- Messages
- 39
Vel Anir, 347
"Again."
The stick was heavier every time he swung it. The bruising had blossomed into blisters, and his face appeared like it might twist up from the constant stinging. Alakir struck the wooden dummy again, because he knew.
Whatever pain he felt now, however uncomfortable he was, the alternative was worse. "You're slowing down," his father snapped. "Slow down on a battlefield, see how far it gets you."
Whenever he was alone, Alakir prayed that he might develop a talent. Magical power in Vel Anir meant they came for you and snatched you out of your home. It would have meant freedom. But the spark never came.
"Stay in your stance!" came the harsh reprimand. The lancing heat of a switch against his calves almost sent him sprawling. "Concentrate entirely on staying upright. An enemy who takes your footing takes your life."
"Father, I'm not old enough to join the Guard," he whined. "There's years before I have to start training. The other boys are playing in the square, and I was hoping-"
The switch caught him across the face as his father's rage turned on him entirely. "You want to go play?" he roared. "Not old enough for training? To think a son of mine might utter such things!"
The boy hit the cobblestones in a heap. He did not cry out. Alakir knew what happened if he cried.
"Get up!" his father grabbed his shoulder and lifted him upright. "Get up, I said!"
Blood drained from his nose and his face burned red where he hit the ground, face first. His father sneered. "That's right, you're up now. And don't let me hear any more of this nonsense about playing in the square."
"Yes, father." The words were hollow, practiced.
"Go inside, get cleaned up. Dinner should be ready soon. Then, I'll read you a story about the Guard. How does that sound?"
Alakir felt numb as he hobbled toward the trough and ladled out water. The cold liquid burned as it washed over his sounds, and the acrid metallic taste turned his stomach. He plunged his face into the trough, and opened his mouth wide.
Every time he had to do it, he submerged himself a bit longer. Each time, he was a bit less afraid of what might happen if he never came up for air.
He always came back up, though.
"Maybe she's made meat pies again," Alakir murmured absently. He fixed his thoughts on pleasant things and pressed aside the things he hated. "A meat pie would be right nice, I think."
When he stepped inside, his mother dove on him. "What is this?" she boomed. "You've got a deep cut, what were you doing?"
"I fell," he shrugged. He did not look to affirm the glare his father had fixed him with. He could feel it just fine.
"Fell? Looks like someone took a knife to your face, it does!" She lifted her handkerchief and blotted the red away. "Did you get in a fight with one of the neighbor boys?"
"No, mum," Alakir sighed. "I'm fine. Promise."
"Settle in then," she gestured toward the table. "And keep this tight to your cheek til the blood stops. We're having stew for dinner."
"Again."
The stick was heavier every time he swung it. The bruising had blossomed into blisters, and his face appeared like it might twist up from the constant stinging. Alakir struck the wooden dummy again, because he knew.
Whatever pain he felt now, however uncomfortable he was, the alternative was worse. "You're slowing down," his father snapped. "Slow down on a battlefield, see how far it gets you."
Whenever he was alone, Alakir prayed that he might develop a talent. Magical power in Vel Anir meant they came for you and snatched you out of your home. It would have meant freedom. But the spark never came.
"Stay in your stance!" came the harsh reprimand. The lancing heat of a switch against his calves almost sent him sprawling. "Concentrate entirely on staying upright. An enemy who takes your footing takes your life."
"Father, I'm not old enough to join the Guard," he whined. "There's years before I have to start training. The other boys are playing in the square, and I was hoping-"
The switch caught him across the face as his father's rage turned on him entirely. "You want to go play?" he roared. "Not old enough for training? To think a son of mine might utter such things!"
The boy hit the cobblestones in a heap. He did not cry out. Alakir knew what happened if he cried.
"Get up!" his father grabbed his shoulder and lifted him upright. "Get up, I said!"
Blood drained from his nose and his face burned red where he hit the ground, face first. His father sneered. "That's right, you're up now. And don't let me hear any more of this nonsense about playing in the square."
"Yes, father." The words were hollow, practiced.
"Go inside, get cleaned up. Dinner should be ready soon. Then, I'll read you a story about the Guard. How does that sound?"
Alakir felt numb as he hobbled toward the trough and ladled out water. The cold liquid burned as it washed over his sounds, and the acrid metallic taste turned his stomach. He plunged his face into the trough, and opened his mouth wide.
Every time he had to do it, he submerged himself a bit longer. Each time, he was a bit less afraid of what might happen if he never came up for air.
He always came back up, though.
"Maybe she's made meat pies again," Alakir murmured absently. He fixed his thoughts on pleasant things and pressed aside the things he hated. "A meat pie would be right nice, I think."
When he stepped inside, his mother dove on him. "What is this?" she boomed. "You've got a deep cut, what were you doing?"
"I fell," he shrugged. He did not look to affirm the glare his father had fixed him with. He could feel it just fine.
"Fell? Looks like someone took a knife to your face, it does!" She lifted her handkerchief and blotted the red away. "Did you get in a fight with one of the neighbor boys?"
"No, mum," Alakir sighed. "I'm fine. Promise."
"Settle in then," she gestured toward the table. "And keep this tight to your cheek til the blood stops. We're having stew for dinner."