[ Claude and Sheila can admire flowers for a bit before a memory suddenly hits them.
The scrapes burn across your legs and your sides as you lie on the grass, eyes turned toward the sky. The grass tickles your bare feet, the evening wind cool enough to soothe your aches where the dirt road had dragged against your legs, and where the rope around your wrists had rubbed the skin raw. You're used to your father's efforts to mold your behaviour into something greater than you are, and while it hasn't helped your manners any, you've gotten remarkably good at emerging relatively unscathed.
The bruises that mottle your abdomen and face are from something else entirely, already starting to fade. It's something that might've left you spitting mad when you were younger, but now, almost fifteen, you've learned how to keep your calm.
Along the borders of Almyra, the war makes heroes at the expense of families and children. You don't know about the orphans and casualties yet, about the tragedy and strife that haunts them, you only know of the brave that venture out to the Throat, earning glory with the blood of women and men.
Your brother is one such star. He'd left for the border at the age of sixteen, spending five years making a name for himself before returning to the capital to receive thanks from the king. He's young and handsome, enchanting the women and children of the palace, and he hates you down to his core.
So he requests to spar with you in the evening, with an axe to the back. And he offers up a demonstration of his leadership skills, by arranging that his companions do the same. This, too, once burned rage in your chest, potent and furious, and you once screamed and shouted until you realized that it never made a difference. But now, like your father's discipline, you've learned the best way to survive these situations is to keep hold of your temper.
Normally it's a point of pride for you, that you're clever and slippery enough to rob others of the satisfaction they want out of your blood, but this time, after a match with your brother's cronies, when you catch his eye, you don't see the anger or hate. You see disappointment that cools into disgust, as though you were being tested, and you failed.
"Nothing ever changes with you, does it."
That, for some reason, infuriates you.
Which is why you slip poison into his wine at dinner, knowing full well that there could only be no other culprits when he kneels over onto his plate. You couldn't even feign remorse when your father had turned his gaze toward you.
You don't feel it even now, as you push yourself up onto your feet, thinking about the quiet darkness around you, and the golden lights of the palace in the distance. You realize you feel nothing toward the sight of it, toward your home or your family. So your gaze returns to the stars and you follow them west. And suddenly, you wonder to yourself if perhaps your brother was right. Maybe you do need to change.
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week 3, tuesday, wiwaldi / orchard
The bruises that mottle your abdomen and face are from something else entirely, already starting to fade. It's something that might've left you spitting mad when you were younger, but now, almost fifteen, you've learned how to keep your calm.
Along the borders of Almyra, the war makes heroes at the expense of families and children. You don't know about the orphans and casualties yet, about the tragedy and strife that haunts them, you only know of the brave that venture out to the Throat, earning glory with the blood of women and men.
Your brother is one such star. He'd left for the border at the age of sixteen, spending five years making a name for himself before returning to the capital to receive thanks from the king. He's young and handsome, enchanting the women and children of the palace, and he hates you down to his core.
So he requests to spar with you in the evening, with an axe to the back. And he offers up a demonstration of his leadership skills, by arranging that his companions do the same. This, too, once burned rage in your chest, potent and furious, and you once screamed and shouted until you realized that it never made a difference. But now, like your father's discipline, you've learned the best way to survive these situations is to keep hold of your temper.
Normally it's a point of pride for you, that you're clever and slippery enough to rob others of the satisfaction they want out of your blood, but this time, after a match with your brother's cronies, when you catch his eye, you don't see the anger or hate. You see disappointment that cools into disgust, as though you were being tested, and you failed.
"Nothing ever changes with you, does it."
That, for some reason, infuriates you.
Which is why you slip poison into his wine at dinner, knowing full well that there could only be no other culprits when he kneels over onto his plate. You couldn't even feign remorse when your father had turned his gaze toward you.
You don't feel it even now, as you push yourself up onto your feet, thinking about the quiet darkness around you, and the golden lights of the palace in the distance. You realize you feel nothing toward the sight of it, toward your home or your family. So your gaze returns to the stars and you follow them west. And suddenly, you wonder to yourself if perhaps your brother was right. Maybe you do need to change.
Claude just sighs. Love it. ]
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anyway, that is a lot? that was a lot.
softly, with feeling:]
Oh, my god.
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Claude just watches her. ]
Don't panic.
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[CLAUDE, YOUR FAMILY...]
Your brother was a little bitch so I can't say he didn't have it coming. But more importantly, are you okay?
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[ years of repression ]
It happened long ago enough that it doesn't bother me anymore.