|Friction at Haigh Camp|
|Summary:||Alek swings by the Haigh Camp to make Harlyn squirm some more.|
|Related Logs:||A Tense Stables Encounter|
|For yea verily, the Haighs do camp in this here place, just outside of Seagard.|
|January 29, 289|
Harlyn is seated outside the private Haigh pavilion with his hand all bandaged up and cradled in his lap. Poor baby. He is otherwise occupying himself this morning reading some scraps - probably some kind of primative receipts.
"Ser Haigh," is murmured as Alek appears as if from no where, likely slinking about the camp bored. His own wounds are scarcely on such display, seeming in perfect health other than his rumpled clothes that have the look that they have been slept in. "You did not end up getting yourself killed."
Harlyn glances up from his maybe receipts with an abrupt clear of his throat. "Ah, yes — Ser Coope. I did not."
DUMP: Aron aims for the throat when jousting with the database.
"I am surprised," Alek replies dryly, his smile a crooked, careless thing in the corner of his lips where he drops to an improvised seat of his own on a rock nearby. It is only a moment before he presses into his really concerns, questioning: "You told your brother that I assaulted you?"
"I was hardly the most bloodied knight in the castle," Harlyn's voice goes dry and slightly edged, but Alek's next question draws a spark of actual anger from him. "I told him no such thing. I told him /nothing/."
"He seems to think I owe you an apology for it. Do you feel the same?" Alek presses with a curve of his brow upwards, amusement darkening grey-green eyes at the other man's anger.
"I see no point asking an apology for a shove," Harlyn says, the edge of the anger now blunted, but anger still present even so.
"Good, then I shall not demand one for what you said." A warmth of a laugh suffuses his words, Alek lifting an arm (gingerly) to rake back strands of hair from his eyes. His gaze lingers on Harlyn though, in a habitual study. "You would not learn anything, anyways. I am starting to believe your view of commoners is genetic."
"Nor would I give one. You're the very image of presumption, Ser Coope. You could stand to learn from Ser Blayne," Harlyn adds, lifting his jaw a fraction and meeting Alek's eyes. "A worthy a man as anyone'd trust, and not - strutting and bragging like he has something to prove. It's not that you're common, it's that you're arrogant."
"And you think we all should be humble and meek, bowing to— how did your brother phrase this— our betters?" Alek questions mildly, pushing himself to his feet in one easy gesture and stretching despite the wince of his features.
"A man like Hardwicke is not what anyone would call /meek/." Harlyn, ah, stays where he is, but he shifts his buttocks a bit on the ground. "He doesn't corner noblemen in stables, though."
"And your Ser Hardwicke does not have half of my skill. I will leave you to your daydreams of him, however," Alek assures with a flicker of a smile, almost flicking a salute towards Harlyn.
"Oho, so you strut because you think you have a /right/ to," Harlyn challenges, his back slightly straighter. He lays his good hand rested in his lap. "Win a few tourneys and you're a big enough prize to corner whoever you wish."
"Yes, I strut because any man has a right to do what they wish. I cornered you because I thought you may also—," Alek cuts himself off with a clench of his jaw, his fingers cutting the air with frustration. "Nevermind, my lord. The war is over, and we shall all be headed home soon enough."
"Do as I wish?" Harlyn says with a touch of discomfited incredulity. "Of course. I do that." His eyes narrow in closer regard. "And what I do is my duty. Despite your swagger, I expect you'll return to duties enough of your own."
"I do not think you'd know how to do what you wanted, if you tried. To take what you like, and only perform what duties that agree with you," Alek guesses with a return of low amusement at Harlyn's discomfort, watching him for a moment before he rolls one shoulder carelessly up. Turning on his heel, he moves to leave the man alone.
"You want to be treated as nobility? Part of - being a true noble is not just picking and choosing," Harlyn says at Alek's back, and if his voice has gone a bit more even, it's still got that hint of unease. "You want to do more than strut, you'll have to learn that."
Alek laughs, a warm sound that seems to come from his throat rather than lower. It is also almost dismissive, the only answer to Harlyn's call before he disappears between the tents.
Harlyn stares after Alek's departure, his jaw tight.