Disclaimer: See chapter 1
If you don't accept my apology for mistakes, you will have creepy fevered dreams like Rubah. (Kidding!)
Rubah's first observation was that it was dark. And cold. And that was about it. There was nothing else in this oblivion. Huh. Strange. Where was he, exactly?
As he stood there, he realized that a floor had solidified beneath him in an instance. Odd. What was going on? He sat down cross-legged and glanced around him once again.
That was when Rubah heard the giggle. A frown appeared on his face. Who was giggling? Another laugh followed that one and his heart froze in his chest. It was his laugh. His exact, carefree laugh from before the death of Miriam, or his mother, or the burning of his home. Yes, he would still laugh, still smile. But it was strangely grim in a way that couldn't be described; there was a sort of brittleness hidden under its surface. He hadn't laughed so freely, so openly, since… since he was eleven. That child inside of him died with his brother.
A picture appeared before him, like a painting from some long-ago place. But it was of him. A much younger version, granted, but still him. He was holding a baby Mati in his hands, laughing as the little bundle gave a gurgling laugh.
Other memories began to play in front of him. It was like watching his entire life outside his body. There was when Mati learned to walk when he taught him to swim. There was that time they snuck into the woods after dark… their parents had been so mad.
He smiled a watery smile.
Then there was Rubah's father, with his booming, yet somehow comforting voice, and antics that made his mother roll her eyes. There was his father's golden hair as it tickled his nose, always needing to be brushed it out of his eyes.
Rubah saw his uncle- black hair dark as midnight, blue eyes that sparkled with mischief.
His aunt, her long waves of blonde hair that covered her back and fell to the floor.
Perhaps most heartbreaking to see was his mother, her darkish hair, and dark eyes. She would laugh and smile in that engaging way of hers.
All of them gathered in a circle and told stories. Rubah had been too young to understand most of them at the time, so had Mati, but he liked to hear his family laugh. They didn't do that much anymore.
Then, the scenes became darker, like they were worse, some of the light and happiness of them had been leeched out. Rubah's breath caught as he realized what he was about to be forced to relive.
His father's face was panicked, his eyes were wide with fear.
"Stay in the house; Don't leave. I'll come back for you."
His mother had gone to the market. She wasn't back yet. Mati had collapsed in their father's arms.
"I'm scared." He whimpered.
"I know, but I need you to be brave right now, okay? Can you do that for me?" Mati nodded and then their father and uncle were gone through the door, their long swords glinting in the light.
That had been the last time Rubah had ever seen either of them. He had treasured that moment. Them, their armor, one silver and one gold, their swords that seemed impossibly sharp, that spark of mirth gone from the depths of there eyes, standing strong beside each other.
It was only minutes later that he smelled the smoke and a harsh breath escaped his throat. Snatching Mati's wrist, he ran through the house. It wasn't until he made it through the front door, when he collapsed in the grass on his hands and knees, hacking as smoke left his lungs, that he noticed that Mati wasn't behind him anymore. That Mati was still inside.
His mother came back then, gripping him tightly to not let him escape her arms and led to the death of both her sons. They listened to his screams fade together.
Rubah felt tears make steady streams down his cheeks.
He saw himself and his mother run from their burning city. He turned back to look at it once, and that sight was forever branded in his memory.
It hadn't helped that his mother was pregnant.
It helped even less when they were left behind. Forget the fact that his six years old cousins had stayed. Their mother's body had burned at the city.
Then his mother died in his arms. Now, he had a sister and that's when it sunk in. Rubah was the eldest. He was in charge.
The picture got slowly darker with each memory.
That was when he learned archery and taught it to the three of them. There was Utara, learning to wield a katana. Diatimur and her metal fans were more of a dance than a fight, and she fought with an unnerving amount of grace.
But misfortune followed them at every turn.
There were the four of them, forced to their knees with blades at their throats. Here, Utara was screaming as a sword pierced his arm. Miriam was crying as Rubah had to rebreak her arm to set it straight.
Utara and Diatimur had enough one day, said they wanted to settle. The four of them built the house together. They modeled the Hall of Glass after the Hall of Fire in Imladris, though they had never seen it themselves.
And the pictures became slower darker.
There was Miriam, laughing as she skipped stones in the river. There were the two of them, back to back, locked in a fierce battle. There was the soft song Rubah would sing at night when an old memory would surface, and his little sister could not sleep.
And then, he went hunting.
And when he came back, there was Miriam, bloody, barely breathing.
He held her head and felt the last breath leave her body.
He saw the light fade from her eyes.
Rubah took her to the cottage of their brother and sister.
The pictures became the darkest then.
Rubah heard the single scream of Utara and Diatimur when he told them.
He saw the grave dug, the body laid in the soil.
His adventures where empty then, joyless.
But then, 'Ro. And light exploded back into the memories. Not as bright as he had been when he was a child, but still, brighter than it had been in a long while.
He watched the adventures of the two of them with a smile on his face.
Ivan and Thea came, reminding Rubah all too much of himself and Miriam.
The pictures disappeared.
That should be it, right? He thought as he stood with tear-stained cheeks.
He was wrong.
A second later, he was standing in a battlefield. It was so real. He could smell the blood and the sweat and the pure, absolute horror that poured for a man's very pores. The ground was wet, and the rain was cold.
Utara, Diatimur, 'Ro. They were surrounding a cloaked enemy.
The being only had to flick his fingers and they winced.
Rubah tried to rush forward, but found himself bound with heavy, black chains that seemed to whisper,
" Rusco… Rusco… Stay with us, Rusco…"
My name is not Rusco! He wanted to scream, but he could make no sound.
He could only watch.
Only watch as 'Ro's elegant blades were parried and yanked from his hands. A little bit of blood trickled down his mouth as the figure cut a fatal blow to his gwador's throat.
Rubah's only scream was a silent one.
Diatimur graceful dance was ended with a quick, short movement. She joined 'Ro on the ground.
Rubah could only watch.
Utara's katana was smashed to the ground. A sword appeared in his stomach, sticking through his back. He crumpled to the floor.
"Rusco…"
"My name is Rubah Foxson!" He managed to shout and, just like that, the chains vanished.
It was too late.
The last three people he had in the world lay on the stairs, their bodies are broken and their eyes are lifeless.
Rubah awoke when a mixture of a sob and a scream burst past his lips.
Author's Note:
*Breaks out sobbing, curled into a ball on the floor. * WHAT HAVE I DONE!? …Sorry. *sniff* sorry.
Sorry for my lack of updates! I was publishing a prequel to his called 'Forgotten.' You can go read it if you want!
I'm also going to be rewriting the first few chapters (because they're terrible) and removing the preface chapter, so I wouldn't be updating for a while. Just a heads up!
Translations:
Gwador's: Brother-not-in-blood's