by Spyke Raven
- - -
Another year gone by and this one's been better than it could have been. Polly still has all her arms and legs, and that is actual not-horse meat in the scubbo the little lads are cooking up for dinner.
Another year gone by and Polly's body is thinner than it ever has been, with none of the curves she was embarrassed with, growing up. Which means another year with the months passing by with no mess or bother and that is true for most of the little lad(ie)s under her care. Makes many things a lot easier. Makes it easier to carry off the chest-bound socks-down-trousers deception most of the cadre still practises. Still a man's army, this, in many ways, despite the fact that more and more soldiers are letting their hair grow and being fitted for breast plates. Specially hammered too.
Another year gone by, and this, if Polly allows herself to admit it, is the best part, that her best friend is still with the cadre, still wearing the shako with the regimental colours, though the rest of Maladicta is covered in black evening suit that screams casual, albeit male, vampire elegance. Never could get the hang of evening gowns, Maladicta says in her own defence. And high heels are murder on long marches. (Most of Maladicta's unfortunate victims agree on this, usually while sitting in line waiting for Igorina to sew their toes back on.)
There've been no incidents of any sort this year, another reason it's been a good year, and Polly idly wonders if this is because of the emergency stash of beans every soldier in their regiment carries, or because the b-total(1) vampire has found something else to replace her caffeine craze.(2) Though Maladicta still drinks too much for Polly to expand on that theory. She's sitting at the other end of camp now, sipping a cup that's steaming despite the fact that the evening chill is freezing the vapours off the scubbo even as it cooks over the fire. But nature has never meant much to the undead, ever, and Maladicta's coffee bears witness to this, being just this short of boiling hot and smelling sweet and strong even from this distance.
Polly is tempted.
The vampire seems absorbed with the contents of her cup, but looks up well before the crunch of snow should have alerted her to Polly's arrival. Elongated canines flash in a smile and then she looks considerately away as Polly sort of folds against her rock - in a dignified way, just in case the lad(die)s are watching. Folds, tucks her legs in under her and leans her head, for just the tiniest instant, against the soft black velvet covering Maladicta's thigh.
The lads will be a while yet cooking the scubbo and Polly inhales the warm, rich scent of Maladicta's coffee, letting it all come crashing down on the exhale, the entire soul-crushing, bone-wearying burden of taking this tiny cadre over the mountains, past the Prince's soldiers, towards the slowly diminishing hope represented by Wazzer and the remnants of her army. Just a minute of bleak despair, and then the burden lifts, very possibly aided by the gentle touch of Maladicta's smooth palm on Polly's head, caressing the grubby hair and flicking the long braid in a gesture that means the same as it did fifteen years ago, when it was Willy Onks trying it in school. (Only this time Polly feels no urge to bite the straying hand off its wrist.)
Another caress and then a half-full, still steaming cup is lowered below Polly's nose.
"It must be my birthday," she murmurs, taking a sip, and hears Maladicta snort as she lifts the cup back up to her own lips.
Hot and sweet and black. Polly relishes the taste now, though she didn't the first time Maladicta offered. Sharing coffee is special to her now, a special pleasure, like the other things they share in the regimental issue tent (issued one, for the purpose of, sleeping, two) - like the life they've built together, insane as this war and with the same unstoppable intensity.
Maladicta lowers the coffee again and Polly kisses the hand holding the cup before drinking from it, a tiny deviance from the norm that almost causes the vampire to spill her precious brew. Almost, but not quite. What she does do instead, is, to lean down and touch her forehead to Polly's, just for a moment, and to laughingly whisper,
"You are my little lady, Polly."
Polly feels the smile break on her own face like the dawn, and has to swallow a very large lump in her throat before she can reply,
"Yes."
Maladicta's brow creases for an instant, just for an instant before Polly completes the pledge.
"Yes. And I will look after... you."
"That's alright then," Maladicta says carelessly, as her hand casually drifts down to Polly's head again.
That's just fine , thinks Polly, allowing herself a last surreptitious caress before young Harry(et) Buck comes to tell them scubbo's served.
And as Maladicta lowers the coffee down to Polly's lips again, the new year ahead looks to her just like a great big fish.(3)
- - -
(1)Vampires on the pledge do indeed drink... wine. It's the other red stuff that that they don't touch.
(2)Vampires on the pledge merely transfer their obsession with the b-vord to other things. Maladicta, poor girl, actually thought caffeine was the lesser of two evils.
(3)Borogravian idiom for something fantastic, wonderful, quite out of the ordinary.
- - -
For Dolimir's purposes . Ficlet based on Terry Pratchett's Monstrous Regiment, slight f/f to make up for the "cheery" nature of it. Happy birthday, Mike, and happy Mike's birthday, Mike's Mom!
Comments etc., mail me.