If I Were a Herald
Chapter 5
Roll Your Leg Over
Disclaimer: Don't own it. Never have, never will. But I do own Omalya. And someday I'll be rich and famous like Misty, and people will be writing fanfic about my world. And when that happens, I'll write my own fanfics, and post in my disclaimer that I do own it, and then I'll have to sue myself…
A/N (10/22/05): Yes, this chapter is lemony. Slightly. Because it's about a horny teenager's dream. And no, I never really had this dream. It's all made up. But I did have a really weird dream where I was a guy… that was freaky. And by the way, just for the record, I'm from Florida. Just so that my fellow hurricane sufferers won't flame me demanding to know where my ideas of hurricanes come from. I've been through hurricanes, am, in fact, preparing to face another one as I write this—Wilma is a Category 4 storm (was a Category 5, with a record low pressure), and she's going to begin affecting Florida within the next 48 hours, according to estimates. I'm in Sarasota, right on the bay, so I'll be getting some pretty strong wind.
Roll your leg over,
Oh roll your leg over,
Roll your leg over,
'Tis better that way.
If all the young men were ships on the ocean,
I'd rock them all in a most pleasing motion.
Roll your leg over,
Oh roll your leg over,
Roll your leg over,
'Tis better that way.
If all the young men were riding to battle,
If I were the horse, they'd be stiff in the saddle.
Roll your leg over,
Oh roll your leg over,
Roll your leg over,
'Tis better that way.
If all the young men were knights like Sir Francis,
I'd be their squire and spit-shine their lances.
Roll your leg over,
Oh roll your leg over,
Roll your leg over,
'Tis better that way.
If all the young men were sweet bumblebees,
I'd let them put their big stingers in me.
Roll your leg over,
Oh roll your leg over,
Roll your leg over,
'Tis better that way.
If all the young men wrote songs like Sir Morgan,
I'd be the music that played on their organ.
Roll your leg over,
Oh roll your leg over,
Roll your leg over,
'Tis better that way.
If all the young men were bells in a tower,
I'd be the clapper and bang them each hour.
Roll your leg over,
Oh roll your leg over,
Roll your leg over,
'Tis better that way.
If all the young men were singing this song,
It'd be ten times as bawdy and twelve times as long.
Roll your leg over,
Oh roll your leg over,
Roll your leg over,
'Tis better that way.
The sun on my skin, the wind in my hair, the deck beneath my feet, the sting of rope against my hands. It was a dream come true. I reveled in it, afraid it wouldn't last. It couldn't last. There was another life waiting, nagging at the corner of my mind.
Then he was there, at my side. The captain. He smiled down at me. "I feel as if I've known you all my life," he said.
"We were meant to be together," I replied. "It's the ocean. Can't you hear her calling?"
"The ocean? I don't even know where it is. This is no ocean. It's Lake Evendim."
I shrugged. "Close enough. There were pirates in the Mediterranean. That's what this is. Like the Caribbean, only colder, and without the hurricanes."
"What are hurricanes?" he asked. His breath ruffled my hair, warming me.
"Storms. Terrible storms. They've been getting worse. This year the entire city of New Orleans was flooded. They only happen on the ocean, and only during the summer and autumn, and only in tropical climes. Sometimes they can be as large as—as Lake Evendim. But they're glorious. Whistling wind, and going outside afterwards to see the trees uprooted, the coastal areas flooded, the world made new."
"Yer a strange girl. Strange, but beautiful."
I laughed without mirth. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Captain. I know what I am, and it is not beautiful." High school had taught me that. Why else would no one want to go out with me? College had been a better experience, wherein I at least got some kisses, but that was college, full of horny drunken teenage boys.
If only I could take flattery as it was meant to be taken, the moment wouldn't've been ruined. But I was too cynical for that. High school had taught me well, but not the lessons I was supposed to learn. I looked away from him.
One of his hands snaked out to grasp my chin. He turned me to face him. I still could not see his face, but that did not matter. His muscles were strong and corded, his hands callused from the hard work aboard ship, but strangely gentle on my face. What matter the face when he had the body of a god?
"Listen to me," he said, "an' listen good. Yer beautiful, more beautiful than the sunset at sea, an' I'll challenge any man who says otherwise."
I pulled away and turned my back. Men wanted just one thing, and though it was nice to be desired, I'd rather that he be honest. It wasn't that he found me particularly attractive, just that I was the only woman on board the ship, and they hadn't seen land for days. "Don't lie. I may look innocent, but I'm not. I know what men want, and it's not a scrawny, flatchested girl like me."
He pulled me flush against him, my back against his chest. We fit perfectly. His hand found its way under my shirt to splay across my stomach. "You have no idea what I want."
I sucked in a breath. The feel of his palm against my skin was doing strange things to my system. Maybe I should've paid more attention in Biology—no, wait, I did pay attention in Biology. And I paid attention to all those romance books I read. If only I could focus.
"I love your stomach. So strong, muscular, unfeminine," he whispered, nibbling my ear. I arched back against him, purring my contentment. I shouldn't be doing this—there was a reason I shouldn't—but at the moment, I couldn't remember what it was, so it couldn't be that important. His hand slid higher, and I realized that I wore no bra. One less thing to take off when this came to its natural conclusion.
Something pressed against my backside, and I had a sneaking suspicion I knew what it was. Especially when his voice in my ear turned husky. "You shouldn't be so self-deprecating. I love your body. All of it. I want to see all of you."
Things were happening to me, things too private to share. Things like were described in the romance novels I so enjoyed. And then we were both naked, and he was inside me, and I was spiraling out of control—
A sudden chill woke me. I grabbed sleepily for the covers but couldn't find them. After groping blindly about my bed, I finally opened my eyes to glare at Jorgie, who grinned back at me, holding my sheets aloft. "I was having the most wonderful dream," I informed her.
"Oh? What was it about?"
"Well, there was this pirate captain who could rival Captain Jack Sparrow for looks, and we were screwing our brains out in his cabin."
"A pirate."
"Yes, a pirate."
"You have the strangest dreams."
"What's wrong with pirates?"
"They're criminals, that's what's wrong with them."
"Herald Trainees are just no fun. I suppose you don't approve of pranks either."
"Pranks? I love pranks! I've been looking for a pranking partner for months."
I grinned, an idea forming in my mind. "Let's meet back here after classes. I have an idea."
Classes went as classes normally go. Weapons training was pure hell, and I enjoyed every minute of it. Weaponsmaster Eduard even let me try my hand at throwing knives—I wasn't very good, but he said I could practice. I adored the idea of throwing knives. I'd wanted to learn for years, and finally my dad had taught me the basics, but what I needed was practice, of which I got none at college. Besides knife-work, I insisted that he teach me all the nasty tricks of street-fighting. Anything that could possibly keep me alive. Hand-to-hand, hand-to-weapon—anything. I knew I wouldn't be the best there was, but I didn't need to be the best. I just needed to be better than my opponent.
Fencing was great fun. I had an innate talent for blocking, but no skill whatsoever when it came to an attack. There, my speed was my only advantage. But I was willing to let the older Trainees run me around the salle until I figured out what on Earth (or Velgarth) I was doing.
Then, well, then the Weaponsmaster decided to let me get acquainted with an actual sword. As in sharp. And pointy. And very, very shiny.
"Shiny," I said. My eyes lit up like twin diamonds.
Eduard blinked at me. "A minute ago, you were the most mature Trainee in the class. The only one not complaining."
:Not complaining: Lyrna snorted. :You were worse than a baby.:
Hey, you didn't have to eavesdrop.
"So what happened?" he continued.
I picked up the weapon with exaggerated care and tested its point. Blood dripped from the tip of my finger. I feel like Boromir. "Sharp," I noted, sucking on my finger, enjoying the metallic taste of the blood. A year ago I would've run screaming in the other direction when presented with a beautiful working blade such as this one. Sharp pointy objects used to scare the bejesus out of me.
"Just pick up the sword. You're going to need one."
"Already got a sword. It's back in my room. Nice balance, beautiful sword. Not sharp."
Eduard rolled his eyes and returned to the other Trainees.
After I was already thoroughly exhausted, I had Gift training. Empathy, Mindspeech, Fetching, Animal Mindspeech, and some Wild Talent similar to projective Empathy that they couldn't train. Luckily I already knew how to ground and center, and I'd practiced it often enough back home; I was rather fond of the game "Pretend." Shielding was actually rather like what I did when I didn't want my parents to come into my room and find me awake after my bedtime, although it was passive, rather than active. Turned out I had natural shields—not very strong, but enough to keep out the chatter of thoughts while I was in Haven. But only the voices. My Mindspeech wasn't very strong, not like my Empathy, which was strong enough that it had been somewhat active back on Earth. I was so used to feeling other peoples' emotions that I didn't even notice how strong they'd grown until Master Cordonoy taught me how to block them out.
"There's another Gift, too," he told me once he taught me to shield, explaining the worry I'd sensed from him earlier. "A Wild Talent unlike any we've seen before."
So far, they hadn't mentioned my Mage-Gift, which I knew I had, and pretty strongly, too, or I'd never have been able to build that Gate. And no one in Valdemar had seen anything like it, not since Vanyel's death. I could put two and two together as well as the next man. And most of the time I managed to come up with four. "I know what it is, and I know where I have to go to train it," I said.
Then it was on to Bardic for voice lessons, which were imminently boring to the point that I almost decided to drop the class. But it was necessary, so I suffered. Etiquette and Diplomacy—I have never been good at diplomacy. Ever. That class was an unmitigated disaster, especially when I began cussing out the teacher in Latin, French, and Khéósin, with a little Shin'a'in, Ulgo, and Russian thrown in for good measure. It was just my luck that the teacher spoke Shin'a'in.
Finally, finally, I was free. And it was only two days into classes. Luckily for me, it was Thursday. Just one more day of torment and I'd be free for the weekend—not counting weapons training, which I was planning to do no matter what day it was. I'd wanted to learn how to wield a sword when there was really no reason to know, not when I could shoot a gun like a champion. Here, there were no guns, and a sword might be the only thing between me and death, especially once I became a full Herald.
I collapsed into the chair by my desk, lost in daydreams about the pirate captain who had taken to haunting my sleep. Roll your leg over, and roll your leg over; roll your leg over, 'tis better that way.
Fireblade K'Chona: Thanks for reading my story! That's awesome that you sail. I sail as well. Well, sort of. I spent one hour talking about knots and three hours sailing a few weeks ago. Then Fall Break came up, then this stupid hurricane, so I haven't been sailing since. It heartens me to know that I'm not the only one who feels the ocean's call.
Nawyn: Maybe, someday, you will get to hear my songs. When I'm rich and famous like Mercedes Lackey, and I write filk like Mercedes Lackey. I'm glad you like my story.
To all the people who read but did not review: Shame on you! I can't get money from this story, but I can get reviews. So help out a poor, aspiring author who will someday be seen on the New York Times bestseller list. And when you see me there, you can tell your friends, "Hey, it was my advice that helped her get there."