~ Chapter 2 ~
The boy practiced with a concentration and determination uncommon to first year pages. He spun and dodged as he traded blows with an imaginary opponent, his sword flashing as it whistled through the air.
Even Lord Wyldon could barely pick out the standard sword drills as he watched- a jab, block, downward stroke, parry- a basic beginner's routine, perfected and speeded up until the blade could hardly be seen as it flashed in and out, over, up, and sideways....
The boy stopped, pushing his white blond hair out of his eyes and catching his breath. It was a few moments before he noticed Lord Wyldon standing a few yards from him, watching.
"What's your name, page?" Wyldon asked.
"Joren of Stone Mountain," the boy replied.
Wyldon studied the boy a moment. His white blond hair reached his shoulders, and his pale skin and blue eyes almost made him look like an angel. Almost. But there was something in those eyes. A glint of something leaked from beneath those lashes. And the set of his mouth was determined.... And something else, something Lord Wyldon couldn't quite put his finger on.
"Your father was Bruchard?"
The boy- Joren- stiffened, almost imperceptibly. "Yes.... Sir."
"A good student," Lord Wyldon remarked. "I hope you follow in his footsteps." He walked away, leaving Joren watching his retreating back. He couldn't have known the expression- almost one of hate- on the boy's face.
****
iDear Father,
Well, here I am, finally at the palace. Lord Wyldon said you were a good student. He said to follow in your footsteps.
I've been practicing with my sword. Our regular schedule starts tomorow.
Tell mother hello.
Love,
Joren
It would work. It showed none of the bitterness he felt toward his father.
Except... He blotted out the 'love' until it was simply signed 'Joren.'
Nodding in satisfaction, he put the letter in an envelope and dripped some wax onto it, firmly pressing the Stone Mountain Family Crest onto the seal.
He had always been able to keep any emotions out of his letters, he'd be able to do it as a page, and a squire. Tear stains don't mark the parchment if the tears are never shed.
Awww. Poor Joren. I feel sorry for him, though I doubt anyone else feels anythingas a result of my writing other than an urge to throw their computer out a tenth story window and have it land on me. Review and tell me. Or make up your own. Maybe I'll start a "What you feel like doing when you read an extremely bad fic" story. Be Creative!!! Yay! (I'm nuts)
The boy practiced with a concentration and determination uncommon to first year pages. He spun and dodged as he traded blows with an imaginary opponent, his sword flashing as it whistled through the air.
Even Lord Wyldon could barely pick out the standard sword drills as he watched- a jab, block, downward stroke, parry- a basic beginner's routine, perfected and speeded up until the blade could hardly be seen as it flashed in and out, over, up, and sideways....
The boy stopped, pushing his white blond hair out of his eyes and catching his breath. It was a few moments before he noticed Lord Wyldon standing a few yards from him, watching.
"What's your name, page?" Wyldon asked.
"Joren of Stone Mountain," the boy replied.
Wyldon studied the boy a moment. His white blond hair reached his shoulders, and his pale skin and blue eyes almost made him look like an angel. Almost. But there was something in those eyes. A glint of something leaked from beneath those lashes. And the set of his mouth was determined.... And something else, something Lord Wyldon couldn't quite put his finger on.
"Your father was Bruchard?"
The boy- Joren- stiffened, almost imperceptibly. "Yes.... Sir."
"A good student," Lord Wyldon remarked. "I hope you follow in his footsteps." He walked away, leaving Joren watching his retreating back. He couldn't have known the expression- almost one of hate- on the boy's face.
****
iDear Father,
Well, here I am, finally at the palace. Lord Wyldon said you were a good student. He said to follow in your footsteps.
I've been practicing with my sword. Our regular schedule starts tomorow.
Tell mother hello.
Love,
Joren
It would work. It showed none of the bitterness he felt toward his father.
Except... He blotted out the 'love' until it was simply signed 'Joren.'
Nodding in satisfaction, he put the letter in an envelope and dripped some wax onto it, firmly pressing the Stone Mountain Family Crest onto the seal.
He had always been able to keep any emotions out of his letters, he'd be able to do it as a page, and a squire. Tear stains don't mark the parchment if the tears are never shed.
Awww. Poor Joren. I feel sorry for him, though I doubt anyone else feels anythingas a result of my writing other than an urge to throw their computer out a tenth story window and have it land on me. Review and tell me. Or make up your own. Maybe I'll start a "What you feel like doing when you read an extremely bad fic" story. Be Creative!!! Yay! (I'm nuts)