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Sixteen year old Joren of Stone Mountain was said by many to be the spitting image of his father, from his white blond hair to his so-pale-it-was-practically-translucent skin and almost feminine bone structure. The likeness didn't just pertain to his physical appearance. The quick temper, strong intellect, and the narcissistic, egotistical air in which they viewed the world were also shared attributes. Joren's one saving grace, though, was the simple fact that only half of his unique genetic mix came from his father. Because his mother was a different case entirely.

Languidly spread across his plush mattress, Joren yawned, stretched, and calmly rolled over. The sun streamed in through the partially opened window of his bedroom in the palace, catching his hair and making it glow like strands of pure silver in the early morning light. His trial had concluded late yesterday afternoon, and he had lucked out yet again, completely avoiding jail time, but still awaiting "punishment". He knew it would be nothing but a slap on the wrists, and he couldn't believe his fortune. He couldn't help but smirk as his mother's fears entered his mind. 'Curse, my ass.' He rolled over and attempted to fall asleep again. Unfortunately, the second he closed his eyes, his door burst open. Joren jumped up, only to fall back down with an exasperated sigh once he saw the form of his father at the doorway. Burchard covered the distance of the room in what seemed like two strides, stopping directly beside the bed.

"Get up." Joren groaned and rolled over. "Now." When he made no attempt to move, Buchard reached down and grabbed a fistful of his son's shoulder-length hair, pulling the boy's head up from the pillow.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Without releasing his grip, Burchard shoved a fistful of parchment into his son's face. " Your horse is saddled up and waiting in the stables. You have exactly an hour to pack up your things and leave this city before the government will take you into custody. You cannot come back here for five years. If they find you, they'll arrest you." His expression was cold, distant, and his tone was monotonous. "Do not try to contact me or my wife. We have no connection to you anymore."

Joren spun out of his father's grip and turned to face him. "What are you talking about?"

"Come on now, Joren. You honestly didn't think that your actions would go without repercussions. Especially in a country as…progressive as this. You aren't allowed to return until the year after the whore has taken her ordeal, and you have to be blind to miss the irony in that. But you made this decision, so you must be able to deal with the consequences."

His blue eyes widened. "What? I made this decision? YOU were the one who -- " His accusation abruptly ended as Burchard's palm collided with his nose. Burchard once again threw the stack of papers onto Joren's lap. " Here. Reading material for the next five years." Joren looked up at his father with an expression of horror, the dark red blood seeping out of his nose a shocking contrast to his own pale skin. "If you ever try to contact us again, I'll kill you."

Joren's shock disappeared and was replaced with his usual stubborn expression, as he reached up to wipe the river of blood that was flooding out of his obviously broken nose. "I'm not leaving."

Burchard grinned sardonically for a brief moment before wrenching Joren up from the bed by his arm. He then grabbed a huge burlap sack from the closet and thrust it into Joren's free hand. "Either you pack you things now or you leave without them." When Joren didn't move, Burchard started hastily pulling Joren's possessions out of his closet and stuffing it into the bag. As his father moved on to the contents of his dresser, Joren impulsively ran a hand through his hair, stopping when the back of his head began to throb, due to his fathers unique wakeup call. He picked up an old shirt that his father had strewn across the floor, and held it up to his pouring nose. "This isn't happening."

The packing now complete, Burchard once again grasped Joren by his arm and drug him out of the room.

"Wait, I'm leaving now? Can I at least change clothes first?" Burchard sighed and released Joren's arm. "You have five minutes." Burchard thrust an outfit into his son's hands before walking out into the corridor, closing the door behind him. He quickly slipped out of his bloodied bedclothes and changed into the clothing his father left for him. Once dressed, he stood in what would soon no longer be his room, the possessions of his former life thrown about and lying in disheveled piles along the floor. His nose throbbed and he briefly wished that his weak Gift was a healing one. Weighing his options, Joren realized that there was no way to get out of this situation. Still, as he heard his father knock on the bedroom door, he made a break for the open window. He didn't even make it past the bed before his father had him in his clutches again.

You know, it was probably my luck that my father would lead me directly past the one person that I would never want to see in my weakest moment. But there she was, walking down the corridor with her giant friend. At first glance, she seethed with hatred behind her stony mask, but then her look turned to one of shock and I was suddenly painfully aware of the blood that was streaming down my face. I must have looked like a monster.

Once the duo reached the palace stables, they were met by a servant holding the reigns to Joren's large black gelding. The horse had already been saddled and various camping supplies were already packed on. Burchard handed another servant Joren's bag of possessions, which were immediately tied on to the back of the horse.

"You're really going through with this?"

"You didn't leave me with much of a choice"

"And what about my mother? Does she know what you're doing?" Joren knew he was grasping at straws now.

"No, she doesn't know. And she never will."

"So are you just going to pretend like I never existed?"

"No, I'm going to tell her that you ran away like the coward you are."

After holding his emotions in for so long, Joren finally broke down. "But you told me to do whatever it took to stop her!" he choked out between sobs. He knew that he was breaking the Stone Mountain golden rule: never show weakness. The dirt and hay dust from the stables burned his throat as he shakily inhaled a steadying breath. "It's you're fault!"

Burchard leaned in until his face was nearly touching Joren's before speaking, "I didn't force you to do it. You decided it had to be done out of your own accord. And besides," Joren could feel his hot breath on his neck. "I never told you to get caught."

He then forced Joren onto his horse, and gradually led him out into the warm summer air. "You know," he broke the silence, and looked up at his young son. "I hear Carthak is nice this time of year." And with that, he slapped Joren's horse once from behind and the gelding took off, leading Joren out of the city and leaving Burchard childless for the second time in his life.

I have never been more scared than I was in the first few hours of my journey down the Great Road. I knew that the city of Persopolis was about a week away, and I made it there without a problem. My father left me just enough money for supplies, and, after a night of fitful sleep in a dirty inn near the town brothel, the cesspool of Persopolis' finest, I was on the road to Carthak the next morning. Taking the great southern road through the mountainous area of Tortall near the Great Inland Sea wasn't an easy feat, but if I could manage it back then, then anyone could. Plus, thanks to my father's skillful packing, I was well prepared for any weather the gods sent my way. It took about two weeks to reach the ferry to Carthak and I spent the very last of the money my father left me on the boarding pass on the ferry. So once I reached a large village on the outskirts of the capital city, my funds were exhausted. Looking back, I don't see how I had any option other than settling down there and finding a job, but it didn't actually dawn on me. I initially wandered into the village's market in search of finding something to eat, then continuing on into Carthak. I guess the gods had a different plan.

The open air market of the village of Merca was bustling with activity late in the afternoon on the day of Joren's arrival. The peasants of the town had set up booths filled with everything from fabrics, foods, and household items to weaponry and texts. Livestock wandered aimlessly throughout the area and the sounds of a group of traveling musicians infiltrated the main square. Joren led his horse between the rows of goods, evading the beckoning gestures and calls of the merchants trying to interest him in a "deal". His evasion techniques apparently weren't as effective as he had hoped, because minutes later he felt a hand on his shoulder. Joren spun around quickly and found himself face to face with the oldest man he had ever seen. Ok, well maybe that was a slight exaggeration, but it was obvious that the man facing him had lived a rough life. The man was tall, despite his curving back, and towered over Joren. His frame was frail, however, and his thinning white hair stood comically on end. The lines on his face were so deep that they looked as if they were carved in stone.

"You looking for work?" He asked in an articulate, thickly accented voice.

Despite the fact that everything about this man deeply frightened Joren, he sneered up at him. "I don't think so."

The man looked him up and down, noting every detail, from his stained, dirty clothing, to his matted hair and the bit of blood still on the neck of his shirt. "What are you, a runaway?" He paused. When Joren didn't answer, he continued. "I own a blacksmith's shop two streets over from the market and I'm looking for a…apprentice, of sorts. I'll give you food and a place to stay for a year in exchange for your services. After you've completed a year of work, I'll give you 40 silver nobles and send you on your way. Come on, son, what other option do you have?"

Joren once again sent him a look of disgust, turned around, and walked away.

Three days later, he found the man in the market again.

"I didn't think I would be seeing you again, son," the man coolly responded as Joren approached him.

"I want to accept your job offer"

He grinned wryly. "I don't know…you look a little too fragile for work as a blacksmith."

"I could work circles around you," Joren snarled.

At this the old man laughed. "I don't doubt that; I'm an old man!" He looked Joren up and down once more, and finally stuck out his hand. "The name's William"

Joren hesitated for a moment, and then grasped his hand. "I'm Thomas."

"Thomas." William paused for a moment and then continued, accepting the lie. "Well, Thomas, can you read and write?"

Joren looked at him in shock, obviously insulted. "Of course!"

"Can you speak Scanran?"

"No"

"Tyran?"

"No."

"How about Yamani?"

"What does this have to do with swinging a hammer anyway?"

William laughed, ignoring Joren's disrespectful air. "It has everything to do with it." He grabbed the reigns of Joren's horse out of his hands. "Now come along, we have a lot of work to do."

The old man gave me everything without a question and how did I repay him? By fully ruining his life. I regret what I did to him more than anything I've ever done in my life, but I made the decision to do what I did and now I have to live with it. Please remember that I warned you. I'm not a good person.

My days with him and what I did is a story for another time, but that story triggered a series of events that ended up with me spending the past three weeks in a Carthaki jail. I didn't do anything serious, mind you, but I did commit my third strike. Okay, it was more like my twelfth strike. But, anyway, I had been Marked, yet again, as a thief (luckily, the Marker was a former "friend", so it was relatively painless and it ended up looking pretty good if I do say so myself), and now I was just biding my time, waiting for them to grow tired of holding me and let me go. They usually held me for about a month so I figured my time was almost up. Little did I know that today would be the day that I had a visitor who would demand to take me back to a place to which I had no desire to return.

Twenty-four year old Joren, formally of Stone Mountain, stretched across the dirt floor of his prison cell, arching his aching back and raising his arms overhead. He then sighed and sat up, running his uninjured hand through his short, white-blond hair. His once feminine features had changed with age: his strong, sharp jaw line and his severe, albeit slightly bent (a permanent reminder from his last day at the palace) nose gave the appearance of a stern, testing man who was not one to be messed with. The difficulty of the last few years of his life did not go unnoticed. A long, thick scar crossed the left side of his face, extending diagonally from the side of his chin until it disappeared into his hairline, about a half an inch away from his shocking, ice-blue eye and half of his right earlobe was missing. His last robbery resulted with a broken wrist, which he kept in a sling, and he walked with a permanent limp from a busted knee, thanks to his last encounter with William. Twelve black lines were tattooed down his right arm, from his collarbone to his wrist, Carthak's new policy to help identify its most notorious thieves, and everything about Joren screamed notoriety.

His weeks at the prison had gone without a single visitor; Joren's real friends knew better than to be seen in a place like this. So you can imagine his surprise when two prison guards tied his hands together and escorted him to the makeshift visiting chamber of the small town jail, sitting him down in chair at the far corner of the large table in the center of the room.

Joren looked up at the less malicious looking of the two guards. "Care to tell me what I'm doing here?"

"Seems someone actually has the pity to visit you, ghost." The guards had given him this colorful nickname during his first visit to the prison, due in part to his pale skin and hair, and also due to his crimes, where he could enter the houses of his victims with unbelievable ease and without notice, much like the ghosts of myth.

The second, slightly more evil guard reopened the door that the group had previously entered, and led his visitor to the table, sitting her down opposite from Joren. She was older than Joren, probably in her early forties, but equally as pale, and as scarred. Her long dark hair did nothing to conceal the five inch, jagged scar that lined her forehead and stopped mere centimeters away from her right eye and, visible due to the sweeping neckline of her olive green dress, burn scars covered her exposed chest. Although the woman was completely unfamiliar to him, Joren felt a brief flicker of recognition upon glancing in her huge violet eyes.

She turned toward the guards. "You can leave us now. Thomas and I have a lot of catching up to do". Once she heard the click of the closing door, she turned to him and studied him for a moment. "Well, Joren, you've sure grown up. But I guess we've both changed a bit since the last time we met."

AN: okay, a few notes… I have been thinking about writing this story for about three years and I've previously posted one or two chapters of stories very slightly similar to this one over the years. However, I do intend to continue this one, if enough people enjoy it. This story is pretty much AU after the events of Page, but every character other than Joren is the same as they were at the end of Squire. I never read Lady Knight, so obviously I don't know what happens in that book, though I have a feeling that Joren remains dead. The town of Merca is all mine (actually, I read it out of my history book, I think...there are also other history refrences, such as the cesspool theory, etc, which come from my textbook), but I tried to take the rest of the geography directly out of the cover of the Alanna books.

The title of this story was originally supposed to be Rumors of my Death Have Been Greatly Exaggerated, the famous quotation from the author Mark Twain, but, after having a high school English teacher who was absolutely obsessed with the man, I got sick of him. Last year, I pretty much fell in love with a band called Rise Against, who has a song entitled "Rumors of my Demise Have Been Greatly Exaggerated", and I thought the reference and the lyrics were really cool, so, that's the title. The title of the song and the lyrics themselves will play an important part in later chapters.

Finally, Joren's present with the "mysterious" (I'm sure you all figured it out) woman, his thoughts, his past with William, and everything in between will continue to weave in and out of this story and everything will be answered, so PLEASE REVIEW AND LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK!!!