I've decided I need to challenge myself. Or at least I need to write SOMETHING. I don't when the last time I updated was. So, what I'll try to do is write one Tamora Pierce drabble per day til…((checks calender)) alright, till the 24th of December. Nice round place to finish it. Plus, I need to get some of this excess stuff out of my system, or my HP stuff is going to grow mold.
And in case you didn't notice, I used 'Tamora Pierce' in the third person. I don't think she generally uses the royal we, so…(Big news here) the characters…dundundun…aren't mine!!!! Now you're surprised, huh?
#1: 20th of November
Characters: Owen of Jesslaw, Margarry of Cavall, (Wyldon of Cavall)
Title: Remonstrances
For as long as he'd known her, all she ever did was pester him. Not in the cute, affectionate dort of pestering, either. The sort of pestering where, whatever he did, she told him exactly how and why he could do it better.
He brought her flowers- She didn't like hyacinths. She preferred bluebells.
He outdid himself in training, once almost (almost) beating his famed knight master with archery- She said survival of the fittest was barbaric and uncivilized.
He read classical literature so she would stop thinking of him as a barbarian- She told him he was skiving off his duties as a squire.
He helped to save a village of refugees- She told him off for letting Happy die.
He had the feeling she wouldn't be pleased if he rescued her from a bunch of bandits. She would probably complain about his fighting style. Or lack thereof.
But thanks to his backstabbing, traiterous knight master, he's forced to spend time with her more often than not.
"Jesslaw, Vivienne and I shall be dining out. I trust Margarry can entertain you in the meantime."
"Margarry, do take Jesslaw round the grounds?"
"JESSLAW! If you say another word…MARGARRY! Quit sneaking round back there…THAT'S IT! Both of you, go to the library, and stay there till further notice."
But although he was truly sick of her nagging, he found himself drawn to follow her advice at everytime. He tried desperately to get her to be pleased with him, just once, that it was almost sad.
"Tell me," She said, with that melodious voice that could show no flaw whatsoever, "Why don't you give up?"
He blinks. His sight of the library, lit only by a few candles, is somewhat blurred from having just read a hundred pages on Sir Emry of Haryse. Wyldon and Vivienne are, as so often, out.
"Give what up?"
She looks at him. He wonders if he'll ever stand that piercing glance. It's as if she can read his thoughts. "It. I don't understand it. I've been nagging and nattering at you for ages and you haven't once said how much it bothers you. Why don't you just give up and say it does?"
Now he's confused. "I thought you said giving up was weak."
"Oh, it is. But everyone else would have given it up by now."
"I'll take that as a compliment, thank you."
"You're quite welcome. Now answer the question."
Owen considers. "Well, you're a fine lady. I don't think it would be polite to say that to you."
"You've never given a fig for politeness."
"If you insist. You're not going to like hearing this, though."
"If I only heard things I wanted to, I'd be spoiled rotten."
"Fine. I like you. A lot. Not many women would talk as directly and frankly to a fellow. I don't really think I've met anyone quite like you."
There's the familiar purse of the lips. That means she's about to nag. He braces himself.
"You would have saved me a lot of trouble if you had said that considerably earlier." She says, and leans forward to kiss a completely baffled Owen.
After getting over the initial shock of his first kiss, he decides this is the kind of criticism he likes.
