John Egbert , a traveling warrior with a dark past and mysterious ...windy powers. Karkat Vantas, leader of a failed elite troll demon squad John saves the life of the small, angry demon and feelings HAPPEN. But soon John's past catches his scent and they're both on the run
The heavy scent of burning buildings suffocated the air in the small room, the thick black smoke filling every tiny crevice it could fit into, mixed with the coppery zing of blood and the bitter mull of fear. Screams of pain and terror poisoned the once peaceful village silence. John's mother whispered hysterical comforts through the crack in the closet door as she cried, holding the closet's door as closed as it could become so she could look at her four year old son.
Said son was pressing himself against the door, wide blue eyes full of confusion and pure terror. His mother's tears splattered onto his pale face, wetting his glasses. He didn't really care, he couldn't see or breathe because of the murderous smoke. His mother's breath's slowly became more and more labored as time trickled on, her warm tears streaking from her beautiful, kind voice.
The sound of soldiers heavy foot steps; the rattle of armor and the clink of deadly sharp swords, suddenly reached the door of the burning house. Burning like the rest of the simple farmers village, a village with no means of protecting itself from a sudden onslaught of British soldiers. His mother, her soft, shaking hands grasping his small ones for the briefest of moments, chest picked up pace as her breathing quickened in cold fear.
"..stay here my son! Do not move, no matter what you hear. Please, for mummy. When the bad men are gone run as far as you can... Mummy loves you, she loves you so much.." she whispered as she pulled away from him, closing the door with a heartfelt sob. John let out a wordless cry, the fear enveloping him as his mother's face disappeared.
The sounds of wood splintering and giving way under neath the a warrior of war's foot, his mothers screams, pleads for mercy, the sound of her cries cut short, the sound of her blood raining down on the door. John cried and shook uncontrollably, not wanting to understand what was going on. His infant mind screamed for ignorance as he heard the soldier's turning over the furniture, and the ceiling giving way. The men's shouts fed his terror as much as their grim and insane laughter.
How long has t been since he was in the broom cupboard? How long since the smell of smoke had started tearing at his lungs? When did the fear start? When will the tears stop? When did the voices of the murders of the innocent fade from the wrecked village? John didn't know. He just wanted to be safe in his mother's arms again. His mind numb with fear; stupid with terror, he pulled his shaking body up from the burning ground of the closet, pushed the door open and stepped into the hot night air.
Sparks of a dying inferno leaped from the soil, the skeleton's of houses he had grown up being surrounded in stood erect in this nightmare. The whole village was dead. The people, the houses , the cattle, the spring time crops, the season of rain markets...dead. Gone. All was left was a rotting carcass of a former village of beautiful simplicity.
In the distance John heard the roar of a dragon, heard its leathery wings laboring against the wind as it flew away from its most recent sight of devastation with the British soldiers.
John dragged his shaking body across what used to be his house towards the slumped body of what used to be his loving mother. Her skirts were burnt and dripping with the blood of herself and countless others. Her crystal coloured eyes stared blankly, misted by the touch of death. He pulled his mother's cold, stiff arms over his small body, burying his face in her stone cold bosom. His tears whetted into her blood soaked blouse,his cries for her to wake up lost into her dead corpse.
John awoke with a start, his breath heavy labored as he pulled himself from the nighma- from the memory. His makeshift tent had crumpled around his adult body, soaked in his cold sweat. His horse snorted and neighed softly, tossing back his handsome head spiritedly. John found his eyes drawn to the dying embers of his dinner fire even though it was useless without his glasses. Some where in the distance a wolf howled mournfully, echoing the tears that had been streaking down John's face since the nightmare had started, giving the impression the very blues of his bright eyes were leaking down his face during the torture of reliving his past as he closed his eyes and rested for the new day.
For a second he wrestled with the tent's thin cloth that had twisted itself around his traveling pants and boot clad feet. The nights were cold and he needed a convenient way to keep warm so he slept, if that's what it could be called, in his worn out travelers clothing save for his cloak which was draped over his blue roan mount to better the horse in his sleep. He took a second to rest his hand over his wildly beating heart, telling himself that it was the past, a meer phantom. It could not hurt him, he assured himself childishly. It was a figment of fear, nothing more. A fantasy of horror, there was no need to dwell on it.
So instead of wallowing in self pity and fear John pushed his rectangular glasses onto his face and set about boiling some water for his breakfast. As he fed the dying fire with sticks and twigs he had found strewn across the dry, cracked ground, his eyes misted as he let his mind go blank. Mindlessly going about his daily routine always helped to calm his frenzied mind, his scattered thought coming together slowly as he woke up fully ; matching the pace of the bloody red sunset as the sun rose to greet as new day over the east bound mountains, pulling his shadow into sharper focus.
His horse, a spirited stallion by the name of Ira, snorted and shook his head restlessly. John couldn't help but smile, the blue shimmer of the horse's beautiful coat reminding him of his mother's eyes.
"What's wrong, boy? Something the matter?"John said, the fire roaring away in its contained space. He stood up, approaching the spooked beast with caution. Ira had a lot of trust in John, letting him place a pale hand on his long face.
"Shoosh, Ira," John couldn't help but smile again, the corny name had already been given to the horse when he had bought him and renaming him would only confuse the poor beast," shoosh, nothing's gonna hurt you!" John almost laughed, the hollow sound echoing bitterly through out the empty desert like terrain. John's sharp ears picked up the sound of hoofs beating the hard ground. That's what was spooking the horse. Ira was something of a loner horse and got violent when places in a paddock near another beast, horse, cow and even some men. John didn't bother asking the breeder why, he just accept the cheap horse and went on his melancholy way.
But that isn't important now. What's important is the horse, or rather who it was carrying. British soldiers swarmed the country of America where John had grown up. The British Monarchy was responsible for the annihilation of the small farming village where John had been born. John's somewhat goofy overbite chewed his bottom lip as he thought about what to do. There was no cover in the desert like plain, he knew that when he set up camp for the night. Soldiers rarely came out this far into the nomad's land but it never hurt to be too careful. On the plus side, John could already see, already feel the vibrations through the infertile ground, the said horse approaching.
Might as well start by extinguishing this bloody fire. He thought, eyeing the thin tendril's of smoke it spat into the chilled dawn air. A small flash of that night tore across his vision, stealing his breath and setting the pace of his heartbeat up at least another thirty beats per minute. He inhaled rather forcefully and threw the last of his water across the fire, swearing under his breath. He ducked his raven haired head under his horse, drawing the long sword he kept under his belly, his eyes brimming with blue fire as he anticipated a fight. His rather lithe frame didn't really look capable of lifting the heavy metal of his long sword, but he was considerably stronger and wiser than he looked. He usually used his dorky appearance and innocent face to his advantage. But most of the time it only got him trouble.
The horse was approaching fast. By the speed of the beast, a full on gallop, the man or woman riding was either running from something or he/she had some very urgent message of royal importance. When John was within seeing distance, he heard no call of hello or warning of a fight. On the upside he also heard no sword being drawn, the clang of soldier's armor or even the twang of a bow.
On fact, the person riding the horse appeared to be unconscious. Still John did not lower his weapon. Trickery was not uncommon in these times of hardship and cruel monarchy. As the horse drew within three feet of John himself the sound of a muffled groan reached his ears and the metallic zing of blood brushed his delicate looking nostrils, followed by what sounded vaguely like a long , drawn out 'fuuuuuuuck'.
So how I?
CAN ANY OF YOU GUEEEEESS WHO THE MYSTERIOUS MAN ON THE HORSE WAAAAS? /shot/
Anyways, reveiws are MUCH MUCH MUCH apreciated...uh...this is my first fanfiction..ever...so tel me how I was! Bitching accepted too!
Peace out readers! I hope to upload soon...
insomniaticLiterati