I hit a snag with "We are the Differences". Hm, I'll try to find the inspiration again. But I don't want to give you guys a crappy chapter, so it might take some time to finally put the real chappie together with quality. So sorry, folks!
And the good news: my parents decided that we won't move, so I definitely will finish the OC story. Kinda hard not to, with you guys supporting me so much. And don't worry. This drabble series is just to get many ideas that I couldn't put into the main fic out of my head. I'm not abandoning We are the Differences.
Review!
6. Unpredictable
Tempest tended to predict a lot. And her predictions were not all that bad – she did them base on facts. She could certainly tell which season the humans would flock the forest looking for food or when they will suddenly have the urge to go dragon-hunting (and turned out to be dragon's food). She could even tell if the dragon she was fighting would strike left or strike right first. And she was pleased with her ability. It made her feel safer if she knew what was coming.
Sweyn wasn't going to give her that safety.
Tempest expected him to be early after a few weeks of seeing him wait for her at the Twin Oaks. The very next week, he let her wait an entire morning. His reason was because "my mom made me fix the window I busted". He refused to answer her how he busted it.
Tempest expected him to hate cliffs since one of them nearly cost him his life. And he went jumping off even more cliffs. They were short ones, though, under nine feet high so Sweyn could practice "landing on his feet". It scared the daylight out of the dragoness several times. Tempest walked away from the grinning boy muttering anything that ranged from "idiot" to "mush-brain" and beyond.
Tempest expected him to hate aerial acrobatics after the very first time they flew together (and boy, wasn't that a disastrous flight). He begged her to show him some more, and he laughed like a maniac when she did.
Tempest expected him to be weird. He acted like a completely normal kid a week into knowing her. He would hunt, he would treat her like he would any other friend, and he would smile triumphantly whenever he beat her in a chase.
Then she expected him to remain that way. And suddenly he had the urge to kick the trees with all his might, stub his toe and cussed them out for it.
In fact, one of the only few things Tempest would expect Sweyn to be that was really correct was that he trusts her. And frankly, Tempest didn't mind being wrong all her life about him if only that one fact remained true.
7. Nickname
"Tempest, why do you keep calling me that?"
"Calling you what?" Tempest answered distractedly, her eyes too busy picking out footprints in the snow as she tried to copy her friend's method of hunting. Sweyn's grasp on Dragonese had gone from so-so to excellent in the past three months, so now they could speak to each other freely.
"You know, you always make that low growl-y noise when you see me," Sweyn explained, kneeling to examine a bunch of cracked twigs.
That made the dragoness looked up. She regarded him quietly for a moment. "You'll get mad if I tell you," she said at last.
Sweyn blinked, returning her look. "No, I promise I won't. Tell me," he prompted.
Tempest told him. Sweyn's answer after a few moments of open-mouthed silence was to send a volley of arrows at her. They started a chase through the forest and, for once, Tempest was the mouse.
The word Tempest used to call Sweyn was the equivalence of "peculiar". In direct translation, "weirdo".
Another note for the dragoness: Sweyn despises being called a weirdo.
8. Vengeance
"Sweyn, hold on," Lugar Hocksson's voice trembled slightly despite his desperate attempt to keep it steady. But it wasn't as if he could help it. He has seen his friends die before, young and old, but none had been his little brother.
On the bloody floor of the forest clearing, bustling with Vikings and medics, Sweyn Hocksson lied gaping at the sky, a thin line of blood trickling from his lips. On his side was a stab wound of a scimitar, going right through him. It has missed his lung, but it was bleeding profusely. A Viking from the invading tribe had done that.
At his brother's voice, the fourteen-year-old turned his eyes to Lugar's face. A dour smile touched the bloody lips. "I won't die," Sweyn rasped out, but his voice was adamant. "I…fear death too…too much for that." He coughed, and Lugar's hand shot to touch his face gently.
"Don't talk," the older Viking whispered just as a medic knelt next to them. Leaving his brother in the healer's hands, Lugar seized the spear next to him and charged back into the forest, vengeance flashing in his remaining eye. Cold fury guided his steps, sharpening his senses, and he quickly spotted the unmistakable gray shape, made so by the dark, appearing by his side.
He shot the large, hatred-filled blue eyes a look before leaping onto her back. Together, they launched up a tree, into the sky, and toward the leaving ships approaching Loki's Field. These invaders would not die by drowning tonight. Tempest and Lugar would make sure they die a more fitting death.
9. Women
"I dare you to jump into the sea, naked!"
"You are on, Little Bro!"
Alfdis tossed her wooden plate. It bonked against Sweyn's head with some noise. Mentioned boy turned to glare at her as though she's gone mad.
"What is that for, woman?" he demanded.
"In case you have not noticed, Sir Dumb and Sir Dumber, it is still winter. Do you want to freeze to death?" Alfdis shot back, glaring from Lugar to Sweyn, who was massaging his head and wincing.
"So?" Lugar shrugged. "It's all the more fun."
Alfdis rolled her eyes, then looked at the dragoness currently sitting with her tail curled around the girl. "Tempest, why don't you try convincing them?" she offered.
Tempest opened her eye to regard the two kids in question before making up her mind.
When the three children returned home that afternoon, Alfdis was ranting, Tempest was rolling her eyes while Lugar and Sweyn kept muttering about fussy women. The little gentlemen's clothes were singed, and they looked like they've spent time lying under a dragon's claw. Er, dragoness.
10. Weep
Vikings weren't allowed to cry. Tears were only a hindrance, both in battle and in front of others. It showed that you are weak, that you couldn't take a matter without breaking down. In battle, it made your eyes go blurry, making your sight short.
All in all, crying was for the weak.
Sweyn smiled bitterly at the Viking logic as he curled himself into a ball under the oak tree. The sky was clear blue. The weather was as perfect as it could be for a Death Rock winter. It was like the gods were mocking him.
But what was he saying? They always had.
Now those gods decided that the day his uncle die was also the day to celebrate.
Sure, Horace was a good man and everyone would mourn his death, but to Sweyn, the tanner meant more than just that single person who suffered smelly conditions to make precious wearing materials for the village. Horace has always been fun to be around with. He hasn't wrinkled his nose whenever Sweyn showed his face at his workshop, instead inviting the boy outside to have some snack after the young hunter handed over the pelts. Sometimes there was even a present for Sweyn: several pieces of good leather, a few nice bowstrings or even a knapsack.
And suddenly he has a heart attack. And he was dead. Just like that. Poof. One night. The next morning, gone.
The world was an unfair place.
One tear trekked down the pale face. Then another, then another. Sweyn buried his face into his arms and just let them out, trying not to sob too often out of habit if nothing else. He didn't know when, but he fell asleep.
What seemed like mere minutes later, he was roused from his sleep by the smell of sulfur. An explosion followed, chronicled by the sound of something like a sharp, large blade slamming against the tree trunk, making him yelp and grappling blindly for his knife, though he didn't come through with the action. When his eyes cleared again, he realized that there was a big white wing over him.
The noises died down to mere crackling sounds of small embers. The wing was removed, and he found himself staring into worried blue eyes. As his thoughts started to flow freely and coherently again, Sweyn relaxed. He traded a few words with the dragoness he'd nicknamed "Tempest". Her presence enabled him to kick the remorse out for awhile. He would continue to mourn later, but not now. He knew his time with her was limited. No secret could be kept forever.
Still, as of now, Sweyn was willing to at least forget sorrow for awhile.
The last one, "Weep", was the explanation for chapter 11's question: why was Sweyn crying? It was a crappy explanation, but I hope you guys didn't find it too bad. So do you guys have any requests for drabbles like this in which I can fulfill? Any moment in WatD you might want to view from Sweyn's P.O.V? Leave me a note in your review.
I wanted to do a bit more on Lugar, so there you go. I hope you don't find his character annoying.
I appreciate your support on both this fic and the main one,
~the Apprentice
