milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Sharpe emerges from wherever he spent the night, probably a room in the staff quarters, looking slightly the worse for wear.

Without pausing, he heads straight across the room and out through the front door. Ten minutes or so later, he comes back in, dripping - apparently he felt the need to dunk his head in the trough at home.

With a brief stop at the Bar, he makes for a booth. And, slowly and with much crossing-out, he starts to write.

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"Mrs. Rowlands. The White Rider."

"Aye, then you'd be right."

More now than ever.

"I often am." He smiles without his usual merriment.

"You know young Wellard, at all?"

"I do not, but I know what Mrs. Rowlands and her cohort tried to do last winter and that gives me quite enough to work with. She wished to use a child for her ends."

"And this time around, she didn't get far off. Wellard's not a child, but he's not so far past it. Sixteen years old and dead, and she put him in the infirmary with her damned magic."

Jack slowly exhales. "I dislike her very much," he says quietly.

"I very much doubt we're the only ones."

"Oh, you're quite correct. There are several others here who've dealt with her.

"I mostly wanted you to know you're not alone in your worry, Sharpe."

"And I appreciate it. Thank you."

"You're quite welcome. It's kind of what I do." He smiles at Sharpe, and at the touch of his hand there's another apple on the table.

"Eat. Keep your strength up."

The first apple is gone, and it was delicious. So there's no hesitation to pick up the second one.

"I will."

Jack smiles and nods. "If there's a fight--which there probably will be--shall we look for you?"

That gets a savage grin.

"Count on it."

"Excellent. We will count on the strength of your arm."

"My arm, my sword, my guns..."

He smiles humourlessly.

"Guns, I think, will be useless except to slow her down, but yes."

"You'd be surprised how much good just slowing someone down will do."

"Oh, no, not at all. I've seen what guns can do."

Sharpe just nods.

So has he, and he's got the scars to prove it.

Jack watches him a moment, then says, "A man of few words. I can appreciate that."

He grins crookedly. "Got to be a habit, over the years. Not that I was ever much of a talker."

"Silence has its uses. I've never discovered them, though."

"You're not a fighting man, then."

It's not really a criticism.

"I make things grow."