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Entry tags:
the honey in the bottle
Characters: Aymeric de Borel, Estinien Varlineau
Summary:
“Good evening,” said Aymeric, with cheer.
Estinien shrugged, but he lifted a flask from his belt and offered it to Aymeric. He did so by reaching his arm across the fire—above it, but across it—and Aymeric saw his bare wrist and hand in the direct light—in the searing firelight—unflinching. Nothing but determined. Aymeric took the flask quickly with his own gloved hand, watching until Estinien had drawn back his hand unscathed.
“Would it not be a little gauche?” Aymeric asked, then, even as he unscrewed the cap of Estinien’s flask. The flask was of a greater quality than Aymeric had expected Estinien to keep, but it was also clearly passed to him from someone who had used it for years. Not an heirloom, but a hand-me-down. “My watch has but just begun, and the night lacks the chill to warrant seeking solace in spirits.”
“But half remains,” said Estinien, “so what say you to this: I’ll drink one half of the half, and you, the other.” From Aymeric’s perspective, Estinien’s chin was no longer dipped toward the flickering fire. Now he looked out from the parapet toward the horizon. He spoke as if it didn’t matter to him much—but if that were true, he wouldn’t have said it.
‘Don’t you know,’ thought Aymeric, ‘that I know you better than that by now?’ But what he said out loud was only his affirmative, and he took a drink.
“It’s very sweet,” he said, surprised.
“Aye.”
“And hardly has a bite of alcohol at all.”
“Aye, that also.”
“It is lovely,” said Aymeric. While he drank again, he saw the corner of Estinien’s mouth go up, and he kept it to himself—or he did try to.
“What are you smiling about?” asked Estinien. He stopped pretending to stare carelessly in a different direction. “You look like a boy.”
“Nothing,” said Aymeric. He shook his head, but kept smiling even as he said again, “Nothing. Come sit, won’t you?” Estinien sat without arguing, still across the fire. “The drink really is good,” Aymeric said.
“There’s an old Coerthan family,” said Estinien, “who lives down in the Shroud now. Lot of honey that way. And they make a metheglin almost as light as water, light enough that their young boys can drink it as if it’s come straight out of their mother.”
Aymeric cleared his throat. He’d grown, by then, more accustomed to some of Estinien’s sudden turns of phrase.
“Not too different,” said Estinien, “from how they used to make it over in the East. ‘Tis nearly as much a tea as it is a liquor. Chamomile, this one.”
“Is that so,” said Aymeric kindly. It was kind because it wasn’t a condolence nor even an intimation of understanding. What Estinien wanted from Aymeric was for Aymeric to have the drink—to taste it, to know it, and the Eastern Highlands along with it. Not to mourn for it or him. So Aymeric said nothing further, and drank until just a little of the mead remained. “Good and light,” he said, passing the flask back to Estinien. He reached—like his friend—over the fire to do so. He felt the heat even through his glove. Estinien took the flask, again with a bare hand, unflinching. Aymeric could see—for an instant—to this day he is certain he noticed this—the fine hairs at Estinien’s hand give a shudder in the heat. But Estinien reached right across—into—that fire.
“As I please,” murmured Estinien. His focus had gone faint and he again looked out from the parapet. When he drank a moment later, it occurred to Aymeric that he could see the gleam of his own saliva on the lip of the flask before it met Estinien’s. Well, a mead so light as to be nearly virgin made more sense than Estinien sipping spirits on the job. Aymeric learned early that Estinien wasn’t partial to heavy drinking.
They sat across from each other for the remainder of the hour, talking on and off. A couple of times, Aymeric laughed about something, and a couple of times, Estinien chuckled, too. When it was nearly time for him to leave his post, he sat at the little writing desk in the watchtower to jot down the few lines of his uneventful report. Aymeric heard, then, something which he vowed in that same instant to keep to himself forever, lest he drive Estinien away from him by acknowledging it: while Estinien wrote, he was humming, just a note here and there, almost as quiet as the blooming of a flower. Almost as if he was, himself, a bed of chamomile.
They heard the ringing of the bell to signal the arrival of Estinien’s replacement for the night, and Estinien looked from the writing desk, over his shoulder, to the mouth of the tower, still empty for lack of comrade. Aymeric watched him do it, and startled himself by finding the shape of Estinien’s neck more familiar than anyone else’s, by look alone.
“That’s him then,” said Estinien.
Aymeric watched every word move through Estinien’s throat before going out past his teeth. “Aye,” he said. “Lucky you, off to bed.”
Estinien snorted and set down the pen he had been using. “I’ve plenty yet to do,” he said, rising from the writing desk. “If I am as lucky as you say, mayhap we’ll reach our beds at the same ringing of the bell.”
“I should hope so,” said Aymeric, looking up at Estinien just as he did an hour ago. “After watching through the night, I am off to bed only with bats and wolves. You shall be much better company.”
It was the type of friendly joke Aymeric had gotten away with making to Estinien for a few months, by then, and he expected no further than for it to be tolerated. Another snort at most. Instead, Estinien threw his head back and laughed.
In a fumble of his diplomatic faculties which Aymeric will always remember, he asked Estinien, “What?”
“You’re the first man to say such a thing to me,” said Estinien, and that was when Aymeric learned what Estinien’s words sound like when they are half-comprised of laughter. “And my guess is that you shall be the last. You keep me on my toes, Aymeric.” He began down the flight of stairs. The acoustics of his voice had changed when he next spoke, and the shifting of it made him sound as if he was speaking, too loudly, in a church. “I never know what to do with my feet.”
Aymeric had read poetry, and novels about noble things. He had listened to the coos that swirled slowly around him, like syrup, between couples in this or that ballroom. He had listened to the vows ringing out in marriage, calling loud from the wedded’s wide mouths so that all their guests throughout the church might hear them. Yet he had never heard anything quite like what Estinien just said to him.
At last, with the legs of a colt, Aymeric pushed himself to stand upright and then hooked one foot around the other ankle. He kept himself from falling flat, but ruined what he called down the stairwell after his comrade: “Then let me take you dancing!” And he heard Estinien laugh again, so heartily that he shall regret forever that he didn’t get to see it.
“Have a good shift,” Estinien said to the incoming watch, down at the bottom of the stairs. “Your partner tonight is funny.”
Moments later, Aymeric saw the other soldier come up and through the doorway. It was a straight shot up the stairs, but she looked as though she’d taken three lefts and two rights and was wondering what she was meant to do next. “Swear it to you on the Fury’s throwing arm,” she said, with eyebrows on high, “I never saw Wyrmblood do it like that.”
“Do what?” Aymeric asked, by then having recovered himself from his stumble. He stood up again, though, out of both surprise and respect for his comrade. He caught himself, too, blinking more than he ought to, and dabbing his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue. He wasn’t sure how he looked to her, but he knew the character of it must have been strange. It was simply impossible to keep himself from bobbing like a cork.
The other soldier looked at Aymeric—she must not have properly noticed him before. She saw all the strangeness that had come over his face—something that might be hope or wanting, bobbing like a cork—and her own eyes became round like a startled karakul’s. Then she ducked her head, with her lamblike eyes darting all kinds of places, looking like a woman who wanted to walk away. “Blush!” she said.
Summary:
“But half remains,” said Estinien, “so what say you to this: I’ll drink one half of the half, and you, the other.” From Aymeric’s perspective, Estinien’s chin was no longer dipped toward the flickering fire. Now he looked out from the parapet toward the horizon. He spoke as if it didn’t matter to him much—but if that were true, he wouldn’t have said it.
‘Don’t you know,’ thought Aymeric, ‘that I know you better than that by now?’
the honey in the bottle
“Good evening,” said Aymeric, with cheer.
Estinien shrugged, but he lifted a flask from his belt and offered it to Aymeric. He did so by reaching his arm across the fire—above it, but across it—and Aymeric saw his bare wrist and hand in the direct light—in the searing firelight—unflinching. Nothing but determined. Aymeric took the flask quickly with his own gloved hand, watching until Estinien had drawn back his hand unscathed.
“Would it not be a little gauche?” Aymeric asked, then, even as he unscrewed the cap of Estinien’s flask. The flask was of a greater quality than Aymeric had expected Estinien to keep, but it was also clearly passed to him from someone who had used it for years. Not an heirloom, but a hand-me-down. “My watch has but just begun, and the night lacks the chill to warrant seeking solace in spirits.”
“But half remains,” said Estinien, “so what say you to this: I’ll drink one half of the half, and you, the other.” From Aymeric’s perspective, Estinien’s chin was no longer dipped toward the flickering fire. Now he looked out from the parapet toward the horizon. He spoke as if it didn’t matter to him much—but if that were true, he wouldn’t have said it.
‘Don’t you know,’ thought Aymeric, ‘that I know you better than that by now?’ But what he said out loud was only his affirmative, and he took a drink.
“It’s very sweet,” he said, surprised.
“Aye.”
“And hardly has a bite of alcohol at all.”
“Aye, that also.”
“It is lovely,” said Aymeric. While he drank again, he saw the corner of Estinien’s mouth go up, and he kept it to himself—or he did try to.
“What are you smiling about?” asked Estinien. He stopped pretending to stare carelessly in a different direction. “You look like a boy.”
“Nothing,” said Aymeric. He shook his head, but kept smiling even as he said again, “Nothing. Come sit, won’t you?” Estinien sat without arguing, still across the fire. “The drink really is good,” Aymeric said.
“There’s an old Coerthan family,” said Estinien, “who lives down in the Shroud now. Lot of honey that way. And they make a metheglin almost as light as water, light enough that their young boys can drink it as if it’s come straight out of their mother.”
Aymeric cleared his throat. He’d grown, by then, more accustomed to some of Estinien’s sudden turns of phrase.
“Not too different,” said Estinien, “from how they used to make it over in the East. ‘Tis nearly as much a tea as it is a liquor. Chamomile, this one.”
“Is that so,” said Aymeric kindly. It was kind because it wasn’t a condolence nor even an intimation of understanding. What Estinien wanted from Aymeric was for Aymeric to have the drink—to taste it, to know it, and the Eastern Highlands along with it. Not to mourn for it or him. So Aymeric said nothing further, and drank until just a little of the mead remained. “Good and light,” he said, passing the flask back to Estinien. He reached—like his friend—over the fire to do so. He felt the heat even through his glove. Estinien took the flask, again with a bare hand, unflinching. Aymeric could see—for an instant—to this day he is certain he noticed this—the fine hairs at Estinien’s hand give a shudder in the heat. But Estinien reached right across—into—that fire.
“As I please,” murmured Estinien. His focus had gone faint and he again looked out from the parapet. When he drank a moment later, it occurred to Aymeric that he could see the gleam of his own saliva on the lip of the flask before it met Estinien’s. Well, a mead so light as to be nearly virgin made more sense than Estinien sipping spirits on the job. Aymeric learned early that Estinien wasn’t partial to heavy drinking.
They sat across from each other for the remainder of the hour, talking on and off. A couple of times, Aymeric laughed about something, and a couple of times, Estinien chuckled, too. When it was nearly time for him to leave his post, he sat at the little writing desk in the watchtower to jot down the few lines of his uneventful report. Aymeric heard, then, something which he vowed in that same instant to keep to himself forever, lest he drive Estinien away from him by acknowledging it: while Estinien wrote, he was humming, just a note here and there, almost as quiet as the blooming of a flower. Almost as if he was, himself, a bed of chamomile.
They heard the ringing of the bell to signal the arrival of Estinien’s replacement for the night, and Estinien looked from the writing desk, over his shoulder, to the mouth of the tower, still empty for lack of comrade. Aymeric watched him do it, and startled himself by finding the shape of Estinien’s neck more familiar than anyone else’s, by look alone.
“That’s him then,” said Estinien.
Aymeric watched every word move through Estinien’s throat before going out past his teeth. “Aye,” he said. “Lucky you, off to bed.”
Estinien snorted and set down the pen he had been using. “I’ve plenty yet to do,” he said, rising from the writing desk. “If I am as lucky as you say, mayhap we’ll reach our beds at the same ringing of the bell.”
“I should hope so,” said Aymeric, looking up at Estinien just as he did an hour ago. “After watching through the night, I am off to bed only with bats and wolves. You shall be much better company.”
It was the type of friendly joke Aymeric had gotten away with making to Estinien for a few months, by then, and he expected no further than for it to be tolerated. Another snort at most. Instead, Estinien threw his head back and laughed.
In a fumble of his diplomatic faculties which Aymeric will always remember, he asked Estinien, “What?”
“You’re the first man to say such a thing to me,” said Estinien, and that was when Aymeric learned what Estinien’s words sound like when they are half-comprised of laughter. “And my guess is that you shall be the last. You keep me on my toes, Aymeric.” He began down the flight of stairs. The acoustics of his voice had changed when he next spoke, and the shifting of it made him sound as if he was speaking, too loudly, in a church. “I never know what to do with my feet.”
Aymeric had read poetry, and novels about noble things. He had listened to the coos that swirled slowly around him, like syrup, between couples in this or that ballroom. He had listened to the vows ringing out in marriage, calling loud from the wedded’s wide mouths so that all their guests throughout the church might hear them. Yet he had never heard anything quite like what Estinien just said to him.
At last, with the legs of a colt, Aymeric pushed himself to stand upright and then hooked one foot around the other ankle. He kept himself from falling flat, but ruined what he called down the stairwell after his comrade: “Then let me take you dancing!” And he heard Estinien laugh again, so heartily that he shall regret forever that he didn’t get to see it.
“Have a good shift,” Estinien said to the incoming watch, down at the bottom of the stairs. “Your partner tonight is funny.”
Moments later, Aymeric saw the other soldier come up and through the doorway. It was a straight shot up the stairs, but she looked as though she’d taken three lefts and two rights and was wondering what she was meant to do next. “Swear it to you on the Fury’s throwing arm,” she said, with eyebrows on high, “I never saw Wyrmblood do it like that.”
“Do what?” Aymeric asked, by then having recovered himself from his stumble. He stood up again, though, out of both surprise and respect for his comrade. He caught himself, too, blinking more than he ought to, and dabbing his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue. He wasn’t sure how he looked to her, but he knew the character of it must have been strange. It was simply impossible to keep himself from bobbing like a cork.
The other soldier looked at Aymeric—she must not have properly noticed him before. She saw all the strangeness that had come over his face—something that might be hope or wanting, bobbing like a cork—and her own eyes became round like a startled karakul’s. Then she ducked her head, with her lamblike eyes darting all kinds of places, looking like a woman who wanted to walk away. “Blush!” she said.