Story for the Day: How Bryeison Broke the Latrine P2
And now, part 2 of how Bryeison broke the beloved latrine:
While everyone was scrambling to form their lines and
lamenting the broken latrine, Bryeison marched toward the far field, his prey
in one hand and his weighted sword in the other.
MacMillian
slumped and sprawled across the sward when he was at last released from the
giant’s unassailable grip. A cough and a few sputtering breaths, and he was
prepared to run from his attacker when a sword was thrown beside him and he was
being ordered to take it up and fight. He did as he was bid, wanting the duel
to be over and his limbs to be still attached, but the moment he took up the
sword and raised his eyes, the raging tranquility of the giant, his furrowed
brow, his determined look, his unmitigated might, his enormous muscle made his
knees tremble. Terror prevailed him, the giant’s shadow poring over him granting
him a something like crippling consternation, and he began to feel as though he
had been wrong in his conjecture, that perhaps there had been a reason that the
immense Varrallan with the latrine wall attached to his arm was chosen as First
Captain over himself. He felt perhaps an apology was in order if Bryeison was
to be his superior officer, but the commander had given him an order, and
Bryeison must and would obey: he was to return in such a state that would send
him to the cleric, and therefore with all the remorse that dooming himself
could promise, he made his peace with the Gods and lifted his sword.
One
downward swipe from Bryeison secured MacMillian’s defeat: with a bellowing
roar, the giant had made so fierce an attack that the moment his edge met
MacMillian’s fuller, the blade bent under Bryeison’s brawn, snapped in two, and
fell to the ground, leaving MacMillian screaming in agony and grabbing his
shattered hand. He crumbled to his knees, begged for mercy, and Bryeison shook
off the wall around his wrist and placed his sword at his side.
“You
can dislike me and condemn my merits,” the giant’s voice bellowed, “but if you
ever breathe a treasonous word again, I will destroy you.”
“Yessir!”
MacMillian cried, in a sibilating shriek.
Bryeison
nodded, accepted his opponent’s capitulation for what it was, and the challenge
was over. He lifted his prey from the ground, slung him over his shoulder, and
brought him to the infirmary, hearing his commander’s approbation of “Aye, lad
brought it on hissel’,” as he sat MacMillian in the cleric’s chair.
“His
thumb and forefinger are broken,” he told the cleric. “His wrist might be
fractured as well.”
The
cleric examined MacMillian’s hand and quirked a brow. “How did this happen?” he
asked, wondering at the mangled hand. “Some incredible weight must have been
forced on your hand for your thumb to have broken like that. Did you fall on
it?”
MacMillian
whimpered and shook his head.
“Was
something dropped on it?”
No
answer was made.
“Very
well,” the cleric sighed. “If you don’t want to tell me. I’m sure it must have
something to do with the broken latrine wall. The whole thing is probably
humiliating enough. I will never understand what prompts you young men to do
foolish things. You deserved it, I’m sure, whatever it was.”
A look
between the two soldiers was exchanged, and without another word, the cleric
began to reform MacMillian’s shattered bones, and Bryeison returned to the
field, smiling to himself and flexing his fists as he took his place in the
lines.
All
were sworn in, all saluted, and after the commander roared his first orders, he
took to assigning Draeden and Bryeison the remainder of their new regiments.
They were not only to lead as captains, but they must now also train recruits themselves,
and though Bryeison had little doubts as to gaining the obedience of his men,
Draeden had his uncertainties. Would they dissent, would they take to his style
of fighting, would they refuse to obey him due to his being prince were all
questions that accompanied him as he danced from the lines over to the broken
latrine.
“I only
heard Suilli shouting a few minutes ago,” he told Bryeison. “Fortunately, I had
fallen asleep in my uniform, otherwise I should have been late on my first day
as a First Captain, and that would not have shown me very worthy. Why didn’t
you come to wake me? And what happened to the latrine? It was very well last
night. Did you use it this morning?”
Bryeison
half smiled, and his eyes twinkled. “I did.”
“And
did you have something to do with this? Of course you did, otherwise you should
not be grinning so. How long were you in there?”
“About five minutes.”
“And
you managed to do that in such a short time?” Draeden looked unconvinced. “You
cannot have had to go that terribly.”
“It
required more force than usual.”
“Well,
that’s what comes from not eating enough fresh fruits. I know all your love is
for vegetables and meats, but a good bit of milk in your diet will help
regulate you.”
Bryeison
could not help laughing.
“Well,”
Draeden huffed, “that is the end of our nice latrine. Now I shall have to walk
all the way to the theatre.”
“You
could go in the hunting grounds.”
“And
have someone mistake my business for fewmets? I don’t want to find a hunting
hound at my bunk and wake up to it gnawing on my leg.” He glanced charily at
Bryeison. “You did wash your hands, I hope.”
Bryeison
shrugged and smiled to himself, considering how had cleansed himself on
MacMillian’s tabard whilst carrying him to the cleric.
While
they were waiting for all the men in their new regiments to be assigned and
collected, they went to the tower by way of the parapets at a casual pace, but
once they came to the peristyle, Draeden began to hasten and hop about.
“I do
hope Langliegh can be put to for fixing our small latrine soon,” he said
hastily, breaking into a trot. “Now whenever I shall have to go in the middle
of the night, I will have to dance all the way to the tower. I loathe being
made to mount those steps when I have to go, and it is so abominably cold,
especially in winter. The draft from the bottom is insufferable. I shiver unmercifully
every time I sit down- and don’t tell me to stand up while doing that.”
Bryeison
rumbled with mirth. “You could appeal to have a furnace installed in the
collection chamber.”
“That
is true, but the stench of roasting filth should molder me. It is bad enough in
the summer. I know my father has all the latrines and chambers cleaned
thoroughly once a day, but really-“ Draeden opened the latrine tower door and
groaned. “Bryeison,” he cried, lamenting over the endless staircase before him,
“why did you have to break our lovely latrine?” He mounted the stair, pining
with every stile, but all his complaints ceased and gave way to sighs of relief
once he was beyond the chamber door. A few moments passed, and Draeden emerged
from the latrine tower with a most satisfied countenance. “Perhaps we should
appeal for a furnace,” he mused, his features rapt in euphoric bliss. “My poor
bottom was shivering, and my virility most certainly began to recede. I should
have frozen if it were in any colder in there. Perhaps my father will concede
to have a coal range installed if only to ensure the Brennin line has an heir.
I shall be very sad if I should shrivel before I have any occasion to use my
inheritance.”
Bryeison
laughed and shook his head and walked with Draeden back toward the training
yard.
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