Post by Piero Montefiore on Mar 8, 2015 8:12:53 GMT -5
The rest of the night had been a blur for Piero Montefiore. He recalled being helped back to the inn, unable to walk under his own power as his body needed to recover from the efforts necessity had imposed on it. That, and his feet, lacerated by debris in the mud and shot through with splinters as they were, would not bear him.
He did not recall undressing, but he recalled the bliss of being lowered into a tub of hot water. He did not recall the physicians applying bandages to his feet but he recalled the agony of the wounds being washed and the wooden shards removed.
And he did not recall falling asleep but he did recall the sweet warmth of fortified wine, unwatered, going down his throat.
When he awoke, it was in a different room than the one he'd occupied before and immediately before his eyes, just as had been the night before, his sword belt hung. His buckler showed a dent where the skull-shattering impact had been caught. The linen cord that had wrapped the hilt, once a proud scarlet, was now far deeper in hue from the blood it had had drank.
And his head was pounding, his mouth thick and dry. His eyes were slow to focus and his stomach sour. Yes, the strong drink he'd had the night before. He did not imbibe so much, did he? But then again, in his weakened state even a small amount would have had considerable effect. Not to mention he was renowned for his moderation and seldom drank his wine unless it was well watered.
Slowly, he dressed himself in his customary habit, and once he put the symbol of the Triune about his neck, he immediately dropped to his knees as the memories came flooding in. He had taken four lives the night before. Four men intent to harm him or his kin, but still. He was no soldier, no warrior. He was a priest! The voice of the Triune!
Looking up, he murmured but four words. "Was this your will?"
Niccolo Montefiore Joanna Montefiore Elena Sandoval Allegra Montefiore Caterina Montefiore @elisabetamontefiore
He did not recall undressing, but he recalled the bliss of being lowered into a tub of hot water. He did not recall the physicians applying bandages to his feet but he recalled the agony of the wounds being washed and the wooden shards removed.
And he did not recall falling asleep but he did recall the sweet warmth of fortified wine, unwatered, going down his throat.
When he awoke, it was in a different room than the one he'd occupied before and immediately before his eyes, just as had been the night before, his sword belt hung. His buckler showed a dent where the skull-shattering impact had been caught. The linen cord that had wrapped the hilt, once a proud scarlet, was now far deeper in hue from the blood it had had drank.
And his head was pounding, his mouth thick and dry. His eyes were slow to focus and his stomach sour. Yes, the strong drink he'd had the night before. He did not imbibe so much, did he? But then again, in his weakened state even a small amount would have had considerable effect. Not to mention he was renowned for his moderation and seldom drank his wine unless it was well watered.
Slowly, he dressed himself in his customary habit, and once he put the symbol of the Triune about his neck, he immediately dropped to his knees as the memories came flooding in. He had taken four lives the night before. Four men intent to harm him or his kin, but still. He was no soldier, no warrior. He was a priest! The voice of the Triune!
Looking up, he murmured but four words. "Was this your will?"
Niccolo Montefiore Joanna Montefiore Elena Sandoval Allegra Montefiore Caterina Montefiore @elisabetamontefiore