Title: Manning
Author: Sasjah Miller
Website: Arandur Mine
Fandom: King Arthur (movieverse)
Pairing: Tristan, Tristan/Arthur
Rating: PG-13
Archive: Please ask, I'll probably say yes
Disclaimer: Not mine
"The process of training a hawk comprises of several distinct
phases. The first phase of training is known as "manning". During
this phase the hawk learns to be carried on the glove and is taught
that the falconer will provide food from his glove. The hawk will
also steadily overcome the fear of people and things that she will
encounter within our environment. The manning of a hawk can be
most easily carried out by restricting the food intake of the bird,
when hungry, food can be used to build a bond between the
falconer and hawk. This phase of training can be thought of as
complete when the hawk will sit steadily on the glove and is
relaxed in the presence of the falconer."
What is Falconry
My lady does not care for the ocean. She sits huddled between my
legs, her head hiding miserably in her feathers. There are no mice,
no rabbits to hunt here on the endless expanse, only wetness and a
quick watery death. So she has turned inwards, into herself,
refusing even the bits of meat I tempt her with and ignores the
sudden shifts and surges when our boat skims the waves towards a
future neither of us has ever wanted.
In an odd, eerie way the ocean reminds me of home, of the wide
plains of Sarmatia I grew up on; oceans of grass in summer, snow
in winter, and the sky as grey as the ocean we are sailing now. I
observe the memory and the feeling it evokes in me. It does not
help me to feel like this so I bury it in the safe place, the one inside
me that no one can touch or find, only my lady of the endless sky.
This boat we're on, my lady and I, is laden with miserable boys
who try to find comfort in the words of the captain that it won't be
long now, and if they would care to lift their eyes and stop
examining the bottom of his ship as if it were to fall away from
under them right now they'd already see the white cliffs of the
island that is going to be our home for the next fifteen years. Not
home: a place to eat, to sleep and to fight and probably die. Home
is fifteen years away from here.
Home is a wisp of clouds in the sky, a trail of dust on the horizon,
it's there but it might as well not be for all the good that it does me.
This boat and everyone that's on it, puking, moaning, or simply
sitting grey faced with their heads between their knees is getting on
my nerves.
The Roman officers that are with us aren't really helping to lighten
the mood. I doubt we've had ten friendly words from them this
whole journey. We have not been mistreated, not by far (they
wouldn't have gotten away with it, a throat is easily slit in the dark
of the Germanian forest) but they haven't been exactly friendly
towards us either. At least they've let us keep our horses; they are
stationed in the bilges below trying to keep their balance while
munching in utter content from the swaying hay sacks in front of
them.
And then we are there: at the foot of the bone white cliffs of
Britannia. Seagulls cry over our heads, and my lady perks up,
suddenly awake and eager. She hops on my hand and pecks at the
meat I hold between my gloved fingers. I stand up, swaying gently
and still silently queasy, but the coast is so near now that I can see
a single figure standing on the beach, backlit by the setting sun, the
bloodred rays dancing off his gleaming helmet.
Roman officer.
The Roman officer.
The one the common soldiers told us about when we shared the
last dregs of beer with them and the fire we'd built was warm and
inviting; the officers snoring noisily, rolled up tightly in their
mantles, and all the pleasure girls gone back to their houses to
sleep away whatever was left of the night because all of our coin
had been spent on their dubious graces hours ago. The one too
good to be true. The one who will lead us to our deaths.
Suddenly my lady alights from my hand, beats her wings and soars
up into the sky, sensing the land that we are now approaching
rapidly. I let her go; she will come back to me. By the time the
captain's finally managed to bring the boat ashore she is perched
on a boulder, close to the Roman officer, tearing ferociously at
something furry and not quite dead yet. We set foot on land and
curiously enough it sways beneath us, the way the world moves
sometimes when you've ridden hard for hours without rest.
I whistle and my lady, who has by now finished her first
Britannian meal, takes wing again and flies toward me. She shears
past the officer's head, the tip of her wings almost touching his hair
that is black as the Sarmatian night, and lands with perfect ease on
my outstretched hand. I smile and gently smoothe her neck
feathers, the way she likes it done. The Roman officer's gaze has
not strayed from our group, although my lady has done her best to
ruffle his feathers and I feel a grudging admiration rising inside me.
Singleminded and impertubable. I like that in a man. Even if he's
the one whose job it is to get me killed.
"Welcome to Britannia, you who have travelled so far to come
here. My name is Artorius Castus, your commander in spe," he
says, a smile warming his words as he approaches us, his hands
outstretched in a broad gesture of welcome to us all. "God has been
merciful," he continues, "there is no rain tonight; a sure sign that
your stay here in Britannia will be blessed and fruitful. Tomorrow
we will travel to Hadrian's Wall and you will tell me who you are,
but tonight you drink and eat, because for now your long journey is
over."
There is no food here on the beach save the rodent my lady has
caught, and we tarry, unsure where he wants us to go. He sees us
waver and points to the darkening cliffs behind him where
suddenly lights spring up, showing a path leading up the rocks and
over it.
"Lads," he says, a sudden feral grin on his face, "I'm not sure about
you, but I'm pretty hungry myself from standing on this bloody
beach the whole afternoon waiting for you all to arrive. I could
definitely do with a draft of good ale, a place to rest my ass, and a
well cooked piece of mutton."
And he turns around and starts to walk towards the beckoning
lights, his boots kicking up clouds of sand and grit that settle
slowly around us, not doubting for a moment we will follow.
The End