a little bit more of fanfic
Nov. 6th, 2008 07:45 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maderrI shall try to write more today, for to transcribe when I get home. Such a slacker am I, dabbling in fanfiction. Still, 'tis fun.
"I thank you," James repeated. "I do not suppose any of my belongings survived my fall?"
Again, the man nodded, and moved toward the tent opening, calling out in a language that fell far more elegantly from his lips than the English. James did not know the dialect, though it was not so strange he could not follow bits of it. Old-fashioned, he thought suddenly. The way the man spoke was old-fashioned.
Not that he knew much about such languages. He'd stopped after the Russian; too much else to do between bullets and falling out of booby-trapped airplanes.
He was pulled from his thoughts as the man drew close to him again—and James was left reeling, for he had sworn the man moved slowly, and yet he was across the tent in a moment. "You had a weapon," the man said. "An impressive piece, but I will not be returning it quite yet. When you are returned to civilization more familiar?"
James nodded, seeing no reason to argue the point. He seemed to be in very little danger here, if the desert and this strange man was all he had to worry about. Though, he wondered if and when people would come looking for him.
By sheer habit, he looked at his forearm, the old scars where tracking devices had been infrequently placed. None this time, and M was probably hissing and spitting about it—or quite possibly she was taking a nice, leisurely tea and dreaming of his corpse drying in the desert sun. One could not always gauge M.
"I am Ardeth," the man said, watching him.
James found himself staring back, and feeling slightly puzzled. The eyes were dark, hard to look away from, and they held…something…an awareness that was similar to his own. There was such a thing as too much knowledge, and extraneous knowledge weighed heavy. This man bore such a weight, James knew. But there was something more in those dark eyes, the same something that had let him go unnoticed until he chose to be seen and felt.
"Bond," he offered belatedly. "James Bond."
"You seem largely recovered from your fall," Ardeth said, and a hint of a smile ghosted across his lips. "Food will be here shortly, as well as fresh clothes. I shall return, and we will talk."
Then he was gone.
James realized abruptly, and with no little annoyance, that it was suddenly much easier to breathe.
"I thank you," James repeated. "I do not suppose any of my belongings survived my fall?"
Again, the man nodded, and moved toward the tent opening, calling out in a language that fell far more elegantly from his lips than the English. James did not know the dialect, though it was not so strange he could not follow bits of it. Old-fashioned, he thought suddenly. The way the man spoke was old-fashioned.
Not that he knew much about such languages. He'd stopped after the Russian; too much else to do between bullets and falling out of booby-trapped airplanes.
He was pulled from his thoughts as the man drew close to him again—and James was left reeling, for he had sworn the man moved slowly, and yet he was across the tent in a moment. "You had a weapon," the man said. "An impressive piece, but I will not be returning it quite yet. When you are returned to civilization more familiar?"
James nodded, seeing no reason to argue the point. He seemed to be in very little danger here, if the desert and this strange man was all he had to worry about. Though, he wondered if and when people would come looking for him.
By sheer habit, he looked at his forearm, the old scars where tracking devices had been infrequently placed. None this time, and M was probably hissing and spitting about it—or quite possibly she was taking a nice, leisurely tea and dreaming of his corpse drying in the desert sun. One could not always gauge M.
"I am Ardeth," the man said, watching him.
James found himself staring back, and feeling slightly puzzled. The eyes were dark, hard to look away from, and they held…something…an awareness that was similar to his own. There was such a thing as too much knowledge, and extraneous knowledge weighed heavy. This man bore such a weight, James knew. But there was something more in those dark eyes, the same something that had let him go unnoticed until he chose to be seen and felt.
"Bond," he offered belatedly. "James Bond."
"You seem largely recovered from your fall," Ardeth said, and a hint of a smile ghosted across his lips. "Food will be here shortly, as well as fresh clothes. I shall return, and we will talk."
Then he was gone.
James realized abruptly, and with no little annoyance, that it was suddenly much easier to breathe.
