Chapter One

The Chaser Of Words

Years Ago, But Not Many...

Don Jon set down the paper from which he had been reading. There they were, the fruits of a full days labor. His emotions spread out across the page, given form by the spidery poetry scrawled upon it. Yet, he could not help but feel the soliloquy was some how bland. No, not bland so much as incomplete; his love for Beatrice, sweet, modest, radiant Beatrice, his childhood friend and closest companion for so many years, was not so much as hinted at. Without a love that was such a huge part of his life, the soliloquy could never hope to be complete, but the young man didn't mind.

At eighteen years of age, the dark haired youth was well aware that secrecy was far more important than honesty. What if he had written about her, and the soliloquy had been discovered somehow? No doubt the reader would easily guess at the object of his affections and waste no time in spreading what he had read to everyone he met. Worse, what if his unsavory brother were to find it? The last thing Don Jon wanted was to offer his brother proof of what he already knew, proof that he would doubtlessly waste no time in showing to Beatrice. The coil that would doubtlessly ensue would be completely unbearable.

Don Jon sighed leaning back in his tall, leather-cushioned chair. He brushed a few dark locks of hair behind his ear, and let his eyes wander around the study in which he spent so much of his time.

The room was sparsely furnished, a fact that was barely noticeable, given that every surface was covered with all sorts of books. They filled the shelves that lined the walls, covered his desk, and even grew up from the rough stone floor in formations not unlike some sort of bizarrely fragmented stalactites, the light of the studies many candles casting an eerie glow on the dark leather binding of each tome. Regardless of size, width, or subject matter, each volume had been bound in the same dark, rough leather. At the request of their owner, each book had also been stamped neatly with a number in place of a title on its spine. At first, Don Jon had found it rather cumbersome to deal with a library of books that were free from titles, and title pages. He had spent many a night wading through tens upon tens of identical books in search of one particular volume, only to realize far to late that he was searching the wrong shelf entirely. These nights oft ended with a few exasperated oaths, and an occasional book or two being mercilessly pelted at the nearest stone wall. They did not however, tend to end with the young man making any measurable progress on his studies. To remedy this, Don Jon had painstakingly set to indexing each and piece of his collection, creating an immense volume that was currently resting within a particularly large pile of books on a nearby table. Most would not have bothered with such an elaborate organizational system, but Don Jon had always been the sort to guard his secrets carefully, lest the eyes of his thieving brother happened to linger longer than they should.

From a young age, Don Jon had shown exceptional skill in writing, and a great interest in anything having to do with language. As he grew older, he preferred to express himself through his writings, to make up for his inability to show people how he felt, he tried instead to tell them, and still no one listened. However, Don Jon's passion for writing had a small side effect, a skill that was known to no one, and practiced nowhere, save in the solitude of the young man's study. Many of the books that he kept there contained some type of insight or information on this most secret hobby; poetry. The numbers of these books were absent from the index, and the books themselves hid in plain sight, scattered about the room. There, they were safe from the eyes of Don Pedro, and he was safe from the chaos that would doubtlessly ensue if his brother were to reveal their contents.

With only a week left before he was scheduled to leave, Don Jon had no time for such things. He wanted his departure to be graceful and sweet, so that people would remember him as such, and not as some bumbling idiot who spent his time on something as useless as writing poetry. He was however, intending to tell Beatrice how he felt before he was shipped off. Though the thought of doing so was completely terrifying, he had decided that he must. After all, he had nothing left to lose. With each passing day, his secret became more and more difficult to hold on to, and he couldn't help but feel that it was slowly slipping away.

A rose, adorned with the prettiest of thorns. No...exquisite thorns? No, more like shards of crystal...

"Jon? Hey, Jon!"

...That cut all who venture near-

"Huh?" Don Jon blinked. He had been trying to think of the perfect metaphor to describe Beatrice, but had apparently gotten a little lost in that train of thought. "What is it, brother?" he asked dazedly.

"I was asking if anything was wrong, John. You seem to be acting...odd lately" Don Pedro said, rubbing thoughtfully at his short, dark beard.

Though only two years older than his brother, Don Pedro was tall and muscular, with big blue eyes that constantly twinkled with false kindness. While his sibling was pale of skin, with dark hair that constantly fell into his face, Don Pedro had skin as smooth and dark as chocolate, and jet black hair that grew in a cloud of short, tight curls about his face.

"No, brother. Nothing is wrong" Don Jon reached up to brush a lock of dark hair away from his big, auburn eyes.

The older sibling smiled his big brilliant smile, but as always, it was joyless. It was as if Pedro was simply baring his teeth, like a wolf preparing to strike. "You don't need to be so worried about joining the war, Jon, at least not for another few days." his blue eyes gleamed, darkly "they say, that a strong man has no cause for worry"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Only that you should enjoy this freedom while you can, who knows when you will next have such a luxury"

The younger man made a small contemplative noise. "I'll keep that in mind". Rising from the bench on which he had been settled, he made his way toward the heavy wooden door at the opposite end of the room, the one that led out into the courtyard.

Ever since the two had been children Don Pedro had been aggressive, and prone to teasing his scrawny sibling, causing Don Jon to harbor a sort of resentment towards his brother. Despite this, Don Pedro was almost universally more well liked. Ever since the father of the two boys had named Pedro as his heir, the younger boy had been known only as the illegitimate son of the family, and as such had been overlooked and scorned, even by his own parents. As the boys grew older, the problem only worsened. People were scarcely willing to look past the charming Don Pedro, with his mocha skin and piercing ice blue eyes. They were unwilling to see past the boy that they were so proud of, that they were always fawning over, unwilling to behold the young Don Jon, sulking in the back of the room, the boy hiding his sadness with a practiced ease. It had been ten years since Don Jon had last allowed tears to fall from his eyes instead of welling up invisibly behind them, on that day he had finally been made aware of his families bias, beyond any shadow of a doubt.

"And where exactly are You going?" His brothers sharp voice served to snap the youth out of his revelry, but Don Jon felt no need to reply.

"Oh, I see, your going to see Her" Pedro smirked, the malicious condescension of his words growing all to obvious as he continued "Now, now, don't go falling in love so soon before your departure, it would be a shame if the romance were to be...cut short, young Jon. Ha ha ha" not unlike his smile, his laugh was joyless.

In place of a reply, the younger man only slammed the door behind him.

Almost immediately, the brightness of the day seemed to fade, replaced by remembered half-light, he sun shining through clouds that had long since dissipated. His minds eye was filled with the image of a relentless storm, the remnants of which had evaporated nearly ten years ago.

Don Jon could feel the ground beneath his feet, his small shoes sliding in the mud as he ran. Trees towered over him, seeming to shake with each clap of thunder that resounded deafeningly through the stormy sky, spurring the young boy ever onward, toward the elusive safety of the house. After what seemed like an eternity the boy found himself at the door, tripping and sliding in a vain effort to keep himself from slamming into the rough wooden surface. For a moment, the boy simply waited, expecting the door to open, and the safety that lay within to reach out and envelope him, protecting him from the endless onslaught of thunder. There was a flash, and then a booming clap of thunder that jolted him into action. With all of his strength the young boy pounded at the door, and to his surprise, It swung inward, revealing a large woman he did not recognize. She glowered at him as he tried to pass, stepping forward to block the doorway completely.

"Who are you?" the womans voice was little more than a menacing growl, but the boy was not deterred.

"what are you doing? Let me in! It is me, Jon, son of the master of this house!"

Before the woman could respond, there was a third voice from behind her. "Stand aside, Gretchen, let me see who it is"

The woman obliged. From behind her stepped a slight young boy, dark of skin and hair. Upon seeing the boy at the door, the newcomers face contorted with an evil smirk. "Well, if it isn't young Jon"

"Brother! Something is wrong with this servant, she wont let me in"

Don Pedro ignored him, turning instead to the portly servant who now wore quite a bewildered look upon her face. "Close the door Gretchen, such muddy children have no place here"

"Brother, don't!"

"Gretchen" the dark boys tone turned dangerously icy "Obey me, follow your orders"

As the woman grudgingly did so, Don Pedro turned to his brother one last time "You have no business here, young Jon" he said flatly. With that, the door was shut with a bang rivaling the clap of thunder that came a moment later. With all of his strength, the boy pounded at the door desperately, when that failed he resorted to kicking it, time and time again he threw himself against the door but still it refused to budge. Another resounding thunder clap had the young boy crumpled at the same door's base a moment later. His tears lost in the rain that ran down his face as he huddled close to the house, his only protection from the relentless thunder.

As the years went by, Don Jon learned to harden his heart to cruelty. He did his best to ignore the fact that he was constantly ignored. When that failed, he took to telling people how he felt. Unfortunately, people's responses were less than he had hoped for. If he spoke to an acquaintance, someone that hardly knew the family, they would usually stare at him blankly, temporarily stunned into speechlessness by his articulate monologue. If he spoke to someone the family knew a little better, they would usually ignore him, immediately turning to someone else and starting a new conversation. This, of course, made the problem even worse. There was only one person that seemed to be willing to listen to him, to talk to him, and to actually care that he existed. Her name was Beatrice, and he was going to see her now.

In fact, he was so preoccupied with the thought of seeing Beatrice again as he left his cruel brother behind, that it didn't occur to him to glance backwards as the heavy door was shutting, as it had so many years ago, or even to pause for a moment as he left the house. Had he, in fact, glanced back at his brother through the closing door, he would have seen his face contorted with an expression of such malice that the depths of his pretty blue eyes seemed to dance with a dark fire, and that the room itself suddenly seemed to grow several shades darker, and colder. Indeed, Don Jon would have witnessed such things if he had lingered just a moment longer in the doorway, or even just outside, where he might have scened the darkness emanating from within the room, but he did not. In that fateful moment, the young man simply departed, leaving nothing but the echo of a slammed door in his wake. The dark haired youth strolled out across the sunny courtyard, completely unaware that somewhere behind him, just within the thick stone walls of his home, his brother was planning for mischief yet unmade, and laughing at things yet to come