A Game of Rebellion
folder
Original - Misc › -Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
3
Views:
1,315
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Original - Misc › -Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
3
Views:
1,315
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
Into the Port, Out to the World
Minimal research has been done, so don’t expect this to be accurate. Most of the places here will be nameless, yet the environment will give clues as to where the characters are. Don’t correct me on anything in here, I’m not going for accuracy with this story. Unless it’s my horrid Italian. :]
---
The sun was bright and glaring, raising heat from the stones. He could feel the godawful linens sticking to his sweat-soaked face and being pulled back with sucking noise. He tried to raise his arm to block the sun from his bleary eyes, only to give a muffled groan as a sharp jab of pain and pressure came from it, his right arm, which he remembered was broken from the Hawk’s Dive into the wagon. The man looked down to see that it was swathed in cotton bandages, and his brace and sleeve had been removed. A sling wrapped around his neck to hold it in place, and a thick wooden splint peeked out. The wound had been cleaned, and fresh blood was starting to stain the white linen it was swaddled in.
“Ah, you’re awake! Thief!” A hand slapped his left arm, a loud voice assaulted his ears. The man waved the hand away and pulled down his hood, looking around at his surroundings with red-rimmed eyes. He was in a bustling port of some sort, large creaking ships that appeared European swaying in the deep blue waters, hundreds of people roaming about carrying boxes, clay jars, bundles of cloth, all dressed in thobes and abayas of dizzying colors that glowed in the hazy sunlight. Sandals scraping against the brick rang out in the eerie port, and a few savvy merchants in leather-soled hose and doublets mingled about near the ships, bartering with the locals over what looked to be masses of paintings, rugs, and furniture. Boxes of grain shifted about from one set of arms to the next, and a pickpocket stole one merchant’s coin purse as he angrily gestured to his goods, arguing with a man in a bright green silk shawl and white robes.
A chuckle sounded from his right side, and the man turned quickly to see a short, blond man with a grin on his face smiling down at him, hand on his cocked hip. His manner of dress was definitely strange to the assassin, almost like… the man turned again to the merchants and back to the one in front of him.
“Yes, I’m a merchant. From Italy, actually.” Ah, so that was the accent. “More importantly, amico, what the hell are you doing in my cart? You’re sitting on my goods!”
The merchant pulled on the collar of his tight doublet, scratched at the light stubble on his square jaw. His light blue eyes stayed trained on the man lying in the wagon, waiting for an answer.
He didn’t receive one. The assassin pulled his hood back up, stretched his slippered feet, and got out of the wagon with a light sigh. The throbbing in his arm really was going to be a bother, as he still had to travel all the way back to the city and collect his payment…
“Ora, Ora!" The merchant shouted loudly, drawing a few eyes. “You can’t just leave with your arm like that, il mi amico! Soggiorno qui, rest…” And the merchant pushed him gently back.
The assassin, no matter how much he weakly pushed at the merchant, could not budge him. He found himself planted firmly on the edge of the cart, with the smell of sandalwood and jasmine and dirt making him almost dizzy and his nose itch.
“My name is Lorenzo. I am a nice merchant, no need to fear me. I wrapped your arm, see? What’s your name, ladro?”
The assassin growled, becoming frustrated with the man’s babble and pushiness, as well as his weakness. “I-” he coughed, his lips and mouth dry from inhaling the desert air. He was not used to it, even after nearly seven months of residing in it. “I am Vasilios. Thank you for your help, but I should really-”
As he tried again to stand, he was knocked back easily. “AH, a Greco! Well, you must be pining for home. My things are all being loaded onto the boat, you see, and your arm is really very susceptible to infection right now. Come with me to Italia! The olive trees of la mia casa bella will remind you of home, and when you are well you can ferry to Greece! You mustn’t wander off with this arm, signore, oh noooo.” While Lorenzo practically yelled all of this to Vasilios, he checked the broken arm, prodding it until the assassin hissed and jerked it away painfully.
“Will you quit it! I am not going home with you, I must get back to… to…” His head was suddenly light, almost as if it were stuffed with cotton, and his lips felt like they would crack any moment. His body shuddered, his stomach clenching in protest, not having been fed anything for almost two days. In the desert, you could become dehydrated so fast you would not even know it until it hit you like a sickness. Vasilios clutched his arm to his chest, rubbing the armor there lightly while his eyes glazed over. His water bag was missing, and when he went to grab for it, it was not at his hip as it should be.
“Oh yes,” Lorenzo began smugly, “that water was very helpful in cleaning you, signore, but of course you have things that must be done…” he began to lift boxes and set them on the stones, allowing men to take them and carry them to a monstrous wooden ship at the end of the pier- “have fun walking back to the city through the desert, ladro, and it was pleasant to meet you- I am sorry that I cannot see you off, as I am busy!” Lorenzo smiled at him sunnily, lifted the last box with a huff, and began to walk towards the ship.
Vasilios stared after the man in astonishment- how was he supposed to walk the whole desert with no water and a broken arm? And how did the merchant even get across the desert with a damned cart with wooden wheels and a donkey?!
Of course, he could always simply risk it and probably die, but the desert was no forgiving place. Ignoring the looks he got, Vasilios stumbled out of the now empty cart and followed Lorenzo to the ship. Without even looking back, the merchant grinned and yelled to Vasilios, “Buona scelta, ladro!”
---
Amico- friend
Ladro- thief
Soggiorno qui- stay here
La mia casa bella - my lovely home
Italia- Italy
Buona scelta- Good choice
Updates will be short on this story, as it’s a side project. Reviews expressing interest will help me update faster. R&R!
---
The sun was bright and glaring, raising heat from the stones. He could feel the godawful linens sticking to his sweat-soaked face and being pulled back with sucking noise. He tried to raise his arm to block the sun from his bleary eyes, only to give a muffled groan as a sharp jab of pain and pressure came from it, his right arm, which he remembered was broken from the Hawk’s Dive into the wagon. The man looked down to see that it was swathed in cotton bandages, and his brace and sleeve had been removed. A sling wrapped around his neck to hold it in place, and a thick wooden splint peeked out. The wound had been cleaned, and fresh blood was starting to stain the white linen it was swaddled in.
“Ah, you’re awake! Thief!” A hand slapped his left arm, a loud voice assaulted his ears. The man waved the hand away and pulled down his hood, looking around at his surroundings with red-rimmed eyes. He was in a bustling port of some sort, large creaking ships that appeared European swaying in the deep blue waters, hundreds of people roaming about carrying boxes, clay jars, bundles of cloth, all dressed in thobes and abayas of dizzying colors that glowed in the hazy sunlight. Sandals scraping against the brick rang out in the eerie port, and a few savvy merchants in leather-soled hose and doublets mingled about near the ships, bartering with the locals over what looked to be masses of paintings, rugs, and furniture. Boxes of grain shifted about from one set of arms to the next, and a pickpocket stole one merchant’s coin purse as he angrily gestured to his goods, arguing with a man in a bright green silk shawl and white robes.
A chuckle sounded from his right side, and the man turned quickly to see a short, blond man with a grin on his face smiling down at him, hand on his cocked hip. His manner of dress was definitely strange to the assassin, almost like… the man turned again to the merchants and back to the one in front of him.
“Yes, I’m a merchant. From Italy, actually.” Ah, so that was the accent. “More importantly, amico, what the hell are you doing in my cart? You’re sitting on my goods!”
The merchant pulled on the collar of his tight doublet, scratched at the light stubble on his square jaw. His light blue eyes stayed trained on the man lying in the wagon, waiting for an answer.
He didn’t receive one. The assassin pulled his hood back up, stretched his slippered feet, and got out of the wagon with a light sigh. The throbbing in his arm really was going to be a bother, as he still had to travel all the way back to the city and collect his payment…
“Ora, Ora!" The merchant shouted loudly, drawing a few eyes. “You can’t just leave with your arm like that, il mi amico! Soggiorno qui, rest…” And the merchant pushed him gently back.
The assassin, no matter how much he weakly pushed at the merchant, could not budge him. He found himself planted firmly on the edge of the cart, with the smell of sandalwood and jasmine and dirt making him almost dizzy and his nose itch.
“My name is Lorenzo. I am a nice merchant, no need to fear me. I wrapped your arm, see? What’s your name, ladro?”
The assassin growled, becoming frustrated with the man’s babble and pushiness, as well as his weakness. “I-” he coughed, his lips and mouth dry from inhaling the desert air. He was not used to it, even after nearly seven months of residing in it. “I am Vasilios. Thank you for your help, but I should really-”
As he tried again to stand, he was knocked back easily. “AH, a Greco! Well, you must be pining for home. My things are all being loaded onto the boat, you see, and your arm is really very susceptible to infection right now. Come with me to Italia! The olive trees of la mia casa bella will remind you of home, and when you are well you can ferry to Greece! You mustn’t wander off with this arm, signore, oh noooo.” While Lorenzo practically yelled all of this to Vasilios, he checked the broken arm, prodding it until the assassin hissed and jerked it away painfully.
“Will you quit it! I am not going home with you, I must get back to… to…” His head was suddenly light, almost as if it were stuffed with cotton, and his lips felt like they would crack any moment. His body shuddered, his stomach clenching in protest, not having been fed anything for almost two days. In the desert, you could become dehydrated so fast you would not even know it until it hit you like a sickness. Vasilios clutched his arm to his chest, rubbing the armor there lightly while his eyes glazed over. His water bag was missing, and when he went to grab for it, it was not at his hip as it should be.
“Oh yes,” Lorenzo began smugly, “that water was very helpful in cleaning you, signore, but of course you have things that must be done…” he began to lift boxes and set them on the stones, allowing men to take them and carry them to a monstrous wooden ship at the end of the pier- “have fun walking back to the city through the desert, ladro, and it was pleasant to meet you- I am sorry that I cannot see you off, as I am busy!” Lorenzo smiled at him sunnily, lifted the last box with a huff, and began to walk towards the ship.
Vasilios stared after the man in astonishment- how was he supposed to walk the whole desert with no water and a broken arm? And how did the merchant even get across the desert with a damned cart with wooden wheels and a donkey?!
Of course, he could always simply risk it and probably die, but the desert was no forgiving place. Ignoring the looks he got, Vasilios stumbled out of the now empty cart and followed Lorenzo to the ship. Without even looking back, the merchant grinned and yelled to Vasilios, “Buona scelta, ladro!”
---
Amico- friend
Ladro- thief
Soggiorno qui- stay here
La mia casa bella - my lovely home
Italia- Italy
Buona scelta- Good choice
Updates will be short on this story, as it’s a side project. Reviews expressing interest will help me update faster. R&R!