time she had returned, Ceolmund had crawled into their own bed and drifted off to sleep.
The morning had been even better. Mel had been up from before any, and had breakfast cooking on the stove. Ceolmund wondered if the lad had slept at all, though he was so bright eyed and singing that it was impossible to believe he had not. Even Runa had seemed amazed when she had insisted upon checking the wound at Mel’s side, to find the stitches had done such great work that the injury was nearly healed; whereas Ceolmund’s stitching upon his hand looked as one would expect a day-old injury to appear. The man was dragging a bit in the morning after the adventure of the day before, and Mel’s energy was almost unbearable, that was, until Mel had taken a bottle from the satchel which had been upon his horse and poured what he had called a “pick me up” of sorts into Ceolmund’s tea. The liquid was colorless, as sweet as mead, but gave none of the same dizzying affect once consumed. Only an invigoration.
It was then that Ceolmund could not be stilled, and despite Runa’s protest that he let his hand rest, the man felt in such fine spirits that it had not taken much of anything for Mel to convince him to head down to the training grounds. Even his hand felt better, and seemed healthier as he had taken down some of his favorite weapons from the wall, both for himself, and for Mel to use. “The boy will be setting back to the wilds, Runa. The training would see him safe,” Ceolmund had merely said, though he felt the heat of blood and energy running through his veins, he could have been Mel’s age, fifteen years himself, never hardened to the experiences of battle, for the fine mood and health he seemed in. It was only the physical scars upon Ceolmund which let him know that he was indeed not dreaming.
Now they stood outside the armory near the edge of the training grounds, and the Captain cast out a hand toward the dusty fenced in ring. “This is where I trained, from when I was ten until I joined the Eored,” Ceolmund told the lad. Other boys his age were practicing on the earth within the fences, and not far off some pells. “This ring has seen some of the best swordsmen in Arda, I should think, and we all start here. You’re better than these already. What age do they start training you in the north?” Ceolmund asked.
The morning had been even better. Mel had been up from before any, and had breakfast cooking on the stove. Ceolmund wondered if the lad had slept at all, though he was so bright eyed and singing that it was impossible to believe he had not. Even Runa had seemed amazed when she had insisted upon checking the wound at Mel’s side, to find the stitches had done such great work that the injury was nearly healed; whereas Ceolmund’s stitching upon his hand looked as one would expect a day-old injury to appear. The man was dragging a bit in the morning after the adventure of the day before, and Mel’s energy was almost unbearable, that was, until Mel had taken a bottle from the satchel which had been upon his horse and poured what he had called a “pick me up” of sorts into Ceolmund’s tea. The liquid was colorless, as sweet as mead, but gave none of the same dizzying affect once consumed. Only an invigoration.
It was then that Ceolmund could not be stilled, and despite Runa’s protest that he let his hand rest, the man felt in such fine spirits that it had not taken much of anything for Mel to convince him to head down to the training grounds. Even his hand felt better, and seemed healthier as he had taken down some of his favorite weapons from the wall, both for himself, and for Mel to use. “The boy will be setting back to the wilds, Runa. The training would see him safe,” Ceolmund had merely said, though he felt the heat of blood and energy running through his veins, he could have been Mel’s age, fifteen years himself, never hardened to the experiences of battle, for the fine mood and health he seemed in. It was only the physical scars upon Ceolmund which let him know that he was indeed not dreaming.
Now they stood outside the armory near the edge of the training grounds, and the Captain cast out a hand toward the dusty fenced in ring. “This is where I trained, from when I was ten until I joined the Eored,” Ceolmund told the lad. Other boys his age were practicing on the earth within the fences, and not far off some pells. “This ring has seen some of the best swordsmen in Arda, I should think, and we all start here. You’re better than these already. What age do they start training you in the north?” Ceolmund asked.