Disclaimer: I do not own anything PR related. I do not own anything Elvish either. I do a copy of every CD Great Big Sea has put out and encourage others to buy them. :-) Gotta plug my all time fav group.
Author's Note: My muse caught this rabid plot bunny about 4/5 days ago and it has botherred me since. Grrr. This fis is NOT a PR/LotRs crossover but it mention Elves and later uses Queyan, an Elvish dialect. Yes, my name is Jacks and I am an Elfoholic. It is a complete AU and any changes to characters are made on purpose. I know Tommy is a but OOC at the beginning, he has to be for the story to work. I know Jason's eyes aren't blue, I love his brown eyes they make him even more droolworthy, but for the sake of later things they have to be blue.
And since I have quite a few other stories that are supposed to be being done before this one the amount I work on it will be directly related to the amount of feedback I get. It will be finished, my stupid muse won't let me abandon it, but chapters will come out faster if I know people want them! :-)
The title, by the way, is Queyan and can be translated (loosely) into Hope is Dying. If anyone out there is a Tolkien fan and knows any form of Elvish *please* let me know. I stuck with other languages so my translations are not always on the mark.
Estel Ná Qualin
It was unusual for such a great clamour to go up within the halls of Daemon. The king ruled with an iron fist and he did not allow disorder in his halls unless he was the one causing it.
It was not unusual for a new slave to be brought into the palace as slaves were being replaced or acquired all the time. The coming and going to dead or alive slaves rarely registered. They were not important enough to take notice of.
This slave was different.
It had been months since Daemon the King had set out looking for a tutor for his son. The young man was to become a proper warrior; the king would have no less. Many had been hired, or coerced, into teacher the prince but none had stayed. Whether they left on their on accord or were beheaded was not spoken about.
Now the king had found a new teacher in the most unlikely place, a slave market.
The man, who was being dragged along, his hands bound by rope that bit into his wrists, had caused a stir in the palace. He was unusual, judged thusly because of his look and the feel about him.
Slaves were normally beaten down creatures that cringed away from most things and expected to be struck at any moment. They were dirty, thin, unremarkable beings that slipped in and out of the mind without leaving the slightest impression. They had no hope left, lived only because death would not find them, and it showed on their faces.
It was hard to find such despair on the chiselled features of the man who walked into the palace, his head held high though he was bound as a slave. He was dirty, it was hard to avoid when one lived in such conditions as he had, and his clothes were tattered and unkempt but there was nothing unremarkable about him. To glimpse his face was to have it burned into your soul forever.
He was lean but had the muscles and build of a fighter. His body bore visible scars but they did not mar his appearance, only gave him the look of a seasoned warrior and made him more handsome and mysterious. His hair was shaggy and fell about shoulders in dark waves, silky and soft to the touch despite the tangles and days without washing. His skin was pale but not sickly so, instead giving him an unworldly look, as if he were an angel among demons.
But the most surprising, most stunning, most queer feature of this angel turned slave was his eyes.
They were blue. But saying they were blue was like saying there is more than one star in the sky. The blue pools were ever changing. One moment they were like ice, cold and intense and staring straight through you. The next they were like the ocean, deep and dark and flecked with green. The next they were storm changed and the next they were clear as the summer sky and the next...It was a myriad of colours and emotions and power contained in a man made not for the life of a slave. They were the eyes of some mystical being that had been untouched until it lingered too long in the world.
The man's face was expressionless as he was brought through the palace. His sharp eyes took in everything but betrayed nothing. No fear could be seen being carried on his body.
It was an appearance no slave had made before upon entering those halls and the sense of a coming change flowed into the palace with this strange creature.
It was not something the king or his kin celebrated.
The prince was waiting for the arrival of his new instructor, malevolence in his brown eyes as he watched the new slave enter his new 'home'.
The prince was every inch a royal, had been brought up to be superior. His straight, brown hair hung loose and tidy under his crown. His chocolate eyes were bitter and egotistical. His posture was confident, his build toned and his smile malicious.
He was not one to take orders from a slave, even if the slave was supposedly a warrior meant to teach him how to fight.
Still, the appearance of this man was frightening. If he had been a hired instructor the prince may have even had a grudging respect for him. But he was a slave, one who did not appear to know his place, and that made the prince angry and fearful.
"My lord, this is the new slave, your new warrior instructor, his name is Jason..." One of the attendants who had brought the slave to the palace began.
"I need not know his name; his is a slave, nothing more." The prince told them coldly. "His name matters not."
He turned the slave, putting all the grandeur he could muster into his voice. It galled him that the slave did not cower in fear of him. "I am Prince Thomas. You will never address me as such but as ma..."
"You are correct there. Prince is not a fit title for one such as you and Thomas is too noble a name to soil by associating it to you." Jason's deep voice, rich and soothing to the ears, interrupted. "I shall call you Isorfir, the little brat, for you are nothing more."
Thomas froze, his voice taking on a surprised and deadly tone. "What did you dare say to me?"
"Are your royal ears too good to hear the words of the people who surround you? Or are you just too ignorant to listen to anything other than compliments? If the latter is so we shall not communicate very well for nothing I can see would open my lips to speak such words."
Thomas' hand connected with the side of Jason's face, making his head snap back momentarily. There was strength behind the blow, though it was not channelled properly, and Jason knew his new charge would make a fine warrior some day.
If he could pass the training.
Thomas was surprised when the slave did not stumble after the blow. He had reckoned himself a fairly heavy hitter but Jason had not fallen, had only moved his head for a second and that was more out of instinct than anything else. He was soon facing the strange slave again; unable to stop himself from cringing as those burning blue eyes caught his.
They were now the colour of fire, so hot it loses any redness and burns a searing, translucent blue instead.
"It is easy to hit those who can not fight back, is it not? You have had too much practise in such things and lack much for it. Against one who does not cower from you in misplaced fear you would fall and do so very quickly." Jason's tone was neutral, his face and posture betrayed no emotion, but his eyes held Thomas' and sent a sliver of fearful apprehension down his spine.
He did not like that feeling and acted to rid himself of it as he had long been taught.
Against one who was defenceless against him Thomas attacked without question and quite ruthlessly. Bullying was something he was very familiar with as he had been doing it all his life. Striking the defiant slave repeatedly seemed to drive the fear in his heart back as far as it could be coaxed to go.
Jason bore the blows without reaction. He could easily evade them if he so wished and do more damage to the infuriated boy so bent on injuring him. Only his hands were bound, he had been in worse situations before and come out the victor.
If it were not for the whispers of the wind that told him to stay the course he would have been again. And perhaps in bearing the beating in silence he would still have his victory. The pain had little effect on him; it was more an annoyance than a hindrance. Worse had been meted out to him in the past and his instincts told him worse would be born by him in the future.
The beating ended as abruptly as it had started. Thomas' anger liked to fizzle and wane without control. Plus he greatly feared the wraith of his father who would not like it if he killed the new slave before any task had been set before him.
He satisfied himself with what he thought was a fear driving remark.
"I could have everything from you. I could take your very life on my whim." Thomas growled, kicking the slave in his already bruised ribs.
He snorted and turned to walk away but he had not gotten half way across the court yard when the still strong voice rang true again.
"You could," Jason's eyes watched, burning with a fire Thomas had never seen before, as he turned. The slave had gotten to his feet somehow though Thomas did not doubt the pain he was in was immense. "but it would do nothing. There is nothing you can take from me that I treasure in such a way it would grieve me to lose it. All has been taken from me and yet I survive, I stand. Can you say such a thing would be true of yourself?"
Thomas flushed an angry red and strode back to where the slave stood malice in his every step. His beating was quick and efficient. He had learned how to harm those defenceless against his attack long ago. His temper was that of a viper, he stuck to kill, and Jason had enflamed that temper. He was beaten ruthlessly and yet...
And yet Thomas did not kill him. Instead he left him lying on the dirt floor as he wiped the other man's blood from his hands. Satisfied with his work he looked around at the other slaves in the courtyard who now cowered in fear.
"Let that be a lesson to the rest of you." He growled intent on leaving the man where he lay as he stalked off.
Jason had other plans. He let out a low rasping breath as he moved every fibre of his being screaming in protested agony as he slowly drew himself to his knees and then his feet.
Thomas just watched in horror as this slave, this supposedly pitiful slave, defied him again.
"No, little prince," The endearment somehow became venom in Jason's soft voice, "This was your first lesson, where I judge how much a little, bratty child you are. You are lacking in all ways. It is your first lesson, Isorfir, it will not be your last, that I promise you."
Thomas was a moment from taking out the ornamental sword he wore on his belt and gutting the insolent slave when a restraining hand came to lie on his shoulder. "That will not be necessary, boy. After all, he cannot teach you if he is dead."
The king left his son's side and circled the defiant slave. Contempt was clear in his eyes but there was also a greed one can only get when one knows they can turn the situation into a prosperous one.
"He will be dealt with, of course, but there is an advantage in having such spirit in the one who will teach you to be a warrior." Daemon mused aloud. "If you strike him you will be punished accordingly..."
"But Father...!" Thomas began to protest.
"...until your training has been completed. After that you may break him as you wish." Daemon smirked. "When you have become a worthy warrior we will have no use for a defiant, wilful slave. Until the day you are deemed a warrior you shall not strike him. That does not mean I will not, however. He will be punished for his unjust tongue, I assure you."
Jason said nothing, nor did his eyes or posture betray any of the pain he was in. There was no fear in his heart and it showed in his body. If he was not supposed to be the best Daemon would have started to break him by now. It was perfectly disgusting to see a dirty slave act so mighty.
"You are to prepare for the dinner function of the night." Daemon told his now sullen son. "The slave will be taken to the prison to be dealt with before being released to his new quarters. Take him away."
Thomas smirked as he watched the slave being roughly led away by the guards. So he would have to become a fighter before he could break the slave. So what? It would just take a little longer, that was all. It would make breaking him all the more sweet...
Author's Note: My muse caught this rabid plot bunny about 4/5 days ago and it has botherred me since. Grrr. This fis is NOT a PR/LotRs crossover but it mention Elves and later uses Queyan, an Elvish dialect. Yes, my name is Jacks and I am an Elfoholic. It is a complete AU and any changes to characters are made on purpose. I know Tommy is a but OOC at the beginning, he has to be for the story to work. I know Jason's eyes aren't blue, I love his brown eyes they make him even more droolworthy, but for the sake of later things they have to be blue.
And since I have quite a few other stories that are supposed to be being done before this one the amount I work on it will be directly related to the amount of feedback I get. It will be finished, my stupid muse won't let me abandon it, but chapters will come out faster if I know people want them! :-)
The title, by the way, is Queyan and can be translated (loosely) into Hope is Dying. If anyone out there is a Tolkien fan and knows any form of Elvish *please* let me know. I stuck with other languages so my translations are not always on the mark.
Estel Ná Qualin
It was unusual for such a great clamour to go up within the halls of Daemon. The king ruled with an iron fist and he did not allow disorder in his halls unless he was the one causing it.
It was not unusual for a new slave to be brought into the palace as slaves were being replaced or acquired all the time. The coming and going to dead or alive slaves rarely registered. They were not important enough to take notice of.
This slave was different.
It had been months since Daemon the King had set out looking for a tutor for his son. The young man was to become a proper warrior; the king would have no less. Many had been hired, or coerced, into teacher the prince but none had stayed. Whether they left on their on accord or were beheaded was not spoken about.
Now the king had found a new teacher in the most unlikely place, a slave market.
The man, who was being dragged along, his hands bound by rope that bit into his wrists, had caused a stir in the palace. He was unusual, judged thusly because of his look and the feel about him.
Slaves were normally beaten down creatures that cringed away from most things and expected to be struck at any moment. They were dirty, thin, unremarkable beings that slipped in and out of the mind without leaving the slightest impression. They had no hope left, lived only because death would not find them, and it showed on their faces.
It was hard to find such despair on the chiselled features of the man who walked into the palace, his head held high though he was bound as a slave. He was dirty, it was hard to avoid when one lived in such conditions as he had, and his clothes were tattered and unkempt but there was nothing unremarkable about him. To glimpse his face was to have it burned into your soul forever.
He was lean but had the muscles and build of a fighter. His body bore visible scars but they did not mar his appearance, only gave him the look of a seasoned warrior and made him more handsome and mysterious. His hair was shaggy and fell about shoulders in dark waves, silky and soft to the touch despite the tangles and days without washing. His skin was pale but not sickly so, instead giving him an unworldly look, as if he were an angel among demons.
But the most surprising, most stunning, most queer feature of this angel turned slave was his eyes.
They were blue. But saying they were blue was like saying there is more than one star in the sky. The blue pools were ever changing. One moment they were like ice, cold and intense and staring straight through you. The next they were like the ocean, deep and dark and flecked with green. The next they were storm changed and the next they were clear as the summer sky and the next...It was a myriad of colours and emotions and power contained in a man made not for the life of a slave. They were the eyes of some mystical being that had been untouched until it lingered too long in the world.
The man's face was expressionless as he was brought through the palace. His sharp eyes took in everything but betrayed nothing. No fear could be seen being carried on his body.
It was an appearance no slave had made before upon entering those halls and the sense of a coming change flowed into the palace with this strange creature.
It was not something the king or his kin celebrated.
The prince was waiting for the arrival of his new instructor, malevolence in his brown eyes as he watched the new slave enter his new 'home'.
The prince was every inch a royal, had been brought up to be superior. His straight, brown hair hung loose and tidy under his crown. His chocolate eyes were bitter and egotistical. His posture was confident, his build toned and his smile malicious.
He was not one to take orders from a slave, even if the slave was supposedly a warrior meant to teach him how to fight.
Still, the appearance of this man was frightening. If he had been a hired instructor the prince may have even had a grudging respect for him. But he was a slave, one who did not appear to know his place, and that made the prince angry and fearful.
"My lord, this is the new slave, your new warrior instructor, his name is Jason..." One of the attendants who had brought the slave to the palace began.
"I need not know his name; his is a slave, nothing more." The prince told them coldly. "His name matters not."
He turned the slave, putting all the grandeur he could muster into his voice. It galled him that the slave did not cower in fear of him. "I am Prince Thomas. You will never address me as such but as ma..."
"You are correct there. Prince is not a fit title for one such as you and Thomas is too noble a name to soil by associating it to you." Jason's deep voice, rich and soothing to the ears, interrupted. "I shall call you Isorfir, the little brat, for you are nothing more."
Thomas froze, his voice taking on a surprised and deadly tone. "What did you dare say to me?"
"Are your royal ears too good to hear the words of the people who surround you? Or are you just too ignorant to listen to anything other than compliments? If the latter is so we shall not communicate very well for nothing I can see would open my lips to speak such words."
Thomas' hand connected with the side of Jason's face, making his head snap back momentarily. There was strength behind the blow, though it was not channelled properly, and Jason knew his new charge would make a fine warrior some day.
If he could pass the training.
Thomas was surprised when the slave did not stumble after the blow. He had reckoned himself a fairly heavy hitter but Jason had not fallen, had only moved his head for a second and that was more out of instinct than anything else. He was soon facing the strange slave again; unable to stop himself from cringing as those burning blue eyes caught his.
They were now the colour of fire, so hot it loses any redness and burns a searing, translucent blue instead.
"It is easy to hit those who can not fight back, is it not? You have had too much practise in such things and lack much for it. Against one who does not cower from you in misplaced fear you would fall and do so very quickly." Jason's tone was neutral, his face and posture betrayed no emotion, but his eyes held Thomas' and sent a sliver of fearful apprehension down his spine.
He did not like that feeling and acted to rid himself of it as he had long been taught.
Against one who was defenceless against him Thomas attacked without question and quite ruthlessly. Bullying was something he was very familiar with as he had been doing it all his life. Striking the defiant slave repeatedly seemed to drive the fear in his heart back as far as it could be coaxed to go.
Jason bore the blows without reaction. He could easily evade them if he so wished and do more damage to the infuriated boy so bent on injuring him. Only his hands were bound, he had been in worse situations before and come out the victor.
If it were not for the whispers of the wind that told him to stay the course he would have been again. And perhaps in bearing the beating in silence he would still have his victory. The pain had little effect on him; it was more an annoyance than a hindrance. Worse had been meted out to him in the past and his instincts told him worse would be born by him in the future.
The beating ended as abruptly as it had started. Thomas' anger liked to fizzle and wane without control. Plus he greatly feared the wraith of his father who would not like it if he killed the new slave before any task had been set before him.
He satisfied himself with what he thought was a fear driving remark.
"I could have everything from you. I could take your very life on my whim." Thomas growled, kicking the slave in his already bruised ribs.
He snorted and turned to walk away but he had not gotten half way across the court yard when the still strong voice rang true again.
"You could," Jason's eyes watched, burning with a fire Thomas had never seen before, as he turned. The slave had gotten to his feet somehow though Thomas did not doubt the pain he was in was immense. "but it would do nothing. There is nothing you can take from me that I treasure in such a way it would grieve me to lose it. All has been taken from me and yet I survive, I stand. Can you say such a thing would be true of yourself?"
Thomas flushed an angry red and strode back to where the slave stood malice in his every step. His beating was quick and efficient. He had learned how to harm those defenceless against his attack long ago. His temper was that of a viper, he stuck to kill, and Jason had enflamed that temper. He was beaten ruthlessly and yet...
And yet Thomas did not kill him. Instead he left him lying on the dirt floor as he wiped the other man's blood from his hands. Satisfied with his work he looked around at the other slaves in the courtyard who now cowered in fear.
"Let that be a lesson to the rest of you." He growled intent on leaving the man where he lay as he stalked off.
Jason had other plans. He let out a low rasping breath as he moved every fibre of his being screaming in protested agony as he slowly drew himself to his knees and then his feet.
Thomas just watched in horror as this slave, this supposedly pitiful slave, defied him again.
"No, little prince," The endearment somehow became venom in Jason's soft voice, "This was your first lesson, where I judge how much a little, bratty child you are. You are lacking in all ways. It is your first lesson, Isorfir, it will not be your last, that I promise you."
Thomas was a moment from taking out the ornamental sword he wore on his belt and gutting the insolent slave when a restraining hand came to lie on his shoulder. "That will not be necessary, boy. After all, he cannot teach you if he is dead."
The king left his son's side and circled the defiant slave. Contempt was clear in his eyes but there was also a greed one can only get when one knows they can turn the situation into a prosperous one.
"He will be dealt with, of course, but there is an advantage in having such spirit in the one who will teach you to be a warrior." Daemon mused aloud. "If you strike him you will be punished accordingly..."
"But Father...!" Thomas began to protest.
"...until your training has been completed. After that you may break him as you wish." Daemon smirked. "When you have become a worthy warrior we will have no use for a defiant, wilful slave. Until the day you are deemed a warrior you shall not strike him. That does not mean I will not, however. He will be punished for his unjust tongue, I assure you."
Jason said nothing, nor did his eyes or posture betray any of the pain he was in. There was no fear in his heart and it showed in his body. If he was not supposed to be the best Daemon would have started to break him by now. It was perfectly disgusting to see a dirty slave act so mighty.
"You are to prepare for the dinner function of the night." Daemon told his now sullen son. "The slave will be taken to the prison to be dealt with before being released to his new quarters. Take him away."
Thomas smirked as he watched the slave being roughly led away by the guards. So he would have to become a fighter before he could break the slave. So what? It would just take a little longer, that was all. It would make breaking him all the more sweet...