![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
craggyfaced"Don't weep, my fairy queen," Durge said in a hoarse voice. "Please don't weep. Am I dead, then? Have I traveled to the Twilight Realm?"
Now Grace laughed even as her tears flowed, impossible but marvelous, like rain from a sun-drenched sky. "No, Durge. You're very much alive."
The knight seemed to consider her words, then heaved a sigh. "Oh, bother."
Now Grace laughed even as her tears flowed, impossible but marvelous, like rain from a sun-drenched sky. "No, Durge. You're very much alive."
The knight seemed to consider her words, then heaved a sigh. "Oh, bother."
-Beyond the Pale, pg.604
The knight reached for a crucible, fumbled, then dropped it onto the workbench. He started to retrieve it, then staggered and leaned against the sideboard, head bowed.
Grace recognized the symptoms of sleep deprivation. How long had he been working on his experiments without rest? One day? Two? She touched his shoulder. "Durge, you should get some sleep. You can work on this again tomorrow."
He did not look up. "Tomorrow. Yes, I suppose I do have tomorrow."
She drew her hand back. "What do you mean?"
The voice he spoke in was soft, low, and profoundly weary. "I am old, my lady. Past my fourty-fifth winter this year. It should have...it should have been me."
Grace could only stare, unable to speak the work in her mind. What?
He looked at her, his craggy face solemn. "Sir Garfethel was bright and young, my lady. He had much life ahead of him."
For so many years Grace had feared she had lost her heart, that is had been stolen from her as a child at the orphanage, but she knew once and for that this was not so, because at that moment she felt it break.
"As do you, Durge."
He nodded. "If you wish, my lady." Then he turned again to face the sideboard.
Grace watched his broad back and tried to understand. Something about Garf's death had affected Durge more than just the death of a fellow knight. But what was it?
If there was an answer to that question, it was beyond Grace's reach. She folded her arms over the bodice of her gown and watched him work.
"Will you ever do it? Make gold I mean."
He placed a lump of sulfur on a scale. "It takes a pure heart to perform the Great Work, my lady. As pure as the gold one would create."
Grace thought about this. "Durge, look at me."
The knight immediately obeyed her command, a fact which almost made he wince. She licked her lips and forced the next words out.
"I don't...I don't know if anyone's heart is pure." Her mouth twisted into a wry grimace. "In my experience, flesh is a whole lot softer than metal. And I don't know if you'll ever manage to turn lead into gold. But there's one thing I do know." She laid a hand on his arm. "You're a worthy man, Durge of Stonebreak."
Durge gazed at her, and now his eyes did not seem so much bleak as simply tired.
"I believe you are right, my lady," he said at last. "I will go to bed now."
He set down a pair of tongs he had been holding. Grace pressed her lips together and nodded. Then she turned, stepped through the door, and left the knight to his quest.
Grace recognized the symptoms of sleep deprivation. How long had he been working on his experiments without rest? One day? Two? She touched his shoulder. "Durge, you should get some sleep. You can work on this again tomorrow."
He did not look up. "Tomorrow. Yes, I suppose I do have tomorrow."
She drew her hand back. "What do you mean?"
The voice he spoke in was soft, low, and profoundly weary. "I am old, my lady. Past my fourty-fifth winter this year. It should have...it should have been me."
Grace could only stare, unable to speak the work in her mind. What?
He looked at her, his craggy face solemn. "Sir Garfethel was bright and young, my lady. He had much life ahead of him."
For so many years Grace had feared she had lost her heart, that is had been stolen from her as a child at the orphanage, but she knew once and for that this was not so, because at that moment she felt it break.
"As do you, Durge."
He nodded. "If you wish, my lady." Then he turned again to face the sideboard.
Grace watched his broad back and tried to understand. Something about Garf's death had affected Durge more than just the death of a fellow knight. But what was it?
If there was an answer to that question, it was beyond Grace's reach. She folded her arms over the bodice of her gown and watched him work.
"Will you ever do it? Make gold I mean."
He placed a lump of sulfur on a scale. "It takes a pure heart to perform the Great Work, my lady. As pure as the gold one would create."
Grace thought about this. "Durge, look at me."
The knight immediately obeyed her command, a fact which almost made he wince. She licked her lips and forced the next words out.
"I don't...I don't know if anyone's heart is pure." Her mouth twisted into a wry grimace. "In my experience, flesh is a whole lot softer than metal. And I don't know if you'll ever manage to turn lead into gold. But there's one thing I do know." She laid a hand on his arm. "You're a worthy man, Durge of Stonebreak."
Durge gazed at her, and now his eyes did not seem so much bleak as simply tired.
"I believe you are right, my lady," he said at last. "I will go to bed now."
He set down a pair of tongs he had been holding. Grace pressed her lips together and nodded. Then she turned, stepped through the door, and left the knight to his quest.
-The Keep of Fire pg. 177
The knight had shed his customary heavy gray tunic and instead wore the new attire Melia had brought for him: a pair of billowing, sea-green pants that were gathered at the waist and ankles, and an open vest of dark purple. He tucked a dagger into a black leather belt slanted across his hips. However, it was not really his clothes that made Aryn stare.
She had never seen quite so much of Durge before. His bare arms were chiseled like those of a statue, and the thick, dark hair of his chest swirled in circular patterns. She could count the muscles of his stomach as if they were precisely lined paved stones in a Tarrasian road.
Durge frowned. apparently noticing Aryn's attention. "Is something amiss, my lady? I suppose I've managed to get these trousers all wrong and look the fool for it. I fear I wouldn't tell which was meant to be the front and which the back."
He had trimmed his mustaches and shaved his cheeks, and his wet, brown hair was slick back from his brow. The soft glow of late afternoon through the curtains softened the crags and valleys of his face.
"Durge," Aryn breathed, "you're so...that is, I mean...you look..."
Melia drifted forward. The lady still wore a white kirtle, but it seemed lighter than before, almost translucent, and trimmed with fine silver thread.
"I believe Aryn means to say that you look very manly, Durge."
He glowered and plucked at his gauzy pants." That is passing strange, my lady, for I do not feel particularly manly at the moment,"
"Just trust me on this one, dear." She squeezed his arm, and he eyebrows rose. "Falken, perhaps you should grow muscles like this."
She had never seen quite so much of Durge before. His bare arms were chiseled like those of a statue, and the thick, dark hair of his chest swirled in circular patterns. She could count the muscles of his stomach as if they were precisely lined paved stones in a Tarrasian road.
Durge frowned. apparently noticing Aryn's attention. "Is something amiss, my lady? I suppose I've managed to get these trousers all wrong and look the fool for it. I fear I wouldn't tell which was meant to be the front and which the back."
He had trimmed his mustaches and shaved his cheeks, and his wet, brown hair was slick back from his brow. The soft glow of late afternoon through the curtains softened the crags and valleys of his face.
"Durge," Aryn breathed, "you're so...that is, I mean...you look..."
Melia drifted forward. The lady still wore a white kirtle, but it seemed lighter than before, almost translucent, and trimmed with fine silver thread.
"I believe Aryn means to say that you look very manly, Durge."
He glowered and plucked at his gauzy pants." That is passing strange, my lady, for I do not feel particularly manly at the moment,"
"Just trust me on this one, dear." She squeezed his arm, and he eyebrows rose. "Falken, perhaps you should grow muscles like this."
The bard snorted and strummed a sour note on his lute. "Only if I can get them drinking ale."
-The Dark Remains pg. 295
