sir rictor cassul, korporal. (templars) wrote in emillion, @ 2013-09-12 22:31:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !narrative, cyclone kapur, miles baines, ofelia zhou, rictor cassul |
I could stay here, become someone different. I could stay here, become someone better.
Who: Rictor Cassul, Cyclone Kapur, Ofelia Zhou, Miles Baines.
What: Snapshots of various childhoods.
Where: Kerwon, Ordalia, Valendia.
When: Years ago.
Rating: PG-13.
Status: Complete set of vignettes.
Rictor is always a mess when he comes in: tracking mud all over the stone floor, clothes rumpled and covered in dirt, nose running and sniffling nonstop from his allergies to the dogs. But the boy plays with them anyway, running alongside the hounds as they come bounding indoors, each of them trying their very hardest to outpace the other. Selene always tuts and clucks and wipes at his face with a pale white handkerchief, trying to clean up her son and make something respectable of him. He resists all these attempts, of course, and wriggles out of her grasp and goes tearing off as soon as possible. --- He trains in the quad with wooden swords and the quartermaster, a hollow thok thok thok ringing across the yard as they practice. The trainer leans on his halberd while the boy sprawls in the earth and hay, his chest heaving and trying to bring air to rattling lungs. Someday, it’ll be proper steel. --- Aspel practices as well, and when those same sounds echo throughout the yard, Rictor watches for only a few minutes before absenting himself. He disappears back into the keep, to endless stairwells and hallways and roaring fires, and his books of knights, magic, and delicate women in need of saving. --- Selene frowns as she stares down the long, long mahogany dining table. “Fold your napkin, Rictor, for goodness’ sake.” (Her language is polite and genteel, and never a curse passes her lips. There is more of her in her daughters than one might expect. Even Aspel.) --- The girl is four and her older brother is thirteen. Rictor lifts the tablecloth and leans over, hunkering down on his haunches to peer into his sister’s nest. She sits primly, legs folded beneath her, skirt laid out neatly despite the fact that she’s on the stone floor, that she’s underneath the dining table, that Eriks has sent Rictor here to fetch her back. “What’re you up to?” he asks casually, and Seloria invites him to the tea party. After a pause, he clambers inside and joins her, struggling to fit his growing limbs into this little alcove. He bangs his head against the table above them, and she tries not to laugh, and fails. --- He has always been afraid of ghost stories. Church isn’t a source of warmth and comfort, at least not yet – it’s a dark and foreboding place with shadows pooling in the corners, cold stone around them, wood splinters digging into his hands from the pews. Upkeep is difficult this far out into the wood. People whisper about how the area is haunted, about the skeletons buried beneath the church, about spirits of the Viera that used to live here and how the vengeful forest people will someday reclaim the Cassul land and make all the humes pay. When his cousin crows that he’s scared, Cassul is scared, Rictor punches him. Right in the jaw. --- They go hiking and camping, setting up tents and sleeping on hard cold ground (something he will be used to, fifteen years later). On the third night, his father drags him out into the field, deep into the forest, deeper, until they find the ravine that he’s looking for. And all at once, the ghost stories lurch and come true: a grasping dying zombie lies sprawled at the edge, half of it bisected but still crawling forward, slowly, one decaying earth-covered hand yanking it forward inch after pained inch. Lord Eriks Cassul stands behind the boy, a heavy hand clasped on his shoulder, and he shoves his only son forward. Rictor stumbles once, but then catches himself. He stands straight and tall. His father hands him a sword – this is the first time he has held steel that wasn’t his mother’s cutlery, each weapon tailored for a purpose. He takes a deep breath (a mistake, he almost gags on the smell of rot), then holds said breath, and drives the sword into the beast’s skull. It shatters, splinters, breaks, and dies for the second time. The door jingles and opens, and Cyclone perks up at the sight of another entering customer. It looks like he’s only taking refuge from the heat, unfolding a handkerchief to wipe the thread of sweat from his brow, but that’s okay. He seems surprised to find a child behind the counter. “Is the store open?” he asks. The girl’s smile turns a little brittle at the edges, but she maintains the chipper customer service attitude that has been drilled into her. “Yep! If you need any help, just feel free to ask.” She’s perched on a stool behind the counter, teetering to keep her head visible above the till. The door jingles again, and this time, it’s several other children – the three of them enter in a rollicking flock, all sharp bony elbows and jostling each other in the doorway before they barrel their way to the desk. “Cy! When’s lunch?” “There isn’t any,” she says crossly, eyes darting back to the customer then to her cousins, trying desperately to communicate that this is a terrible time and there is a customer and will you please just leave? “Cy, we’re hungry. Where are your parents?” “Mum’s out for the afternoon and dad’s experimenting with something in the ba—” As if the gods have heard her and decided that her day isn’t bad enough already, an explosion suddenly rocks the store. Items rattle on their shelves, and everyone in the shop – Cyclone, Priyanka, Vasavi, Ananth, and customer – all swivel to stare at the back room in shock. Cy topples off her stool. The dust settles. She heaves a sigh and starts reluctantly ushering everyone out, including the customer with the gil (though he doesn’t look in any mood to shop anymore, all startled and suspicious). The girl slams the door shut behind them, then flips the sign to Closed. There’s another mess to clean up. There always is. She’s dressed up like a piece of confection, a delicate little accessory waiting by her mother’s elbow and smiling prettily when another patron says hello and leans in to coo over her – little Ofelia, just the spitting image of you, isn’t she? Hellena – cool and unflappable, her long black hair wound into an intricate braid – tucks her daughter’s hair behind her ear, smiles just as prettily back, and accepts the compliment on Fee’s behalf. Ofelia, for her part, remains obediently by the woman’s elbow, head tilted up, watching how she moves and talks. Her hands are unbelievably emotive: Hellena’s hands are always moving, gesturing, resting a palm against a man’s arm, gently touching the ornamentation of her jewellery. Years later, she will trace her mother’s footsteps, talk to the people the bard knew, attempting to fill in the blanks and construct an image of Hellena Zhou as-she-was, before she died. It’s like assembling scraps of fabric, chasing clouds skimming across the sky, until Ofelia returns to Lea and Phi despondent, a creature glued together messily with hairline cracks. It takes time for that lanky teenaged girl to grow up. She practices oratory, polishes that mask until it gleams, chases a ghost (or the memory of a ghost), braids her hair just as Hellena Zhou once did, and gambles too much. Ofelia loses it all once more, but if there is one thing she has learned over the years, it is that almost everything can be rebuilt. She dusts herself off and tries again. When Miles is dragged into the police station, he’s practically levitating, the Knight of the Peace yanking him off his feet and half-carrying half-hauling him down the corridor. The boy’s feet are windmilling, trying to gain some purchase and dig in and stop his progress. He squirms and tries to slip out from the adult’s grasp, but the officer always tightens his grip and lifts, and Miles finds himself airborne once more. He was so close. The pickpocketing was going nicely and he had a nice haul, and the stupid overweight merchant with all his jingling finery and velvet and tasseled clothing would never even have noticed. Except that the EKP was watching, and the EKP noticed. Into the cell, thrown until he bounces off the meagre cot. The door slams behind him, leaving only a metallic ringing in the air. Job now done, the officer trudges away from the cell and its small lone occupant. He’ll have to wait until the sun sets and Sister Mary comes to fetch him. He knows how this goes. The woman is leaving him waiting for his own good – a lesson paid and remembered, or so they think – but instead he simply uses the time to figure out how to do better next time, planning escape routes and sightlines. And Miles practices picking the lock with a sliver of metal that he keeps behind his ear, hidden behind a lock of flyaway black hair. He works through the night until he finally hears a telltale click, and he smiles. |