10-16-2009, 06:08 PM
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As his aunt, his mother, his savior, spoke, there was only the swivel of an ear to even seem that he had heard her. Misery often spoke to her dead king. She had done so when she had saved him from the Khalif. How many years had he scraped by on luck? Nearly four. Strangers came and were burnt. Then, one winter, there were no more strangers. Like those who had come before him, those that Tak had chosen, Larkspur was destined for the fire. He fought. He screamed. He had been cut and battered and nearly taken.
Then she had come. Like a ghost from the fog Misery had appeared. Never again had he heard her voice as it had been that day. It had changed into a low, dominating tone. She did not need to raise it in order to be heard. He listened, as if he would never hear anything again. Lark understood what she was, just as the rest of them had. The boy had been chosen. Bleeding, on his knees, he had grabbed onto her and buried his face into her fur. My life for you, he had sworn, over and over again. There had been a peculiar change in her eyes when he said that, one he did not recognize.
Since that day, he had kept his word. Come hell and high water the boy (now nearly five) had stayed with her, a faithful companion, follower, son. Over his shoulders the fur throw remained, the only piece of clothing that the thick-furred male had ever needed. He carried no weapons; his size was enough to protect them both, and Misery had forbid such a thing. In all truth he did nothing that she did not ask or tell him to do. His hair, bleached to a bright orange (save for the roots, which were growing in quickly) fell around his face haphazardly. All of his hair was peculiar like that—marred by those patches of orange the same color as his eyes—save the pristine scars along his arms.
Under him, his own horse followed the stallion. A mare, flaxen chestnut, had been taken the night he stole the stallion. Misery never asked him how he did what he did, only that it be done. Lark was crafty. It was the only reason he had survived as long as he had. Not a sound came from the four year old; after all, she had not been speaking to him.
As his aunt, his mother, his savior, spoke, there was only the swivel of an ear to even seem that he had heard her. Misery often spoke to her dead king. She had done so when she had saved him from the Khalif. How many years had he scraped by on luck? Nearly four. Strangers came and were burnt. Then, one winter, there were no more strangers. Like those who had come before him, those that Tak had chosen, Larkspur was destined for the fire. He fought. He screamed. He had been cut and battered and nearly taken.
Then she had come. Like a ghost from the fog Misery had appeared. Never again had he heard her voice as it had been that day. It had changed into a low, dominating tone. She did not need to raise it in order to be heard. He listened, as if he would never hear anything again. Lark understood what she was, just as the rest of them had. The boy had been chosen. Bleeding, on his knees, he had grabbed onto her and buried his face into her fur. My life for you, he had sworn, over and over again. There had been a peculiar change in her eyes when he said that, one he did not recognize.
Since that day, he had kept his word. Come hell and high water the boy (now nearly five) had stayed with her, a faithful companion, follower, son. Over his shoulders the fur throw remained, the only piece of clothing that the thick-furred male had ever needed. He carried no weapons; his size was enough to protect them both, and Misery had forbid such a thing. In all truth he did nothing that she did not ask or tell him to do. His hair, bleached to a bright orange (save for the roots, which were growing in quickly) fell around his face haphazardly. All of his hair was peculiar like that—marred by those patches of orange the same color as his eyes—save the pristine scars along his arms.
Under him, his own horse followed the stallion. A mare, flaxen chestnut, had been taken the night he stole the stallion. Misery never asked him how he did what he did, only that it be done. Lark was crafty. It was the only reason he had survived as long as he had. Not a sound came from the four year old; after all, she had not been speaking to him.
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