Пожиратель младенцев
Жанр "Избиение Окделла", теперь и по-английски! 
Про жанр Теперь я уж не голословна и могу говорить об этом замечательном жанре, имея на руках статистические пруфы. Итак, на этой летней ФБ я считала для героев, которые участвовали в фанфиках по ОЭ, рейтинг травм и смертей: за каждое упоминание проблем со здоровьем герой получал + 1 балл, за каждую смерть + 10. И что бы вы думали? Конечно же, Окделл с большим отрывом победил и занял первые местах во всех трех соревнованиях: в общем зачете, в зачете травм и в зачете смертей. Так что теперь без зазрения совести могу продолжать избивать его в фанфиках, раз уж все с ним делают это. 
АннотацияAnnotation: An unfortunate accident leaves young Duke Oakdell injured (though not very dangerously) and Duke Alva forced to reconsider his attitudes and values.
A small innocent fluffy sick-ficlet in which Richard gets carried in arms, held, patted on the head, and entirely fussed over.
Маленький незамысловатый херт-комфортный флаффный фичок, в котором Ричарда носят на ручках, обнимают, гладят по голове и прыгают над ним изо всех сил.
Предварительные замечанияNotes:
For English-speaking readers
I’m not a native speaker, sorry for any mistakes. The canon itself and almost all fandom works are in Russian, no translation available.
Dedicated to lindahoyland (archiveofourown.org/users/lindahoyland/profile), whose LOTR fics have always been an etalon of hurt/comfort fanfiction to me.
Для русскоязычных читателей
Фик написан по-английски в экспериментальных целях и в качестве определенного self-challenge, вызова самим себе, проверки сил автора. Оказалось, что английский, действительно, раскрепощает: тот градус флаффа, который автору неловко было бы писать по-русски, в английском тексте проходит вполне спокойно. Были и другие эффекты: реальность съехала в АУ, в котором накал драматизма заметно меньше, чем в каноне (видимо, из-за того, что автор притворился для себя, что он и правда иностранец, который не продвинулся дальше первой книги), персонажи обзавелись ООС, а вся обстановка приобрела ощутимый флер некоей викторианской британскости (не сказать, чтобы персонажам это было чуждо — они в какой-то мере снова приблизились к своим литературным прототипам, например, франту-опекуну из «Опасного богатства»).
Названия, имена и прочее автор переводил на свое усмотрение (кроме тех имен, которые уже переведены для тэгов на АО3), а для некоторых каноничных «терминов» подобрал не переводы, а аналоги:
young gentleman — в роли «юноша» (в обращении),
boy — в роли «юноша» / «молодой человек» (в тексте от автора),
Your Grace — в роли «монсеньор» (обращение к британскому герцогу),
my lord — в роли «господин».
АУ, ООС, балаган, английский язык, и так далее.
Так как фанфик по-английски и в нем царит атмосфера британскости, то и играют в нем классические британские актеры.
Встречайте!
читать дальшеRoque Alva’s new squire was a young man full of surprises and prone to adventures. A little more than a month had passed since he had first entered Alva’s house, but he had already managed to make his lord’s life interesting—even too interesting, for Alva’s liking. This day wasn’t an exception. Alva didn’t even understand completely how this all happened, as the events swirled too quickly.
They were already leaving the fair: Alva had finally allowed his escort to spent about an hour among brightly coloured tents, for a relief after an exhausting day in the military camp. They were moving slowly, Alva the first in the procession, and Richard the last: the boy, not shaken at all by the previous accident in the town street, was looking longingly in the direction of a puppet show booth, stuck between two pavilions at the very edge of the fair area, but Alva wasn’t going to let him linger in the place any longer. They were heading home, and Alva really wanted to return to the city before dark. All was going as well as it could, and nothing brought any evil foreboding, when Richard’s horse (what was the beast’s name again? Fretty? Bratty? Naughty?), this clumsy and ill-schooled mock of a steed, frightened again by some sudden noise, reared up. This time Alva wasn’t quick enough to catch the reins—or even get closer—and Richard, letting go of the horse’s mane, lost his stirrups and fell down. He was able to turn in the air and thankfully landed on his side, not on the back, but his head still hit the ground with a loud thud. Alva halted his own horse, jumped down and nearly ran to the place, where two men of his escort were already bending over Richard’s unmoving figure. Alva waved them aside and, kneeling near Richard, gently slapped the unconscious boy’s cheek. This had an effect, for Richard let out a soft moan, opened his eyes, winced and tried to push himself up on his elbows, but his right arm gave way (it might be a fracture or at least a very bad bruise, Alva thought), and he nearly fell down again; he however managed to use his good arm and sat up, gazing around confusedly. Alva didn’t like the blurred and disoriented look in his eyes and got even more concerned, when Richard, crouching over, clutched his head and vomited. Alva held him by the shoulders and, when Richard, taking a flask of water from one of the escort man, flushed in shame and mumbled “Sorry”, told him, trying to sound as mild as he could:
“Richard—”, he had to swallow down his usual “young gentleman”, as a person in Richard’s state would certainly react to a given name but not to a general term, “—Richard, please let me have a look at your head.”
Richard nodded, which probably caused another wave of nausea, closed his eyes and lowered his head. Alva firmly took it in both hands, turned it a little to have a closer look and swore under his breath: a deep gash on the back of Richards’s head was oozing blood, colouring the hair dark red. Alva gently palpated the area around the wound: the skull, fortunately, wasn’t broken. The marshal in him was already fuming with annoyance, irritated by his subordinate’s clumsiness, that had slowed down the whole squad, but his inner doctor quickly took over. Alva disinfected the wound with a little bit of casera, using his own handkerchief; another handkerchief was folded and pressed to the wound to stop blood; then Alva untied his neckerchief and bandaged Richard’s head. The shiny silk blue cloth made Richard look not like a wounded warrior, but like a pirate or rather a forest bandit from old northern legends; and still he was too dazed to have the heroic air of any of those romantic characters, and even too slow to protest when Alva started unwrapping Richard’s own neckerchief to use as a makeshift sling for his arm. When the arm was finally made comfortable, Alva decided this was enough and other bruises and scratches, if any, could wait till home.
“Richard, do you feel able to sit in the saddle?” he asked. “If you are not sure, you can ride double with one of my men, or we can leave you in this town and then send a carriage to collect you.” If not a horse stretcher, he added to himself.
“I am perfectly able to ride on my own!” replied Richard proudly. “I am completely all right, Your Grace. Please excuse me my improper behaviour.”
Alva felt a sense of relief washing over him: Richard’s returning stubbornness showed that he was definitely getting better.
***
The “getting-better” period didn’t last long. They were about halfway home, Alva leading their small party again and Richard dragging behind, when an escort man approached him and, nodding in Richard’s direction, addressed Alva in a concerned voice:
“Soberano,” he said, “I’m afraid the young dor won’t make it.”
Alva followed his gaze. The boy was obviously struggling—and miserably failing—to stay upright, leaning more and more on his horse’s neck; the reins were about to fall from his good hand. With a sigh Alva called for a halt and, riding over to Richard, at first tried to shake him awake, but to no avail: the boy seemed to be overcome with dizziness and going to fall down again. The only possible solution now, Alva mused, was to take Richard into someone’s saddle. His own stallion, Moreau, was strong enough to carry two and even three persons, and smart enough to recognize a wounded rider and keep a quick but steady pace, without unnecessary shaking or jolting.
“Get him over here,” he ordered. “Easy, easy. Give him to me. Good.”
Alva put his arms around Richard, placed in front of him in the saddle, took the reins with one hand and did his best to cushion the irresponsive boy’s head against his shoulder. Sitting like this was far from convenient, but fortunately it wasn’t very long from home.
During the rest of the ride Richard was drifting in and out of consciousness and from time to time gave small moans and babbled incoherently; once Alva heard him whisper:
“Am I going to die?..”
“Nonsense!” snapped Alva. “Nobody here is going to die, young gentleman. People don’t die of such a petty nuisance, don’t make a fool of yourself.”
Richard closed his eyes again and made no answer; Alva wasn’t even sure he had been aware of this little moralizing speech at all.
***
Back home; back, literally, on the firm ground, Richard, as if ancient myths came true and his divine element really helped him, seemed alert and lucid, able to stand on his own, and Alva eagerly welcomed the return of his own sarcastic self.
“Off to the baths, young gentleman,” he ordered. “I don’t think the doctor will be happy to examine someone covered in road dust and smelling of horses.”
He waited for an indignant reply, but, again, no reaction followed. Richard lowered his head, turned and dragged himself in the direction of the mansion, one of the servants, at Juan’s wordless sign, following him—close enough to catch him if he would fancy losing consciousness once more. Alva wondered if that was the right decision, but he had never heard of anyone with a head injury getting into trouble because of a hot bath (it helps to relax and calm down, after all), and even if Richard would become too weak to walk to his room after it, he would certainly survive the humiliation of being carried there—it wouldn’t be more humiliating, at least, than his ride home in the most indecent position.
“By the way, Juan,” Alva remarked and rubbed his eyes, “we are in need of a doctor… the doctor, I mean.”
“Already sent for, soberano.”
“And the bath?”
“Prepared, soberano.”
Juan always knew what he needed better than himself.
***
Passing through a labyrinth of secluded chambers and partial walls giving visitors certain privacy (the great ground floor baths of the mansion, built in the manner of ancient thermae, with addition of exquisite Morisco style and modern day conveniences, had been an object of pride for many generations of Alva’s ancestors and that of jealousy for all other dwellers of the capital city) towards his favourite bathing room, small but luxurious, Alva cast a quick glance into the section now occupied by his unlucky squire. Richard had already managed to undress, his clothes lying in a heap on the stone bench, an ornate austral gown waiting on the rack, and now, with a grateful sigh, he sank down into the marble-tiled basin and closed his eyes, allowing a servant approach and start washing the blood off his hair. Alva averted his eyes and went by.
In his private chamber he let himself enjoy the pleasant feeling of cleanliness, concentrating on the warmness of water on his skin, unobtrusive scent of perfumed soap, sound of dripping drops (if not for the accident, it could have been a perfect ending for a busy day), but thoughts about Richard still lingered in his mind. By the look of it, the boy must have been in a great deal of pain. Alva had never experienced a fracture or a concussion himself (and usually even nothing worse than an occasional sprained ankle) and therefore couldn’t conceive of how it really felt—to tell the truth, he had been severely wounded only once in his life, but in that specific case his mystical awe and spiritual shock had prevailed over the bodily sufferings.
“You have swift fingers, a sharp mind and a kind heart, my young friend,” his old master, one of the most renowned healers in the Crimson Lands, had used to say, “but you totally lack compassion. You don’t even try to imagine yourself in another person’s shoes, to understand your patients’ needs and wishes, to feel their sufferings from inside. You will never become a healer in the proper sense—a middle-rate military surgeon is the uttermost step you are able to reach.”
A middle-rate military surgeon in the Crimson Lands equaled a first-class physician in Taligue, and this had been more than enough for young Roque, who had never dreamt of pursuing a medical career. His father had insisted that his younger son should be indoctrinated in the art of medicine, and sent him to the Crimson Lands to study. This education had later proved useful plenty of times and had even saved several lives, but all Morisco doctors he met still regarded Roque as nothing more than an assistant, who was to be trusted only with holding instruments, mixing a simple herbal tea or administering a prescribed draught. Alva took this for granted, because all Morisco doctors were elusively reminiscent of each other, and, looking at one of them, he always remembered his old master and the days of his apprenticeship. Their family doctor was, of course, similar to them all and at the same time different. He, having lived in Ollaria for several decades, had obtained a large practice, a fabulously rich house in the Morisco quarter, a six-horse ornate equipage for pleasure trips (for professional visits he always chose his invariable two-wheeled cart), and a reputation of a wizard. He had been the physician of Alva’s family since Roque’s childhood, and this was, on the one hand, bad, as he still tended to treat the great First Marshal as a naughty schoolboy (on top of that, Juan was always on the doctor’s side), and, on the other hand, good, because he allowed Alva more than his strict Crimson-landish colleagues. Since the death of Roque’s father, the doctor had been sent for only on special occasions and in serious situations Alva doubted he was capable of managing himself. In all other minor cases it was either His Grace the Duke himself who came to an aid when an ailment attacked his household or an unexpected injury occurred, or a local physician, of Taliguish origin, running a practice in the vicinity of the mansion. The man came to the mansion immediately after he had been called (unlike the old Morisco, who had a habit to keep the messenger in the waiting room for hours, while busy with another patient), did exactly what he was asked to and never ceased to praise Alva’s medical talents. Today, however, Alva was definitely too worried to entrust Richard’s well-being to anyone but the family doctor.
***
When Alva entered Richard’s room, the doctor had already arrived and was now seated next to the bed, holding Richard’s good hand and massaging his palm in small soothing circular movements—Alva knew at once the rare calming technique, borrowed from the Azure Lands and used only by the most sophisticated Morisco doctors, and thought he should one day learn it himself. Turning over the shoulder, the doctor was dictating a long list of drugs to be bought from an apothecary (a Morisco one, of course), to Juan, who, standing at the door, was carefully writing down the prescriptions, as always, unflappable and exact. Richard was sitting in his bed, propped up against a pile of pillows, naked to the waist, his lower body covered with a blanket, his head sporting a fresh bandage, his arm still in the sling, a large bruise disfiguring his right side. He gave Alva a dazed and tired look and said nothing, while the doctor greeted him:
“Ah, my lord duke,” he said cordially, “please come in and join us. We are waiting for the pain-relieving remedy to start working. By the way,” he addressed Richard, “how is it now? Do you still feel pain?”
Richard closed his eyes, assessing his condition, and silently nodded. The doctor looked at him thoughtfully for a few moments and then decided:
“Well, I would still like to examine your arm straight now—I promise to be as gentle as I can.”
He took the injured arm from the sling, when Richard suddenly swayed and pressed his hand to his mouth.
“I… I… Excuse me… I think I’m going to be sick,” he muttered and flushed in embarrassment.
“Oh gods,” the doctor said, helping him. “There is nothing to be ashamed of, young man. That has been a bad blow to you head, after all, hasn’t it? But—” he added, passing Richard a cup with some medicine, “—I’m afraid we cannot wait any more until your stomach settles down and the second portion of the pain-reliever finishes its job. This bone has to be set immediately.”
The doctor was right. The forearm was all black and blue and very swollen, the swelling getting more and more prominent.
“I know what you want to suggest instead of my slow-working remedy, my lord duke, but no—no alcohol for at least a month. And now, would you please assist me,” the doctor asked—as if he didn’t know himself that Alva had come to the room with the only purpose of playing the role of an aide. “Please hold the young man from the back and pull his arm when I command.”
Alva did as he was instructed, sat at the edge of the bed and got himself ready, while the doctor spoke to Richard again:
“As much as I hate the thought of inflicting more pain upon you, young man, this will definitely hurt. We’ll try to be quick, but you have to be brave.”
“Of course I can!” Richard exclaimed. “Of course I am! We never—”
This sudden flash of his familiar temperament made Alva almost happy, and he couldn’t resist the urge to add:
“You may cry out, if you wish.”
“Certainly,” the doctor affirmed. “At my sign, my lord duke. One, two—”
No sound, as should have been expected, left Richard’s lips during the procedure, but the very moment the arm was pulled and turned he twitched, and his body went limp in Alva’s embrace, his head lolling back against Alva’s chest, soft hair brushing his chin.
“The young man has fainted from the pain,” the doctor commented, applying a woolen cloth to the place of the fracture. “Please leave him like this for now and let me finish with the bandage, just support him, yes, this way, thank you.”
The arm had just been fixed in splints, when Richard started coming to his senses and, becoming partly aware of someone’s hands holding him, tried to wring himself out. Alva clutched him tighter, but Richard, taking in the surroundings, visibly relaxed only when he saw the doctor’s face. Good to see that, Alva sadly congratulated himself, there was at least one person in the house Richard considered trustworthy enough.
“Why making the same mistake twice?” scolded Alva, lying him back on the pillows. “Your family’s notorious stubbornness is dangerously close to stupidity! How many times will you repeat the same escapade until you learn that—”
The doctor cast him an annoyed warning glance with a silent “please keep your words for yourself, if you would, my lord duke”, and Alva bit his tongue. They still had a lot of things to do, though the further examination promised to be less dramatic.
“This arm has to be kept in a sling any time you walk, stand or even sit up,” the doctor explained to Richard—to Richard himself, not Alva or Juan; and Richard listened attentively and nodded. “When you are lying, it’s better to hold it elevated, for example, on a pillow or a cushion. Little movement will do you good, but try not to overexert it.”
“Juan,” Alva turned. “Please, another pillow.”
“I write it down, soberano,” Juan said, his pose unchanged. “We’ll bring and arrange everything when the maître finishes.”
***
Having next probed Richard’s side, chest and back, the doctor stated that two of the ribs had been cracked but thankfully no internal injuries had followed and that only a light bandage, together with cooling ointment, would be enough, and maybe some ice, if any ice was still left in the cellar. Still he seemed more concerned than before: he took Richard’s wrist again and, counting his pulse, asked him to inhale and exhale deeply, hold his breath, and breathe regularly; finally, he frowned, chewed his lips and enquired:
“Do you suffer from the Nadorish disease, young man?”
Richard hesitated. Alva recalled Egmont mention his children had been prone to this specific northern ailment, but if it was one of them, two, or even all, he couldn’t remember.
“My—” Richard started and wavered; the doctor gently encouraged him to continue. “Yes, it runs in our family, in fact. My sister does have it, and I, myself, did as a child, but now, for several years already, I have not… had… haven’t experienced… any… fits.”
In the end his voice faded to an inaudible whisper—perhaps because of his ignominious health secret revealed in front of his lord (Alva felt angry irritation rising in him for not being forewarned, as his vivid imagination immediately showed him pictures of his squire dying of respiratory failure in the middle of a royal ball, in a room decorated with fashionable heavy-smelling exotic flowers, or in a military march, suffocated by clouds of road dust)—or probably because all what had been left of his strength evaporated away: this was, after all, the longest speech he has pronounced since the accident.
“Please calm down, young man,” the doctor said, pressing several points on the base of Richard’s fingers. “You are not guilty for being a little indisposed like this.”
“Not… indisposed,” Richard murmured.
“Well, you should agree that at the moment you are: I don’t mean your childhood condition but your present state. Now please listen to me: yes, broken ribs and chest disease do not form a good combination, but, firstly, it’s by no means mortal in your case, and, secondly, no-one is going to leave you to face it alone. Just follow my instructions and be sure to practice special breathing exercises I’ll show you, every couple of hours, and move more when you feel fit enough. Also, whenever you take a deep breath or cough, it would be sensible to press a small flat cushion to your side. And you, my lord duke,” he addressed Alva, his face acquiring a sterner expression, “you should watch with all your eyes, as scrupulously as you can, for the signs of the lung fever.”
“Juan, we need an extra cush—” Alva had already started saying, but interrupted himself upon hearing the doctor’s words. “What? Why me?” It seemed the old Morisco was finally entering his “you-are-nothing-more-than-an-apprentice”-mode. Well, it had always been his ordinary style of communication with Alva, and, to do him justice, today he had refrained from it long enough, but Alva still—though he would never admit it—felt almost insulted: such was the contrast between the doctor’s kind attention he treated his patients with and that polite but dry manner he used for his titled assistant.
“Because in this house you are the one whose medical skills would allow you to recognize the first dangerous symptoms,” the doctor replied. “And also because I would certainly be able to visit the young man less often than you, my lord duke.”
There was reason in his words, though Alva hadn’t initially been going to interact with his squire more than before, thus letting the boy be ill and recuperate in peace, and avoiding the role of a caring nurse himself. Well, entering Richard’s room several times a day wasn’t such a difficult task.
“One last thing, young man, and then you’ll be able to rest,” the doctor said in the meantime, after having listed another set of prescriptions, thoroughly taken down by Juan. “I don’t like the sight of this bruise and have to examine your hip. Would you please get your blanket a little down and let me see?”
That was a simple, ordinary, unobtrusive, very basic healer’s request, but Richard’s reaction to it was astonishingly inadequate. He jerked back, clenched his teeth, clutched the edge of the blanket so tightly, as if his very life depended on it, and replied:
“There is… nothing worth your attention here, maître! It’s just a small bruise, no need to see it.”
“Still,” insisted the doctor, “it would be unwise to leave it untended.”
Alva thought it his duty to interrupt.
“It’s not the time and place to demonstrate us your famous northern modesty, young gentleman,” he teased, and with amusement watched scarlet creeping up the boy’s cheeks: his innocent joke had reached its goal. He waited for a devastating, thunderous protest, but there was too little energy left in Richard’s body for this brief outburst to last longer, and the flame died out without having really started. Richard lowered his gaze and, still very flushed, pleaded:
“Ir Roque… could you please… turn away?”
This old-fashioned form of address, a constant object of Alva’s mockery, and no attempt made to correct it to anything more acceptable, like “my lord” or “Your Grace”—and the fact that Richard probably hadn’t even noticed his courtesy mistake—told Alva, as would have told anyone even less sensitive to such subtleties (Alva liked his given name, but didn’t like it tossed around by stupid youngsters), how poorly Richard was now controlling himself and how bad his condition really was. The sooner he would be put to bed properly, the better. Unwilling to push it further, already tired himself, having no desire to argue, without a word Alva turned away and stared at the far wall—by the corner of his eye he noticed Juan doing the same. After a muffled rustle of cloth, followed by a few minutes of comparative silence, broken only by occasional indistinguishable sounds, he heard the doctor proclaiming that it was really just a bad bruise, explaining what type of salve he was applying and what different type it would be changed to in a day or two, promising to pay a visit tomorrow and prohibiting any excessive walking until the bruise was healed—as if other injuries wouldn’t prevent his patient from any walking at all for a week at least. Alva felt first sparks of migraine igniting in his own head, rubbed his eyes and turned back.
***
“For a couple of words, my lord duke.”
They left the room together. Exhausted from his recent ordeal and calmed down by a sedative draught, Richard was now fast asleep, a housemaid ordered to watch over him.
“This is not another prescription, no need to burden dear Juan with it, that’s just what I would like to say to you personally,” the doctor started. “You see, my lord duke, it may appear that your ward’s personality has changed, that he is not himself, too shy or maybe too confused, angry or anxious. Those are typical effects of a head trauma, they will go away with the course of time, and the young man will return to his previous self. They are not dangerous, but sometimes difficult to manage on one’s own, and I suppose it’s on you to help the young man cope. A simple reassuring gesture, a few words of consolation will certainly do him good.”
“Oh, I don’t think he needs it from me,” said Alva grimly.
“But why not?” the doctor was surprised. “Of course, gentlemen of his age often tend not to show affection, and, moreover, most go through the stage of authority rejection, but now he needs your care and support more than ever. Judging by the fact that the young man’s mother is not at his bedside yet, I presume his parents live far from the town, so you’re currently his closest person. He is not a child, my lord duke, but he is still very young; I’m sure you are wise enough to be an adult figure for him.”
A shade of doubt in the doctor’s voice made Alva feel like a schoolboy again, and he just nodded without an answer.
“Now, if you excuse me, I would like to visit the kitchens to give instructions about the diet to your cook,” the doctor finished.
***
Later that evening, on the verge of night, Alva returned to Richard’s room. The boy was still sleeping peacefully, his features finally free from the grimace of pain; the housemaid too was slumbering in her chair. Alva glanced at Richard’s face: now, rid of his constant frown, his constant mine of grief, anger, indignation, or even snobbery, making him look older, allowing Alva to treat him like a foolish, unruly, unskilled adult, he really seemed very young.
So… Did the doctor expect him to start giving hugs and singing lullabies every now and then? In fact, he had already done the former today, twice, though Richard had been in no condition to pay attention to it. Of course, he told himself, he bore no especially warm feelings for his young squire, their relation being utterly formal, as it should be—the years of mutual hatred (currently there was definitely hatred on Richard’s part and a hint of contempt coming from Alva) and blood vengeance between their families, membership of the opposite political parties and their personal conflict couldn’t allow anything more. Yet, certainly, he had been—and still was—concerned about the boy, to the extent any proper commander would be about his wounded soldier (to tell the truth, there was also a political reason: an accident leaving the young disgraced noble maimed or even dead, while in the power of his alleged enemy, in the very beginning of his service, not at war, would cause a disastrous scandal: the unfortunate boy, the public opinion would say, just like his father, has met his fate at the hands of the terrible Raven of Quenalloah, this cruel, mad, unpredictable monster), and didn’t help him more than he had always helped when anybody around him got hurt. Providing further care and comfort had however never been his business, as family or friends of a victim had always been at hand.
“Imagine your young relatives, Rocío,” he told himself. “Imagine your friends’ children. How would Diego feel if Berto lay here, unconscious and in pain? (Oh, his mother would never leave her “little boy’s” side—and, by the way, speaking of lullabies, playing a soft and peaceful melody to sooth his imaginary young cousin’s headache didn’t even sound such a bad idea). What would Li or Émile do if Arnaud was prostrated before them on the bed like this? (Oh, their mother is quite different, but probably neither she would bereave her son of her attention). How, after all, would vok Warzoff have reacted had his young squire got himself into such a predicament?”
Alva turned Richard’s head to one side to reduce pressure on the wound, brushed a stray strand of hair away from the boy’s face, and, resisting the urge to tuck him in, simply pulled the blanket up a little, covering Richard’s shoulders, and slightly adjusted a complicated construction of pillows built around him. It was so easy to be caring and kind to someone senseless, to establish one-sided good relations, when the second party was not aware of the first one’s attempts; but what would he do when Richard is fully awake? Why should it be on him to repair a breach between them: it is not Richard’s own task to learn to accept the favors given?
Well, he has to think it over. Maybe in the morning. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe later…
***
In the morning, passing Richard’s chambers and pondering on whether he should—or rather had to—enter the bedroom or could burden himself with it later, Alva heard a cooing voice from the door: of course, Conchita, the recognized mother hen of the mansion, never missing a chance to make a fuss over a “poor sick thing”, whoever that be: the cook was now coaxing Richard into tasting one of her creations. Only a fool would refuse—and that was just the thing Richard was doing, proving again his pitifully low level of intelligence, or maybe social skills.
“Thank you,” he was saying, “but I really don’t want to eat now, I’m not hungry at all.”
“The doctor said it will help you heal faster,” she insisted.
“You can leave it on the table, thank you…” Richard said, and something—his movement or gesture—made Conchita change her tone.
“Oh, does it hurt so much?” she asked sympathetically, and Alva easily imagined her patting the boy’s poor bandaged head. “Look, there’s a nice big glass of milk for you. There… You can drink it now, and we leave the rest for later… Oh, let me help you, dor, or you’ll spill it all over yourself! That’s it. Trust me, dor, there’s nothing to worry about: we’re here to nurse you back to health in no time.”
It was the most inappropriate moment for Alva to enter the room, he thought with a hidden smile. It didn’t bother him, naturally, if Richard would feel ashamed again, but to meddle with Conchita’s ways would be a pure crime. He found other things to do, for their flow never ceased, and returned later, when Conchita had already disappeared leaving a tray with the breakfast perched on the bedside table: a bowl of cottage cheese, dressed with cream and garnished with jam. Richard hadn’t touched the food, having fallen back into an uneasy medicine-induced sleep; Alva, as he had promised the doctor, checked his breathing, pulse and temperature—apart from a very mild fever, which had been expected, considering the injuries, Richard seemed quite fine. This was definitely a good sign.
***
A week passed. Richard wasn’t doing well: having slept through the first three days, waking up only to take medicine, eat, and do simple exercise, prescribed by the maître, he was now already trying to get up and walk around the room, but still hadn’t got enough strength to stay out of bed for long; his bones were mending too slowly, and headaches, dizziness and disorientation were still plaguing him. Whenever Alva came to check on him, Richard was down and distressed, and looked lost, lonely and forgotten. These visits happened now less and less often, and Alva was thinking of cutting down their number to the lowest possible minimum: after all, it had already been a week, and no dramatic changes for the worse had occurred, so, one might assume, such detailed attention was no longer necessary. By the way, he hadn’t yet invented a method to cross the bridge between them and had put the thought on the far shelf of his mind.
It was in a sort Conchita’s unintentional intervention again that turned the tables. One morning he was served, instead of his regular breakfast, a large bowl of what looked like gruel smelling vaguely of meat, and a plate filled with pieces of stale bread dipped in some sticky, glassy, probably sweet substance, decorated with occasional raisins. Never hostile to experiments, he gave it a try: yes, it was leftover bread from yesterday’s meals in caramel syrup sauce—not utterly disgusting, but difficult to eat more than a few bites. He didn’t feel brave enough to start the second dish, called Juan instead and asked him what this culinary demarche meant.
“You have approved of the menu yourself, soberano,” Juan said, feigning surprise. “But if you wish, I’ll fetch Conchita and we’ll listen to her answers.”
Juan was, of course, right: since the very day Alva had become the sovereign of Quenalloah, every evening he was presented with a list of courses for tomorrow. He was expected to familiarize himself with it, decide if he liked it or wanted any changes, and return it to the kitchens with his signature. His habit of signing papers without reading had proved itself dangerous more than once, and he had got rid of it, compelling himself to skim all official documents concerning army or court affairs—but no trouble could possibly arise from an unread list of food. It was partly something of a game for his household, and partly a hint that their soberano should finally marry and pass his housekeeping duties over to his lady, and nothing more.
Conchita’s footsteps up the stairs and along the corridor were heard from afar. She bustled through the doors, mixing something vigorously in a large pot, and had an air of someone entirely busy.
“Juan’s told me you want explanations about the breakfast, soberano,” she started at once, without any sign from him allowing her to speak. “It’s the day of Nadorish cuisine today, you see, and I’ve written it out for you, do you remember? Don’t you like the food?”
“No,” he answered plainly. “I don’t. Maybe it’s just that I’m not a connoisseur of those northern tastes. Are the other meals today like this one?”
She nodded, “Yes, I’ve decided to make a special day earlier this summer, because, you know, I’ve thought familiar food may cheer the young dor up a little.”
Ah, her special days, each season a celebration of one national culture. It was no use arguing: being one of the best cooks in the town and the only one familiar with the delicatessen of the Quenallish cuisine, she was very well aware she would never be fired, and a punishment or a reduction in her wages would force her to leave the mansion, only to be eagerly welcomed in any noble house of the capital. So, she, just like Juan, allowed herself more freedom with her soberano than other members of the household.
“I see,” he said. “That’s all, you may go. Oh, and prepare some bread, cheese and wine to be brought to my study, please.”
With a wave of his hand he dismissed her. She curtsied and left, only to be immediately caught by Juan, who had been certainly eavesdropping at the doors. Alva could easily hear their agitated conversation, their loud voices, growing distant, as they both were moving away, heading to the kitchens.
“It’s not like the haute-cuisine northern food we had last year, is it?” Juan was asking, “That time soberano enjoyed it. What’s the matter today, where have you obtained the recipes?”
“Oh, not like this,” she explained readily. “It’s traditional common folk food, the type even poor people can afford. Well… Speaking of money… We all know how hard an orphan’s and a widow’s life can be, don’t we?”
“That’s true”, Juan agreed.
“The maître says,” she continued, “that maybe the young dor’s bones are not healing well because he’s not been eating decent meals for several years.”
“And we all know who orphaned the boy,” that’s what she meant, though didn’t say it aloud. “Serves him right if he, just for a day, himself experiences the privations he’s put the child to”. Turning over the corner, their voices went muffled, words no longer clear. Well… His own servants conspiring behind his back, how nice. Oh Conchita, the menace of Taliguish nobility, and her indisputable commonplace logic! If she thought he would feel guilty, she was greatly mistaken. Conchita’s resentment was understandable: her professional pride was probably deeply insulted, when her best efforts to help “the young dor” get better, simply giving him the right sort of food, proved futile. By the way, how could Richard really be malnourished? He was thin, yes, but not skinny, quite average for his age. Conchita should have misunderstood the doctor’s phrases full of medical terminology. And… why did the doctor confide in the cook and not in the head of the house himself? He should confront the old man with this matter during his next visit.
***
Several hours later, without any paperwork to occupy him for the evening (all documents already signed and tossed back to a royal courier), he was deciding if he should open one more bottle of wine to wash down the foul taste of the “northern specialties” or pay a visit to one of his acquaintances or even the palace itself to have proper dinner, when his musings were interrupted by a frantic knocking at the door. Alva allowed whoever that was to enter, and a disheveled housemaid appeared at the threshold. From her hysterical sobbing he, not without difficulty, managed to make out that “the young dor” had been going to spend some time outdoors, left his room, refused her sincerely offered help and collapsed on the stairs.
With a bunch of profanities, he rushed downstairs, thinking of more broken bones and another head injury, fearing to find Richard on the floor, feverish, delirious, struggling for breath; oh, had it finally come what had been to come; had it finally happened what he had tried and failed to prevent; had the chest disease developed to claim Richard’s life? The doctor would be enraged (“Anybody but you, my lord, could I suspect capable of such drastic neglect,” he would say, pale with fury. “The instructions I’ve given you have been plain and unambiguous, haven’t they?”), and the household would be inconsolable. With raising horror, he anticipated sleepless nights, constant vigil at the sickbed, days of excruciating illness, rise of despair, loss of hope, unstoppable progress of deterioration, and eventual death. At the same time, a small sensible voice at the back of his mind kept whispering that it was but an exaggeration of a frightened girl, and that Richard wouldn’t even be there, having already happily proceeded wherever he had been heading to, the garden or the stables. It however turned out that neither Alva’s worst fears nor his best hopes came true, but something of an average between them: Richard was still on the floor, at the bottom of the stairs, his eyes closed, sitting with his back to the banisters, breathing heavily, but looked unhurt—and definitely a lot better than a week ago.
“What is the meaning of that, young gentleman?” Alva demanded, hovering over the boy. Richard blinked, raised his eyes, making no attempt to stand up, and in a surprisingly calm manner (this calmness was probable due to numerous sedative and pain-relieving draughts he kept being fed) admitted that he had wanted to visit the garden, managed all his way down, reached the ground floor, but lost his balance and had to sit down for a rest. The maid had apparently taken this “sitting down” for a fainting on the spot, and this posed several questions on Richard’s truthfulness, his ability to estimate his state, or soberness of his mind, but Alva decided not to press on the matter.
“You—” he started, for once in his life not sure how to put it: dozens of jokes and reprimands were already at the tip of his tongue—and, to be honest, sarcasm, strictness or cold indifference had been all Richard had got from him since the accident, in those rare moments when he hadn’t been unconscious, sleeping or too disoriented during his meetings with Alva. If Alva did this again—and if one’s mood really contributed to one’s progress of healing—this all might never, ever, end. In a flash of sudden inspiration, like those that seized him on a battlefield, he held out his hand and said, forcing a smile, “If you feel fit, I invite you to join me tonight in my study for a selection of Quenallish cheeses and wines—not that you are allowed the latter now, but we’ll invent something for you.”
Richard took his hand, got up with a small, almost invisible wince, and smiled back.
***
It all came to the lullabies, indeed, because Richard promptly fell asleep after but the second song.
The end.
Примечания
1. Да, автор ограбил еще и «Ребекку».
2. Читатели уже могли встречать recurring character — Морисского Врача — в следующих фанфиках автора в жанре "избиение Окделла": в вырезанных сценах из истории про дракона ("Мозг ящера", здесь в комментах, осторожно, может быть страшно) и в "короткометражном мультфильме" из серии про встречи с комиксовыми персонажами ("I shall return — The Aftermath", здесь). Все остальное, кажется, показывать еще более неловко, чем вот этот английский текст, так что оно лежит на компьютере.
3. Опасность подписывания документов не глядя раскрывается в фанфике "Умный в артиллерии" здесь.
Про жанр Теперь я уж не голословна и могу говорить об этом замечательном жанре, имея на руках статистические пруфы. Итак, на этой летней ФБ я считала для героев, которые участвовали в фанфиках по ОЭ, рейтинг травм и смертей: за каждое упоминание проблем со здоровьем герой получал + 1 балл, за каждую смерть + 10. И что бы вы думали? Конечно же, Окделл с большим отрывом победил и занял первые местах во всех трех соревнованиях: в общем зачете, в зачете травм и в зачете смертей. Так что теперь без зазрения совести могу продолжать избивать его в фанфиках, раз уж все с ним делают это. АннотацияAnnotation: An unfortunate accident leaves young Duke Oakdell injured (though not very dangerously) and Duke Alva forced to reconsider his attitudes and values.
A small innocent fluffy sick-ficlet in which Richard gets carried in arms, held, patted on the head, and entirely fussed over.
Маленький незамысловатый херт-комфортный флаффный фичок, в котором Ричарда носят на ручках, обнимают, гладят по голове и прыгают над ним изо всех сил.
Предварительные замечанияNotes:
For English-speaking readers
I’m not a native speaker, sorry for any mistakes. The canon itself and almost all fandom works are in Russian, no translation available.
Dedicated to lindahoyland (archiveofourown.org/users/lindahoyland/profile), whose LOTR fics have always been an etalon of hurt/comfort fanfiction to me.
Для русскоязычных читателей
Фик написан по-английски в экспериментальных целях и в качестве определенного self-challenge, вызова самим себе, проверки сил автора. Оказалось, что английский, действительно, раскрепощает: тот градус флаффа, который автору неловко было бы писать по-русски, в английском тексте проходит вполне спокойно. Были и другие эффекты: реальность съехала в АУ, в котором накал драматизма заметно меньше, чем в каноне (видимо, из-за того, что автор притворился для себя, что он и правда иностранец, который не продвинулся дальше первой книги), персонажи обзавелись ООС, а вся обстановка приобрела ощутимый флер некоей викторианской британскости (не сказать, чтобы персонажам это было чуждо — они в какой-то мере снова приблизились к своим литературным прототипам, например, франту-опекуну из «Опасного богатства»).
Названия, имена и прочее автор переводил на свое усмотрение (кроме тех имен, которые уже переведены для тэгов на АО3), а для некоторых каноничных «терминов» подобрал не переводы, а аналоги:
young gentleman — в роли «юноша» (в обращении),
boy — в роли «юноша» / «молодой человек» (в тексте от автора),
Your Grace — в роли «монсеньор» (обращение к британскому герцогу),
my lord — в роли «господин».
АУ, ООС, балаган, английский язык, и так далее.
Так как фанфик по-английски и в нем царит атмосфера британскости, то и играют в нем классические британские актеры.
Встречайте!
Laurence Olivier as Roque Alva
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Michael York as Richard Oakdell
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and Cristopher Lee as The Morisco Doctor
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in the new movie
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Michael York as Richard Oakdell
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and Cristopher Lee as The Morisco Doctor
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in the new movie
A Very (British) Accident
And now, although Aunt Evelyn fussed over me
as if I were a real wounded soldier,
I was distinctly conscious of an anti-climax.
S. Sassoon, “Memoirs of a Fox-hunting Man”
as if I were a real wounded soldier,
I was distinctly conscious of an anti-climax.
S. Sassoon, “Memoirs of a Fox-hunting Man”
читать дальшеRoque Alva’s new squire was a young man full of surprises and prone to adventures. A little more than a month had passed since he had first entered Alva’s house, but he had already managed to make his lord’s life interesting—even too interesting, for Alva’s liking. This day wasn’t an exception. Alva didn’t even understand completely how this all happened, as the events swirled too quickly.
They were already leaving the fair: Alva had finally allowed his escort to spent about an hour among brightly coloured tents, for a relief after an exhausting day in the military camp. They were moving slowly, Alva the first in the procession, and Richard the last: the boy, not shaken at all by the previous accident in the town street, was looking longingly in the direction of a puppet show booth, stuck between two pavilions at the very edge of the fair area, but Alva wasn’t going to let him linger in the place any longer. They were heading home, and Alva really wanted to return to the city before dark. All was going as well as it could, and nothing brought any evil foreboding, when Richard’s horse (what was the beast’s name again? Fretty? Bratty? Naughty?), this clumsy and ill-schooled mock of a steed, frightened again by some sudden noise, reared up. This time Alva wasn’t quick enough to catch the reins—or even get closer—and Richard, letting go of the horse’s mane, lost his stirrups and fell down. He was able to turn in the air and thankfully landed on his side, not on the back, but his head still hit the ground with a loud thud. Alva halted his own horse, jumped down and nearly ran to the place, where two men of his escort were already bending over Richard’s unmoving figure. Alva waved them aside and, kneeling near Richard, gently slapped the unconscious boy’s cheek. This had an effect, for Richard let out a soft moan, opened his eyes, winced and tried to push himself up on his elbows, but his right arm gave way (it might be a fracture or at least a very bad bruise, Alva thought), and he nearly fell down again; he however managed to use his good arm and sat up, gazing around confusedly. Alva didn’t like the blurred and disoriented look in his eyes and got even more concerned, when Richard, crouching over, clutched his head and vomited. Alva held him by the shoulders and, when Richard, taking a flask of water from one of the escort man, flushed in shame and mumbled “Sorry”, told him, trying to sound as mild as he could:
“Richard—”, he had to swallow down his usual “young gentleman”, as a person in Richard’s state would certainly react to a given name but not to a general term, “—Richard, please let me have a look at your head.”
Richard nodded, which probably caused another wave of nausea, closed his eyes and lowered his head. Alva firmly took it in both hands, turned it a little to have a closer look and swore under his breath: a deep gash on the back of Richards’s head was oozing blood, colouring the hair dark red. Alva gently palpated the area around the wound: the skull, fortunately, wasn’t broken. The marshal in him was already fuming with annoyance, irritated by his subordinate’s clumsiness, that had slowed down the whole squad, but his inner doctor quickly took over. Alva disinfected the wound with a little bit of casera, using his own handkerchief; another handkerchief was folded and pressed to the wound to stop blood; then Alva untied his neckerchief and bandaged Richard’s head. The shiny silk blue cloth made Richard look not like a wounded warrior, but like a pirate or rather a forest bandit from old northern legends; and still he was too dazed to have the heroic air of any of those romantic characters, and even too slow to protest when Alva started unwrapping Richard’s own neckerchief to use as a makeshift sling for his arm. When the arm was finally made comfortable, Alva decided this was enough and other bruises and scratches, if any, could wait till home.
“Richard, do you feel able to sit in the saddle?” he asked. “If you are not sure, you can ride double with one of my men, or we can leave you in this town and then send a carriage to collect you.” If not a horse stretcher, he added to himself.
“I am perfectly able to ride on my own!” replied Richard proudly. “I am completely all right, Your Grace. Please excuse me my improper behaviour.”
Alva felt a sense of relief washing over him: Richard’s returning stubbornness showed that he was definitely getting better.
***
The “getting-better” period didn’t last long. They were about halfway home, Alva leading their small party again and Richard dragging behind, when an escort man approached him and, nodding in Richard’s direction, addressed Alva in a concerned voice:
“Soberano,” he said, “I’m afraid the young dor won’t make it.”
Alva followed his gaze. The boy was obviously struggling—and miserably failing—to stay upright, leaning more and more on his horse’s neck; the reins were about to fall from his good hand. With a sigh Alva called for a halt and, riding over to Richard, at first tried to shake him awake, but to no avail: the boy seemed to be overcome with dizziness and going to fall down again. The only possible solution now, Alva mused, was to take Richard into someone’s saddle. His own stallion, Moreau, was strong enough to carry two and even three persons, and smart enough to recognize a wounded rider and keep a quick but steady pace, without unnecessary shaking or jolting.
“Get him over here,” he ordered. “Easy, easy. Give him to me. Good.”
Alva put his arms around Richard, placed in front of him in the saddle, took the reins with one hand and did his best to cushion the irresponsive boy’s head against his shoulder. Sitting like this was far from convenient, but fortunately it wasn’t very long from home.
During the rest of the ride Richard was drifting in and out of consciousness and from time to time gave small moans and babbled incoherently; once Alva heard him whisper:
“Am I going to die?..”
“Nonsense!” snapped Alva. “Nobody here is going to die, young gentleman. People don’t die of such a petty nuisance, don’t make a fool of yourself.”
Richard closed his eyes again and made no answer; Alva wasn’t even sure he had been aware of this little moralizing speech at all.
***
Back home; back, literally, on the firm ground, Richard, as if ancient myths came true and his divine element really helped him, seemed alert and lucid, able to stand on his own, and Alva eagerly welcomed the return of his own sarcastic self.
“Off to the baths, young gentleman,” he ordered. “I don’t think the doctor will be happy to examine someone covered in road dust and smelling of horses.”
He waited for an indignant reply, but, again, no reaction followed. Richard lowered his head, turned and dragged himself in the direction of the mansion, one of the servants, at Juan’s wordless sign, following him—close enough to catch him if he would fancy losing consciousness once more. Alva wondered if that was the right decision, but he had never heard of anyone with a head injury getting into trouble because of a hot bath (it helps to relax and calm down, after all), and even if Richard would become too weak to walk to his room after it, he would certainly survive the humiliation of being carried there—it wouldn’t be more humiliating, at least, than his ride home in the most indecent position.
“By the way, Juan,” Alva remarked and rubbed his eyes, “we are in need of a doctor… the doctor, I mean.”
“Already sent for, soberano.”
“And the bath?”
“Prepared, soberano.”
Juan always knew what he needed better than himself.
***
Passing through a labyrinth of secluded chambers and partial walls giving visitors certain privacy (the great ground floor baths of the mansion, built in the manner of ancient thermae, with addition of exquisite Morisco style and modern day conveniences, had been an object of pride for many generations of Alva’s ancestors and that of jealousy for all other dwellers of the capital city) towards his favourite bathing room, small but luxurious, Alva cast a quick glance into the section now occupied by his unlucky squire. Richard had already managed to undress, his clothes lying in a heap on the stone bench, an ornate austral gown waiting on the rack, and now, with a grateful sigh, he sank down into the marble-tiled basin and closed his eyes, allowing a servant approach and start washing the blood off his hair. Alva averted his eyes and went by.
In his private chamber he let himself enjoy the pleasant feeling of cleanliness, concentrating on the warmness of water on his skin, unobtrusive scent of perfumed soap, sound of dripping drops (if not for the accident, it could have been a perfect ending for a busy day), but thoughts about Richard still lingered in his mind. By the look of it, the boy must have been in a great deal of pain. Alva had never experienced a fracture or a concussion himself (and usually even nothing worse than an occasional sprained ankle) and therefore couldn’t conceive of how it really felt—to tell the truth, he had been severely wounded only once in his life, but in that specific case his mystical awe and spiritual shock had prevailed over the bodily sufferings.
“You have swift fingers, a sharp mind and a kind heart, my young friend,” his old master, one of the most renowned healers in the Crimson Lands, had used to say, “but you totally lack compassion. You don’t even try to imagine yourself in another person’s shoes, to understand your patients’ needs and wishes, to feel their sufferings from inside. You will never become a healer in the proper sense—a middle-rate military surgeon is the uttermost step you are able to reach.”
A middle-rate military surgeon in the Crimson Lands equaled a first-class physician in Taligue, and this had been more than enough for young Roque, who had never dreamt of pursuing a medical career. His father had insisted that his younger son should be indoctrinated in the art of medicine, and sent him to the Crimson Lands to study. This education had later proved useful plenty of times and had even saved several lives, but all Morisco doctors he met still regarded Roque as nothing more than an assistant, who was to be trusted only with holding instruments, mixing a simple herbal tea or administering a prescribed draught. Alva took this for granted, because all Morisco doctors were elusively reminiscent of each other, and, looking at one of them, he always remembered his old master and the days of his apprenticeship. Their family doctor was, of course, similar to them all and at the same time different. He, having lived in Ollaria for several decades, had obtained a large practice, a fabulously rich house in the Morisco quarter, a six-horse ornate equipage for pleasure trips (for professional visits he always chose his invariable two-wheeled cart), and a reputation of a wizard. He had been the physician of Alva’s family since Roque’s childhood, and this was, on the one hand, bad, as he still tended to treat the great First Marshal as a naughty schoolboy (on top of that, Juan was always on the doctor’s side), and, on the other hand, good, because he allowed Alva more than his strict Crimson-landish colleagues. Since the death of Roque’s father, the doctor had been sent for only on special occasions and in serious situations Alva doubted he was capable of managing himself. In all other minor cases it was either His Grace the Duke himself who came to an aid when an ailment attacked his household or an unexpected injury occurred, or a local physician, of Taliguish origin, running a practice in the vicinity of the mansion. The man came to the mansion immediately after he had been called (unlike the old Morisco, who had a habit to keep the messenger in the waiting room for hours, while busy with another patient), did exactly what he was asked to and never ceased to praise Alva’s medical talents. Today, however, Alva was definitely too worried to entrust Richard’s well-being to anyone but the family doctor.
***
When Alva entered Richard’s room, the doctor had already arrived and was now seated next to the bed, holding Richard’s good hand and massaging his palm in small soothing circular movements—Alva knew at once the rare calming technique, borrowed from the Azure Lands and used only by the most sophisticated Morisco doctors, and thought he should one day learn it himself. Turning over the shoulder, the doctor was dictating a long list of drugs to be bought from an apothecary (a Morisco one, of course), to Juan, who, standing at the door, was carefully writing down the prescriptions, as always, unflappable and exact. Richard was sitting in his bed, propped up against a pile of pillows, naked to the waist, his lower body covered with a blanket, his head sporting a fresh bandage, his arm still in the sling, a large bruise disfiguring his right side. He gave Alva a dazed and tired look and said nothing, while the doctor greeted him:
“Ah, my lord duke,” he said cordially, “please come in and join us. We are waiting for the pain-relieving remedy to start working. By the way,” he addressed Richard, “how is it now? Do you still feel pain?”
Richard closed his eyes, assessing his condition, and silently nodded. The doctor looked at him thoughtfully for a few moments and then decided:
“Well, I would still like to examine your arm straight now—I promise to be as gentle as I can.”
He took the injured arm from the sling, when Richard suddenly swayed and pressed his hand to his mouth.
“I… I… Excuse me… I think I’m going to be sick,” he muttered and flushed in embarrassment.
“Oh gods,” the doctor said, helping him. “There is nothing to be ashamed of, young man. That has been a bad blow to you head, after all, hasn’t it? But—” he added, passing Richard a cup with some medicine, “—I’m afraid we cannot wait any more until your stomach settles down and the second portion of the pain-reliever finishes its job. This bone has to be set immediately.”
The doctor was right. The forearm was all black and blue and very swollen, the swelling getting more and more prominent.
“I know what you want to suggest instead of my slow-working remedy, my lord duke, but no—no alcohol for at least a month. And now, would you please assist me,” the doctor asked—as if he didn’t know himself that Alva had come to the room with the only purpose of playing the role of an aide. “Please hold the young man from the back and pull his arm when I command.”
Alva did as he was instructed, sat at the edge of the bed and got himself ready, while the doctor spoke to Richard again:
“As much as I hate the thought of inflicting more pain upon you, young man, this will definitely hurt. We’ll try to be quick, but you have to be brave.”
“Of course I can!” Richard exclaimed. “Of course I am! We never—”
This sudden flash of his familiar temperament made Alva almost happy, and he couldn’t resist the urge to add:
“You may cry out, if you wish.”
“Certainly,” the doctor affirmed. “At my sign, my lord duke. One, two—”
No sound, as should have been expected, left Richard’s lips during the procedure, but the very moment the arm was pulled and turned he twitched, and his body went limp in Alva’s embrace, his head lolling back against Alva’s chest, soft hair brushing his chin.
“The young man has fainted from the pain,” the doctor commented, applying a woolen cloth to the place of the fracture. “Please leave him like this for now and let me finish with the bandage, just support him, yes, this way, thank you.”
The arm had just been fixed in splints, when Richard started coming to his senses and, becoming partly aware of someone’s hands holding him, tried to wring himself out. Alva clutched him tighter, but Richard, taking in the surroundings, visibly relaxed only when he saw the doctor’s face. Good to see that, Alva sadly congratulated himself, there was at least one person in the house Richard considered trustworthy enough.
“Why making the same mistake twice?” scolded Alva, lying him back on the pillows. “Your family’s notorious stubbornness is dangerously close to stupidity! How many times will you repeat the same escapade until you learn that—”
The doctor cast him an annoyed warning glance with a silent “please keep your words for yourself, if you would, my lord duke”, and Alva bit his tongue. They still had a lot of things to do, though the further examination promised to be less dramatic.
“This arm has to be kept in a sling any time you walk, stand or even sit up,” the doctor explained to Richard—to Richard himself, not Alva or Juan; and Richard listened attentively and nodded. “When you are lying, it’s better to hold it elevated, for example, on a pillow or a cushion. Little movement will do you good, but try not to overexert it.”
“Juan,” Alva turned. “Please, another pillow.”
“I write it down, soberano,” Juan said, his pose unchanged. “We’ll bring and arrange everything when the maître finishes.”
***
Having next probed Richard’s side, chest and back, the doctor stated that two of the ribs had been cracked but thankfully no internal injuries had followed and that only a light bandage, together with cooling ointment, would be enough, and maybe some ice, if any ice was still left in the cellar. Still he seemed more concerned than before: he took Richard’s wrist again and, counting his pulse, asked him to inhale and exhale deeply, hold his breath, and breathe regularly; finally, he frowned, chewed his lips and enquired:
“Do you suffer from the Nadorish disease, young man?”
Richard hesitated. Alva recalled Egmont mention his children had been prone to this specific northern ailment, but if it was one of them, two, or even all, he couldn’t remember.
“My—” Richard started and wavered; the doctor gently encouraged him to continue. “Yes, it runs in our family, in fact. My sister does have it, and I, myself, did as a child, but now, for several years already, I have not… had… haven’t experienced… any… fits.”
In the end his voice faded to an inaudible whisper—perhaps because of his ignominious health secret revealed in front of his lord (Alva felt angry irritation rising in him for not being forewarned, as his vivid imagination immediately showed him pictures of his squire dying of respiratory failure in the middle of a royal ball, in a room decorated with fashionable heavy-smelling exotic flowers, or in a military march, suffocated by clouds of road dust)—or probably because all what had been left of his strength evaporated away: this was, after all, the longest speech he has pronounced since the accident.
“Please calm down, young man,” the doctor said, pressing several points on the base of Richard’s fingers. “You are not guilty for being a little indisposed like this.”
“Not… indisposed,” Richard murmured.
“Well, you should agree that at the moment you are: I don’t mean your childhood condition but your present state. Now please listen to me: yes, broken ribs and chest disease do not form a good combination, but, firstly, it’s by no means mortal in your case, and, secondly, no-one is going to leave you to face it alone. Just follow my instructions and be sure to practice special breathing exercises I’ll show you, every couple of hours, and move more when you feel fit enough. Also, whenever you take a deep breath or cough, it would be sensible to press a small flat cushion to your side. And you, my lord duke,” he addressed Alva, his face acquiring a sterner expression, “you should watch with all your eyes, as scrupulously as you can, for the signs of the lung fever.”
“Juan, we need an extra cush—” Alva had already started saying, but interrupted himself upon hearing the doctor’s words. “What? Why me?” It seemed the old Morisco was finally entering his “you-are-nothing-more-than-an-apprentice”-mode. Well, it had always been his ordinary style of communication with Alva, and, to do him justice, today he had refrained from it long enough, but Alva still—though he would never admit it—felt almost insulted: such was the contrast between the doctor’s kind attention he treated his patients with and that polite but dry manner he used for his titled assistant.
“Because in this house you are the one whose medical skills would allow you to recognize the first dangerous symptoms,” the doctor replied. “And also because I would certainly be able to visit the young man less often than you, my lord duke.”
There was reason in his words, though Alva hadn’t initially been going to interact with his squire more than before, thus letting the boy be ill and recuperate in peace, and avoiding the role of a caring nurse himself. Well, entering Richard’s room several times a day wasn’t such a difficult task.
“One last thing, young man, and then you’ll be able to rest,” the doctor said in the meantime, after having listed another set of prescriptions, thoroughly taken down by Juan. “I don’t like the sight of this bruise and have to examine your hip. Would you please get your blanket a little down and let me see?”
That was a simple, ordinary, unobtrusive, very basic healer’s request, but Richard’s reaction to it was astonishingly inadequate. He jerked back, clenched his teeth, clutched the edge of the blanket so tightly, as if his very life depended on it, and replied:
“There is… nothing worth your attention here, maître! It’s just a small bruise, no need to see it.”
“Still,” insisted the doctor, “it would be unwise to leave it untended.”
Alva thought it his duty to interrupt.
“It’s not the time and place to demonstrate us your famous northern modesty, young gentleman,” he teased, and with amusement watched scarlet creeping up the boy’s cheeks: his innocent joke had reached its goal. He waited for a devastating, thunderous protest, but there was too little energy left in Richard’s body for this brief outburst to last longer, and the flame died out without having really started. Richard lowered his gaze and, still very flushed, pleaded:
“Ir Roque… could you please… turn away?”
This old-fashioned form of address, a constant object of Alva’s mockery, and no attempt made to correct it to anything more acceptable, like “my lord” or “Your Grace”—and the fact that Richard probably hadn’t even noticed his courtesy mistake—told Alva, as would have told anyone even less sensitive to such subtleties (Alva liked his given name, but didn’t like it tossed around by stupid youngsters), how poorly Richard was now controlling himself and how bad his condition really was. The sooner he would be put to bed properly, the better. Unwilling to push it further, already tired himself, having no desire to argue, without a word Alva turned away and stared at the far wall—by the corner of his eye he noticed Juan doing the same. After a muffled rustle of cloth, followed by a few minutes of comparative silence, broken only by occasional indistinguishable sounds, he heard the doctor proclaiming that it was really just a bad bruise, explaining what type of salve he was applying and what different type it would be changed to in a day or two, promising to pay a visit tomorrow and prohibiting any excessive walking until the bruise was healed—as if other injuries wouldn’t prevent his patient from any walking at all for a week at least. Alva felt first sparks of migraine igniting in his own head, rubbed his eyes and turned back.
***
“For a couple of words, my lord duke.”
They left the room together. Exhausted from his recent ordeal and calmed down by a sedative draught, Richard was now fast asleep, a housemaid ordered to watch over him.
“This is not another prescription, no need to burden dear Juan with it, that’s just what I would like to say to you personally,” the doctor started. “You see, my lord duke, it may appear that your ward’s personality has changed, that he is not himself, too shy or maybe too confused, angry or anxious. Those are typical effects of a head trauma, they will go away with the course of time, and the young man will return to his previous self. They are not dangerous, but sometimes difficult to manage on one’s own, and I suppose it’s on you to help the young man cope. A simple reassuring gesture, a few words of consolation will certainly do him good.”
“Oh, I don’t think he needs it from me,” said Alva grimly.
“But why not?” the doctor was surprised. “Of course, gentlemen of his age often tend not to show affection, and, moreover, most go through the stage of authority rejection, but now he needs your care and support more than ever. Judging by the fact that the young man’s mother is not at his bedside yet, I presume his parents live far from the town, so you’re currently his closest person. He is not a child, my lord duke, but he is still very young; I’m sure you are wise enough to be an adult figure for him.”
A shade of doubt in the doctor’s voice made Alva feel like a schoolboy again, and he just nodded without an answer.
“Now, if you excuse me, I would like to visit the kitchens to give instructions about the diet to your cook,” the doctor finished.
***
Later that evening, on the verge of night, Alva returned to Richard’s room. The boy was still sleeping peacefully, his features finally free from the grimace of pain; the housemaid too was slumbering in her chair. Alva glanced at Richard’s face: now, rid of his constant frown, his constant mine of grief, anger, indignation, or even snobbery, making him look older, allowing Alva to treat him like a foolish, unruly, unskilled adult, he really seemed very young.
So… Did the doctor expect him to start giving hugs and singing lullabies every now and then? In fact, he had already done the former today, twice, though Richard had been in no condition to pay attention to it. Of course, he told himself, he bore no especially warm feelings for his young squire, their relation being utterly formal, as it should be—the years of mutual hatred (currently there was definitely hatred on Richard’s part and a hint of contempt coming from Alva) and blood vengeance between their families, membership of the opposite political parties and their personal conflict couldn’t allow anything more. Yet, certainly, he had been—and still was—concerned about the boy, to the extent any proper commander would be about his wounded soldier (to tell the truth, there was also a political reason: an accident leaving the young disgraced noble maimed or even dead, while in the power of his alleged enemy, in the very beginning of his service, not at war, would cause a disastrous scandal: the unfortunate boy, the public opinion would say, just like his father, has met his fate at the hands of the terrible Raven of Quenalloah, this cruel, mad, unpredictable monster), and didn’t help him more than he had always helped when anybody around him got hurt. Providing further care and comfort had however never been his business, as family or friends of a victim had always been at hand.
“Imagine your young relatives, Rocío,” he told himself. “Imagine your friends’ children. How would Diego feel if Berto lay here, unconscious and in pain? (Oh, his mother would never leave her “little boy’s” side—and, by the way, speaking of lullabies, playing a soft and peaceful melody to sooth his imaginary young cousin’s headache didn’t even sound such a bad idea). What would Li or Émile do if Arnaud was prostrated before them on the bed like this? (Oh, their mother is quite different, but probably neither she would bereave her son of her attention). How, after all, would vok Warzoff have reacted had his young squire got himself into such a predicament?”
Alva turned Richard’s head to one side to reduce pressure on the wound, brushed a stray strand of hair away from the boy’s face, and, resisting the urge to tuck him in, simply pulled the blanket up a little, covering Richard’s shoulders, and slightly adjusted a complicated construction of pillows built around him. It was so easy to be caring and kind to someone senseless, to establish one-sided good relations, when the second party was not aware of the first one’s attempts; but what would he do when Richard is fully awake? Why should it be on him to repair a breach between them: it is not Richard’s own task to learn to accept the favors given?
Well, he has to think it over. Maybe in the morning. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe later…
***
In the morning, passing Richard’s chambers and pondering on whether he should—or rather had to—enter the bedroom or could burden himself with it later, Alva heard a cooing voice from the door: of course, Conchita, the recognized mother hen of the mansion, never missing a chance to make a fuss over a “poor sick thing”, whoever that be: the cook was now coaxing Richard into tasting one of her creations. Only a fool would refuse—and that was just the thing Richard was doing, proving again his pitifully low level of intelligence, or maybe social skills.
“Thank you,” he was saying, “but I really don’t want to eat now, I’m not hungry at all.”
“The doctor said it will help you heal faster,” she insisted.
“You can leave it on the table, thank you…” Richard said, and something—his movement or gesture—made Conchita change her tone.
“Oh, does it hurt so much?” she asked sympathetically, and Alva easily imagined her patting the boy’s poor bandaged head. “Look, there’s a nice big glass of milk for you. There… You can drink it now, and we leave the rest for later… Oh, let me help you, dor, or you’ll spill it all over yourself! That’s it. Trust me, dor, there’s nothing to worry about: we’re here to nurse you back to health in no time.”
It was the most inappropriate moment for Alva to enter the room, he thought with a hidden smile. It didn’t bother him, naturally, if Richard would feel ashamed again, but to meddle with Conchita’s ways would be a pure crime. He found other things to do, for their flow never ceased, and returned later, when Conchita had already disappeared leaving a tray with the breakfast perched on the bedside table: a bowl of cottage cheese, dressed with cream and garnished with jam. Richard hadn’t touched the food, having fallen back into an uneasy medicine-induced sleep; Alva, as he had promised the doctor, checked his breathing, pulse and temperature—apart from a very mild fever, which had been expected, considering the injuries, Richard seemed quite fine. This was definitely a good sign.
***
A week passed. Richard wasn’t doing well: having slept through the first three days, waking up only to take medicine, eat, and do simple exercise, prescribed by the maître, he was now already trying to get up and walk around the room, but still hadn’t got enough strength to stay out of bed for long; his bones were mending too slowly, and headaches, dizziness and disorientation were still plaguing him. Whenever Alva came to check on him, Richard was down and distressed, and looked lost, lonely and forgotten. These visits happened now less and less often, and Alva was thinking of cutting down their number to the lowest possible minimum: after all, it had already been a week, and no dramatic changes for the worse had occurred, so, one might assume, such detailed attention was no longer necessary. By the way, he hadn’t yet invented a method to cross the bridge between them and had put the thought on the far shelf of his mind.
It was in a sort Conchita’s unintentional intervention again that turned the tables. One morning he was served, instead of his regular breakfast, a large bowl of what looked like gruel smelling vaguely of meat, and a plate filled with pieces of stale bread dipped in some sticky, glassy, probably sweet substance, decorated with occasional raisins. Never hostile to experiments, he gave it a try: yes, it was leftover bread from yesterday’s meals in caramel syrup sauce—not utterly disgusting, but difficult to eat more than a few bites. He didn’t feel brave enough to start the second dish, called Juan instead and asked him what this culinary demarche meant.
“You have approved of the menu yourself, soberano,” Juan said, feigning surprise. “But if you wish, I’ll fetch Conchita and we’ll listen to her answers.”
Juan was, of course, right: since the very day Alva had become the sovereign of Quenalloah, every evening he was presented with a list of courses for tomorrow. He was expected to familiarize himself with it, decide if he liked it or wanted any changes, and return it to the kitchens with his signature. His habit of signing papers without reading had proved itself dangerous more than once, and he had got rid of it, compelling himself to skim all official documents concerning army or court affairs—but no trouble could possibly arise from an unread list of food. It was partly something of a game for his household, and partly a hint that their soberano should finally marry and pass his housekeeping duties over to his lady, and nothing more.
Conchita’s footsteps up the stairs and along the corridor were heard from afar. She bustled through the doors, mixing something vigorously in a large pot, and had an air of someone entirely busy.
“Juan’s told me you want explanations about the breakfast, soberano,” she started at once, without any sign from him allowing her to speak. “It’s the day of Nadorish cuisine today, you see, and I’ve written it out for you, do you remember? Don’t you like the food?”
“No,” he answered plainly. “I don’t. Maybe it’s just that I’m not a connoisseur of those northern tastes. Are the other meals today like this one?”
She nodded, “Yes, I’ve decided to make a special day earlier this summer, because, you know, I’ve thought familiar food may cheer the young dor up a little.”
Ah, her special days, each season a celebration of one national culture. It was no use arguing: being one of the best cooks in the town and the only one familiar with the delicatessen of the Quenallish cuisine, she was very well aware she would never be fired, and a punishment or a reduction in her wages would force her to leave the mansion, only to be eagerly welcomed in any noble house of the capital. So, she, just like Juan, allowed herself more freedom with her soberano than other members of the household.
“I see,” he said. “That’s all, you may go. Oh, and prepare some bread, cheese and wine to be brought to my study, please.”
With a wave of his hand he dismissed her. She curtsied and left, only to be immediately caught by Juan, who had been certainly eavesdropping at the doors. Alva could easily hear their agitated conversation, their loud voices, growing distant, as they both were moving away, heading to the kitchens.
“It’s not like the haute-cuisine northern food we had last year, is it?” Juan was asking, “That time soberano enjoyed it. What’s the matter today, where have you obtained the recipes?”
“Oh, not like this,” she explained readily. “It’s traditional common folk food, the type even poor people can afford. Well… Speaking of money… We all know how hard an orphan’s and a widow’s life can be, don’t we?”
“That’s true”, Juan agreed.
“The maître says,” she continued, “that maybe the young dor’s bones are not healing well because he’s not been eating decent meals for several years.”
“And we all know who orphaned the boy,” that’s what she meant, though didn’t say it aloud. “Serves him right if he, just for a day, himself experiences the privations he’s put the child to”. Turning over the corner, their voices went muffled, words no longer clear. Well… His own servants conspiring behind his back, how nice. Oh Conchita, the menace of Taliguish nobility, and her indisputable commonplace logic! If she thought he would feel guilty, she was greatly mistaken. Conchita’s resentment was understandable: her professional pride was probably deeply insulted, when her best efforts to help “the young dor” get better, simply giving him the right sort of food, proved futile. By the way, how could Richard really be malnourished? He was thin, yes, but not skinny, quite average for his age. Conchita should have misunderstood the doctor’s phrases full of medical terminology. And… why did the doctor confide in the cook and not in the head of the house himself? He should confront the old man with this matter during his next visit.
***
Several hours later, without any paperwork to occupy him for the evening (all documents already signed and tossed back to a royal courier), he was deciding if he should open one more bottle of wine to wash down the foul taste of the “northern specialties” or pay a visit to one of his acquaintances or even the palace itself to have proper dinner, when his musings were interrupted by a frantic knocking at the door. Alva allowed whoever that was to enter, and a disheveled housemaid appeared at the threshold. From her hysterical sobbing he, not without difficulty, managed to make out that “the young dor” had been going to spend some time outdoors, left his room, refused her sincerely offered help and collapsed on the stairs.
With a bunch of profanities, he rushed downstairs, thinking of more broken bones and another head injury, fearing to find Richard on the floor, feverish, delirious, struggling for breath; oh, had it finally come what had been to come; had it finally happened what he had tried and failed to prevent; had the chest disease developed to claim Richard’s life? The doctor would be enraged (“Anybody but you, my lord, could I suspect capable of such drastic neglect,” he would say, pale with fury. “The instructions I’ve given you have been plain and unambiguous, haven’t they?”), and the household would be inconsolable. With raising horror, he anticipated sleepless nights, constant vigil at the sickbed, days of excruciating illness, rise of despair, loss of hope, unstoppable progress of deterioration, and eventual death. At the same time, a small sensible voice at the back of his mind kept whispering that it was but an exaggeration of a frightened girl, and that Richard wouldn’t even be there, having already happily proceeded wherever he had been heading to, the garden or the stables. It however turned out that neither Alva’s worst fears nor his best hopes came true, but something of an average between them: Richard was still on the floor, at the bottom of the stairs, his eyes closed, sitting with his back to the banisters, breathing heavily, but looked unhurt—and definitely a lot better than a week ago.
“What is the meaning of that, young gentleman?” Alva demanded, hovering over the boy. Richard blinked, raised his eyes, making no attempt to stand up, and in a surprisingly calm manner (this calmness was probable due to numerous sedative and pain-relieving draughts he kept being fed) admitted that he had wanted to visit the garden, managed all his way down, reached the ground floor, but lost his balance and had to sit down for a rest. The maid had apparently taken this “sitting down” for a fainting on the spot, and this posed several questions on Richard’s truthfulness, his ability to estimate his state, or soberness of his mind, but Alva decided not to press on the matter.
“You—” he started, for once in his life not sure how to put it: dozens of jokes and reprimands were already at the tip of his tongue—and, to be honest, sarcasm, strictness or cold indifference had been all Richard had got from him since the accident, in those rare moments when he hadn’t been unconscious, sleeping or too disoriented during his meetings with Alva. If Alva did this again—and if one’s mood really contributed to one’s progress of healing—this all might never, ever, end. In a flash of sudden inspiration, like those that seized him on a battlefield, he held out his hand and said, forcing a smile, “If you feel fit, I invite you to join me tonight in my study for a selection of Quenallish cheeses and wines—not that you are allowed the latter now, but we’ll invent something for you.”
Richard took his hand, got up with a small, almost invisible wince, and smiled back.
***
It all came to the lullabies, indeed, because Richard promptly fell asleep after but the second song.
The end.
Примечания
1. Да, автор ограбил еще и «Ребекку».
2. Читатели уже могли встречать recurring character — Морисского Врача — в следующих фанфиках автора в жанре "избиение Окделла": в вырезанных сценах из истории про дракона ("Мозг ящера", здесь в комментах, осторожно, может быть страшно) и в "короткометражном мультфильме" из серии про встречи с комиксовыми персонажами ("I shall return — The Aftermath", здесь). Все остальное, кажется, показывать еще более неловко, чем вот этот английский текст, так что оно лежит на компьютере.
3. Опасность подписывания документов не глядя раскрывается в фанфике "Умный в артиллерии" здесь.
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11.12.2022 в 19:32Фик чудесен. У меня не настолько высокий уровень владения языком, чтобы оценивать стиль и слог со знанием дела, но мне очень понравилось)) И - то, что вы пишете на неродном языке вот так... примите моё восхищение
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11.12.2022 в 20:50сразу чувствуется, что почтенный лекарь многое повидал в жизни и порядком устал от причуд своих титулованных пациентов
О да, он такой!