Laissez faire et le merveilleux nouveau débuts

(a long time ago, there were french people out there and they spoke french. What this language means in the modern day is the discipline of only the most erudite of historians. Some say the country of France is still around to this day. But don't believe their lies. The ghosts of bagguetes and fine dining are just that, ghosts. Bed time stories for all delinquent Quebecois.)

A soft snore cast into a gradual repetition nimbly warmed the skin on his arm, caressing each follicle and gradually raising the sensation to a pleasant tingle. Her freely given warmth, that familiar soft purr, embodied the lingering atmosphere of a homestead. He had listened to her breath rise and fall for what seemed like hours. Each minute he thought to rouse her, but each time he painfully relented, giving up, ruining such a precious timid moment: that gave him pause, a reluctance like no other. So, he played with her hair instead. It was black with a silky texture and while it lay straight running from her dome it curled willingly, not fighting his gentle almost sensual caress.

Guard duty can go to hell. He wouldn't trade this for the world offered on some exotic platter. If only time could stay still. SMACK! A hand struck him with an audible cute little thunder, right across his cheek, then it began to paw furiously as a low, unruly groan: like that of some human-feline cross, powered up in volume but not grace, definitely not grace.

“Marcus is that you?” a slurred voice muttered, crashing into him like a soft feather stuffed pillow, engulfing him in a warm sunbathed aura.

“Yes,” he carefully replied “ we somehow ended up in my tent after last night’s romp.” She perked up her head and looked around. Her hair bounced as she twisted and turned with a mixture of surprise and astonishment brewed in a vessel of confusion.

“Oh, God, we did something unsightly didn't we?” She clutched at her temples as she groaned.

“Marcia?” Marcus cautiously inquired of the she-beast.

“WHAT HAPPENED!!!” She looked him straight as she screamed then recoiled back down onto the soft pillow. Marcus patted her head, smoothing her partly curly, partly straight black hair.

“Hangovers don’t spare even the toughest.”

“Ughhhhh.” a low moan rife with all the qualities of a cry of detestable aversion, helpless and childish, but still a grown woman. Marcus’s eyes passed over a rump in the sheets as he saw her arch her back out. She squealed again. “You have to tell me! Camon. Big stupid oaf like yourself obviously wouldn’t get so drunk as to not remember my pleasant company.” He nodded and pinched her cheek.

“That's right. If only your company was pleseant.” She pulled away in sluggish form rolling across the mattress; she stopped right before she fell.

“So… Guardsman! Out with it.” She asked in a feigned seriousness, a tone she knew well.

“Well, it started after we rescued that boy. The one at death’s doorstep. His hair had w’hisps of greyish white hair. Unsightly, the combat those men had seen. He looked all torn up over it—something horrid playing again in his eyes I am sure. When he first slammed into ye I didn’t even know how bad off he was… so we carried him towards the triage tents.” Marcia smashed him in the face with a pillow, apparently he had cast a wayward stare to the ruffles of the rolled fabric of his tent-roof, and neglected to hurry up. He felt the whack and rolled his eyes, only making her angrier.

“Marcus hurry up! Our duties await!”

“It is already afternoon our duties have been waiting a while.”

“Ahhhaaah.” She pawed at him frantically. “What am I gonna do, what am I gonna do.” she desperately repeated as she rolled over on top of him and gave him a look of over the top anguish belonging to popular theatre of the times.

“It’s fine, everyone is worn out from yesterday's fanatical near zealotry, from the wounded to the attack everyone was at their limit. Besides, you weren’t the only one drunk. Even the general is out of it. I am sure of it, we all know the stories.” She looked up breaking eye contact with his pectorals and glaring at his sympathetic face; there a loose smile played upon him in a somewhat happy stupor. Her small bubbly hands replaced her eyes laying on his naked chest.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

“So then,” she said in a soft, delicate, pout, “what do we do then?” she asked, her bottom lip quivering ever so slightly, in a surely manufactured look meant to elicit only the highest sympathies. Marcus chuckled at the sight... Theatre to most soldiers would be a waste of a penny, but Marcus appreciated the effort.

“How about, instead of pouting you let me finish my story.”

“Okay!” she said cheerfully and flopped forward and curled like a snake around his side, squeezing herself into a small shape, pressing her body into his anywhere she could and grabbing hold of his arm. He looked back at her somewhat distraught. Her chin was resting on top of his shoulder. Her face eerily girly. Something always felt off.

“Anyways,” he continued somewhat slowly with a few more pauses then I am willing to describe, each time stuttering and looking back at her somewhat samey expression of beaming joy. “We dragged him there,” he turned back to her for his last major pause when she nodded with an almost mocking smile, as if saying to continue. “And we found a woman, a young nurse, a budding youth. We asked her where to put him… She told you, she recognized him, I wasn’t talking much. The boy was cold, in my arms I held him. Quickly she told us they had no more beds and we dragged him back to his officer's tent. I was surprised. She knew where to find it, and ideed, she seemed a bit tipsy herself.” Marcia disentangled herself for a moment leaning back into the bed.

“Maybe she was looking for him before everything started and he just never made it back. Maybe they have a secret romance…” she paused, then before Marcus’s eyes drew a devious grin. “A secret romance like the one we have right now…”

“Please,” Marcus interjected “A devious romance, we haven't gotten to the best part of the story. We left him in her care as you told me in garbled english ‘see, seemed reliathble.’ That's what you actually said, word for word, then doubled over dry heaved fell to your knees, and like a lynx unfolded and fell asleep.”

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaan?” she annoyingly cut in (slurring the d at the end).

“Dost thou hoist? a man is asked this often in his life. In my life thyne answer is yes! I hoisted you like a barrel prepped for transfer upstream and underneath my arm I ‘hoisted’ you all the way into this bed. Though I removed your boots as they were filthy enough to not fit even a solder’s quarters.

“Did you just say solder.” He turned away embarrassed.

“Slight lisp, a small quirk from when I was a child. So, how did your boots end up that way? They are overly filthy”

“Yes, and—you’re the first soldier I have met who is picky about cleanliness.”

“Pfffft, you seem overly picky for your soldiers, but not drinking escorts.” his eyes brows lurched up. “You are annoying. You know that? Maybe we shouldn’t do this…” he muttered.

“Are you getting insecure about your personal feminine tastes. Mr. not as rugged as he thought he was, not as masculine as the airs he puts on.”

“Yeah. That's it. But, theatre is important. Theatre is meant as decorum to real drama, life and anything besides, not as replacement or supplement. Yes I have a role to play amidst my men, and even amidst the world. But past that I am my own man.” She smirked.

“Fine then Marcus, a taste of honesty and see to it that you forgive my infraction. Think of this as a humble apology. Those boots are dirty because the general has me running errands all day. Wanna know how I keep my supple toned figure? Its through having to run every other minute, of every other day on the behest of one bureaucratic entity to another. Its frankly a pain and it feels better now that I have vented over this blasted occupation.”

“Alright. I forgive you.” his voice suddenly boomed through the tent. He smiled. “Honesty helps.” She returned him the sincere smile he bore.

“That's good to know…” she leaned in and nuzzled his cheek. Then whispered into his ear. “By the way, I was tasked yesterday to find any strange men, possibly adept healers and new arrivals. The general asked me to find anyone who matched the professional description of Alexa’s saviour. I looked and looked, but there wasn’t a trace. The general was sure they were from our camp and had attended the battle, either openly or covertly.” Marcus nodded and cast a soft peck at her cheek then replied.

“I found no one, my unit and I did recon before extracting the Rider. We look for ambushes and spy glasses or other devices. We can inspect the area for mana interference or anything like that. A large amount of mana was used, larger than possible for any low ranking casters, it was beyond commanders, the basic spells wielded by nurses or field triage aids. It was a professional who had done it. It was all uniform mana residue; tightly focused lingering sparks of the spell. There were only corpses around, no one else.” She pulled back.

“So if I had to find a witness, they would be amidst the dead?”

“Likely so, or a party we are not in the know of.” Marcus said.

“Interesting, the general was sure they were amongst the world of the living. I think he is awaiting on my report. I will certainly make it interesting for him. But he won’t pleased to know his informant is amongst the dead. He is a man built on taking drastic measures. It seems he sees it fit to annihilate any and every possibility before it damages his standing with the crown.”

“Alexa’s fall… her wounds—they are a smear he is trying to escape.” Marcus’s eyes narrowed.

“Yes,” Marcia replied. “If no one reputable can testify to the nature of her wounds and status as a causality all that's left is banal circumstantial evidence. Nonsense he can manipulate to make it seem she fell on her own behest and dodge any responsibility for the near death of a Royal Rider.” A cold silence followed, unti they broke apart into small talk and the not long after the Soldier and the Courier broke ways, getting dressed as they both thought on the implications of a localized purge within the army group. Despite the tense silence cutting the air between them, comfort even in solitude became their bread. They agreed to meet later in secret beneath the enveloping night.