I See Fire
Chapter One
The flames circle hypnotically, separate briefly, then rejoin one another in their vicious dance. My ears are alert to the groaning wood and crying stone, numbing the string of curses my father lets out beside me. My cheeks feel the heat of the embers, reminding me that I am dangerously closer than I should be - but for all of my observations, for all of my active senses, I still do not move.
I stand completely still and I watch. Merely watch.
I feel like a moth stupefied by the light; there is something eerily beautiful about the way it glows brightly against the night sky, like a flag announcing a great army. And yet for all of the beauty and warmth in front of me, I find myself grieving. I know this because my mouth is pulled down into a tight frown, and there is this strange aching in my chest that I cannot place. And I still do not move, not even when I feel the stinging slap of my father's hand on the back of my head, or his words urging me to help him as he pours a bucket of water onto the burning building. It is for nothing. The building is completely engulfed.
Normally I am very obedient, for I do not like to rile father's temper. He can be incredibly frightening when he is cross much like he is now; still, I cannot find it in me to obey him. There is a small part of myself that screams from within, reminding me that he needs me now more than ever before. I feel my fingers twitch as if trying to anticipate the reasoning behind my delayed reaction, almost questioning my sanity. I clench them tightly into a fist. I silence them.
It is my turn now to do as I wish - even if it is for the briefest of moments - and I choose to simply watch. Watch and frown and do nothing else except wallow in that corner of self pity that I often find myself visiting. The same place to the side of my mind where I lay down the fragment memories of my mother, and wonder why I was never good enough for her; there where I remember that I cannot play with the other children because their parents forbid it, and where I cannot pretend that I am not hurt by the insults that they call me as I walk past them, because I am supposedly 'too young' to understand the meaning of the word 'bastard child'; it is the place in which I know that I have been forsaken all because of a name that I did not choose for myself.
Breech.
It is an incurable plague. One strong enough to stir the disgust within people's hearts, to judge me before I have an opportunity to open my mouth. That is why I choose to be quiet, as it saves me the effort of trying. My meekness irritates my father, I know, and often times I hear his repeating voice in my head as he lectures me about the importance of first impressions. How a businessman should give an air of confidence so that his customers respect him, and be strict enough so his workers fear him. I do not want to be feared though, I want to be loved. I want to be loved so badly that I am ashamed to admit that degree of need to myself; I know that most boys should not lay awake late at night imaging what it would be like to bask in other's approval, but I do. I do it far more often than I wish. It is a guilty pleasure I divulge in, but would never share aloud...especially with my father. Instead I entertain him and put on my best compliant face, and attend those boring page sessions even though I have little interest in becoming a knight. My father insists that becoming a knight is important (there is that word again) to the family line, but he must be blind; he cannot see that we have no family to speak of. No name to rightly uphold.
We are condemned no matter what.
Silently, in that place in my head, I curse him because his soul is stubborn. I observe him now as he incessantly attempts to douse the fire, growing angrier with each failed attempt. There is a rigidness in him that I cannot pass; every so often I wonder what I am doing wrong, because the other boys' father's seem to enjoy their company, and their boys are not that pleasant to be around; the other boys' father's take pride in their sons, but their sons tend to treat others cruelly. Yet that strange bond remains, and to me it feels foreign. I try to think of what my what it is that my father and I have, to find a word that will soothe the itch on my tongue, but nothing comforting rises to the occasion. We are almost like strangers - no - like men of contract; I am his knave and he is my thane. We seem to discuss nothing but trades, and prices, and possible new routes, and the inevitable outcome of my future and what it is costing him.
He can be so very blunt about life. I do not think he has ever entertained a child-like wonder in either of us; so cold and so calculating and he - he is the reason we stand here now, watching our home burn to ashes before our very eyes. Because he cannot control that serpent tongue of his that strikes whenever possible, or the loudness of his bark when he throws harsh commands at his sailors, or those claws of his that snatch what he wants when he wants it. He is the reason the others have shown us this blatant sign of hate, and if our name is an incurable plague then my father is the demon that spreads it.
Yet I persist on calling him father.
The title that always seems so out-of-place is also the one that I cling to...because...because...there is no easy answer. I try not to think too hard about it now; the smoke from the flames is making me dizzy enough. I sit down instead, for my legs feel as if I have two barrels laying on them and I cannot stand any longer. I only choose to watch because there is nothing I can do; my home was lost before I found it. And although outside I remain calm, there is an anger within me that I have chosen to boil, to let it rise into my very being until it drowns the prior feelings of grief and self-pity. For although my bloodline may have begun with betrayers, it is I that must face the sharp end of the sword for it; my father parades about with his wicked deeds, but it is I who must lose everything and clean the ashes. I now know the name for the sensation in my chest, and it is indignation. Indignation for every moment where I have had to pay for sins I did not commit, and face trial to every person who wanted to act as a judge. There is something like a humorless chuckle that escapes my throat, because I have now gained another realization - that my father may be right about something after all.
I do not need the approval of these morons, these lesser beings.
I am Gunther Breech, and if they cannot learn to love me, then I shall teach them to fear me.
A/N: Hello Everyone!
I'm very excited to finally write a story for Jane and The Dragon since I'm in love with this show now (especially Gunther~), and want to be an active part of this fandom. I've already read so many great ffs and I don't know if I'll be able to match them, but I certainly want to throw my hat in here. This particular little story is loosely based on I See Fire by Ed Sheeran, and takes place over the course of Gunther's life; it'll be short, I'm thinking five chapters at most. In this chapter, Gunther is about 10-12 years old, and he's watching his home burn down to the ground after some villagers set it aflame while he and Magnus were away (I'm sorry if this topic was vague while reading the story).
Please let me know if you liked it or if you found it to be horrible [:'D] constructive criticism is always welcome! Reviews in general are loved and are pretty much my only source of writing muse.
Til next time!
~TS2B