Who: Victor von Doom (narrative) When: 1984 Where: Latveria countryside What: A young Victor comes home to camp to find it wrecked. Rating: Definitely at least PG-13
WHAM! WHAM! WHAP!
"Victor. Victor! Stop!" Thinner hands grabbed at his forearm. "You'll break you hand! Stop!"
But he didn't. The rage was running through him too hotly. He couldn't even feel the burn in his knuckle as he slammed his fist furiously into the tree trunk. It wasn't a big tree, but solid enough with the thickness of a man's arm. There was a crack. It wasn't from his hand. That was when he stopped, bloody knuckles still pressed against the buckled trunk.
Valeria kept her hands on his arm. "Please stop." She was crying, though her voice was calm now. "Look what you've done to the tree."
He pulled his fist away, fingers loosing into a hand once more. He could see once more at least, the rage that had grasped him finally uncurling so he didn't feel like he was frustratingly on fire throughout all his blood. He pulled in breaths through his mouth, then through his teeth and finally forced it into control again before looking to the rest of the camp.
They had all stopped to stare at him. All of his 'family', in their vests, long skirts, colorful scarves, worn linens and shoes thrice repaired. The Romani troop looked all heart wrenched and fearful, some outright crying or cheeks still salt-stained. Valeria gave them a helpless little wave. They slowly started to go about picking up the broken pieces of their camp, though the quiet murmur of voices from before was gone now. He couldn't stand it. He quickly strode away.
Valeria didn't hesitate to follow him, her skirts sweeping and the bells in her long, black tresses tinkling softly. She was older than him by more than a year, but no one would have known by looking. Victor was only 13, but he'd shot up quickly at a younger age than the other boys, near many of the other men's height already. Though he was still all gangly torso and limb (none of them ate well enough to truly fill out), he carried himself far differently as well, and everyone knew he was far beyond any of their intelligence.
And tempers. No one dared try to argue or calm Victor when he was in a rage save for Valeria.
Too scared of him, save her. Too much his Mother's child, who had witched with demons since he was in her belly. Doom. The Damned. He knew what they all thought. Only Valeria didn't look at him that way. That was all that mattered. For now.
"I should have been here," he said, still seething.
"We had no way of knowing the soldiers would come, Victor."
"I should have." He should have predicted it somehow, caught some sign or signal, should have known.
Valeria sighed, quickening her steps enough to catch his arm. He breathed out, slowing for her to a stop, finally turned about so she could press her palms against the bottoms of his forearms. There was quiet this far from the camp, just trees and the late fall birds peeping. She stood out starkly against the grays and greenery in her red clothes. She was always fond of red. Once she was certain she had his full attention, she put her hand to his cheek. "You're a great many things, Victor, but you don't see the future. This is not your fault."
The anger seeped away, leaving under it the hollow despair. His voice was quiet. "Very well. I'll try to be less careless for the caravan, though."
She nodded, accepting that.
Victor took a hold of her hand, sitting down at the side of the trail. She followed him, quiet and letting him think for a moment. Finally he said, "We'll have to backtrack. Throw them off our trail. We know they don't leave us alone once they know where we're at. There's a full moon tonight. We'll see the way fine. The broken wagon will have to be repaired. I can make a skid for the missing wheel for now. It might be some time before we can get a new one. They shot the two mules. We'll have to bind two of the wagons together. The horses can handle it." He was quiet a moment. "I'll mix something for Lam's pain and set his nose." He squeezed her hand. "What would I have done if we weren't away to get the goats and they had caught you?"
"I'd rather not think of that," Valeria said. "I'd rather you not think of that either."
But he was. He knew he wouldn't be retreating if they ever laid a finger on Valeria. "I'm going to have to make more to defend ourselves, especially for the others to use when I'm away," he decided.
Valeria turned his hand in hers, looking at the blood drying on his knuckles. She pursed her lips, then started to tear at her sleeve. Victor snapped his brown eyes to the torn cloth, frowning.
"You could have used the bottom of your skirts. You have layers there."
"No, that's dirty, especially be-."
He had both of his hands on her cheeks. "You. Are. Not."
She didn't argue on that, just smiling slightly and shaking her head. Victor didn't follow the most traditional ideas. Most in the camp blamed his parents for that, his mother for how she was, and then his father because he had married into the troop. "Fine. Next time." Then she started wrapping his knuckles. "... How is your hand not broken?"
Victor glanced down at his hand, wriggling his fingers. He didn't have a clear answer himself aside from he had willed the tree to yield first. "I'll just be thankful for it for now. I will need my fingers in full working order."
He stood, helping her up as well. "We need to help so we can get back on the move." He started to walk, chin down. "We're not safe here."