Post by aurorax on Jan 7, 2010 17:46:39 GMT 10
Title: Malice
Rating: PG
Prompt: #19, Beginnings
Summary: Joren as a first-year. Ended up much longer than I planned originally.
Wyldon always made sure to look hard at each new face as the new round of first years lined the hall; they were his responsibility now, each of their deaths another mark on his conscience to add to the endless tally.
Some shrank back, eyes downcast and shoulders hunched, scuffing the floor with a boot or pulling nervously at a cuff- those were the weak ones, the followers. They would be the easy prey, the first to be tested; some would toughen up, but a few would leave, weeded out before the snows began. This wasn’t a life for everyone.
Others stood tall, gaze fixed fiercely straight ahead, doing their fathers and their fiefdoms proud. They were the bold ones, too confident to go down without a fight; but when they fell- and they always did, eventually, just like every other first year before them- they fell the hardest. Because the confidence was often arrogance, a false sense of security that came from never having known pain. At home, these were lord’s sons, their every whim catered to and their conceit fostered by loving lies. Here they were nothing, a lesson drawn in blood and bruises.
Something about the slight blond boy caught his attention right from the beginning. There was something icy in his gaze, a deep-buried cruelty tempered with a blazing determination and fierce pride. This one had something to prove, and he wasn’t going to go down without a fight. There was something familiar about that stare, under all the delicate beauty, something that told Wyldon the boy from Stone Mountain would be one he’d never forget.
He was not surprised that Joren was the first to be sent to him, a dark bruise blooming across his fair skin and his pale hair matted with blood; the boy was cocky, making the drills look effortless with his natural talent and then taunting the struggles of the others with a smug smile. More than one boy had tried to wipe that smile off his face in the preceding week, but none had managed until now. That the three third-years who had jumped him would all enter sporting bruises, and one a broken arm, was unexpected, however- most pages couldn’t handle themselves that well when so sorely outnumbered, let alone first-years barely a month into training.
The lines were said, the same that were always exchanged, each playing their part as if reading off a script. There was always a moment of hesitation with each new boy- would this be the one to break tradition?- but then they told the same lie, and Wyldon breathed a silent sigh of relief. Somehow he had known that Joren wouldn’t tell, though; he was too strong for that.
Looking at the boy in front of him, who sat with the same arrogant smile, untroubled by his injuries, he knew that this was the one, the knight he would always be remembered for. For the briefest of instances there was a concerning glint of malice in Joren’s eyes, something that spoke of still depths of cruelty deep enough to drown in. But then it was gone, and the icy gaze spoke only of reverence and respect, letting Wyldon know without words that he would do anything the training master asked of him.
He was just a boy after all, a beautiful, charming, talented boy. And boys needed their fun. So Wyldon let him go without a word, ready to watch his destiny unfold.
Rating: PG
Prompt: #19, Beginnings
Summary: Joren as a first-year. Ended up much longer than I planned originally.
Wyldon always made sure to look hard at each new face as the new round of first years lined the hall; they were his responsibility now, each of their deaths another mark on his conscience to add to the endless tally.
Some shrank back, eyes downcast and shoulders hunched, scuffing the floor with a boot or pulling nervously at a cuff- those were the weak ones, the followers. They would be the easy prey, the first to be tested; some would toughen up, but a few would leave, weeded out before the snows began. This wasn’t a life for everyone.
Others stood tall, gaze fixed fiercely straight ahead, doing their fathers and their fiefdoms proud. They were the bold ones, too confident to go down without a fight; but when they fell- and they always did, eventually, just like every other first year before them- they fell the hardest. Because the confidence was often arrogance, a false sense of security that came from never having known pain. At home, these were lord’s sons, their every whim catered to and their conceit fostered by loving lies. Here they were nothing, a lesson drawn in blood and bruises.
Something about the slight blond boy caught his attention right from the beginning. There was something icy in his gaze, a deep-buried cruelty tempered with a blazing determination and fierce pride. This one had something to prove, and he wasn’t going to go down without a fight. There was something familiar about that stare, under all the delicate beauty, something that told Wyldon the boy from Stone Mountain would be one he’d never forget.
He was not surprised that Joren was the first to be sent to him, a dark bruise blooming across his fair skin and his pale hair matted with blood; the boy was cocky, making the drills look effortless with his natural talent and then taunting the struggles of the others with a smug smile. More than one boy had tried to wipe that smile off his face in the preceding week, but none had managed until now. That the three third-years who had jumped him would all enter sporting bruises, and one a broken arm, was unexpected, however- most pages couldn’t handle themselves that well when so sorely outnumbered, let alone first-years barely a month into training.
The lines were said, the same that were always exchanged, each playing their part as if reading off a script. There was always a moment of hesitation with each new boy- would this be the one to break tradition?- but then they told the same lie, and Wyldon breathed a silent sigh of relief. Somehow he had known that Joren wouldn’t tell, though; he was too strong for that.
Looking at the boy in front of him, who sat with the same arrogant smile, untroubled by his injuries, he knew that this was the one, the knight he would always be remembered for. For the briefest of instances there was a concerning glint of malice in Joren’s eyes, something that spoke of still depths of cruelty deep enough to drown in. But then it was gone, and the icy gaze spoke only of reverence and respect, letting Wyldon know without words that he would do anything the training master asked of him.
He was just a boy after all, a beautiful, charming, talented boy. And boys needed their fun. So Wyldon let him go without a word, ready to watch his destiny unfold.
) if someone did say something other than what was expected.
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!