Adventure Time! (September 3010) Ceolmund
Apr 30, 2018 15:47:10 GMT -5
Post by Runa on Apr 30, 2018 15:47:10 GMT -5
Ceolmund’s hand dropped to press against her stomach; the motion itself was familiar to Runa, and she sighed. She had, at first, been uncomfortable with drawing attention to her state, for there were a few in the city who thought the child had come to her in a way that should have brought with it shame.
Ceolmund, though, had been doggedly devoted to showering her with attention, and Runa had grown to cherish his affections—though, perhaps happier when they were alone for them.
“Mel.”
“Well, we all know that wife of yours is the only one that can work on you, boy.”
“Oda will take care of you.”
Runa breathed a long, string of breath. Now that she was settled, she could once more feel the way her lungs were restrained. She reached, taking hold of the hand that Ceolmund had pressed against her belly. “Don’t bleed on our baby. Come on,” she murmured to him, leading him slowly to an empty bed to work. The cut did not look too bad; it would be a small set of stitches, it was certain.
At least the other women were leaving her alone now.
She moved as well as she could, gathering the things she needed to begin to ready for the stitching. Rummaging through the side table was difficult, though, for her belly kept bumping the drawer closed as she straightened to set things on the bed.
“I have never seen the likes of it. Runa, she flipped off a horse. I do not mean to say she fell. She flipped… like the acrobats, who come through on occasion for the festivals. Knife in hand, and she slayed more orc than I myself...I have never seen a thing like that.”
“What?” Runa repeated, turning to frown at her husband, then to look across the hall toward Mel who was sitting now behind a drawn curtain. “Like an acrobat…”
And here she was, barely able to walk. She paused, rubbing a circle against her side in thought before drawing once more a deep breath and continuing her preparations. The needle she drew through the flame of the candle by the bed, looking to her husband over her shoulder. “Her accent is strange,” she observed. “Where is she from? I thought we were considered the finest of horsemen.”
The needle, now sterilized, was set aside for use in a moment, and Runa reached to take hold of the cleaning cloth before moving slowly back and taking hold of Ceolmund’s hand.
There was something about Ceolmund’s tone in speaking of the shield maiden—the acrobat—across the hall that sparked something in her breast she had not felt for a while. Jealousy. “Flipped off a horse…I wonder if I could learn that,” she grumbled to herself.
--
“Stitches?! Do you think it’s that bad? Will it hurt?”
Oda scoffed, tossing a cool eye toward Mel as she motioned for him to sit. Ceolmund may have thought the person he brought a woman, but Oda knew better. “You mean to tell me, boy, you have a penchant for trouble and never needed a stitch?” She drew the curtain, and motioned to the cot for him to sit. “Off with that tunic of yours—I’ll grab my things, and we’ll see what we’ve got.”
She moved, a waddle of her own in her step, to gather in hand some supplies for cleaning and tending a wound. “Whole Hall heard that boy’s wife about the orc,” the matron offered in a low grumble as she moved once more toward Mel. “You been poisoned before, boy?” If he had never had stitches, perhaps the young one had not encountered orcs before either.
“Let’s see what we have, then,” the matron mumbled, leaning in close. Her chubby, taciturn face bent at the brow and firm fingers pressed and pushed against the skin around the wound. “Hmm. Looks like I’m going to need a needle. Your lucky day, hm? Now. Hold still, boy.” She turned and took up a silver-toned gleaming metal needle, and ran it quickly through the fire of the candle wick beside the bed.
Ceolmund, though, had been doggedly devoted to showering her with attention, and Runa had grown to cherish his affections—though, perhaps happier when they were alone for them.
“Mel.”
“Well, we all know that wife of yours is the only one that can work on you, boy.”
“Oda will take care of you.”
Runa breathed a long, string of breath. Now that she was settled, she could once more feel the way her lungs were restrained. She reached, taking hold of the hand that Ceolmund had pressed against her belly. “Don’t bleed on our baby. Come on,” she murmured to him, leading him slowly to an empty bed to work. The cut did not look too bad; it would be a small set of stitches, it was certain.
At least the other women were leaving her alone now.
She moved as well as she could, gathering the things she needed to begin to ready for the stitching. Rummaging through the side table was difficult, though, for her belly kept bumping the drawer closed as she straightened to set things on the bed.
“I have never seen the likes of it. Runa, she flipped off a horse. I do not mean to say she fell. She flipped… like the acrobats, who come through on occasion for the festivals. Knife in hand, and she slayed more orc than I myself...I have never seen a thing like that.”
“What?” Runa repeated, turning to frown at her husband, then to look across the hall toward Mel who was sitting now behind a drawn curtain. “Like an acrobat…”
And here she was, barely able to walk. She paused, rubbing a circle against her side in thought before drawing once more a deep breath and continuing her preparations. The needle she drew through the flame of the candle by the bed, looking to her husband over her shoulder. “Her accent is strange,” she observed. “Where is she from? I thought we were considered the finest of horsemen.”
The needle, now sterilized, was set aside for use in a moment, and Runa reached to take hold of the cleaning cloth before moving slowly back and taking hold of Ceolmund’s hand.
There was something about Ceolmund’s tone in speaking of the shield maiden—the acrobat—across the hall that sparked something in her breast she had not felt for a while. Jealousy. “Flipped off a horse…I wonder if I could learn that,” she grumbled to herself.
--
“Stitches?! Do you think it’s that bad? Will it hurt?”
Oda scoffed, tossing a cool eye toward Mel as she motioned for him to sit. Ceolmund may have thought the person he brought a woman, but Oda knew better. “You mean to tell me, boy, you have a penchant for trouble and never needed a stitch?” She drew the curtain, and motioned to the cot for him to sit. “Off with that tunic of yours—I’ll grab my things, and we’ll see what we’ve got.”
She moved, a waddle of her own in her step, to gather in hand some supplies for cleaning and tending a wound. “Whole Hall heard that boy’s wife about the orc,” the matron offered in a low grumble as she moved once more toward Mel. “You been poisoned before, boy?” If he had never had stitches, perhaps the young one had not encountered orcs before either.
“Let’s see what we have, then,” the matron mumbled, leaning in close. Her chubby, taciturn face bent at the brow and firm fingers pressed and pushed against the skin around the wound. “Hmm. Looks like I’m going to need a needle. Your lucky day, hm? Now. Hold still, boy.” She turned and took up a silver-toned gleaming metal needle, and ran it quickly through the fire of the candle wick beside the bed.