Hello, all.
Here's my new fic, Songbird! I love AUs, something about them just makes me… ERMAHGAHD. Asdfghjkl.
(Probably because I can make the characters slightly more OOC in AUs… Haha. I'm just lazy. -_-)
Special thanks to piku, who gave me the idea for this fic! Om nommy cookies for you! (::) (::) (::)
To those of you who have read my other fic, Stealing a Princess, the next chapter will probably come out sometime during this week, or maybe next week…
Experimenting with a new writing style, so bear with me!
Disclaimer: I don't own RotG… However, I do own my wonderful laptop, on which I am typing this at the moment!
I have always loved listening to people sing. As I tromp through the thick bushes, brushing aside golden, brown, and orange leaves as they float slowly down to rest on my shoulders, I hear the first notes of one of my mother's favorite songs. One I haven't heard in a long time.
She used to sing it to me when I was just a little boy. I remember how she used to hold Lily and me close on those stormy nights, waiting for my father to come home. As a forester, my father always set out early in the morning and came back late in the night. He always brought some sort of interesting pebble, leaf, or feather.
Although I hardly ever saw him, I knew he loved me. It showed in the way he lifted me up on his shoulders, the first thing he did whenever he came home. It showed in the way he held my hands carefully, guiding them, when teaching me to carve a knife. Whenever he found a good patch of trees, he stayed out for days at a time, earning money for our family.
I thought he would be in my life for a long time. He always came home, even when he lost his axe in a river and had to swim after it, as it was his only one. I remember him being gone for almost a week when he had to find a new home fr us out of the kingdom. He once told me, "Jack. I'll come back, always. You keep Lily and your mom safe for me, okay? You're the man of the house when I'm away."
I've always obeyed that rule, doing my best to protect my mother and my sister for my father. Even when the day came and he didn't come back.
Even though he promised me he would.
That was a few years ago, when I was around 12. I don't remember my exact age anymore. I've stopped doing that since the day my mother died, months after my father never came home.
Now it's just me and Lily. Lily and I. I work for the king now, supplying him with wood, working from sunup to sundown. I do my best to help Lily as much as possible, and she goes to school because of my efforts. The king took us in after my mother died, and here I am a year later.
It was a stormy day, days after I had buried my mother. Died missing her other half was what she requested carved onto her gravestone. Except we had no money. So we couldn't afford a gravestone. Instead, I carved the words onto a piece of wood. Father would have approved.
I pulled Lily along with me, blindly trudging through the mud. We were soaked, shivering, and cold. I needed to get Lily to a warm place, except I had no idea how. So we walked, trying our best to get away from the memories in our small, lifeless, cottage.
She had refused to stay there after Mother died. Flat-out refused. Lily, who never asked for anything, who always gritted her teeth and bore with it, asked me to take her somewhere else. That was the first time she ever asked me for anything.
How could I have refused her?
So we continued picking our way through the mud, which stuck to our bare feet and clung to our ragged clothes, making us even dirtier. I hated seeing Lily, dirty and wet, not safely tucked away beside a warm fire as she should be in the howling wind and rain.
I don't remember how long we walked away from that house, with no sense of where we were going, no plan. I only know that by the time we were at the castle's doorstep, I was dripping wet and delirious. Lily tells me I had a fever from getting soaked, and shouldn't have given her my cloak. The king himself had opened the door for us, and had taken us in and restored me to full health.
King Nicholas. I owe him my life, and my sister's life. For that, I will forever be in his debt as his loyal servant.
The melodious voice breaks through my brief flashback. It sounds like a woman. Her voice is musical, full of life, and reminiscent of my mother's voice. As she sings the chorus, I listen carefully as she sings the line my mother liked the best.
"The wife of a poor man, I live on the streets. Washing clothes until my fingers are raw, yet I'm living a dream every day, right next to him…"
I find myself singing the next part, the part where my father would sing with my mother whenever she sang this song.
Settling on my favorite perch on my favorite tree, I place a hand on the trunk to steady myself and keep myself from falling.
Singing is one of the few things I can do well. Not the brightest and quite a klutz, I am always dropping things and tripping over tree limbs climbing into my home in the trees. I wear soft feathers braided into my brown hair, ones I've collected by picking them up from the ground.
When I'm singing, I feel as if I can do anything. To trill the high notes of some of the songs I hear from the wind, and to sing along to the low, rumbling tones of the trees around me gives me a feeling somewhat like flying.
I wish I could fly away from this place. See the world, just as my mother and father did when they were young, before they left this world.
They had taught me how to sing before they left. "Sing not to gain the attention of others, but to make others happier through music," was one of the many things my father told me when I was young. He had placed me on his knee and sung to the birds, getting them to carry his song throughout the mountains.
Every day, people wake up to the sound of my song being carried by the birds. The feeling of hearing the intermingling of the bird's songs is indescribable, and there is nothing I like better.
Letting my legs hang from the tree limb, I sing the notes of one of the songs I like most.
"The wife of a poor man, I live on the streets. Washing clothes until my fingers are raw, yet I live a dream every day, right next to him…"
I repeat the chorus several times, the sound of my voice bouncing off the stone walls of the mountains. I don't know why I choose to sing this song in particular today, but when I woke up this morning, I just had to sing it to get it out of my mind.
Even the birds were joining in, adding their small melodies to the song. I listen as they continue singing, even after I have stopped. The trees join in with their rumbling, making the song louder. It is at times like this that I really feel free, when I am listening to the mixing sounds of nature that I can relax and sing the best.
Then I hear something I've never heard before. I hear someone replying with the next verse.
"As a poor man, I live on the streets. Hauling stone from quarries to building sites, my back is bent permanently. Yet I'm living a dream every day, right next to her…"
His voice is deep, rich, and a wonderful sound to behold. I am instantly attracted to this new person, the first person who has ever sung back to me.
I sing right back, and our voices combine to make on of the most beautiful sounds I've ever heard. The birds and trees are silent as I crane my neck to see a head emerge from the trees.
The man I see is the first person I've seen in a few years. I never left the mountains after my parents left, and I have everything I need right here.
The first thing I notice about this man is the tears streaming from his crystal blue eyes. Eyes as blue as the clearest lake, eyes as blue as ice. Some people look ugly when they cry, their faces getting red and puffy, snot running from their noses. Not him. His face is not splotchy even with the copious amounts of tears running down his cheeks, and he reaches up to wipe them.
Then he lifts his head and meets my gaze.
He looks at me as if I am something strange, staring at me unabashedly. I find myself blushing under his intense gaze, and reach back to smooth down my wild brown curls.
I stare back down at him, looking at his tousled golden-brown hair. He is young, around my age, though his eyes betray a sense of maturity, which shows in his aura. The birds flock in the trees around him, and the bushes rustle, though there is no wind.
He brushes away a stray tear, extends his hand, and speaks in that deep, wonderful, voice of his.
"My name is Jack. What's yours?"
Eh, not my best, but this IS a new writing style for me, so whatever. Please review if you would like me to continue!
I need a thesaurus. I'm pretty sure I repeated quite a lot of words, and I'm too lazy to search for synonyms online…
Never mind that. Actually, I quite like writing in past tense, so I guess for my next story, I'll write it like Stealing a Princess. And although this may be a bit too much for me to take on at the moment, I would like to ask you guys. Would any of you guys like for me to write a oneshot? Submit any ideas in reviews, or PM me!
Veronica Roth, is like, my idol. I love her writing style, but I'm afraid I'll never be as good as her…
Again, please review!
~Chilly, who has had a relatively busy week, and STILL managed to type up a chapter! I'm so proud of myself :)