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A/N: Not really sure what this is exactly. A character analysis, perhaps. It was rather difficult, considering that Maven is a complex character to write. I hope I did him justice. There are also several liberties I took with Maven's time as a soldier, including Thomas. There really isn't much in canon regarding his experience, so I had to fill out various areas. This is my first time tackling such a thing, so consecutive criticism would be definitely appreciated. If this does provoke some interest, I might prolong it. But otherwise, it will likely remain as an one shot. For enjoyment purposes, I would recommend listening to "Sleeping at Last" by Neptune while reading this. It was a definite motivator while I was coming up with ideas. I haven't proofread this at the time. So if you come across any huge errors, you can let me know. Without further ado, I present you my first fan fiction.
Within the waning light of the day, footsteps echoed within the throne room in succession. A small sound of satisfaction emanated from the newly throned king, who now favored to position himself within the throne. Reclining back, he observed the dark room, the features only illuminated by the ebbing moon light. In all of his wildest dreams, he never had imagined he would claim the crown. The possibility of it had always remained in the background of his mind, a constant reminder of what could never be his. A frown marred his facial features at the mere thought, his pale skin blossoming silver in the wake of his memories. The life he maintained would become forgotten in time. He willed himself to forget the deep shame of being the shadow, for coveting the title, for being discarded and looked down upon.
The thought of it left an unsavory taste on his tongue. His past life was a constant pattern of being second at any endeavour, only doing adequate compared to his beloved brother. No matter his efforts, his flame only shined so bright compared to Cal. The females at court would surround Cal constantly, batting their eyelashes in favor of altogether ignoring him. Cal would be praised for his prowess in battle stratagem and his sword wielding. Cal would venture into wild expeditions with his father, invited into attending politic discussions to accompany his father. He would be the one learning how to helm the kingdom and the complexity of maintaining power.
He would be given privileges of leaving the palace, assimilating within the common citizenry while Maven was tasked with learning court etiquette tirelessly and what utensils to use. Cal would give out hushed lectures on his stance, thinking himself better. Cal would be the son the king would boast about, clapping his broad shoulders in pride. It was enough to suffocate him to a chain of solitude. Yet he refused to relinquish his objective. He still possessed the desire to inherit the crown, despite the oncoming reality of his future and what was expected of him. He hanged on to a glimmer of a wish, on the invisible thread of his purpose. The attendees at balls would sneer at his apparent inadequacy at his back, lamenting the difference between his lithe frame against Cal's sturdy exterior.
They did not care much of the chances of being overheard, who would deny their claims? Who would choose Maven Calore of all over Cal? Why would anyone chose the shadow over the flame? The name of his brother still lay bitterly between his tongue, hunting him now still. He warded such thoughts with the congratulatory feeling that lay welcomed in the peak of his mind, a sick enjoyment derived from stealing everything that Cal wanted. Everything but the lightning girl. She would be dealt with swiftly, his mother assured him. His mother was proud of him, a rare occasion altogether indeed. He could count such instances on one hand if he wished to do so. They were sparse in numbers, only assigned when his mother deemed it truly deserving. One instance occurred when he was very little, eight and yet a stranger to the court and what would be expected of him in the future. He was not aware that he would be doomed a life in the shadow of Cal, doomed to smile and exchange pleasantries and not reap any of the benefits of inheriting the title.
Rudimentary training had already started as a prince at age eight, with a private mentor who supported keen eyes and an owlish face. Maven was never fond of him, he always believed that he was being constantly watched for failure. Such a belief effected his training negatively, leaving him with sweaty grip on the sword. He would squirm under the watchful gaze of the instructor, his heart doing wild palpitations. Cal was a born natural, dancing his way through and cheekily grinning at his little accomplishments. On one such training day, fresh snow had begun to appear, and with it followed surplus practice.
The training dummies were now swapped with live targets. Cal only smiled crookedly at this news, eager to display his skills to his instructor. Maven nervously gazed down at his opponent for the day, his brother. Cal strode forward, thrusting his sword and pushing the blunt edge with ease. Maven dodged barely in time, shakily maintaining his poor stance on the ground. Cal followed in his wake, brandishing his sword as they moved in circles, guarding their places. Both gazed at each other, attempting to observe an opening, a weakness. The instructor closely surveyed the battle, his grey eyes drilling into Maven's skull. Maven struck in a flurry, anxiety ridden and desperate to please his instructor.
Cal landed with a loud clang, the sword he wielded forgotten at his side. He groaned sheepishly, a sign of defeat. Overcome with astonishment and pride, Maven took several strides, basking with confidence. Yet, the pleasant feeling was substituted for an acid feeling that corrupted his thoughts. Anger coursed through his veins, reminding him of Cal's confident grin. He thought he would win. He believed he would be the victor. He gripped his sword, approaching Cal's laying form. Reaching his destination, he dragged the sword at Cal's jugular, jabbing at the nape. It resulted in the steady drip of iridescent silver liquid. Cal blinked nervously, unsure on what he did to gain such an injury. The metallic tang of blood suffused throughout the training ground, reminding Maven of what he had just done. Cal supported a grimace, his blood staining his attire.
The mentor frowned deeply, rushing to Cal's aid. As he was a skin healer, he was able to tend to the heir. Maven watched anxiously, nervous that he would face the wrath of the king. The mentor finished, signaling that further practice for the day was canceled. Later during the day, his mother requested his presence. Instead of a disapproving stare, he was met with a rare genuine smile, her eyes glinting. "It appears my son has finally learned how to deal with his adversaries.. You have learned your lesson well." She smoothed his hair, tracing the lines of the imaginary crown he wore. He was confused. How could Cal be counted as an enemy by any means? The memory dissolved just as young Maven shook his head to talk weakly, perhaps to justify his reasoning to his mother. Maven didn't have many other affectionate mothers to compare her by. Most ladies of the high houses who had produced a child were power hungry, eager to offer their daughters to gain a title. They listened, waiting for the perfect moment to strike and make an impression. They gripped invisible weapons, ready to show their traitorous loyalties at the opportunity. The only thing that could be trusted was house alliances, and those were still susceptible to be broken.
Even now they sought out after him, attempting to amend for their past ridiculing, complimenting him in his policies, flashing smiles full of deceit and manipulation. Maven Calore was not a man to be manipulated. No compliment, gesture, or coy smile would manage to crack into his tightly woven map of power. They resembled sharks, ever so observant for the first sign of a blood trail. He would not give them any weaknesses, they were fools to think of him as weak, as easily moved. He trailed his finger within the ornate throne, tight lipped and sustaining a stiff shoulder.
His thoughts trailed off, wandering somewhere far away. He was unusually paranoid these days, aware of his tenuous grip on power. He made a hasty mental note to deal with the whispers of House Merandus, he didn't trust any of them to refrain from controlling his thoughts. He had enough of that with his mother. He wanted to be in control of his actions, secure in his thoughts. He doubted there was anything for a whisperer to discover. He was the result of calculated machinations, ways of achieving aspirations his mother possessed.
In the silent night, Maven Calore could acknowledge what he was not, what he pretended to be : completely whole. He was not a person, not a whole being, but a mere pawn in the chess game. His life was comprised of lies, of thinly veiled intentions and promises. His life entailed hidden agendas of a scheming queen and court. Cal was born to be a king. Yet, Maven was raised to be the one in power. His upbringing separating any other topic he might come to care about. Family, education, companionship, they all did not matter in the wake of achieving his objective. Each moment he spent was to strive for the right to wear the crown.
And now, it lay nestled on his obsidian hair. He closed his eyes, breathing in the strangely stifling air. Adrift in mere fantasies and wishes, he shaked his head, attempting to quell the clawing guilt that surrounded him. After a sharp intake of breath, his eyes settle on the stars. Unlike the luminous lighting in Choke at night, these don't supply much other than the meager amount. Disappointed, he reclines further in the throne. Despite the harsh environment and the suffocating air that surrounded Choke and made it difficult to acclimate, it still was preferred to the stiff mood that drenched and imbued the palace. In Choke, he had respite from the ever judgemental onlookers and their next petty agendas. In Choke, he was spared from their stiff acknowledgements.
The soldiers did not recognize him initially due to his unkempt appearance after an abrupt battle, they didn't have much curiosity for his identity after suffering a major defeat. Yet, such a miracle did not last. His second day in the battlefield, he was addressed with his proper title and recognized as a member of the royal family. The red soldiers stared at him in horror, rushing to apologize for addressing him incorrectly. Their gazes only held fear and grudging resentment. Their back always appeared more feeble when standing next to him, as if settling for a strange bow. Yet...Thomas, a mere heavy accented little boy from Harboy Bay managed to uplift his mood. Thomas treated him just as a different soldier, just as a different Red citizen, and that was all Maven Calore could ask for. Their companionship and solemn understanding evolved into a budding friendship fourteen year old Maven had never been familiar with. At least in genuine terms.
Late at night, Thomas would attempt to count the innumerable stars in vain, his laughter echoing off the makeshift tents and into the wilderness. Despite the conditions, Thomas somehow still managed to keep a brave front, still radiated hope. The memory disintegrated at edges, only the unbidden image of Thomas remaining in it's wake. Thomas, however, is not the bright soldier anymore from his memories. Thomas is dead, his eyes closed. His body is charred, damaged beyond any repair. The remaining image vanishes as red blood spills across his vision, flames licking the edges, blocking anything worth of note. Maven stands up hastily, severe tremors making their way toward his arm on their own accord.
He stifles a delirious scream that lodges in his throat, making it's home. His eyes flutter, now the image of Thomas morphing into a more feminine face. Mare Barrow replaces him, and she calls for Maven, frightened for her life. Her voice echoes around in his mind, imploring of him to help her. He can still envision her face, struggling to contain the pain of being betrayed by the Maven she had come to love. That Maven does not exist. That prince had been specifically tailored for Mare. Maybe he could have been that blushing, stuttering boy if not for the involvement of his mother and his deep resentment. If envy had not taken root in his mind, he could have still possessed her trust.
The words of "I chose no one" rings with finality. Mare still lingers within the deep recesses of his mind. No amount of intervention from his mother has proven to be useful. He grits his teeth, shakily attempting to compose himself, to protect himself with his shield, with his walls, with a cold facade of non interest. He despises her, despises her little existence, despises the way her smiles and her broken trust haunts him continually. He loathes her for giving him hope. Hope that someone cared for him regardless of the pretty little titles and formalities. Hope that someone cared for him more than Cal.
Yet, he was a blind to think so. He shifts through his memories with an intoxicating cocktail of anger and loathing. Her alliances were frighteningly clear. Her priorities unmistakable as she danced with Cal under the bright moonlight, sharing something that Maven could never identify. With deep rancor he concedes that she had never gazed at him in such a way.
He shakes his head, attempting to clear his mind. Instead of a scorching fire to slither into his blood stream, only cold remains. Hollowness settles deep within his bones, abnormally and disturbingly calm. The sensation spreads, similar to a serpent coiling around its victim, toying with the victim, poisoning each thought, and strangling the life out. He breathes slowly, rising to his feet. One might mistake the calm demeanor displayed as docile, but it is anything but. He vows for her to be the last one. The last one to ever commit the mistake of chosing Cal over him. She will deeply regret her decision. He'll make sure she will.