Fic: The Threefold Tie, chapter 1
Sep. 26th, 2013 12:10 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
osprey_archerTitle: The Threefold Tie
Fandom: Rosemary Sutcliff, Eagle of the Ninth
Pairings: ALL THE PAIRINGS. Esca/Marcus, Esca/Cottia, Marcus/Cottia.
Rating: PG
Beta:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sineala & savvierthanu
Disclaimer: So not mine. :(
Prompt:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
hc_bingo, restrained. Like social restraint? That's totally a thing, right?
Summary: After an argument with Esca and Cottia, Marcus is left alone on the farm. Can they repair their ties?
This is in the same universe as The Wedding Gift, The Fire of Vesta, and Daughters, though I think it stands on it's own.
Also at AO3: The Threefold Tie, Chapter 1: Spring
It was so late in the day that the sun already slanted to the west when the incessant drip of the melting snow dragged Marcus out of bed. He stumbled to the doorway, head swimming from fever, and stood on the threshold to stare at the blotches of mud that poked through the dirty snow. By the chimney, a few mud-spattered snowdrops bloomed.
“It is spring,” Marcus told Cub. He had gotten much into the habit of talking to Cub in the long cold months. Cub leaned against Marcus’s legs, warm and comforting, and Marcus sat down hard beside him. His leg ached. He was glad enough of an excuse to sit.
“It will be time for planting soon,” said Marcus. Cub settled in the doorway beside him, head on his paws, his ears flicking as if listening. Often and often that winter, he had sat so: probably hearing rabbits beneath the snow, but Marcus thought he might be listening for Cottia or Esca to come home.
Marcus did not care for himself that they were gone. But it seemed very hard that they had left Cub all alone, when Cub could not understand: Esca who had cared for Cub when he was still a pup, and Cottia who had watched him while Esca and Marcus had been gone in Caledonia.
Sometimes in that long winter, when the moon was full and white on the snow, Cub lifted his head and howled. Then Marcus waited, skin prickling, waiting against the fear that other wolves might answer and Cub would go to them.
Was it right, to want Cub to stay with Marcus even if Cub had the chance to go back to his own people? His own wolves. His wolf-people.
No wolves ever howled back.
Now, with the snow melting, Marcus could hear the spring-high stream behind the trees, far enough away that it was only a soft roar in Marcus’s hearing. “It will be time for planting soon,” he told Cub, working his hand in the thick fur of Cub’s neck. Cub turned his head, poking Marcus gently with his nose. “I will have to…”
He would have to find tenants for the farm, most like. He could not run it without Esca and Cottia. That was not sentiment: there was simply too much work for him to do alone, especially with his leg.
Marcus moved restlessly. His leg ached, and his head too, with the feverish headache that had been there for days. It made him sick to his stomach, that headache, and yet he knew that he must eat.
There was more than enough food to feed him. In the past autumn, they had brought in enough food for three people and a babe. But Marcus had been alone since Cottia had left at the tail end of autumn, baby Flavia – and Marcus’s headache intensified at the name – strapped to her back.
There was no aid in call if he let himself grow to weak. He would starve to death on his farm, alone.
“But who would care if I did?” Marcus asked Cub. Cub licked his hand, and despite himself Marcus smiled, leaning his head in the coarse fur of Cub’s ruff. “You would care,” Marcus admitted. “And my uncle, perhaps.” He thought of Uncle Aquila’s gruff kindness. “Yes, certainly my uncle. And…”
He could not think of anyone else. He closed his eyes and sighed, burrowing his face further in Cub’s fur.
If Marcus died, Esca would never hear of it, wherever he had gone.
But Cottia would hear, eventually, and Marcus liked to think she would be a little sorry. She would flare out, his fox-fire bride; she would shout at the messenger who brought such ill tidings. Surely she would be sorry for leaving him them then.
The thought warmed him enough that he sat up. “Should we make dinner, Cub?” he asked, and Cub jumped to his feet, tail wagging. “More barley bannock?” Marcus said, as if they ate anything else: Marcus was not much of a cook.
Marcus moved toward the hearth at the center of the roundhouse. But Cub did not follow him. Indeed, Cub was not even looking at Marcus, but stood in the doorway, staring out over the snow: tense, waiting.
And then he bolted.
“Cub!” Marcus cried, and despite his headache and his aching leg, he lurched after Cub into the muddy snow. “Cub, wait!”
A rabbit, perhaps? But Cub ran straight across the muddy field, bounding through the snow toward –
A man. A man across the field. Cub ran at him as if he meant to attack.
“Cub, no!” shouted Marcus. If Cub attacked a man – Marcus would have to kill him, if the man did not kill Cub first – Cub, his last friend –
Marcus skidded on a patch of ice, hidden beneath the slush, and fell full length in the mud. Something in his leg seemed to snap at the fall, and when he got up again he crumpled to the ground.
Ahead, Cub began to bark.
Marcus dragged himself back to his feet. His bad leg held this time, barely, and Marcus lurched forward, all but dragging his leg behind him. “Cub,” he tried to shout, but his voice did not carry. Cub – if only he could reach Cub in time –
The pain seemed to draw Marcus into himself. It was long moments before he saw that Cub was not attacking the stranger, a tribesman with long hair and a drooping mustache. Instead Cub danced around the man, rubbing against his rough braccae and then leaping back a few paces, wagging his tail with his tongue hanging out.
“Cub,” said Marcus, a little helplessly, and Cub let out a bark. “I’m sorry,” he said, lifting his head to look at the stranger: and then stopped, wavering on his throbbing leg. His fever must be fogging his thoughts – it could not be –
“Marcus, Marcus, it is all right,” said the tribesman; and though his Latin had more of an accent to it than when Marcus had heard it last, Marcus knew the voice.
“Esca?” Marcus said. His leg gave way, and he fell in the melting snow.
Fandom: Rosemary Sutcliff, Eagle of the Ninth
Pairings: ALL THE PAIRINGS. Esca/Marcus, Esca/Cottia, Marcus/Cottia.
Rating: PG
Beta:
sineala & savvierthanuDisclaimer: So not mine. :(
Prompt:
hc_bingo, restrained. Like social restraint? That's totally a thing, right?Summary: After an argument with Esca and Cottia, Marcus is left alone on the farm. Can they repair their ties?
This is in the same universe as The Wedding Gift, The Fire of Vesta, and Daughters, though I think it stands on it's own.
Also at AO3: The Threefold Tie, Chapter 1: Spring
It was so late in the day that the sun already slanted to the west when the incessant drip of the melting snow dragged Marcus out of bed. He stumbled to the doorway, head swimming from fever, and stood on the threshold to stare at the blotches of mud that poked through the dirty snow. By the chimney, a few mud-spattered snowdrops bloomed.
“It is spring,” Marcus told Cub. He had gotten much into the habit of talking to Cub in the long cold months. Cub leaned against Marcus’s legs, warm and comforting, and Marcus sat down hard beside him. His leg ached. He was glad enough of an excuse to sit.
“It will be time for planting soon,” said Marcus. Cub settled in the doorway beside him, head on his paws, his ears flicking as if listening. Often and often that winter, he had sat so: probably hearing rabbits beneath the snow, but Marcus thought he might be listening for Cottia or Esca to come home.
Marcus did not care for himself that they were gone. But it seemed very hard that they had left Cub all alone, when Cub could not understand: Esca who had cared for Cub when he was still a pup, and Cottia who had watched him while Esca and Marcus had been gone in Caledonia.
Sometimes in that long winter, when the moon was full and white on the snow, Cub lifted his head and howled. Then Marcus waited, skin prickling, waiting against the fear that other wolves might answer and Cub would go to them.
Was it right, to want Cub to stay with Marcus even if Cub had the chance to go back to his own people? His own wolves. His wolf-people.
No wolves ever howled back.
Now, with the snow melting, Marcus could hear the spring-high stream behind the trees, far enough away that it was only a soft roar in Marcus’s hearing. “It will be time for planting soon,” he told Cub, working his hand in the thick fur of Cub’s neck. Cub turned his head, poking Marcus gently with his nose. “I will have to…”
He would have to find tenants for the farm, most like. He could not run it without Esca and Cottia. That was not sentiment: there was simply too much work for him to do alone, especially with his leg.
Marcus moved restlessly. His leg ached, and his head too, with the feverish headache that had been there for days. It made him sick to his stomach, that headache, and yet he knew that he must eat.
There was more than enough food to feed him. In the past autumn, they had brought in enough food for three people and a babe. But Marcus had been alone since Cottia had left at the tail end of autumn, baby Flavia – and Marcus’s headache intensified at the name – strapped to her back.
There was no aid in call if he let himself grow to weak. He would starve to death on his farm, alone.
“But who would care if I did?” Marcus asked Cub. Cub licked his hand, and despite himself Marcus smiled, leaning his head in the coarse fur of Cub’s ruff. “You would care,” Marcus admitted. “And my uncle, perhaps.” He thought of Uncle Aquila’s gruff kindness. “Yes, certainly my uncle. And…”
He could not think of anyone else. He closed his eyes and sighed, burrowing his face further in Cub’s fur.
If Marcus died, Esca would never hear of it, wherever he had gone.
But Cottia would hear, eventually, and Marcus liked to think she would be a little sorry. She would flare out, his fox-fire bride; she would shout at the messenger who brought such ill tidings. Surely she would be sorry for leaving him them then.
The thought warmed him enough that he sat up. “Should we make dinner, Cub?” he asked, and Cub jumped to his feet, tail wagging. “More barley bannock?” Marcus said, as if they ate anything else: Marcus was not much of a cook.
Marcus moved toward the hearth at the center of the roundhouse. But Cub did not follow him. Indeed, Cub was not even looking at Marcus, but stood in the doorway, staring out over the snow: tense, waiting.
And then he bolted.
“Cub!” Marcus cried, and despite his headache and his aching leg, he lurched after Cub into the muddy snow. “Cub, wait!”
A rabbit, perhaps? But Cub ran straight across the muddy field, bounding through the snow toward –
A man. A man across the field. Cub ran at him as if he meant to attack.
“Cub, no!” shouted Marcus. If Cub attacked a man – Marcus would have to kill him, if the man did not kill Cub first – Cub, his last friend –
Marcus skidded on a patch of ice, hidden beneath the slush, and fell full length in the mud. Something in his leg seemed to snap at the fall, and when he got up again he crumpled to the ground.
Ahead, Cub began to bark.
Marcus dragged himself back to his feet. His bad leg held this time, barely, and Marcus lurched forward, all but dragging his leg behind him. “Cub,” he tried to shout, but his voice did not carry. Cub – if only he could reach Cub in time –
The pain seemed to draw Marcus into himself. It was long moments before he saw that Cub was not attacking the stranger, a tribesman with long hair and a drooping mustache. Instead Cub danced around the man, rubbing against his rough braccae and then leaping back a few paces, wagging his tail with his tongue hanging out.
“Cub,” said Marcus, a little helplessly, and Cub let out a bark. “I’m sorry,” he said, lifting his head to look at the stranger: and then stopped, wavering on his throbbing leg. His fever must be fogging his thoughts – it could not be –
“Marcus, Marcus, it is all right,” said the tribesman; and though his Latin had more of an accent to it than when Marcus had heard it last, Marcus knew the voice.
“Esca?” Marcus said. His leg gave way, and he fell in the melting snow.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2013-09-29 03:46 am (UTC)Also, if you do have a story about the argument, can I read it?
(And poor Marcus. He's usually my least favorite of the three of them, but in this I really feel for him. Poor guy!)
no subject
Date: 2013-09-29 04:34 am (UTC)