...It was unlike anything Sharpe had ever witnessed in his long and storied life. The circle was strange enough, and the overall notion so peculiar that he was half-convinced it wouldn't work. But just as the Major was about to laugh it off and stride boldly from his place, Gandorf's eyes seemed to generate light. He frowned and found his back foot slipping into a solid, readied position: prepared to flee should it be necessary. But flames followed hard upon the first bewildering sight and before he could shout invective at their heat and their power, everything was a daze of clean light.
And then everything was pain. A ragged sound ripped forth from his lungs and his throat as he felt his very veins invaded. For a brief moment, at the pain's apex, he was worried he might slip consciousness. But he only slipped stance and dropped to one green-trouser'd knee. A hand crunched into old snow and the rotting detritus below it. In seconds and flashes, he was transported back to the dying room under Salamanca. Having taken a pistol ball to the gut, Sharpe had been incorrectly triaged as a common soldier because of the scars on his back and those in charge of the wounded had sent him off to the dank stone cellar where the men unlucky enough not to die quick on the battlefield were sent to die slowly instead. From rot and fever. This pain, today, was not as bad but was instead spread across more square inches of his body.
In its wake, he expected to feel exhausted. Broken. Anger and righteous fury were already bubbling up as he justifed -- to himself -- why he should despite the man who just now dragged his skin over hot coals and sharp spikes. But the anger wouldn't stick. When Sharpe tried to grab firmly onto it and bolster himself as he'd done a hundred times before, he found the emotion to be ethereal. Impossible to touch. He couldn't hate this man.
What's more, his anticipated exhaustion was trumped by a great energy. Sharpe pushed back to both feet and touched his chest as though he'd expected pinpricks of blood to have soaked through his shirt and jacket. His fingertips came back dry.
Rise, Richard Sharpe. Warrior of Another World. He lifted his scarred face to the moonlight and took a deep, envigorating breath of cold night air. "You must be the devil," he choked out -- and yet, it barely sounded like an insult. More like admiration.
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And then everything was pain. A ragged sound ripped forth from his lungs and his throat as he felt his very veins invaded. For a brief moment, at the pain's apex, he was worried he might slip consciousness. But he only slipped stance and dropped to one green-trouser'd knee. A hand crunched into old snow and the rotting detritus below it. In seconds and flashes, he was transported back to the dying room under Salamanca. Having taken a pistol ball to the gut, Sharpe had been incorrectly triaged as a common soldier because of the scars on his back and those in charge of the wounded had sent him off to the dank stone cellar where the men unlucky enough not to die quick on the battlefield were sent to die slowly instead. From rot and fever. This pain, today, was not as bad but was instead spread across more square inches of his body.
In its wake, he expected to feel exhausted. Broken. Anger and righteous fury were already bubbling up as he justifed -- to himself -- why he should despite the man who just now dragged his skin over hot coals and sharp spikes. But the anger wouldn't stick. When Sharpe tried to grab firmly onto it and bolster himself as he'd done a hundred times before, he found the emotion to be ethereal. Impossible to touch. He couldn't hate this man.
What's more, his anticipated exhaustion was trumped by a great energy. Sharpe pushed back to both feet and touched his chest as though he'd expected pinpricks of blood to have soaked through his shirt and jacket. His fingertips came back dry.
Rise, Richard Sharpe. Warrior of Another World. He lifted his scarred face to the moonlight and took a deep, envigorating breath of cold night air. "You must be the devil," he choked out -- and yet, it barely sounded like an insult. More like admiration.