per volar sonata
born to soar
CHAPTER ONE
I'VE GOT A ROAD AND IT LEADS TO d e c a d e n c e
A dark figure stole across the land, a navy cloak wrapped around it and flowing behind it like its own shadow – which stretched long behind it as it ran. With a sliver of moon at its zenith above it, the shadows of tall pine trees stretched away from it in neat, orderly rows; a pine-needle-coated carpet leading to its throne. Or, in this case, someone else's.
Its breath billowed after it as it ran, disappearing after a few seconds like the fuse on a firecracker. The figure swerved abruptly to the left, pausing for a moment to catch its breath. Lithe fingers pulled the hood closer around the figure's covered face, visibly shaking in the frigid air. The moonlight made endless ditches in the cloak's creases and bends. It resumed running.
The person – assuming it was one – nearly missed the first marble wall, stumbling as it reached the landing and kept running, eyes peeled, now, so as to avoid doing so again. A few yards ahead came another, and the pattern continued. No footprints were made in the newly-added peat moss of the gardens it was treading through. The person had thought this out well.
It had been hard to tell before, but it was obvious now that this was the right place. Marble columns, white as the moon itself, peaked the last landing and righted a canopy that swung away from a tall, many-leveled building. The building had tall, looming windows in each of its floors; the person counted eight sets of windows. It had several balconies, with intricate-looking railings encasing them. It was not just a home; it was not just an estate: this was a place fit for a king – the King of Frigurd.
The figure pressed itself against the walls of the palace, lungs nearly bursting out of its rib cage. Approaching footsteps made the figure freeze, and whoever it was said something quietly and as a fully-armored guard passed by it, he didn't seem to notice the intruder.
Once the guard had passed, it peered around a corner and a brisk, freezing wind blew past him, blowing his hood away from his face to lie flat against his back. The moonlight illuminated the sneak's face; it was a man, it revealed, with fine, chiseled features, deep, blue eyes, and styled hair only few could have pulled off naturally. A subtle beard caressed his chin. He didn't bother to pull his hood back up.
He muttered something under his breath again and began to pull himself up the side of the wall, unimaginably scaling the side as if it was as easy as walking. Halfway up, he felt a growing tug in his mind, and froze, before calming himself and embraced the shy twinge.
Francis? Francis, Êtes-vous là, François? S'il vou- (1)
Oui, I am here, Mathieu. Francis began to climb again.
O-oh. That's good to know. Are you, um, almost done? Because you've been away for a long time and I'm still waiting for the package and I mean, it's not like I can't do anything without you it's just that I'm kind of bored and how long is it going to take, what do you have to get anyway and how far-
Mathieu, calm yourself. I will be transporting the… item back soon enough. Asseoir serrés, chérie. (2) The boy's thoughts relaxed a bit.
D'accord, (3) I will be waiting.
When Francis pulled himself over the railing and onto the balcony, he raised his hand towards the doorknob that was connected to decadent French doors – the best kind of doors, of course. "Ma'mor," He muttered under his breath; his voice was rich and charming. He wasted no time in stepping forward and opening the door without even a hint of resistance. He looked around carefully and entered the dark room.
Such a magnificent room, he thought to himself, sidling around an amazing canopied bed. His feet sunk a little in the plush maroon carpets. Light snoring caused him to pause and look over the ruffled covers to a face that was illuminated by the moon's rays shooting in sideways from the windows.
The boy was a pale white color, and the hair that lay strewn across his face looked silvery as the moonlight hit it; it looked natural, however, so there was no telling what color it truly was. His skin was smooth and his lips had been halted at an unrefined frown. His breathing sent the covers rising and falling.
If only I had more time, honhon.
Francis left the room quietly, and had only just turned down the hallway when he was met with a couple of guards. They both froze for a second before the two guards ran towards him with swords raised, but Francis whispered a word and a sickening crunch followed by their collapse signified their death. He stepped over them and navigated his way through the castle, making a few close calls but no more unnecessary deaths.
The two knights guarding a magnificent, intricately-locked door were both put to sleep, and with a few more words Francis had opened the door using only his luscious voice. He checked for traps and stepped into the dungeon-like room, lined with jewelry and dresses that no one had or would wear. Francis didn't have a hard time finding what he needed to get; it stood in the middle of the room, on a tall pedestal.
It glowed and glistened with an aura that was unlike what he had seen before, but he kept thinking of the moonlight on the prince's face. It was pure white, with darker, lacy swirls and crossroads underneath the surface. It looked as if it had been covered in a spider's silk thread. He reached up to grab it when a heavy footstep behind him made him turn in panic.
A mace head dug itself into the ground where Francis had been only a second before; he turned quickly and nearly dropped to the floor from the angle of it. Francis staggered to his feet and pulled a slender but steady sword from its sheath and raised it up to stop the mace's swing. His attacker had a dark face behind the armor of his helmet. Francis took a step back as the man tried to strike again with a low grunt.
"Careful, mon chérie! You might dent something precious." Francis cooed, ducking under another swing and driving his sword through a seam of the armor and into the man's flank. The man cursed something in a different language and stumbled backwards before dropping to the ground. Francis muttered something and the man went limp. Voices were softly echoing in the hallways; he was running out of time.
Francis grabbed the object and pulled his cloak away before dropping it into a leather-bound bag he kept close to his person. Then he took off down the hallway, blowing the knights away with a word that cracked their necks and kept them stuck to the floor forevermore. His pace was slowed drastically before; he was running out of energy, and time. In order to complete this job, he had to get out of here quickly. He knew he wouldn't be able to transport the item until he was outside of the walls of the palace, so he ran back through the hallway he had taken, jumping over the bodies he had felled, through the prince's room again, before hurtling through a stained-glass landscape of a princess and a dragon before shooting out into the night and taking off running.
When he was in the cover of the pine trees again he paused, and said a complicated yarn of words while pressing against the familiar feeling of his son's mind before the load in his bag grew lighter.
Francis, shallow of breath but with growing pride that he had completed his work, used his last energy to climb the tree and conceal himself in the pine needles and bark. Soldiers ran around the trees looking for him. He was going over in his head how he might use the money he received for the job when his son touched his mind again; impatient, but trying to cover up.
Are you done yet?
Francis's breath caught. A soldier glanced around, having heard it. The soldier brushed it off and ran somewhere else.
What do you mean, Mathieu?
Are you done with your job yet, papa? I'm still waiting.
Que diable voulez-vous dire que vous êtes toujours en attente? Je l'ai juste envoyé! (4)
J-je ne l'avez pas... Etes…Etes-vous sûr qu'il a bien été envoyé? (5)
Dieu putain merde! (6) Où diable est que l'œuf? Gaspillé tout ce temps! Enfoncer Natalya - elle va avoir ma tête putain-(7)
Papa ? Who is Natalya? Wh-what egg?
Francis cursed the heavens and everything it watched over; cursed himself, cursed Natalya, cursed his son – no, he took that back – cursed curses, cursed dragons, cursed eggs, cursed thieves, cursed kings.
He let his head fall back on the pine tree, sending a light shower of pine needles down.
I'VE STARTED A NEW STORY.
I don't own the Inheritance Cycle or Axis Powers: Hetalia. but I love them so much amg. ;o;
This is more so a prologue than a chapter, but it does start off the story, so...
TRANSLATIONS
1 – Are you there, Francis? + (beginning of 'please')
2 – Sit tight, darling.
3 – Okay
4 – What the hell do you mean you're still waiting? I just sent it!
5 – I-I don't have it… Are…Are you sure it has been sent?
6 – lol, not translating that. I'm sure you can imagine any kind of angry words he might say.
7 – Where is that egg? Wasted all that time! F***ing Natalya – she'll have my f***ing head-
DISCLAIMER: 'no parle francais'. Please don't kill me for crappy Google translations.
