Post by devilinthedetails on Oct 1, 2018 12:33:21 GMT 10
Title: The Fallen
Rating: R for child abuse and alcoholism. Please avoid if these topics will trigger you.
Prompt: Lies
Summary: When Alex says he has fallen down, Duke Gareth doesn't believe him.
The Fallen
“You disgrace our family, groveling before the prince.” Father’s hand tightened like a manacle around Alex’s blade thin wrist and shook until Alex’s teeth rattled in his skull. “His grandfather threatened to ruin our fief, and you bow and scrape for his favor like a wretched peasant.”
Alex had grown up hearing the morose stories his father would tell, breath tainted with alcohol, after he had tried to drown too much of the Tirragen shame in bottles of wine. According to Father, the family shame had begun during King Jasson’s reign when drought had struck several years in a row, shrinking Lake Tirragen to a glorified puddle. Grain had withered to dust in the fields, and whispers of rebellion blew across the dry hills, whispers that were squashed beneath the boot heels of the soldiers King Jasson had sent to quell the region and by the high taxes that had been imposed on everything from lord to peasant. King Roald had withdrawn the troops but not the tax burden that made recovering from droughts impossible.
“Our family was disgraced long before I was born.” Hissing like a serpent, Alex tried to slither out of his father’s grasp but his father, anticipating his maneuver, altered his iron grip to prevent Alex’s escape. “Perhaps if we’d bowed and scraped to royalty sooner, we wouldn’t have crippling taxes now, Father.”
“You slimy snake.” Livid, his father spat in his face and twisted his wrist. Alex heard the crack of shattering bone that told him Father—not for the first time—had broken his wrist. Numbness rather than pain swallowed him, and he fought not to overwhelm himself with worries of how he would complete his training tomorrow. “Get out of my sight before I skin you.”
“Yes, Father.” Alex’s wrist hung limp at his side as he gave his father a short bow before bolting from his father’s chamber in a rush to avoid more broken bones.
In the corridor, he collapsed against the wall, allowing the cool to calm him, chilling his heated temper and skin. He couldn’t go to the healers because they would have awkward questions about his injury that his honor wouldn’t permit him to answer. He would have to set the bone as best as he could himself and grit his teeth against the agony he would inevitably feel in it during training starting with his dawn fencing lesson with Duke Gareth.
Back in his bedroom, he bit his lip hard enough to taste blood so that he didn’t scream when he yanked his wrist bone into what he believed was the proper position. A sickening crunch echoed in his ears, and bile burned up his throat. Forcing it down because supper would be far less satisfying a second time, he gulped down a glass of water from his bedside table and prepared for bed at a slower pace than usual since he was only using his left arm.
The next morning he awakened to a wrist swollen purple. One-handed, he fumbled into his clothes and hurried down to the courtyard where he dueled with Duke Gareth, wondering how he would manage to lift his sword from its sheath nonetheless deflect the duke’s lightning strikes and parry them with his own swift swings.
“Let me see your wrist,” Duke Gareth ordered, stern eyes honing in on the wrist Alex realized too late was still resting at a peculiar angle along his side. Duke Gareth would be blind before he missed anything suspicious in a page.
“It’s fine, Your Grace.” Alex attempted to hide his wrist behind his back but stopped with a wince when stars flared in his head.
With an impatient snort, Duke Gareth took hold of Alex’s wrist, his touch deft and surprisingly ginger as his fingers probed at Alex’s bruised flesh. Even Duke Gareth’s light inspection made Alex feel faint.
“If by fine you mean that your wrist has been broken and inexpertly reset by an amateur, then, yes, your wrist is fine.” Tart as a lemon from the Copper Isles, Duke Gareth released Alex’s wrist, and Alex might have risked the indignity of massaging it if he didn’t suspect that would only hurt it more. “What happened to your wrist, Alex?”
“I fell down, Your Grace.” Toneless from a humiliation that never lessened with time, Alex repeated the lie of brawling pages, children with broken bones, and ladies who wore dark makeup to mask their bruises that he had learned as soon as he could talk. Father had made it clear that any mention of his thrashings from Alex would only invite more beatings.
“Your father is at the palace again, and I’ve noticed that you become clumsy when he is here.” Duke Gareth’s gaze was keen enough to cut Alex’s heart that thudded with the world-changing understanding that his training master didn’t believe his lie. “Go to the healers, Alex, and I’ll visit your father to offer him my opinion of fathers who incapacitate their sons from training and doing their duty to the realm.”
“He won’t listen to you, sir,” Alex burst out, desperate to spare himself the pounding that would ensure if his father decided he had betrayed the family’s secret shame to anyone—especially the King’s Champion and Prime Minister. “I doubt he’s even awake at this hour.”
Father, Alex was certain, would still be sleeping off the wine for several bells yet, and when he did pull himself out of his slumber, it would be to begin drinking again. Father lived for the bottle more than anything else.
“He’ll be after I’m done talking to him.” Duke Gareth pointed an imperious finger toward the healers. “Go get your wrist reset and wrapped in a sling. We’ll resume sword training when you’re healed.”
Appalled by the notion of missing weeks of sword training—of potentially falling behind so much that Duke Gareth would deem it a waste of time to teach him privately, of the greatest honor he had ever received being unceremoniously revoked, shoving him into ignominy again—Alex protested, “Aren’t you always saying that a great swordsman is strong at fighting with both hands, Your Grace? Wouldn’t this be a perfect time for me to strengthen my left hand?”
“You want to train with one hand, boy?” Duke Gareth arched an eyebrow.
When Alex, ignoring the voice inside him that yelled his ambition was only going to bring him more injury, nodded, Duke Gareth grunted as he waved a palm in dismissal. “Very well. We meet at dawn again tomorrow, and don’t be late.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, sir.” Alex bowed and continued before his nerve abandoned him, “My father might be displeased with me if you talked to him.”
“If he takes his displeasure out on you, I’ll meet him in the practice courts and not for a friendly duel like I have with you, lad.” Duke Gareth’s grim voice was somehow the most reassuring one Alex had ever heard. Nothing made him feel more secure than the knowledge that the King’s Champion would defend him from his drunkard father. Father, Alex thought, would be impaled on his own sword before he dared to tangle weapons with the country’s finest fencer.
Rating: R for child abuse and alcoholism. Please avoid if these topics will trigger you.
Prompt: Lies
Summary: When Alex says he has fallen down, Duke Gareth doesn't believe him.
The Fallen
“You disgrace our family, groveling before the prince.” Father’s hand tightened like a manacle around Alex’s blade thin wrist and shook until Alex’s teeth rattled in his skull. “His grandfather threatened to ruin our fief, and you bow and scrape for his favor like a wretched peasant.”
Alex had grown up hearing the morose stories his father would tell, breath tainted with alcohol, after he had tried to drown too much of the Tirragen shame in bottles of wine. According to Father, the family shame had begun during King Jasson’s reign when drought had struck several years in a row, shrinking Lake Tirragen to a glorified puddle. Grain had withered to dust in the fields, and whispers of rebellion blew across the dry hills, whispers that were squashed beneath the boot heels of the soldiers King Jasson had sent to quell the region and by the high taxes that had been imposed on everything from lord to peasant. King Roald had withdrawn the troops but not the tax burden that made recovering from droughts impossible.
“Our family was disgraced long before I was born.” Hissing like a serpent, Alex tried to slither out of his father’s grasp but his father, anticipating his maneuver, altered his iron grip to prevent Alex’s escape. “Perhaps if we’d bowed and scraped to royalty sooner, we wouldn’t have crippling taxes now, Father.”
“You slimy snake.” Livid, his father spat in his face and twisted his wrist. Alex heard the crack of shattering bone that told him Father—not for the first time—had broken his wrist. Numbness rather than pain swallowed him, and he fought not to overwhelm himself with worries of how he would complete his training tomorrow. “Get out of my sight before I skin you.”
“Yes, Father.” Alex’s wrist hung limp at his side as he gave his father a short bow before bolting from his father’s chamber in a rush to avoid more broken bones.
In the corridor, he collapsed against the wall, allowing the cool to calm him, chilling his heated temper and skin. He couldn’t go to the healers because they would have awkward questions about his injury that his honor wouldn’t permit him to answer. He would have to set the bone as best as he could himself and grit his teeth against the agony he would inevitably feel in it during training starting with his dawn fencing lesson with Duke Gareth.
Back in his bedroom, he bit his lip hard enough to taste blood so that he didn’t scream when he yanked his wrist bone into what he believed was the proper position. A sickening crunch echoed in his ears, and bile burned up his throat. Forcing it down because supper would be far less satisfying a second time, he gulped down a glass of water from his bedside table and prepared for bed at a slower pace than usual since he was only using his left arm.
The next morning he awakened to a wrist swollen purple. One-handed, he fumbled into his clothes and hurried down to the courtyard where he dueled with Duke Gareth, wondering how he would manage to lift his sword from its sheath nonetheless deflect the duke’s lightning strikes and parry them with his own swift swings.
“Let me see your wrist,” Duke Gareth ordered, stern eyes honing in on the wrist Alex realized too late was still resting at a peculiar angle along his side. Duke Gareth would be blind before he missed anything suspicious in a page.
“It’s fine, Your Grace.” Alex attempted to hide his wrist behind his back but stopped with a wince when stars flared in his head.
With an impatient snort, Duke Gareth took hold of Alex’s wrist, his touch deft and surprisingly ginger as his fingers probed at Alex’s bruised flesh. Even Duke Gareth’s light inspection made Alex feel faint.
“If by fine you mean that your wrist has been broken and inexpertly reset by an amateur, then, yes, your wrist is fine.” Tart as a lemon from the Copper Isles, Duke Gareth released Alex’s wrist, and Alex might have risked the indignity of massaging it if he didn’t suspect that would only hurt it more. “What happened to your wrist, Alex?”
“I fell down, Your Grace.” Toneless from a humiliation that never lessened with time, Alex repeated the lie of brawling pages, children with broken bones, and ladies who wore dark makeup to mask their bruises that he had learned as soon as he could talk. Father had made it clear that any mention of his thrashings from Alex would only invite more beatings.
“Your father is at the palace again, and I’ve noticed that you become clumsy when he is here.” Duke Gareth’s gaze was keen enough to cut Alex’s heart that thudded with the world-changing understanding that his training master didn’t believe his lie. “Go to the healers, Alex, and I’ll visit your father to offer him my opinion of fathers who incapacitate their sons from training and doing their duty to the realm.”
“He won’t listen to you, sir,” Alex burst out, desperate to spare himself the pounding that would ensure if his father decided he had betrayed the family’s secret shame to anyone—especially the King’s Champion and Prime Minister. “I doubt he’s even awake at this hour.”
Father, Alex was certain, would still be sleeping off the wine for several bells yet, and when he did pull himself out of his slumber, it would be to begin drinking again. Father lived for the bottle more than anything else.
“He’ll be after I’m done talking to him.” Duke Gareth pointed an imperious finger toward the healers. “Go get your wrist reset and wrapped in a sling. We’ll resume sword training when you’re healed.”
Appalled by the notion of missing weeks of sword training—of potentially falling behind so much that Duke Gareth would deem it a waste of time to teach him privately, of the greatest honor he had ever received being unceremoniously revoked, shoving him into ignominy again—Alex protested, “Aren’t you always saying that a great swordsman is strong at fighting with both hands, Your Grace? Wouldn’t this be a perfect time for me to strengthen my left hand?”
“You want to train with one hand, boy?” Duke Gareth arched an eyebrow.
When Alex, ignoring the voice inside him that yelled his ambition was only going to bring him more injury, nodded, Duke Gareth grunted as he waved a palm in dismissal. “Very well. We meet at dawn again tomorrow, and don’t be late.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, sir.” Alex bowed and continued before his nerve abandoned him, “My father might be displeased with me if you talked to him.”
“If he takes his displeasure out on you, I’ll meet him in the practice courts and not for a friendly duel like I have with you, lad.” Duke Gareth’s grim voice was somehow the most reassuring one Alex had ever heard. Nothing made him feel more secure than the knowledge that the King’s Champion would defend him from his drunkard father. Father, Alex thought, would be impaled on his own sword before he dared to tangle weapons with the country’s finest fencer.
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!