In the Tent

Random story-piece, not connected to anything else. Just written using characters I've created.

Rhye pressed a white cloth to the wound with more force than she had intended. Gareth flinched.

“Rhye . . .”

“I know. I know.” She muttered, frustrated. She let the cloth lie on its own atop his chest and instead reached for the thinner strips of cloth to bind it with. “Foolish man. I should have expected you would try getting yourself killed.”

He raised an eyebrow.

Rhye ignored him. Of course he hadn’t tried to get himself killed, but she couldn’t keep herself from saying so. More delicately this time, she pressed a long strip of cloth to his chest and worked tenuously to wind it around his waist. He only winced the first time. Under his back and over. Under and over. Every time she passed the cloth under his back, he grew visibly tense and his muscles strained to hold himself up. At last, she wound the final section of cloth under him and over, and tucked it neatly and tightly beneath the others. Then she took a deep, slow breath.

With a grunt, he pushed himself up into a sitting position.

“Thank you.” He nodded.

Rhye fell back onto the stool behind her.

“You’re exhausted.” He said, a faint concern appearing on his face.

“I’m not the one with the hole in my stomach.” She answered him, rising to her feet. Heaven, but she did want to lie down.

Gareth only smiled. “True.”

He had agreed with her at least, and Rhye was much too tired to argue back, neither did she entirely want to. Women always seemed to want the last say in everything"not at all excluding herself"but trying to attain it was, she decided then, overly tedious. Even if he had disagreed with her just then, she thought she would leave it alone.

Her eyes kept drooping against her will, trying to close themselves and shut her off from the world while she fought viciously against them. Sleep was a luxury only the wealthiest could afford, especially in times of war, when the less fortunate scratched and clawed like rabid dogs after a juicy feast in order to keep the wealthy safe and warm in their bedchambers, where they lay in feather beds under sheets of linen and blankets of fir and silk, resting their heads on luxurious down pillows and ignoring the world beyond their posh bed curtains.

The stray dogs on the street could cease to exist for all the nobles cared, never guessing that if they did indeed cease to exist, the world would fall right atop themselves and all their grandeur. It was those dogs"the poor, starving men who fought every day with hardly a bite to eat, a ladle of soup, an end of bread"who held the world on their shoulders. If any of them lived through their tormenting battles, they should be the ones resting blissfully in high rooms with glass windows that gazed out at the golden sunrise.

Rhye was indeed glad to be included in the non-noble lot, though she could not say she was proud. She felt no sense of pride, or patriotism, towards anything, but she rejoiced that she had not been born of noble blood. Slowly however, she thought she was beginning to understand that a person could not be judged by the amount of wealth they held, but rather by what they did with it.

She stopped tidying up the tent"an action she had begun involuntarily"and glanced over her shoulder at Gareth He watched her with still and kindly eyes. He was a lord, with a grand estate and many servants, and yet here he was, lying in bed from a ghastly wound that had nearly killed him while he was fighting in the dirt and sweat of the common people. His men looked up to him, Rhye realized, not because he was a lord or because he was wealthy, and not because he was not a lord or because he was not wealthy, but because of his character.

The thought tugged another one into her mind behind it. War and tragedy made people equals. The poor, the rich, the humble, the proud, the illiterate, the educated, the wise and the foolish"all found themselves standing together on common ground. Perhaps military intellect or talent in swordplay would place a man in a higher position than another, but each and every person, with the coming of war, suddenly shared something with everyone else. In a way, though a hideous one, she supposed it brought people together.

She looked down. In front of her on a small table was a bottle of ointment and the pile of unused bandages; apparently she had moved them. Leaving them there, she turned to Gareth.

“You should stay in bed.” She told him.

“My men need me.” He said, “I’ll be out tomorrow.”

“No. You"“

“We are in the middle of a battle, Rhye.” He interrupted, without raising his voice. There was something about him when he used that quiet, commanding tone. It made her shiver.

Nonetheless, he could not get back to leading his men tomorrow, unless he wanted to do so from his bed.

“I said no. Or else I’ll be the next one to stab you in the chest.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but Rhye went on, and he closed it politely and waited. “I’ll have men report to you at intervals throughout the day.” She said, “And I will have paper brought to you, and your maps. And anything else you might need.”

The man finally nodded, thank Heaven. She hadn’t wanted to argue. “As you wish, Rhye.” As he settled down into a more comfortable position, she picked up her belongings with care and ducked out of the tent into the sweltering heat.

Reviews

[Wolfhilde]

I like your story! I like the way the male character thinks, and you as well know hers. very good write.