To my dear readers. I am quite disappointed at the number of reviews I got for chapter one of this story. But, however, I am not the sort of person who asks for reviews to write more chapters. And I am sensible enough to know that the only way I could get more reviews is to write more chapters. So enjoy this one, It might be a bit depressing… like chapter one…

* I don't own the characters. I own the depressing story I put them in. I also own the village people. *

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Chapter two: A new life.

Ralon looked up at the cloudy, hazy sky and muttered a curse. (A/N: sound familiar? Well it does to me. Alanna was in this situation once…) The weather wasn't on his side, that much was for sure. His mare Windancer bickered. She was a trained warhorse, but Ralon neglected her exercises and training for years, and now she was terribly shy.

Just what I need, he thought to himself. I was disowned, thrown out of my own house, and now there's the rain.

He knew the events with his father the previous day would never leave him. they would stick forever, like a mole or a birthmark on his face, where he didn't want it. He also knew that his father would remember him forever too – wasn't it strange, the way mortal beings used the word forever? What did it actually mean?*

With a little grim satisfaction, with the fact that what his father did to him would haunt the man to his deathbed, he made Windancer break into a reluctant trot. But Ralon was still afraid, as afraid as he had been before, and refused to ponder that his father was rejoicing this very moment, drinking and celebrating that his son had gone at last.

No. Ralon was somewhat a coward. He refused to let his fear come and conquer it, he just pushed it to the back of his head and continued on, so that every last drop of that fear was still with him. Deep down, he knew this, of course. He knew he was afraid. He just chose to ignore it.

***

The rain came. Windancer the mare was terrified and Ralon tried his best to get her going. The rain was getting harder by the second, and even through the thick canopy of the trees, Ralon could feel the droplets of rain coming through at irregular intervals. Soon the trees will be soaked through – and Ralon and his mare, likewise.

Towards the end of the thicket of trees Ralon could make out a settlement. Or, at least, he could see lights. He nudged Windancer none too gently into a trot. He didn't actually want to encounter any people at the moment but he knew it was his only chance to spend a night indoors. He shivered in the increasing cold and not for the first time that day he thought of his 'home'. Fief Malven was in a warm part of Tortall, but north-eastern Tortall, where he was now, had extremely unpredictable weather.

As he got closer to the lights, he saw that it was a village of some sort – a mining village, perhaps. Recalling his earlier Tortallan geography lessons he remembered that this area had opal mines. He guessed there were about thirty huts – he couldn't be sure because of the driving rain.

And it seemed like ages had gone by before he reached the little village. But as he rode into the premises, a man, one with a look of authority stepped out from a nearby dwelling. The man hastily jammed a wide-brimmed hat onto his head and Ralon, through his trained eyes, saw the dearness and the good workmanship of that hat.

"Who are you, and what business do you have here?" the man asked. It was impossible to tell anything of the man's features in the weather but he had a low, grunting voice as if he was used to yelling. Ralon was aware, that every second, he was getting wetter.

"My name is… " he pondered, knowing that he couldn't possibly state his real name, and that he had to do with an alias. "Zen," he decided, "my name is Zen."

***

It was a simple mining town. Opal mines were frequent in these parts of Tortall, and after being tested for the Gift (the Gifted were not allowed to work in opal mines, for fear that they could do mass destruction with magic stored in opals) Ralon was accepted to work at the mines. He was provided with a tiny cottage – probably only as big as a latrine room at fief Malven – that was just enough for a bed, a privy and a couple of chairs. He didn't get paid in coin – as long as he worked his share in the mines during the day he was provided with food and clothing and footwear when necessary.

The population of the village was small, consisting of around fifty miners, all men, a supervisor, who Ralon met the night he arrived, a dozen or so soldiers, to keep the place in order and three aged women, the cooks. A wagon came in from the nearest city to bring supplies and take away the opals once every week. aside from this the village had no contact from the rest of the country, and it also meant that by the end of the week the bread would be stale, the salt-preserved meat infested with flies and the fruits soft. The men mistrusted Ralon. Obviously he didn't tell them that he was a noble, but it wouldn't have been hard to guess. He was young, proud, with a sneering nose and didn't walk with a slouch, as the miners did.

He didn't know why he decided to stay at the small village. Never before did he have to wash his own plates and his clothes, light his own fires in his miniature fireplace or eat stale bread. He could've easily ridden away, gone somewhere else, but he didn't. The shock of what had happened to him held him there that first night, and after that, he just felt like he didn't care anymore.

"I have to WHAT?" he had exclaimed incredulously, when Alya, one of the cooks, informed him that he had to wash his plate and cutlery.

The woman didn't even look at him as she replied. "Hurry up, lad, we ain't staying here all day."

This angered Ralon somehow. He hated this place already – the less-than-servant-size quarters, the old and musty smelling furniture. Washing utensils was a servants' job in Ralon's eyes, he didn't have to do it. He didn't want to do it. He couldn't do it.

"I refuse," he said flatly. Alya ignored him – she had had five sons, she knew how to deal with the anarchy. She walked away, collecting the plates of men who had finished washing. But this made Ralon even angrier.

"I said I REFUSE!" he shouted, rather like a child having a tantrum. Everyone in the room turned to stare at him, and he loved the attention he was getting. He shoved his soiled plate to the nearest miner. "YOU wash it, " he said. "I am NOT going to work like a slave. I REFUSE to do it. I –"

"Would somebody do us a favour," someone called out, "and shut the insane lad up."

The miners burst into laughter, and Ralon was getting beyond annoyed. At that time, the supervisor walked into the room, taking his nice hat off – it had been raining again outside. "What's going on in here?" he demanded, eyes sweeping around the room.

The men had fallen silent the moment the supervisor had walked in the door. They knew about his rigidity, his strictness, his temper and his frequency of using severe punishments. But Ralon didn't know this. As the man approached him, he drew himself up with an air of importance and announced, "I will not do slaves' work. No-one can make me."

The supervisor merely looked at him coolly. "Are you defying our regulations, young man?"

"Maybe I am." And with a flick of his wrist, he sent the plate downwards onto the hard flagstones, where it cracked into numerous pieces.

Suddenly, Ralon felt hands on his shoulders and arms and saw some of the soldiers holding him tightly. The boy struggled, but it was in vain.

The supervisor looked straight into Ralon's grey eyes. "There are rules everywhere, boy, and to defy each rule has its own punishment." And so the two guards proceeded to lead the boy outside, while a third went to retrieve a whip from the guards' quarters.

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*influenced by Isobelle Carmody in her novel The Keeping Place.

that was a looong chapter compared to chapter one… and our poor Ralon's going to be hurt again. I'm curious to know, how do you like Ralon as a character? Please review this story, because if not I might lose heart. I wrote this story for all the people out there who read drama!

Thanks to my reviewers: Lil Miss Barton, anymos and Keaira.

By the way, Alya is pronounced 'ar-lee-a'… not that it really matters, but still.

Next chapter: we are present as Ralon gets flogged, as he mines, as he finds his, er, 'hut' robbed and as he plots revenge…