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A Tavern, Bristol, Thursday Evening
May. 1st, 2014 11:01 am"You think you're above the likes of us, don't you?"
This was not, strictly speaking, the first time this accusation had been levelled towards Edward: in fact, it scraped neither the second nor the third. He heard it a lot, and he heard it often, and he usually heard it in situations such as this one, an ale cradled in his hands and two sets of vicious eyes set on his person.
He looked away from his ale then, to face those eyes with a smile. "Aye," he said, "Fairly sure of it, I'd say, looking at the both of you."
One opponent was a fight. Two, a scrap. Three, a beating. Edward supposed he came out on something close to the right end of that equation, going by the state of his soon-to-be-attackers. They were merchant's sons, the both of them, one slightly limping, the other with hands bare of calluses. Their lack of experience would even out the inequality of their numbers.
Well, that was the reigning theory. It held until the moment Edward found himself hurled out of the tavern on his backside, a black eye blossoming on his face and blood flowing from his knuckles. It took him two tries to climb to his feet, weighted down by injury and booze as he was, but he managed it.
The stroll towards home was not pleasant. Nor was the look on his father's face when he got there.
"This needs to stop, Edward."
"I'll stop when they do," Edward replied, gingerly placing his elbow against the side of the house. "Bloody posh gits aren't worth half one of me put together."
Not entirely true, at least not in the eyes of local society, nor in the eyes of his father. After all, these men, their fathers were some of the richest men in the city; Edward was a sheep farmer's son. The disappointment on father's face made clear he wished Edward would recognize that, though he didn't - wouldn't - speak the words.
"Go sleep off your daze in the shed," Father said. "I need you in a state to check on the ewes in the morning."
"Am I now banned from my own bed?" Edward asked, squinting at the swimming image of the man in front of him.
"At least one of their parents will be by in the morning to claim some repairs for your acts," Father said. "Perhaps seeing I punished you will settle them some."
"Ah, to hell with them," Edward spat. He pushed away from the door and found his legs wobbling beneath him. "And to hell with the shed. I'll see to your ewes in the morning, old man, but I won't be sleeping between the rickety planks."
In retrospect, perhaps venturing off alone and drunk off the top of his head had not been the greatest choice he could have made for himself. But, devoured by righteous indignation and a firmly held belief that he was special, Edward failed to care. A mistake: for where normally he'd have wandered into a stray pile of hay and fallen asleep, now fate had something else in store for him, and enacted its penalty with admirable swiftness.
[[ establishy, nfb, obviously! ]]
This was not, strictly speaking, the first time this accusation had been levelled towards Edward: in fact, it scraped neither the second nor the third. He heard it a lot, and he heard it often, and he usually heard it in situations such as this one, an ale cradled in his hands and two sets of vicious eyes set on his person.
He looked away from his ale then, to face those eyes with a smile. "Aye," he said, "Fairly sure of it, I'd say, looking at the both of you."
One opponent was a fight. Two, a scrap. Three, a beating. Edward supposed he came out on something close to the right end of that equation, going by the state of his soon-to-be-attackers. They were merchant's sons, the both of them, one slightly limping, the other with hands bare of calluses. Their lack of experience would even out the inequality of their numbers.
Well, that was the reigning theory. It held until the moment Edward found himself hurled out of the tavern on his backside, a black eye blossoming on his face and blood flowing from his knuckles. It took him two tries to climb to his feet, weighted down by injury and booze as he was, but he managed it.
The stroll towards home was not pleasant. Nor was the look on his father's face when he got there.
"This needs to stop, Edward."
"I'll stop when they do," Edward replied, gingerly placing his elbow against the side of the house. "Bloody posh gits aren't worth half one of me put together."
Not entirely true, at least not in the eyes of local society, nor in the eyes of his father. After all, these men, their fathers were some of the richest men in the city; Edward was a sheep farmer's son. The disappointment on father's face made clear he wished Edward would recognize that, though he didn't - wouldn't - speak the words.
"Go sleep off your daze in the shed," Father said. "I need you in a state to check on the ewes in the morning."
"Am I now banned from my own bed?" Edward asked, squinting at the swimming image of the man in front of him.
"At least one of their parents will be by in the morning to claim some repairs for your acts," Father said. "Perhaps seeing I punished you will settle them some."
"Ah, to hell with them," Edward spat. He pushed away from the door and found his legs wobbling beneath him. "And to hell with the shed. I'll see to your ewes in the morning, old man, but I won't be sleeping between the rickety planks."
In retrospect, perhaps venturing off alone and drunk off the top of his head had not been the greatest choice he could have made for himself. But, devoured by righteous indignation and a firmly held belief that he was special, Edward failed to care. A mistake: for where normally he'd have wandered into a stray pile of hay and fallen asleep, now fate had something else in store for him, and enacted its penalty with admirable swiftness.
[[ establishy, nfb, obviously! ]]
