Mark M Bulmer

The Fluffening

"Fluff!"

The word roared from a single voice but was repeated by hundreds of others. Alarm, fear, and panic were clear.

Fluff? Poop on a biscuit!

Kywrey leapt from his cot at the first, terrorized scream and stormed for his tent's entrance, slowing only to snatch a cloak to throw over his shoulders.

"Where?" he asked the captain of his personal guard.

"There, sir," the woman answered with a raised arm and set off after passing him a sheathed sword. Barefoot and letting his cloak hang open over a body wearing only smallclothes, Kywrey followed.

They walked through groups hurrying the other way and past standing people who stared with wide eyes. They came to a circle of soldiers and Kywrey pushed his way through.

In the centre lay Govreth. He was curled up on his blanket, his pillow a rock, and smiling the dull, almost mindless smile of someone seriously fluffed.

"When?" Kywrey asked.

"Found him when we woke, sir," someone said. "Was good last night."

"Nobody else?"

"No, sir. We checked everyone around and gave 'em all a good whacking."

"It's so nice," Govreth murmured. "Pretty."

"Nobody treated him?"

"We all did, sir," someone else said.

"Druha wood?"

"Yup. Near beat the snot out of him," another voice added.

"Pretty and nice." Govreth's eyes were closed.

Fluffing fluff fluffer!

"It's bad, sir," his captain said. "Never seen one like this."

"We must save him."

Everyone fell silent.

"This is Govreth," Kywrey said in a voice loud and strong. "He has marched with me for nine years, fought more battles than near anyone here, and won the archery tourney every year since he joined."

"Sir," his captain said softly, "he's fluffed."

"He saved my life."

"Not saying he's not great and all, sir. Excellent soldier, fine man. But …"

"Soooo nice."

"He is worth saving."

"We'll never get him back."

"Gotta try a finger," said a voice from the crowd. Murmured agreement answered from all around.

"Fetch an axe," Kywrey called out. None moved.

"Axe won't do."

"Gotta hurt."

"Need a knife."

"Sir," the captain said as she drew a dagger. "I'll take care of it."

"You will not." Kywrey tugged the blade from her hand and turned to Govreth.

Nervous chatter sounded when he grabbed Govreth's wrist and set the sharp edge to his pinky.

"I'm sorry, my friend."

Kywrey cut cleanly through the flesh with the first swipe and blood swelled. Govreth's smile did not fade. It took only a few slices for the finger to fall to the dirt.

"Nice and pretty," Govreth said as blood dribbled from his hand.

"Darn it!" Eyes widened and murmuring sounded all around at Kywrey's profanity.

"He's fluffed worse than a fluffer."

"Sir," his captain said. "We cannot save him."

Govreth's smile was one of a celestial being enraptured. Joy such as Kywrey had never seen. He stared at the finger in the dirt.

"Build the fire," he ordered with eyes closed. "I will carry him."

Gasps sounded from all around.

"Sir, you'll be fluffed."

"I will stand the cleansing. With honour."

"Gather druha wood!" his captain called out and soldiers scattered. "Enough for a fire and a cleansing."

It wasn't an hour before Kywrey stood facing the mound, Govreth smiling as he burned atop it.

Cloak gone, Kywrey held his arms to his sides.

"Begin the cleansing," he said.

Six laid in with druha branches to beat the fluff out of him.