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rainbowfic2012-05-29 12:20 pm
kay_brooke) wrote in rainbowfic2012-05-29 12:20 pm
Alice Blue #15, Burnt Umber #14, Tyrian Purple #22
Name: kay_brooke
Story: The Myrrosta
Colors: Alice Blue #15 (remember who you are), Burnt Umber #14 (Balkan Mountains), Tyrian Purple #22 (the dogs of war)
Styles/Supplies: Canvas (first two sections), Miniature Collection
Word Count: 848
Rating/Warnings: PG-13; no standard warnings apply
Summary: Atro and his long history with the sword.
Notes: My last Burnt Umber! Constructive criticism is welcome, either through comments or PM.
He got his first sword at four: it was a wooden affair, short and light, with a fat handle his still-clumsy hands could hold with confidence.
"Thank you, Father!" he cried, waving it around his head and immediately going after a maid. The woman sidestepped him and continued down the hall without even wobbling her tea tray.
"When you're older," said his father, "we'll get you a real one."
Atro couldn't wait for that, for real steel he could use to slay bad guys. Until then, the wooden sword was stout enough to cause some pain if needed.
#
The real sword, given four years later, was accompanied by lessons with the Court arms master. Atro took to his lessons with an intensity and dedication he had never shown in the library.
"Merrus!" Atro yelled as he successfully used a move he had just learned to skewer a straw dummy. "Merrus, look! I killed him!"
"Good for you," said the salkiy, not looking up from his book. Atro frowned and pulled the sword out of the straw. Fine. Merrus was stupid, anyway. What was he even doing there, if sword fighting bored him so?
#
He first used a sword to kill on his Proclamation night.
It wasn't fair; it was supposed to be the best night of his life, his ascension to the position he was born for. But instead there was his father, dead; Lindjer, telling lies; Merrus, beaten in both body and mind; his birth mother with eyes like fire; the angry mob surging forward to hang him.
Even as he cried later, remembering the unarmed noblemen who had fallen beneath his sword, he knew he had no choice. He had to live, because he had one more man still to kill.
#
After Merrus scared away the Cottocks, Atro separated the swords from the pile of weapons and took his time choosing which one to take. He needed steel in his hand.
Merrus crouched beside him. "Hurry up! If they come back I don't know if I can fight them off again."
"It has to be a good sword," Atro explained, giving one an experimental swing. It was crudely-made and the balance was wrong; he put it back in the pile.
"What does it matter?" Merrus hissed. "If it's pointy, it'll do."
Atro shook his head. Merrus didn't understand at all.
#
They knocked the men out, stole their clothes and their identities, but what bothered Atro most was stealing their swords. Merrus wouldn't even use his; he just had it to look the part, and he probably didn't even care that he had walked off with another man's weapon.
After they were captured, their swords taken away, Atro spent most of the time in his cell wondering if the man he had stolen it from was able to get it back.
#
In the end it wasn't steel that killed Lindjer. In the end, Atro had nothing to do with Lindjer's death at all. It vexed him that he would never avenge his father, would never watch the usurper's smug smile split as Atro's sword ran through it. He had dreamed of that moment, but Mynlai had managed to steal even that away from him.
With the city safe, Atro never stopped practicing. There were still enemies out there, the ones who had helped Lindjer, who gave shelter to Mynlai. There was always someone left to kill.
#
During his first real war, Atro didn't kill people. He killed faceless monsters, a writhing metal mass that attacked him from all sides, where his only hope of survival was to hack at bits and pieces and hope it was enough to fell the beast.
Afterward, in the silence of a victorious battle, the monster became people again. Atro would stand amidst the carnage as the crows circled, wondering which of those bodies were dead because of him, and whether he should feel joyous or sad about that.
#
Anthony loathed the library, only learning to read because he was forced. He didn't like languages, politics, or history. He would sooner rip apart a painting than create one, and he complained music hurt his ears. When all of the boy's tutors had given up, Atro tried to teach him swordplay. He hoped it would let Anthony burn off his aggression, but the boy would have none of it.
Atro never looked twice at his younger son. How could a blind boy learn to yield a sword, anyway?
He never stopped practicing, but he did it alone.
#
It was steel that got him in the end, which he thought appropriate. He just wished it had been a cleaner strike, that he had died right there on the battlefield. He wished it especially hard in the last days, when he lingered in his bed in the palace and his wound festered. He was only sometimes aware of his surroundings, but the spreading pain was ever present.
He had led a good life. He had tried his best. He deserved a clean death.
But he was too weak to do it himself.
kay_brookeStory: The Myrrosta
Colors: Alice Blue #15 (remember who you are), Burnt Umber #14 (Balkan Mountains), Tyrian Purple #22 (the dogs of war)
Styles/Supplies: Canvas (first two sections), Miniature Collection
Word Count: 848
Rating/Warnings: PG-13; no standard warnings apply
Summary: Atro and his long history with the sword.
Notes: My last Burnt Umber! Constructive criticism is welcome, either through comments or PM.
He got his first sword at four: it was a wooden affair, short and light, with a fat handle his still-clumsy hands could hold with confidence.
"Thank you, Father!" he cried, waving it around his head and immediately going after a maid. The woman sidestepped him and continued down the hall without even wobbling her tea tray.
"When you're older," said his father, "we'll get you a real one."
Atro couldn't wait for that, for real steel he could use to slay bad guys. Until then, the wooden sword was stout enough to cause some pain if needed.
#
The real sword, given four years later, was accompanied by lessons with the Court arms master. Atro took to his lessons with an intensity and dedication he had never shown in the library.
"Merrus!" Atro yelled as he successfully used a move he had just learned to skewer a straw dummy. "Merrus, look! I killed him!"
"Good for you," said the salkiy, not looking up from his book. Atro frowned and pulled the sword out of the straw. Fine. Merrus was stupid, anyway. What was he even doing there, if sword fighting bored him so?
#
He first used a sword to kill on his Proclamation night.
It wasn't fair; it was supposed to be the best night of his life, his ascension to the position he was born for. But instead there was his father, dead; Lindjer, telling lies; Merrus, beaten in both body and mind; his birth mother with eyes like fire; the angry mob surging forward to hang him.
Even as he cried later, remembering the unarmed noblemen who had fallen beneath his sword, he knew he had no choice. He had to live, because he had one more man still to kill.
#
After Merrus scared away the Cottocks, Atro separated the swords from the pile of weapons and took his time choosing which one to take. He needed steel in his hand.
Merrus crouched beside him. "Hurry up! If they come back I don't know if I can fight them off again."
"It has to be a good sword," Atro explained, giving one an experimental swing. It was crudely-made and the balance was wrong; he put it back in the pile.
"What does it matter?" Merrus hissed. "If it's pointy, it'll do."
Atro shook his head. Merrus didn't understand at all.
#
They knocked the men out, stole their clothes and their identities, but what bothered Atro most was stealing their swords. Merrus wouldn't even use his; he just had it to look the part, and he probably didn't even care that he had walked off with another man's weapon.
After they were captured, their swords taken away, Atro spent most of the time in his cell wondering if the man he had stolen it from was able to get it back.
#
In the end it wasn't steel that killed Lindjer. In the end, Atro had nothing to do with Lindjer's death at all. It vexed him that he would never avenge his father, would never watch the usurper's smug smile split as Atro's sword ran through it. He had dreamed of that moment, but Mynlai had managed to steal even that away from him.
With the city safe, Atro never stopped practicing. There were still enemies out there, the ones who had helped Lindjer, who gave shelter to Mynlai. There was always someone left to kill.
#
During his first real war, Atro didn't kill people. He killed faceless monsters, a writhing metal mass that attacked him from all sides, where his only hope of survival was to hack at bits and pieces and hope it was enough to fell the beast.
Afterward, in the silence of a victorious battle, the monster became people again. Atro would stand amidst the carnage as the crows circled, wondering which of those bodies were dead because of him, and whether he should feel joyous or sad about that.
#
Anthony loathed the library, only learning to read because he was forced. He didn't like languages, politics, or history. He would sooner rip apart a painting than create one, and he complained music hurt his ears. When all of the boy's tutors had given up, Atro tried to teach him swordplay. He hoped it would let Anthony burn off his aggression, but the boy would have none of it.
Atro never looked twice at his younger son. How could a blind boy learn to yield a sword, anyway?
He never stopped practicing, but he did it alone.
#
It was steel that got him in the end, which he thought appropriate. He just wished it had been a cleaner strike, that he had died right there on the battlefield. He wished it especially hard in the last days, when he lingered in his bed in the palace and his wound festered. He was only sometimes aware of his surroundings, but the spreading pain was ever present.
He had led a good life. He had tried his best. He deserved a clean death.
But he was too weak to do it himself.
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Thank you for reading!