Jessi: When trying to write this chapter I got stuck. Suddenly inspiration struck me last night and this is the result. It's inspired by Zatoichi, possibly the greatest samurai movie ever made, random thoughts in my brain and The Tommy-Knockers by Stephen King.
Chapter Six: Past
Rhisiart kept his eyes fixed firmly on the floor, his hair falling forward to disguise his face as he knelt on the floor. One knee rested on the uncomfortable wooden floor and his left leg was held in a stiff right angle, foot on the floor. His corresponding arm rested on his thigh and his right arm came forward and upwards to grasp the hilt of his leaf-patterned blade.
He kept concentrating on the point of the slender sword and thought about how he'd like to take it and push it into the neck of the mage.
He kept berating himself for such violent thoughts. The Teithr family had been kind enough to take him in and train him in the use of this blade when the eldest Teithr child, Emrys, discovered that particular talent within him.
Yet his mind kept returning to the day when his parents were killed by outcast elves, while he was at the tender age of fifteen, escaping only by tumbling into a cave.
The black-haired elf had come to in a house with falcons carved on the doors, grand staircases and healthy, well-dressed servants. The family that lived here were nobles, though they did not act like the nobles his father had talked about in a bitter tone.
Mihangel and Eryri, couldn't have been nicer to him. He had been slightly worried about their three children but those fears were groundless.
Emrys was the oldest, a fearless and unbeatable warrior with a kind and carefree spirit. With her deep blue hair and eyes and flawless features he though she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
Lledr was quiet and studious and training to be a mage.
Malurion was merely five years older than Rhisiart, confident and outgoing with a silver tongue.
The first time the black-haired elf had met them he'd been immediately struck by their similarity. All three siblings were so close to each other in appearance and in their relationship.
It had been Malurion who was the closest to him... had been the closest, a friend and companion for many years.
The young warrior hissed, as jumbled images flashed through his head. Malurion and Rhisiart- inseparable- running through the forest on a hunt with Emrys or out riding with Lledr. More broken memories flooded him.
The leaf-patterned sword clattered on the wooden floor as Rhisiart clutched at his head, slender fingers disappearing into the shadow-black strands of his hair. Pain gnawed at the inside of his skull, something that happened on-and-off. Groaning, Rhisiart bent double.
There was a soft, metallic sound, a slight pause and then an equally soft voice came to fill the silence,
"That's no way to treat Emrys' sword," glancing up Rhisiart saw Lledr standing beside him, the blade in one of his pale hands. The mage knelt slowly and proffered the object in his other hand.
It was a porcelain bowl, filled with water with a folded compress. The black-haired elf took it and stared down at his reflection as Lledr set the beautiful weapon down onto the floor and got up to leave.
"...I am sorry that I insulted your family... Lord Teithr. Please forgive me."
"Rhi, it's your family too..." Lledr turned back to regard the younger elf, "Please don't ever forget that."
When the black-haired elf spoke no more the mage left the room.
Malurion sat on the floor, knees drawn up close to his chest. It was this part of the house that he went to when he needed to think. It was the house chapel, dedicated to Corellon Larthian, the God of Elves. Most of the servants here were half-elves and some worshipped Corellon but at this time of night the chapel was empty.
The rouge was thinking- thinking back to the night that ruined his live forever.
Today the Teithr house was in an uproar. Today Neiltu returned home.
"Who is Neiltu?" Rhisiart, clad in his best clothes and perched on the end of a desk, cocked his head to one side in confusion.
"Neiltu is our uncle- a famous war leader. He's been gone since Lledr was small," at Emrys' mention of his name Lledr looked up from his book,
"Pardon?"
"Back to your book, Lledr," Emrys laughed as he complied with no hesistantion. She picked up her sword, and drew it to transfer it to another sheath that matched her gown.
"Em, will we still be able to continue our sword practice?" Rhisiart's talent at swordplay had been discovered last year and he was almost as good as Emrys now.
"Of course. Dendar would have to swallow the sun before I'd miss it."
"I hope I get to be like you one day, Em."
Emrys leant closer and smiled,
"You will be... Tell you what, if anything happens to me you can have my sword."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
The four elven youngsters rode behind Lord and Lady Teithr in two rows, Emrys and Lledr in front and Malurion and Rhisiart behind them. All six rode near-identical white horses with matching blue tack. Their guards all wore the falcon crest of the Teithr house, their chain mail polished until it shone in the sunlight.
Neiltu arrived in no-less grand a fashion. Leading a large column of elven soldiers on dazzling white charger and clad in brilliantly bright plate armour, decorated with elven runes of protection and battle, he was every inch a war hero...
Or so they thought.
"Have you noticed something different about Rhisiart?"
It was a tenday after Neiltu's return. It should be a happy occasion, and there had indeed been many feasts and celebrations. Yet the black-haired Teithr seemed not to be sharing the general mood about the place.
"Now that you mention it," Lledr put down his book and leant back in his chair, "He does seem more withdrawn lately."
Malurion glanced up at Emrys,
"There's been more outcast attacks recently. Maybe it brought back bad memories?"
"Rhi has always been closest to you, Malurion. Maybe you should talk to him?" Emrys knew this to be the truth, the two youngest were near-inseparable. If anyone would be able to coax the truth out of their adopted sibling it would be Malurion.
Malurion had been worried about this conversation to say the least. Every time he saw Rhisiart an irrational feeling of fear grew in the pit of his stomach, making him nauseous. It was only now, when everyone else had retired to their rooms long ago that he started padding softly down the hall. His passage was silent, a skill that would serve him well in his future career as a rouge and a dragonstalker.
He reached Rhisiart's door, carved with the familiar swooping falcon carved onto the surface. When he tried the door, he found that it was locked, an odd thing for Rhisiart.
Frowning, he glanced around before removing something from his sleeve. It was a lock pick he'd stolen from the guard's room. The pick and the others like it in the roll of black velvet hidden in his room had once belonged to an unsuccessful thief that tried to steal a prized sapphire necklace from Lady Eryri Teithr. The burglar hadn't reckoned with the protection spells woven about various valuables around the house.
Malurion's practising paid off and the door opened without a sound. As the elf saw what was happening in the other room he staggered back, his mouth opened with just as much sound as the door.
His young mind struggled to take in what was happening and when he did finally make a sound, it was a tiny hoarse cry. But by that time Neiltu had seized him and had dragged him into the room behind the closed door.
"Please... please... don't do this," Malurion heard himself beg as he frantically backed into the corner. He'd didn't want this to happen. He didn't want to end up like Rhisiart, lying on sheets stained with blood and semen, tears of shame, terror and pain working their way down his face, bright crimson fluid on his arm where he'd bitten so hard it had drawn blood.
"Rhi, did Mal-" Emrys froze as she looked upon the scene and that was her doom. Neiltu sprang forward, bowling her backwards. Unfortunately the only thing behind her was a flight of stairs.
By the time she hit the floor she was dead, her neck bent at an impossible angle.
Red mists desended in front of Malurion's vision. He saw the dagger lying on the desk. He picked it up and he didn't let go of it until he was hit across the head with a sword hilt.
He'd stabbed the raping murderer sixteen times.
The only one who did not remember Malurion's banishment was Rhisiart. The black-haired elf, trumatised by the experience, had gone into a state almost like sleep walking.
When he had snapped out of it Lledr told him that Malurion had been made an outcast.
Crimes like this one makes people blind, blind and stupid. They needed a scapegoat.
Malurion had been that scapegoat.