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rainbowfic2012-02-06 01:11 pm
kay_brooke) wrote in rainbowfic2012-02-06 01:11 pm
Snow White #11, Tyrian Purple #24, Canvas
Name: kay_brooke
Story: The Myrrosta
Colors: Snow White #11 (straw into gold), Tyrian Purple #24 (melted wings)
Styles/Supplies: Canvas (Atro is five years old)
Word Count: 1,744
Rating/Warnings: PG-13; No standard warnings apply
Summary: Atro wants a party, and he's not going to give up until he gets one.
Five years old, and still a year away from discovering the abilities that would define the rest of his life, Atro one day managed to escape from his nursemaid and make it all the way across the Court to the Main Hall.
He had been there before. He even remembered that he had to walk up the stairs and turn the corner to reach his father's office. But he had never been there by himself. He had never even been outside in the Courtyard, so it was a little terrifying to push open the side door that led from the kitchens to the orchard (because there were guards at the other doors but not at this one) and stand, blinking, outside in the bright light, alone for the first time in his life.
The cold was the next thing to assail his senses: the harvest was long over, and though they hadn't had the year's first snowfall, it was close. The sky was clear, the two suns boldly visible. The wind . . . the wind was a frightening, frozen force, but Atro stood against it, because he was determined.
He knew he wasn't supposed to be outside alone. He knew he wasn't supposed to be outside at all during the cold months. Atro was the only son of the Councilor of Jaharta, and his getting had been difficult. This Atro knew, even at his tender age. He was reminded of it every day, by his nursemaid, by the tutor he had just started lessons with, by his father's advisor Lindjer, who sneered at him like Atro was something disgusting to look at. Atro also knew that he would never have any brothers or sisters, because his mother was dead and his father was getting old. So he was the only one who could be the next Councilor.
As a consequence, he wasn't allowed to do much that might hurt him or make him sick.
To a five-year-old, this was monumentally unfair.
Fortunately he had learned how to trick his nursemaid. When she put him down for his nap he only pretended to be asleep, waiting quietly in his bed until his nursemaid's breaths had turned soft and even. It had been hard, to stay still for that long and not fall asleep himself, but sheer excitement kept him awake. He had wriggled nervously, uncontrollably, at first, but his nursemaid had frowned and fussed over him and wouldn't leave him alone, so through a great effort of self-control (something he didn't like then and would really never come to like) he had managed to satisfy her enough that she had relaxed into her own slumber.
He carefully made his way across the Court, keeping a look out for guards and other passersby. There weren't many people out in the cold, and he was able to avoid the glances of the few patrolling guards easily. They weren't looking for a threat in the form of a small child.
Atro was young, but he was smart. The way across the Court was scary and cold, and he could have just taken the corridor that connected the Private Hall with the Main Hall, but he knew that was where all the people would be. There would be lots of guards, too. He wouldn't have even made it to the connecting corridor before he was stopped. This was better.
He reached the Main Hall, and immediately saw the flaw in his plan: even the obscure side entrances to the building were blocked by at least one guard. But then luck turned out to be on his side, as the guard at the nearest entrance, the one Atro had aimed for because bushes blocked it from view of the other entrances and guards, stepped away as another guard approached. The two guards disappeared behind some heavy foliage, and Atro took his chance to slip inside the door unnoticed.
The warm air inside the Main Hall flowed over him, making him sigh in happiness. Wrapping his arms around himself to ward off the last of the shivers from outside, he headed toward the back stairwell.
That's where his luck ran out.
The stairwell was guarded by two men, and they spotted Atro immediately. After a moment where they glanced confusedly at each other, the first guard said, “Lord Atro. What are you doing here?”
Atro froze, trying to come up with a quick lie. “My father wanted to see me.”
As lies went, it wasn't very good.
The guards looked around, suspicion clouding their features. “Where is your chaperone?”
“I'm not a baby!” Atro cried, affronted.
The guards glanced at each other again, and was that the hint of a smile on both their faces? Atro stamped his foot in frustration. “I want to see my father!”
The first guard shook his head. “Councilor Martyn did not tell us of any such expected meeting. We cannot allow you upstairs.”
The second guard sighed and said, “What would it hurt, Tember?”
The first guard frowned at his companion. “We are under strict orders not to let anyone without legitimate business pass.”
“He's hardly an assassin,” argued the second guard.
The first guard, Tember, looked Atro up and down, chewing his lip in contemplation. “I will not be held responsible for the consequences of this. I should find an advisor right now.”
“You do that,” said the second guard. He held out a hand to Atro. “I'm going to take the boy to his father.”
Smiling triumphantly, Atro took the guard's hand and allowed the man to lead him up the stairwell and around the corner, just as Atro remembered it, to the big white door that marked the outside of his father's office. The guard knocked on the door, and Atro felt a little thrill as he heard his father's voice call, “Enter.”
The guard opened the door and led Atro into the office. Atro's father, Lord Councilor Martyn of Jaharta, looked up in surprise at the unexpected sight that came through his door.
“Atro?” he said, standing. “What is it? Is there something wrong?”
“He claims you wanted to see him,” said the guard, smiling indulgently.
Martyn did not return the sentiment. “Then he lied, and he will be punished. Atro, did you come here by yourself?”
“I'm not a baby,” Atro said again, because it had seemed to work with the guards.
It did not work with his father.
“Take him back to his chambers,” the man snapped at the guard. “He is not to be wandering around unsupervised. Anything could happen!”
“My lord,” said the guard, dropping a quick bow. He took Atro by the hand again, this time a little harder than Atro thought was necessary. Fortunately, Atro was good at squirming out of hand holds. He ran up to his father's desk and said, “Please! I have . . . I have a proposal!” He smiled, proud of himself for remembering the terminology he had heard the advisors using in the one meeting he had attended.
“Atro, I do not have time for games now,” said Martyn, in the voice that Atro knew meant he had reached the end of his patience. It was easy to reach the end of his patience with his father, and Atro seemed to be the best at it.
“No games!” Atro insisted. “I think there should be a party. A winter party.” He bit his lip, waiting for his father's response.
There was a long silence. Finally, Martyn sighed and looked up. “What are you talking about?”
Atro grinned; he knew he could get his father to listen to him. “I liked the feast. At the Autumn Banquets.” He wasn't old enough to attend most of the Autumn Banquet functions, but he had been present at the small dinner party for the advisors and their families, held only a month ago. It had been Atro's first exposure to such a festive atmosphere, and he had loved every moment of it. He didn't understand why it only happened once a year. A year was forever. He would be six before the next Autumn Banquets came around! “Why can't we have another feast?”
Martyn stared at him. “A feast? In the winter?”
Atro gave him his biggest grin.
Martyn kneaded his forehead. “Atro, winter isn't a time to celebrate. We must conserve firewood and food. We can't throw so much away on a feast.”
“Just one!” Atro insisted. “We won't use up all our food for just one!”
“No,” said Martyn. “There is no reason for such foolishness.” And then he did what Atro had expected and dreaded all along. He waved the guard over and said, “Take him back to the Private Hall. Make sure he doesn't escape again.”
The guard nodded and started to lead Atro away. The boy opened his mouth to protest, but the thunderous look on his father's face stopped him. He was already going to be punished for his illicit trip to the Main Hall, and if he said anything more it would only be worse. So he let the guard lead him out of his father's office, down the hallway, down the stairwell, and back to the Private Hall through the connecting corridor.
He didn't mind so much, though. He already had another plan in mind.
When he got back to his chambers, his nursemaid, who had just woken up and was realizing her charge had disappeared, exclaimed over him and then yelled at him, and then made him get back into bed for another nap. As punishment, she denied him the warm milk he usually drank right before.
“You'll get me fired, you will,” she growled at him as she pulled the covers up to his chin. “Now stay put!”
This time Atro didn't pretend. His eyelids grew heavy almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, but a secret smile stayed on his face. He knew what he was going to do.
He would have his own party, his own feast from scraps snuck from the dinner table. It would be him, and maybe some of the servant children he played with. He wouldn't invite his father, nor the nursemaid. He briefly thought about inviting the guard who had been kind to him, but then Martyn might find out. So no grown-ups allowed, then.
A secret party, and then, someday, when he was Councilor, he would make it an official party. A winter feast.
kay_brookeStory: The Myrrosta
Colors: Snow White #11 (straw into gold), Tyrian Purple #24 (melted wings)
Styles/Supplies: Canvas (Atro is five years old)
Word Count: 1,744
Rating/Warnings: PG-13; No standard warnings apply
Summary: Atro wants a party, and he's not going to give up until he gets one.
Five years old, and still a year away from discovering the abilities that would define the rest of his life, Atro one day managed to escape from his nursemaid and make it all the way across the Court to the Main Hall.
He had been there before. He even remembered that he had to walk up the stairs and turn the corner to reach his father's office. But he had never been there by himself. He had never even been outside in the Courtyard, so it was a little terrifying to push open the side door that led from the kitchens to the orchard (because there were guards at the other doors but not at this one) and stand, blinking, outside in the bright light, alone for the first time in his life.
The cold was the next thing to assail his senses: the harvest was long over, and though they hadn't had the year's first snowfall, it was close. The sky was clear, the two suns boldly visible. The wind . . . the wind was a frightening, frozen force, but Atro stood against it, because he was determined.
He knew he wasn't supposed to be outside alone. He knew he wasn't supposed to be outside at all during the cold months. Atro was the only son of the Councilor of Jaharta, and his getting had been difficult. This Atro knew, even at his tender age. He was reminded of it every day, by his nursemaid, by the tutor he had just started lessons with, by his father's advisor Lindjer, who sneered at him like Atro was something disgusting to look at. Atro also knew that he would never have any brothers or sisters, because his mother was dead and his father was getting old. So he was the only one who could be the next Councilor.
As a consequence, he wasn't allowed to do much that might hurt him or make him sick.
To a five-year-old, this was monumentally unfair.
Fortunately he had learned how to trick his nursemaid. When she put him down for his nap he only pretended to be asleep, waiting quietly in his bed until his nursemaid's breaths had turned soft and even. It had been hard, to stay still for that long and not fall asleep himself, but sheer excitement kept him awake. He had wriggled nervously, uncontrollably, at first, but his nursemaid had frowned and fussed over him and wouldn't leave him alone, so through a great effort of self-control (something he didn't like then and would really never come to like) he had managed to satisfy her enough that she had relaxed into her own slumber.
He carefully made his way across the Court, keeping a look out for guards and other passersby. There weren't many people out in the cold, and he was able to avoid the glances of the few patrolling guards easily. They weren't looking for a threat in the form of a small child.
Atro was young, but he was smart. The way across the Court was scary and cold, and he could have just taken the corridor that connected the Private Hall with the Main Hall, but he knew that was where all the people would be. There would be lots of guards, too. He wouldn't have even made it to the connecting corridor before he was stopped. This was better.
He reached the Main Hall, and immediately saw the flaw in his plan: even the obscure side entrances to the building were blocked by at least one guard. But then luck turned out to be on his side, as the guard at the nearest entrance, the one Atro had aimed for because bushes blocked it from view of the other entrances and guards, stepped away as another guard approached. The two guards disappeared behind some heavy foliage, and Atro took his chance to slip inside the door unnoticed.
The warm air inside the Main Hall flowed over him, making him sigh in happiness. Wrapping his arms around himself to ward off the last of the shivers from outside, he headed toward the back stairwell.
That's where his luck ran out.
The stairwell was guarded by two men, and they spotted Atro immediately. After a moment where they glanced confusedly at each other, the first guard said, “Lord Atro. What are you doing here?”
Atro froze, trying to come up with a quick lie. “My father wanted to see me.”
As lies went, it wasn't very good.
The guards looked around, suspicion clouding their features. “Where is your chaperone?”
“I'm not a baby!” Atro cried, affronted.
The guards glanced at each other again, and was that the hint of a smile on both their faces? Atro stamped his foot in frustration. “I want to see my father!”
The first guard shook his head. “Councilor Martyn did not tell us of any such expected meeting. We cannot allow you upstairs.”
The second guard sighed and said, “What would it hurt, Tember?”
The first guard frowned at his companion. “We are under strict orders not to let anyone without legitimate business pass.”
“He's hardly an assassin,” argued the second guard.
The first guard, Tember, looked Atro up and down, chewing his lip in contemplation. “I will not be held responsible for the consequences of this. I should find an advisor right now.”
“You do that,” said the second guard. He held out a hand to Atro. “I'm going to take the boy to his father.”
Smiling triumphantly, Atro took the guard's hand and allowed the man to lead him up the stairwell and around the corner, just as Atro remembered it, to the big white door that marked the outside of his father's office. The guard knocked on the door, and Atro felt a little thrill as he heard his father's voice call, “Enter.”
The guard opened the door and led Atro into the office. Atro's father, Lord Councilor Martyn of Jaharta, looked up in surprise at the unexpected sight that came through his door.
“Atro?” he said, standing. “What is it? Is there something wrong?”
“He claims you wanted to see him,” said the guard, smiling indulgently.
Martyn did not return the sentiment. “Then he lied, and he will be punished. Atro, did you come here by yourself?”
“I'm not a baby,” Atro said again, because it had seemed to work with the guards.
It did not work with his father.
“Take him back to his chambers,” the man snapped at the guard. “He is not to be wandering around unsupervised. Anything could happen!”
“My lord,” said the guard, dropping a quick bow. He took Atro by the hand again, this time a little harder than Atro thought was necessary. Fortunately, Atro was good at squirming out of hand holds. He ran up to his father's desk and said, “Please! I have . . . I have a proposal!” He smiled, proud of himself for remembering the terminology he had heard the advisors using in the one meeting he had attended.
“Atro, I do not have time for games now,” said Martyn, in the voice that Atro knew meant he had reached the end of his patience. It was easy to reach the end of his patience with his father, and Atro seemed to be the best at it.
“No games!” Atro insisted. “I think there should be a party. A winter party.” He bit his lip, waiting for his father's response.
There was a long silence. Finally, Martyn sighed and looked up. “What are you talking about?”
Atro grinned; he knew he could get his father to listen to him. “I liked the feast. At the Autumn Banquets.” He wasn't old enough to attend most of the Autumn Banquet functions, but he had been present at the small dinner party for the advisors and their families, held only a month ago. It had been Atro's first exposure to such a festive atmosphere, and he had loved every moment of it. He didn't understand why it only happened once a year. A year was forever. He would be six before the next Autumn Banquets came around! “Why can't we have another feast?”
Martyn stared at him. “A feast? In the winter?”
Atro gave him his biggest grin.
Martyn kneaded his forehead. “Atro, winter isn't a time to celebrate. We must conserve firewood and food. We can't throw so much away on a feast.”
“Just one!” Atro insisted. “We won't use up all our food for just one!”
“No,” said Martyn. “There is no reason for such foolishness.” And then he did what Atro had expected and dreaded all along. He waved the guard over and said, “Take him back to the Private Hall. Make sure he doesn't escape again.”
The guard nodded and started to lead Atro away. The boy opened his mouth to protest, but the thunderous look on his father's face stopped him. He was already going to be punished for his illicit trip to the Main Hall, and if he said anything more it would only be worse. So he let the guard lead him out of his father's office, down the hallway, down the stairwell, and back to the Private Hall through the connecting corridor.
He didn't mind so much, though. He already had another plan in mind.
When he got back to his chambers, his nursemaid, who had just woken up and was realizing her charge had disappeared, exclaimed over him and then yelled at him, and then made him get back into bed for another nap. As punishment, she denied him the warm milk he usually drank right before.
“You'll get me fired, you will,” she growled at him as she pulled the covers up to his chin. “Now stay put!”
This time Atro didn't pretend. His eyelids grew heavy almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, but a secret smile stayed on his face. He knew what he was going to do.
He would have his own party, his own feast from scraps snuck from the dinner table. It would be him, and maybe some of the servant children he played with. He wouldn't invite his father, nor the nursemaid. He briefly thought about inviting the guard who had been kind to him, but then Martyn might find out. So no grown-ups allowed, then.
A secret party, and then, someday, when he was Councilor, he would make it an official party. A winter feast.
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Nice job.
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Thanks for reading!