Fanfic:Juniper and Rosemary
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Ravak scrubbed his tongue over his teeth, trying to suck out the rank taste that coated his mouth. He'd woken up with this feeling before, like someone had fed him a liquid with a foul aftertaste before bed. This time the taste was more persistent. He scowled at the northward facing window, the distorted image of the Warders Yard beyond. From the brightness alone, he could have told it was a couple of hours after High. A full hour until he had more training, but he was armed and ready. Standing and turning in one quick motion, kicking back the leg of the chair until it connected with his desk, Rav surveyed his quarters. The room was immaculate, desk clear of everything bar an iridescent quill and inkwell, bed turned out, chest closed with everything inside folded neatly. Over the back of the chair was a simple black scarf, which he wrapped around his neck and mouth. Juniper and rosemary. That scent was long gone, but it came to mind all the same.
Purposeful strides brought the Shienaran out into the Training Yards. The regular gathering of Novices and Soldiers stood in ones and twos on the outskirts of the yards, watching with wanton eyes or considering looks. He wondered, not for the first time, if any of those faces would be the one he would be bonded too. Fingers scratched at an itch between his shoulder blades whilst blue-grey eyes searched those Novices' faces longingly. Juniper and rosemary. She wasn't there, of course, but he couldn't help himself. Giving himself a shake, Ravak moved to find a training dummy.
The yards always held unpleasant smells. There was the sweat from many bodies, of course. Even walking by, his imagination thought it could pick out the individual musks drifting from other trainees. Blood had its own taint, then there was the ground up dirt and mud at his feet. Traces of horse manure seized his nose every now and then, but there was another scent. Something that ebbed and flowed too smoothly to be natural. Juniper and- No, that wasn't it, and it wasn't his imagination.
Tugging the scarf tight, so it was snug around his face, Rav embraced the emptiness that was the Oneness. Longsword and sword-breaker came out in two fluid motions. From Unfolding the Fan, he moved into other forms. His mind processed the actions, but another part of him was focused solely on the smell. He had caught something the first time he walked through the Yards with Mistress Bryne, and he had caught the same every day since. It was hard to put words too. Not juniper, nor rosemary, that's for sure. It was strong at the moment, at least rivalling the stench of sweat.
Steel thudded into wood repeatedly, with sudden jabs and arcing slices, cuts and thrusts. It was a little awkward compared to his usual finesse, his skill with dual wielding swords was not satisfactory for safe sparring. The training dummy needed no safety, and gave no reprisal for his incessant attacks. The smell - what was it? - grew as he battered the mannequin with all of his might.
Sharp cracking, accompanied by the howling of wood as it tore asunder, broke the spell that had seized him. His sword-breaker came away from his grasp, teeth embedded in the dummy's side as it toppled over. He watched as wood snapped and split, until the torso was divided in two by a rough fissure.
Putting a boot on the mannequin's upper torso, Rav yanked his sword-breaker free. There was a wetness around his upper lip and cheeks, where sweat had poured into the scarf. Juniper, rosemary, and sweat. Delightful. But those scents were memories, imagined. That other smell was wretched and puerile, almost overpowering in its intensity. He slid both weapons into scabbards, then turned to leave the yard. He had to get away. The accusing glare of a Ji'dar didn't even stop him until she put a firm hand on his shoulder. Rav returned a languid look, blue-grey eyes focusing beyond the woman.
It was long after Low before he got back to his room. He pulled his clothes off and discarded them onto the chest. The black scarf got thrown onto the desk, covering the quill and inkwell. He even removed his smallclothes, then stood with his back in a corner, away from his castoff attire.
He took a deep breath. There was no smell of sweat, nor of blood. His boots were caked from hours of errands, but the earthen aroma was too weak to sense. Even the fanciful thought of juniper and rosemary was gone. There was only one thing his nose discerned, much more insubstantial than it had been in the yard, but it had been ever-present throughout the day. His body sagged, sliding roughly down the panelled walls, his shoulders already beginning to shake as tears formed. He had a word for that stink now. Violence.
