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rainbowfic2013-10-12 10:11 pm
kay_brooke) wrote in rainbowfic2013-10-12 10:11 pm
Dirt Brown #25, Octarine #17, Tango Pink #3
Name: kay_brooke
Story: The Eighth Saimar
Colors: Dirt Brown #25 (worm), Octarine #17 (I expect I've saved the day, right?), Tango Pink #3 (go-go)
Styles/Supplies: Canvas
Word Count: 1,241
Rating/Warnings: PG-13; mentions of physical abuse
Summary: Jarol's life is finally about to change.
Note: Constructive criticism is welcome, either through comments or PM.
Jarol sat by the side of the little pond, his eyes shut tight as he imagined he was standing on a ship, braving the waves and the wind to travel to new places, foreign places, places far away from here.
A stick cracked in the woods, a very non-nautical sound, and Jarol opened his eyes with a sigh. It was only the pond before him, brackish and shallow, its surface almost completely covered with brown, moldy leaves, the last droppings of autumn. The only wind was a chilly breeze, carrying with it the promise of snow and another winter stuck indoors, where Jarol's days would be taken up with trying to avoid his mother and the men she brought home.
There was a man in the house now, so even though Jarol was supposed to be watching the bread, he had escaped out to the little pond instead. He could just see the roof of the little wooden house through the nearly-bare limbs of the trees, and he figured that was close enough to count.
Another stick snapped, and Jarol whirled around as Evas, the stableman, came down the path toward him.
“They're lookin' for you at the house, boy,” he said.
Jarol didn't say anything. He liked Evas a little better than he liked his mother, but that wasn't saying much. Evas didn't yell, he glared. Better for Jarol's ears, but the boy was never sure what Evas was thinking, and that was a little scary.
But he would never let Evas know that. “Why?” he asked. “There's a man there. She doesn't want me.”
“Probably not,” Evas agreed. “But the man isn't there for her, turns out.”
Jarol took a small step back. “What does he want me for?”
“Get on up there,” said Evas, “before she comes after me herself.”
Back to the house was the last place Jarol wanted to go. He hesitated, wondering if running away and avoiding his mother for the rest of the day would be worth it for the beating he'd be sure to get. But Evas was there, glaring now, and Jarol didn't want to look scared in front of him. So he made himself go back up the path, toward the back entrance of the house.
He tried to be as quiet has possible as he entered, but his mother was waiting for him. Grabbing his ear, she yanked him further into the kitchen. “Look at that,” she said, pointing at the oven. “What does that look like to you?”
“Bread,” said Jarol. It looked nearly done. It was probably a good thing he had come back after all, or else he would have really gotten it for letting the bread burn.
His mother shook him a little, and he yelped against the pain. “You were just going to leave it to burn!”
“No,” he gasped. “No, I was just...getting more wood. For the oven.”
“It doesn't need more wood, you stupid child. I'm going to smack you good for being a lying layabout.”
“Let him go.”
The man who stood in the doorway of the kitchen wasn't like the other men his mother usually brought home. This man looked highborn, in a flowing blue robe and fashionably long hair tied back from his face. Leather boots, Jarol saw, highly polished and shining. He'd only ever seen highborns occasionally at the inn up the road where his mother worked. Never had any of them ventured to the house.
He wanted to tell the man there was no stopping his mother when she was angry, no matter what anyone said, but to his surprise his mother let him go with a sound of disgust and a little shove toward the highborn man. Jarol dug his heels in, unwilling to get any closer to him.
The man bent down. “It's quite all right, Jarol. That's your name, isn't it?”
Jarol nodded.
“I've traveled a long way to find you,” the man continued.
“Why?”
“You're very special.”
Jarol's mother snorted. “Must have come from his worthless father. None of that nonsense in mine.”
The man looked up at her sharply. “May I speak to the boy alone?”
“Do what you want.” Jarol's mother left with a withering look at her son.
“What do you mean I'm special?” asked Jarol. There was a feeling building inside, something he couldn't quite name, but he liked it. He had already known. He had always known there was something different about him. Something more than his mother.
“You do know of the deschi, of course?” asked the man.
Jarol wrinkled his nose and nodded. He was eight, not stupid.
“I am an ischikoth,” said the man. “One who can use the deschi. Do you understand?”
Jarol nodded.
“You are also an iscikoth, Jarol.”
Despite the feeling, despite that this man seemed to be the answer to every prayer he had ever made, Jarol took a step back, shaking his head. “No. You're lying.” Ischikothi, he understood, were all highborn. People like him just weren't like that. He wondered if this was some horrible joke his mother was playing on him for punishment. She had never done anything like this before, but sometimes she came up with new ways to torture him.
“I'm not lying,” said the man. “I promise you. The deschi hasn't filled you yet, but it will. I can sense those it will choose.”
Jarol bit his lip. “You can?”
“It's part of my own gift.” The man smiled and extended a hand. “My name is Afry. I am a dionos at the Academy in Spirathua. Do you know the Academy?”
Jarol nodded again, but more slowly. He had heard tales of the Academy, as fantastical as anything his own imagination had come up with. He hadn't, until now, been entirely sure it even existed.
“Good,” said Afry.
“What do you want with me?” asked Jarol.
“I want to take you away, if you want,” said Afry. “To the Academy, where you will learn to control the gifts you will soon receive. You'll have a proper education there, too, a room to live in and all the food you need.”
Afry wasn't halfway through his statement before Jarol had made up his mind. “Yes,” he said immediately. Yes, of course. Finally, a way to get away from here, away from his mother and her fists and the men and brought home and creepy glaring Evas.
“Now, I want you to be absolutely sure,” said Afry. “I know some children are reluctant to leave their homes--”
“I'm not,” said Jarol. “I want to. When do we go?”
Afry gave him a lopsided smile. “I had a feeling you wouldn't want to wait around. I'm staying the night at the inn. Can you at the entrance tomorrow at sunrise? It's early, but I'd like to return to Spirathua as soon as possible.”
Jarol nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, yes!” He would stay up all night if he must, to make sure he didn't miss sunrise. He didn't want Afry to leave without him. The inn was only a short walk down the road. He might even be able to sneak into the inn kitchens and spend the night there...
“Good, good,” said Afry, standing up. “I expect to see you there, Jarol.”
“I'll be there,” said Jarol. “I promise. I really promise I'll be there!”
Afry patted him on the head. “You'll go far, Jarol. I know you will.”
kay_brookeStory: The Eighth Saimar
Colors: Dirt Brown #25 (worm), Octarine #17 (I expect I've saved the day, right?), Tango Pink #3 (go-go)
Styles/Supplies: Canvas
Word Count: 1,241
Rating/Warnings: PG-13; mentions of physical abuse
Summary: Jarol's life is finally about to change.
Note: Constructive criticism is welcome, either through comments or PM.
Jarol sat by the side of the little pond, his eyes shut tight as he imagined he was standing on a ship, braving the waves and the wind to travel to new places, foreign places, places far away from here.
A stick cracked in the woods, a very non-nautical sound, and Jarol opened his eyes with a sigh. It was only the pond before him, brackish and shallow, its surface almost completely covered with brown, moldy leaves, the last droppings of autumn. The only wind was a chilly breeze, carrying with it the promise of snow and another winter stuck indoors, where Jarol's days would be taken up with trying to avoid his mother and the men she brought home.
There was a man in the house now, so even though Jarol was supposed to be watching the bread, he had escaped out to the little pond instead. He could just see the roof of the little wooden house through the nearly-bare limbs of the trees, and he figured that was close enough to count.
Another stick snapped, and Jarol whirled around as Evas, the stableman, came down the path toward him.
“They're lookin' for you at the house, boy,” he said.
Jarol didn't say anything. He liked Evas a little better than he liked his mother, but that wasn't saying much. Evas didn't yell, he glared. Better for Jarol's ears, but the boy was never sure what Evas was thinking, and that was a little scary.
But he would never let Evas know that. “Why?” he asked. “There's a man there. She doesn't want me.”
“Probably not,” Evas agreed. “But the man isn't there for her, turns out.”
Jarol took a small step back. “What does he want me for?”
“Get on up there,” said Evas, “before she comes after me herself.”
Back to the house was the last place Jarol wanted to go. He hesitated, wondering if running away and avoiding his mother for the rest of the day would be worth it for the beating he'd be sure to get. But Evas was there, glaring now, and Jarol didn't want to look scared in front of him. So he made himself go back up the path, toward the back entrance of the house.
He tried to be as quiet has possible as he entered, but his mother was waiting for him. Grabbing his ear, she yanked him further into the kitchen. “Look at that,” she said, pointing at the oven. “What does that look like to you?”
“Bread,” said Jarol. It looked nearly done. It was probably a good thing he had come back after all, or else he would have really gotten it for letting the bread burn.
His mother shook him a little, and he yelped against the pain. “You were just going to leave it to burn!”
“No,” he gasped. “No, I was just...getting more wood. For the oven.”
“It doesn't need more wood, you stupid child. I'm going to smack you good for being a lying layabout.”
“Let him go.”
The man who stood in the doorway of the kitchen wasn't like the other men his mother usually brought home. This man looked highborn, in a flowing blue robe and fashionably long hair tied back from his face. Leather boots, Jarol saw, highly polished and shining. He'd only ever seen highborns occasionally at the inn up the road where his mother worked. Never had any of them ventured to the house.
He wanted to tell the man there was no stopping his mother when she was angry, no matter what anyone said, but to his surprise his mother let him go with a sound of disgust and a little shove toward the highborn man. Jarol dug his heels in, unwilling to get any closer to him.
The man bent down. “It's quite all right, Jarol. That's your name, isn't it?”
Jarol nodded.
“I've traveled a long way to find you,” the man continued.
“Why?”
“You're very special.”
Jarol's mother snorted. “Must have come from his worthless father. None of that nonsense in mine.”
The man looked up at her sharply. “May I speak to the boy alone?”
“Do what you want.” Jarol's mother left with a withering look at her son.
“What do you mean I'm special?” asked Jarol. There was a feeling building inside, something he couldn't quite name, but he liked it. He had already known. He had always known there was something different about him. Something more than his mother.
“You do know of the deschi, of course?” asked the man.
Jarol wrinkled his nose and nodded. He was eight, not stupid.
“I am an ischikoth,” said the man. “One who can use the deschi. Do you understand?”
Jarol nodded.
“You are also an iscikoth, Jarol.”
Despite the feeling, despite that this man seemed to be the answer to every prayer he had ever made, Jarol took a step back, shaking his head. “No. You're lying.” Ischikothi, he understood, were all highborn. People like him just weren't like that. He wondered if this was some horrible joke his mother was playing on him for punishment. She had never done anything like this before, but sometimes she came up with new ways to torture him.
“I'm not lying,” said the man. “I promise you. The deschi hasn't filled you yet, but it will. I can sense those it will choose.”
Jarol bit his lip. “You can?”
“It's part of my own gift.” The man smiled and extended a hand. “My name is Afry. I am a dionos at the Academy in Spirathua. Do you know the Academy?”
Jarol nodded again, but more slowly. He had heard tales of the Academy, as fantastical as anything his own imagination had come up with. He hadn't, until now, been entirely sure it even existed.
“Good,” said Afry.
“What do you want with me?” asked Jarol.
“I want to take you away, if you want,” said Afry. “To the Academy, where you will learn to control the gifts you will soon receive. You'll have a proper education there, too, a room to live in and all the food you need.”
Afry wasn't halfway through his statement before Jarol had made up his mind. “Yes,” he said immediately. Yes, of course. Finally, a way to get away from here, away from his mother and her fists and the men and brought home and creepy glaring Evas.
“Now, I want you to be absolutely sure,” said Afry. “I know some children are reluctant to leave their homes--”
“I'm not,” said Jarol. “I want to. When do we go?”
Afry gave him a lopsided smile. “I had a feeling you wouldn't want to wait around. I'm staying the night at the inn. Can you at the entrance tomorrow at sunrise? It's early, but I'd like to return to Spirathua as soon as possible.”
Jarol nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, yes!” He would stay up all night if he must, to make sure he didn't miss sunrise. He didn't want Afry to leave without him. The inn was only a short walk down the road. He might even be able to sneak into the inn kitchens and spend the night there...
“Good, good,” said Afry, standing up. “I expect to see you there, Jarol.”
“I'll be there,” said Jarol. “I promise. I really promise I'll be there!”
Afry patted him on the head. “You'll go far, Jarol. I know you will.”
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