Disclaimer: I don't own the charris!
A/N: This was written for the wickedprompts community at LJ. We always love new writers!
For as long as he could remember he had this talent
For as long as he could remember he had this talent. As a child he'd entertain his work-worn mother by parading around with the hatchlings in toe as he hummed her favorite ditty. He learned how to tame the fiercest of dogs—a talent his classmates of St. Prowd's often asked him to employ with the snarling guard before Chafferkind's wine cellar. It came naturally to him, almost as naturally as his preferred method of hypnosis did.
Even now amongst the musty smell of shit and dried blood he could recall fondly the ashen smell of dried wood on the fire with a rich stew bubbling over it. He could smell his father's pipe as his mother ushered him towards the well worn piano that sat in the corner of their living room. How the thoughts of that old instrument made him smile.
It was mahogany coated with bursting flowers crawling up the sides of the legs. The leaves branched off and trickled down the edges of the darkly burned wood in gold swirls. The bon Cavalishes were by no means rich, though their farm did well enough in business. The instrument was the finest thing his family ever owned, being a wedding gift his grandmother received. Her side had some importance in its line.
His mother would usher him onto the polished stool and wait for his brisk fingers to glide across ivory keys in a merry melody reflective of his childhood adventures. His mothers' voice would soon join the notes, and their pets would come to full attention. Their herding dog would raise her head in chorus with the trill of notes, keeping perfect pitch. Meanwhile the cats, sneaking in from the barn, would dance around his mother's feet. He often wondered if it was from her he inherited his gift.
As the years passed the songs became a little less cheerful. Pets came and went. With an increased demand for supplies for troops, there was little time for merriment. With younger siblings around, and duty calling, it wasn't soon before Trism left his family all together. Besides, serving Oz was a much more noble and fulfilling prospect in his father's eye. What was music, anyway, but a pastime for beggars and the business of those prone to sloth?
His common background, but talent with livestock, had placed him quickly into the animal husbandry division of the Guard. Truth be told, he had been rather happy with it. He enjoyed his life at home, and was more than content to deal with animals instead of humans. But this blissful ignorance was quickly washed away.
It wasn't long before he began to realize what destruction followed the animals he prepared and cared for. He didn't like to think about what he was servicing. But the proof laid all around him. Still he had always been taught to be dutiful. And so he was.
With his magic way with creatures he quickly rose up through the ranks. His responsibilities grew until one day the head menacier called a private audience with him. The guard, as he learned that night, was to acquire the assistance of dragons. He had thought this was merely a joke, until three nights later his assistance was called for.
He could hear the shrieks a length away from the large barn. Shrieking trills that were anything but human were joined by the frantic screams of guardsmen. The military member rushed in to see the giant creature of myth lashing away at its restraints. His superior was directly in the line of the creature's fury.
"STOP!" he had yelled on instict, his voice clear in demanding. "SETTLE. Down." He commanded, with his voice getting lower.
The dragon had turned towards the boy snorting with ash. But his fury was met with unyielding eyes. It was a challenge, but the stone in the human's face was worn and submissive to the elements. The creature sniffed in curiosity.
"Calm down now." The soldier ordered in a mothering fashion as he slowly moved closer. "Now listen, there will be no harm done to you. Listen to us and you will taste power beyond your imagination!"
He had continued speaking until he had completely captured the dragon's attention. Slowly the animal stopped figiting. The members of the guard released it's restraints. All was still.
With as soft a voice he could muster, bordering on the melodic, he relaid instructions for the beast that his commanding officer told to him. As if in perfect hypnosis the creature lowered its head up and down as if to nod before it burst into the air and through the doors. It returned before dawn, choosing to nest in the far cool corner of the building.
The former farm boy was promoted the following day.
Trism wondered what his father would say if he could see him now, wallowing in the makeshift "stables." Here he crouched among snoring and discontent scales and wings, scortched at every edge. His voice had been sore from his singing. The greater the forces grew, the harder it was to control them with simple words. How would his mother react to her joyous blessing being used for such terror?
At every dusk he sang to the military's pawns. The lullabyes were bloody ones, bringing death and destruction in their final chorus. It was his lyrics that brought so many into repression and homlessness. It was his golden notes that tainted the rivers with copper and the made the clouds become shrouded in black. As he looked out at such a sky he laughed pathetically at the irony.
Even a simple farmer's child could make something else of himself. Whoelse had ever made the moon appear to be mourning? It was an honor Trism wished he never had.