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Characters: Jackrum, Froc Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with Terry Pratchett or Discworld.
Fourteen Miles
There was an arrow in her leg. It had been there for the past three hours, and there was blood welling up around the shaft. She wouldn't be walking for a while. The entire left side of her face was on fire from the wound by her eye. She was bleeding under her jacket, too -- She hoped the sergeant hadn't noticed that -- and she was pretty sure she'd broken a few ribs — it hurt to breath. A lot. Mildred concentrated on the stars, fading in the growing light, that she could see through the scrubby canopy of their hiding place. She was trying not to cry. "‘Right sir," said the sergeant, plucking at the buttons of the lieutenant's blood-soaked jacket, "we'll just see how bad things are—" "No!" The lieutenant flailed at the sergeant's hands. "Sergeant, I-I-I protest." A laboured breath, then, "things will only... only get worse if you open it." Mildred was trying not to think about just how much worse it would get. It wasn't that she hadn't, alone in her officer's tent, entertained fancies of this sort — getting the young sergeant alone for a moment, or more than a moment, and letting her secret out — but they were only ever fancies. She wasn't nearly stupid enough to actually go through with them. What she was doing was an abomination unto Nuggan, and no mistake, and she'd worked too hard, come too far, to give herself away now. The sergeant sighed. He was rather handsome, in a rugged, home-spun sort of way. She really didn't want him to turn her in. "It has to get worse before it gets better, sir," he said, stilling her hands. Carefully, more carefully than she'd have expected, he undid her jacket, then her shirt. Was there any hope that he wouldn't notice? She winced when he peeled the fabric, sticky with blood, away from her mangled flesh. Please don't look down! He looked down, nodded. "Yep," he said, "looks like a couple o' broken ribs at least." "Sergeant, I—" He met her eyes. "Don't worry, sir," he said, dampening a rag with his water-bottle. "I knew you from the moment I saw you. You might want to stick a pair of socks down your trousers in future." He blotted at her side with the wet rag. It stung, but she was far too shocked to pay attention to it. "Just a tip," he added. "You— you knew??" "Yep." He had pulled a spare shirt out of his pack and was tearing it into strips in a buisiness- like fashion. "Not to worry, though. I'm not about to rat you out." Thank God! "Why not," she asked. "Not that sort, sir. Plain and simple." Mildred looked at the sergeant, for a moment. He'd saved her life, and now he knew her secret. "Sergeant, I— look," she said, "it's Mildred. Not Matthew. And sergeant..." she reached out a hand, touched his cheek. Strange. His face was smooth, even though he hadn't shaved that day. "Jack," she ammended. "Is there... Is there anything I can do to... to thank you?" He looked her in the eye, and pointedly brushed her hand away. "I'm not that sort either, sir." Which was a relief, despite her mild disappointment. "Besides, sir," he said, with a pointed look, "it might not be good for your career, if people find out Matthew Froc is screwing boys." He winked. Mildred tried to smile through her grimace, as the sergeant wound strips of cloth around the gash in her side. "Damn right," she answered. |