Millennium [2/?]
anonymous
July 8 2010, 04:15:29 UTC
He moved quietly through the wood. His bare feet pressed precisely into the earth, disturbing no undergrowth, his body flowing through it, letting the foliage pass across flashes of bare skin, branches leaving tiny red scrapes behind. The shadows turned his skin even paler, the deep earth color of his cloak blending in perfectly. A creature of the woods.
Minutes later, he found himself in the glade where the intruder's scent was most prominent. About twenty-five-feet in diameter, it was surrounded by an interlocking circle of life oaks, pines and maples, their branches a tapestry against the morning sky. There was a good amount of undergrowth as well. The intruder had dared to set up camp there.
In soft, shushing whispers, the trees announced the intruder was coming.
The intruder treaded upon the land with the arrogance of a man who took what he wanted by force. The trees bristled in anger at his loud footsteps, at his disrespect. They turned to [their] human and demanded the removal of the trespasser at once.
It was an order, it was the magic that bound him to this place, and so he did as he was told.
He squatted on his heels, putting his back against one of the large oaks growing so closely to the pines he was enclosed on three sides. Even more important, he was shadowed. Even if he weren't, it would be of no importance. This intruder, just like the dozens that had come before him, would be as easy to get rid of as a stink worm.
Slowly he raised his head, bracing the back of his head on the tree trunk. The branches of the large live oak across from him stretched out like gnarled arms of a giant. There were a variety of sounds now: Leaves and branches making contact as the breeze picked up, moving through them. One of the rodents scratched at something. A bark in the distance from the wild hellhounds as one of the pack's dog found something of interest and warned one of his most aggressive brethren back because he wasn't finished examining it to his satisfaction. The hellhounds would have come with him, but he'd ordered them to stay behind.
He could hear the quiet sound of his own breath. His heartbeat. Thud. Thud.
Then the intruder stilled, pausing mid-step. Something, perhaps instinct, had warned him of the coming danger. The intruder was clearly a hunter, his belt strapped with numerous knifes of different lengths. Fingering one of the knives, the intruder furrowed his brow before continuing to his makeshift camp, apparently finding nothing out of the ordinary.
He wasted no time in killing him; with a fluid, smooth movement of his hand, he took an arrow from the wrist gauntlet and pulled the bow tight.
The arrow flew, knowing it would meet its mark long before it sank itself into the intruder's chest, past hard muscle and fleshy fat until it buried its tip in the man's heart. Without even registering the last seconds of his life, the intruder sank to his knees with a dull thud.
Walking out of the shadows, he stepped forward.
His arrows had been a present from the fairies; it would be a great insult to lose one of them after all. Stepping back, he wiped the arrowhead on his cloak.
Before his very eyes, the trees came to life. Roots slithered up the intruder's fallen body, twisting and coiling until nothing could be seen of the man but patches of his blonde hair. With a sick, crunching sound, the body snapped in two. Blood immediately pooled at his feet, though he knew it would be gone in seconds once the soil was done soaking it up.
The man's blood would be a great fertilizer for the earth, foul though it may be. Rarely did they get any innocents with pure blood.
Squatting down on his heels, he ran a finger across the crimson puddle.
Upon contact, the tiny rosebud growing from his hand sprung open.
It was as rich and as red as the intruder's blood.
--
Eh…I promise this will have a happy ending. OP if you are still out there, do you have any preference to what America’s role should be? Wandering vagabond hero, runaway prince, evil wizard, etc :D I have an outline, but I want to know what you want. Again, sorry that this isn’t quite what you wanted ; ;
Re: Millennium [2/?]
anonymous
July 8 2010, 04:33:28 UTC
I am the Lorax and I speak for the trees OP (but not officially) when I say that this prologue is prolly exactly what she was looking for- but wait! THERE'S MORE!
Your writing style is absolutely fantastic; your descriptions are spot on. I now finally understand what my fourth grade teacher was preaching to my class when she said that imagery in stories 'paints a picture', because, honestly, this has "painted a [proverbial] picture" in my mind.
Your writing is flawless without wax. AND DON'T FORGET OUR PROMISE.
Re: Millennium [2/?]
anonymous
July 8 2010, 08:07:15 UTC
Whoa, that was an excellent start! I absolutely loved the gorgeous, engaging imagery. I had a sudden urge/want to see a picture book based on this.
I also vote for evil wizard. Vagabond hero and runaway prince sound so very fitting for America, but I can kind of already see how the story would go with those roles. Evil wizard!America, on the other hand... I'd kill to see that.
Millennium [3/?]
anonymous
July 13 2010, 01:10:56 UTC
Here we go again~! :D
- -
In the kingdom of America, magic was forbidden.
It had been the king's order; by his decree, no magic was to be performed, spoken of, or even acknowledged. He declared magic a taboo, a taboo that if broken, would mean death.
The young king hated magic with a passion, and unlike his late father, he was not fit to be king. The destruction of the once great kingdom had started with women and parties, but even that hadn't been so bad until the king had been ensnared by a beautiful fair-headed woman from the Eastern islands on the other side of the ocean. He married her. A year went by and the queen bore the king a set of twins. They were handsome boys, with hair and eyes like their mother. The people were happy, for the princes were a promise of a brighter future.
But the queen was not who she claimed to be. Under her guise of a beautiful angel, she was a witch in the wickedest of forms. Her beauty bewitched men and made them her servants. The king had only been one of her many victims, and he would hear none of the accusations against his queen. Anyone who spoke ill of his wife was promptly executed. Despite this, and even with a somewhat neglectful king at its helm, the kingdom had an aura of stability.
Except that the queen was easily bored. Her gratification had always required excess, and soon she began to need more parties and men, and wine, and young, pretty children from the court to alleviate the monotony of the men. And soon enough, drugs. The king had agreed to it all, like a shell to hold the queen's mind and nod its head yes to whatever she thought was best.
The people saw what was happening-their ruler, once so just and fair, began to punish law-abiding men and making alliances with criminals, wasting all the money in the king's coffers. Allies of the king began to fall away and withdraw their support, and ambitious fellows began to plot against the kingdom, training armies under the mask of self-defense. One day, they would turn against the crown. And who could blame them when things were so unstable? There was no law anymore, not outside the capital, for neither the queen nor king troubled to attend to it. The roads were no longer safe, and only a fool would travel alone.
Wars broke out in the kingdom, friend against friend, neighbor against neighbor, son against father. They were not proper wars, with trained battalions and armed soldiers; they were bloodbaths where alliances changed every week.
It was then that the king forbade any and all kinds of magic. It was never spoken out loud, but the whole kingdom knew it had been because of the queen. After all, a witch would never allow another witch to unseat her.
As for her two sons, only one had inherited her magic.
But the young prince saw it not as a gift, but as a curse. He bowed to take his secret to his grave, for he knew his father would not hesitate to send his own son to the gallows as he had done many before him.
Millennium [4/?]
anonymous
July 13 2010, 01:24:36 UTC
It did not surprise Arthur that the knight shot him.
What surprised him was that the knight shot him by accident.
The arrow had plunged into him square in the arm and threw him sideways against a boulder. A warm, slippery wetness quickly spread down his arm, seeping into the tawny brown cloak he wore. On his way down, he twisted his knee; the sting of it forced a curse from his lips and crystalline tears to his eyes.
The force of the arrow knocked the air out of him. The pain was too great to ignore, but behind it he focused his mind, made it as sharp as a knife and as cold as the toughest winter. He reached toward the archer with his mind, invisible hands seeking the one who had hurt him.
Greater than the pain was his shock. Never in all his life had he ever been hurt by accident. More often the men who tried to hurt him were angry or arrogant or frightened of him; more often than not the men who came after him were greedy merchants who thought to sell him for a hefty price.
He was the monster witch from the enchanted woods; of course many would seek to kill him. Arthur kept them out of the forests, killed them on sight when they set foot on sacred woods. Although most denied his existence, there were still those that knew the tales were true and sought him out. Then, they hunted him. Then, Arthur killed them.
It was his duty, the magic that bound him to this place, and so he did as he was told.
Gasping, he clutched the boulder and righted himself. He fumbled with the knife at his thigh, cursing himself. He'd been foolish, caught off guard. Daydreaming. Arthur should know better by now. He had a scar for every time he'd been caught off guard.
Steeling himself, he clutched the knife in his hand and waited.
The knight's footfalls, and then his breath, sounded through the trees.
Arthur had no time to waste, for the knight would shoot him again as soon as he saw what Arthur was. And Arthur could not let him live, not if the knight saw his face.
Even if he'd shot him by accident, the knight would surely kill him once he saw his face.
Arthur reached for him, gently, silently; and was utterly surprised when he found he could not find a crack in the fortress of the knight's mind. His heart skipped a beat, then hammered insistently against his ribcage like a trapped songbird.
This had never happened before.
Before Arthur could reach for the long bow slung over his back, for the quiver of white arrows-before he could even mutter a spell that would kill the knight before he took another breath-the knight rounded a tree and his impossibly blue eyes caught hold of Arthur's green ones, and widened in astonishment and horror.
The knight was a handsome youth of fair hair and cornflower blue eyes. At his side was a huge warhorse, towering above Arthur. He wore black leather boots, black woolen pants, and a fine thick coat of gleaming obsidian over layers of black wool and boiled leather. A very wealthy knight then. The long sword strapped to his belt was beautiful. Jewels glittered in its hilt.
And Arthur stared. He stared and he saw what he hadn't seen in decades.
Magic. Pure, brilliant, uncontrollable and wild. The knight was haloed in it, his magic a breathing, coiling, breathtaking thing of unspeakable wonders. It sang to Arthur, the knight's magic. It whispered to him, seeking Arthur's own magic; a brother seeking its twin, long ago separate and finally reunited. It had been decades since Arthur had met another, who like himself, wielded power of this caliber.
Magic was forbidden in the kingdom of America, banished by the king. Any child born with even the smallest hints of magical talent was killed, and those who'd held magic long before the king pronounced it taboo had been sentenced to death. Arthur had watched from the edge of the forest as they had burned, their remains rising to the air and turning into ashes. He'd never set foot outside the woods since that day.
But here this boy stood, his very being pulsing with magic so sweet and so utterly wonderful that it sent goose bumps down Arthur's spine.
Millennium [5/?]
anonymous
July 13 2010, 01:32:54 UTC
And Arthur could not read his thoughts, could not get past whatever shielded his mind to see what he was thinking. Strong as the knight's magic was, his mastery of it was plain to see: the knight had none.
Blood dripped down to the ground, splashes of red against the pale snow.
Arthur's thoughts scrambled. This boy-for he could be no older than eighteen summers at the very least-could close his mind against him. Arthur had never met anyone who could do that. It had taken him years upon years to learn how to penetrate the minds of others, and even more years to learn to shield his own mind.
Yet…when Arthur looked at him, all he could see was a boy whose mastery over his magic was as feeble and as sad as a cripple.
It was his eyes, Arthur realized with a grimace. It was always the eyes that held ones' magic. The boy's eyes were a dazzling blue matched only by the fairest of sapphires. Arthur could not recall ever seeing eyes as blue as this knight's.
A trick then. A clever trick, Arthur thought bitterly, to force him to let down his shields.
Of course they knew he would be unable to kill this boy. Magic was scarce in these lands, especially magic like the one the boy wielded. With a bit of training, the knight could become very powerful indeed. Arthur could not bring himself to kill this boy, not when he was probably the last human in this kingdom with magic coursing through his veins. Who was Arthur to take this treasure away from a world so dark and gray as this?
So it was decided. Arthur would not kill him. The forest could not possibly want his death either, and even if it did, Arthur would not kill this boy. He would take the brunt of it later if he had to. This knight was an innocent. His blood, made even more pure with magic, was far too precious to be spilled.
Arthur would knock him out and leave him outside the forest's edge for the rest of his party to find.
"Shit!" the knight swore, slinging his bow over his back. "Shit!" he cursed again, closing the distance between them with powerful, long strides.
Arthur flinched when the knight reached for him. He recoiled, glad the dark hood of his cloak hid his face from view. That his headscarf hid what made most men kill him on sight. Testing his sprained knee, he pulled his cloak tight against himself. Drawing back, he bowed his head, the slender knife concealed in his sleeve.
"I'm sorry," the knight said, viewing Arthur's behavior as one of fear. "Your cloak is brown pelt and your dress is brown," he said in a sudden burst of exasperation, running a large hand through his ash-blonde hair. He marched toward Arthur and inspected the arrow imbedded in his upper arm, the blood that soaked his cloak, his sleeve, his headscarf. "A fellow would think you were hoping to be shot by a hunter. You look like a deer."
Arthur was losing blood, and he was beginning to feel lightheaded. Pulling his hood down lower over his face, he pulled away from the knight's touch.
"What's wrong?" the knight asked, his brow furrowed in worry. His handsome face was an open book; his concern was genuine, as was his desire to help. He was honestly sorry he'd hurt Arthur. A white knight, how typical, Arthur thought wryly. Of course the one time he would be hurt by accident it would be by the hand of a prince charming. "Hey, I'm real sorry, honest. Let me take a look at it; I swear I don't bite."
Arthur felt his breath catch in his throat when the knight pushed away his hood to get a better look at his face. He recoiled, jumping back-but not before his hood fell back.
Millennium [6/?]
anonymous
July 13 2010, 01:41:32 UTC
Arthur's headscarf slipped off: sunrise, poppy, fuchsia, copper, flame. Red, brighter than the blood soaking the snow. The colors were there on the dew-kissed petals of the roses, the fiercely beautiful flowers in full bloom despite the cold winter season. They made a stark picture against the gold of his short, choppy hair. The green of his eyes matched the stems and leaves coiled around the length of his body, possessive in their ownership.
The knight stared at Arthur with wide blue eyes, then at his hand. There was blood trickling down his fingers, thin red gashes on his golden skin left behind by the roses' sharp thorns.
It was around this time that most men tried to kill him. They'd all heard the stories of the monster witch who lived in the enchanted woods.
"T-the witch," the knight croaked, disbelief etched on his face. He took a step forward, and then Arthur was upon him.
They were almost of equal height, give or take several inches. Arthur was slim and graceful as a sharpened knife compared to the knight's muscle and heavy bulk, but he was quicker than a rattlesnake and deadlier than a boa.
He sprang and swung at the knight's jaw with the side of his hand. Arthur lessened the force of the blow at the last instant, when he realized the knight hadn't raised his arm to block him. Arthur's hand hit the knight's face with a sickening crack. He watched, horrified, as the knight toppled backwards and his head slammed against the cold, hard ground. Arthur had hit him hard. He knew he'd hit the knight hard. And the fool hadn't defended himself.
Arthur may have killed hundreds of men before, but he did not prey upon the defenseless or the weak. A killer he may be, but he had his rules, a line he didn't cross. The forest knew too, that he wouldn't kill just anyone they wanted. Arthur killed murderers and rapists and thieves and foul men who had no business in the woods. The filth of the outside that had no right to set foot on sacred ground. But Arthur did not kill innocents.
And men who were obviously seasoned warriors and who could have easily blocked Arthur's attack but hadn't counted. The boy had magic, and untrained as he was with it, he could have easily hurt Arthur first after that accident with the arrow. But he hadn't.
Arthur ran to him, gripping the arrow sticking out of his arm and yanking it out. The knight lay on his side, both hands over his jaw. A tear trickled from his eye, over his bloodied fingers, and onto the red-dyed snow. He grunted-or sobbed, Arthur didn't know which. Arthur knelt beside him and gingerly touched his shoulder with his fingertips before drawing his hand back.
It wouldn't do the knight any good if Arthur touched him, not unless he wanted to bleed some more.
Wrapping his scarf around his head and pulling his hood down low to shield the dazzling roses from sight, Arthur kneeled beside him. He pulled his satchel from his back, digging out his bag of crushed herbs and medicinal powders. The knight stared at him from behind his fingers, blood trickling down his mouth and past his strong chin.
Arthur was surprised to find no fear in his eyes. In fact, he looked curious, if not a little entranced; his half-lidded eyes sought Arthur's face, now hidden again. Arthur frowned at that. It wouldn't do the knight any good if he fell for the roses' spell. They were pretty to look at, sure, but twice as dangerous. Plus the knight looked like the roses' type, they might just eat him. Arthur had no desire to clean up after them today.
There was also wariness to be found on his blue eyes, but that was a given. The boy was a knight; it came with the job.
Millennium [7/?]
anonymous
July 13 2010, 01:54:08 UTC
The knight shifted then, pushed himself up to a sitting position. He felt at the side of his jaw and opened and closed his mouth. He moved his jaw left and right, winced when he touched his busted lip. "I don't think it's broken." His voice was a whisper.
Silently, careful not to cut his face more, Arthur tenderly touched the knight's cheek with the tips of his fingers. When he pulled back, he saw the red gashes the force of his blow had left behind, and Arthur's fingers were dotted with blood. He lowered his eyes to the ground.
If he'd had control over his magic, the knight would have no problem healing himself. But he didn't, so that was that. Staring at the glittering blue power he'd made, Arthur reached inside of his hood to pluck a lone, red rose petal. He crushed it in his hand before mixing it with the powder.
Baby-blue eyes blinked at him. "Um. What are you doi-"
Blowing the powder at his face, now a strange scarlet color, Arthur felt his mouth twitch at the knight's expression.
It had been a long time since he'd had contact with another person-hunters wanting to kill him didn’t count. He also couldn't remember the last time he'd heard the sound of his own voice either, but that was neither here nor there. Collecting his things, Arthur slung his satchel over his back. It was time to go.
Sneezing, the knight coughed. He waved away the remaining red, glittering dust. His eyes were watering; it was a small price to pay for having his wound healed. He looked a little disoriented. When he saw Arthur was leaving, though, he scrambled to his feet despite the headache he was bound to have.
"H-hey, wait!" Kicking up snow, the knight ran after him. "You, ah, witch! Wait!"
Arthur was taken back; he hadn't expected the other to follow him. When the knight wrapped his hand around Arthur's wrist, hissed, and pulled back to find cuts dotted with blood on the palm of his hand, Arthur did not turn around. He sped up, clutching his wounded arm.
The knight would not attack him behind his back. That was the only reason Arthur had not put him to sleep. Cheesy as it sounded, the boy was one of the good guys. Besides, only an idiot would want to get close to him. Arthur was untouchable, figuratively and literally.
Which was why when he felt the knight throw himself at his back, Arthur reacted slowly and missed when he meant to elbow the idiot in the gut.
Closing his eyes when his back hit the ground, Arthur winced. Grateful for the thick canopy of snow, he gingerly opened his eyes, blinking away the snowflakes that had caught on his lashes. He was met with a tanned, handsome face and a furrowed brow.
"Thank you," he said forcefully, perhaps a bit angrily. Then his face relaxed. He licked his lips, holding Arthur down by his shoulders. "Thank you for…for whatever you did back there," he tried again, his voice gentler this time. He sounded sorry for his sudden burst of anger too. "My face doesn't hurt anymore."
Arthur said nothing, eyes wide.
No one had ever thanked him before.
Scratching his cheek, the knight coughed. There was a pink flush across his nose. "Um," he said. "You're the witch everyone talks about, right?" he asked, and when he received no answer, he pulled down Arthur's hood as casually as he would undress his own wife.
Calloused fingers yanked at the headscarf next, pushing the cloth out of the way.
Arthur felt, and heard, the knight's sharp intake of air.
It was almost with relief that Arthur struck out at his face again.
It was just a feint, and when the knight ducked Arthur jammed at his stomach with his knee, but he twisted so that the blow didn't fall true, and came back with a fist to Arthur's stomach. Arthur took the blow, just to see how well he hit, and then wished he hadn't. This wasn't the low-life hunters that occasionally came after him, whose blows hardly touched him, even with ten of them on him at once. This one could knock the wind out of him. This one could fight, and so a fight was what Arthur would give him.
Millennium [8/?]
anonymous
July 13 2010, 02:07:08 UTC
Arthur jumped and kicked at his chest. The knight crashed to the ground and Arthur threw himself on top of him, struck him in the face once, twice, three times, and kneed him in the side before he was able to throw Arthur off. Arthur was on him again like a wildcat, but as he tried to trap the boy's arms he flipped Arthur onto his back and pinned him with the weight of his body. Arthur curled his legs and heaved him away, and then they were on their feet again, crouching, circling, striking at each other with hands and feet. Arthur kicked at his stomach and barreled into his chest, and they were on the ground again.
When he pinned Arthur's arms behind his back, grabbed a handful of his golden hair, and pushed Arthur's face into the snow, Arthur kicked his feet up at him and squirmed out of the knight's grip. Arthur elbowed him in the face, and when the knight jumped to avoid the blow, Arthur flew at him and flattened him to the ground. Arthur pinned his arms as the knight had just done, and pushed his face into the snow. Arthur dug one knee into the small of his back.
His wounded arm was bleeding heavily now, blood dripping thickly into the snow.
The knight had come out worse out of the scuffle; he'd touched Arthur directly one too many times, and his hands and face were littered with tiny, bleeding cuts as proof of his foolishness. Arthur was faster than the knight was offensively-much faster-but the knight was stronger, and it was as if he had a premonition of Arthur's every turn and strike; Arthur had never known a fighter so quick to defend himself.
The magic. It had to be the magic.
Arthur held him down for just a moment, and then he let his arms go. Arthur slid from his back and jumped back several feet away from him, close enough to where the trees thickened and would surely hide him from sight if he chose to leave.
The knight rolled over and sat up, groaning. He massaged his shoulder. He touched his cheekbone and winced. Then he looked at Arthur; there was no anger in his blue eyes. He was not a typical male driven by testosterone, then. Most men-Arthur included-would not take so kindly to losing. "Your face is bleeding, witch," he said with a smile.
Arthur said nothing. He watched him for a moment as the knight swung his arms and tested out his shoulder joints. He pressed his side and groaned, ash-blonde hair sticking to his forehead. One of his blue eyes was swelling-and blackening, Arthur thought. His sleeve was torn and he was covered in snow, absolutely smeared from head to toe. Arthur knew he looked the same, except that he'd left bright, colorful rose petals behind on the snow covered ground.
Picking a few of the scattered petals, the knight rubbed them with coarse fingers. "You know," he said absentmindedly, and Arthur wondered if he had given him brain damage, for he had the stupidest grin Arthur had ever seen on his face, "you're pretty cute for a witch. Helluva left hook too!" he grinned, rubbing his jaw for show.
Arthur threw a snowball directly at his face, aiming to break his nose.
"Next time you set foot in this forest," Arthur warned him, lips set in a snarl, thoroughly ignoring the light tinge of pink on his cheeks, "I'll kill you, foolish knight."
He melted into the thick shadows of the trees, but not before he saw the knight's goofy smile and his bloodied, moving lips.
Alfred. Alfred F. Jones of the House of Jones.
For the rest of the day, all Arthur could think of was the warrior prince who carried magic in his veins, and who had been born to a king who killed all who carried magic.
---
FFFFFF this reads just like an RPG xD I’m sorry I can’t do better, OP. Next up is Alfred’s story, which will hopefully be up soon. Thanks so much for you kind comments, beloved anons~!
Re: Millennium [8/?]
anonymous
July 13 2010, 03:21:58 UTC
Oh gawd, the imagery is so lush and lovely that my mind keeps on swimming with vivid mental images whenever I re-read this. (You do need to beware of purple prose, though.) The fact that the simplest sentences are about Alfred and Arthur's already-bickering interactions just make it even better.
Fascinating start so far, anon. I can't wait to see where you go with this!
Minutes later, he found himself in the glade where the intruder's scent was most prominent. About twenty-five-feet in diameter, it was surrounded by an interlocking circle of life oaks, pines and maples, their branches a tapestry against the morning sky. There was a good amount of undergrowth as well. The intruder had dared to set up camp there.
In soft, shushing whispers, the trees announced the intruder was coming.
The intruder treaded upon the land with the arrogance of a man who took what he wanted by force. The trees bristled in anger at his loud footsteps, at his disrespect. They turned to [their] human and demanded the removal of the trespasser at once.
It was an order, it was the magic that bound him to this place, and so he did as he was told.
He squatted on his heels, putting his back against one of the large oaks growing so closely to the pines he was enclosed on three sides. Even more important, he was shadowed. Even if he weren't, it would be of no importance. This intruder, just like the dozens that had come before him, would be as easy to get rid of as a stink worm.
Slowly he raised his head, bracing the back of his head on the tree trunk. The branches of the large live oak across from him stretched out like gnarled arms of a giant. There were a variety of sounds now: Leaves and branches making contact as the breeze picked up, moving through them. One of the rodents scratched at something. A bark in the distance from the wild hellhounds as one of the pack's dog found something of interest and warned one of his most aggressive brethren back because he wasn't finished examining it to his satisfaction. The hellhounds would have come with him, but he'd ordered them to stay behind.
He could hear the quiet sound of his own breath. His heartbeat. Thud. Thud.
Then the intruder stilled, pausing mid-step. Something, perhaps instinct, had warned him of the coming danger. The intruder was clearly a hunter, his belt strapped with numerous knifes of different lengths. Fingering one of the knives, the intruder furrowed his brow before continuing to his makeshift camp, apparently finding nothing out of the ordinary.
He wasted no time in killing him; with a fluid, smooth movement of his hand, he took an arrow from the wrist gauntlet and pulled the bow tight.
The arrow flew, knowing it would meet its mark long before it sank itself into the intruder's chest, past hard muscle and fleshy fat until it buried its tip in the man's heart. Without even registering the last seconds of his life, the intruder sank to his knees with a dull thud.
Walking out of the shadows, he stepped forward.
His arrows had been a present from the fairies; it would be a great insult to lose one of them after all. Stepping back, he wiped the arrowhead on his cloak.
Before his very eyes, the trees came to life. Roots slithered up the intruder's fallen body, twisting and coiling until nothing could be seen of the man but patches of his blonde hair. With a sick, crunching sound, the body snapped in two. Blood immediately pooled at his feet, though he knew it would be gone in seconds once the soil was done soaking it up.
The man's blood would be a great fertilizer for the earth, foul though it may be. Rarely did they get any innocents with pure blood.
Squatting down on his heels, he ran a finger across the crimson puddle.
Upon contact, the tiny rosebud growing from his hand sprung open.
It was as rich and as red as the intruder's blood.
--
Eh…I promise this will have a happy ending. OP if you are still out there, do you have any preference to what America’s role should be? Wandering vagabond hero, runaway prince, evil wizard, etc :D I have an outline, but I want to know what you want. Again, sorry that this isn’t quite what you wanted ; ;
Also, it's late; please excuse any mistakes.
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Your writing style is absolutely fantastic; your descriptions are spot on. I now finally understand what my fourth grade teacher was preaching to my class when she said that imagery in stories 'paints a picture', because, honestly, this has "painted a [proverbial] picture" in my mind.
Your writing is flawless without wax. AND DON'T FORGET OUR PROMISE.
I'm creaming my pants for an update already XD
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very brilliant, this one is. can't wait for more!
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This is fantastic and OP hopes to see an update soon (yeah, I am shameless~)
Kinda hope to see Alfred as a runaway prince...lol
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I also vote for evil wizard. Vagabond hero and runaway prince sound so very fitting for America, but I can kind of already see how the story would go with those roles. Evil wizard!America, on the other hand... I'd kill to see that.
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AND YES. ♥ I'd love to see America cast against type!
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-
-
In the kingdom of America, magic was forbidden.
It had been the king's order; by his decree, no magic was to be performed, spoken of, or even acknowledged. He declared magic a taboo, a taboo that if broken, would mean death.
The young king hated magic with a passion, and unlike his late father, he was not fit to be king. The destruction of the once great kingdom had started with women and parties, but even that hadn't been so bad until the king had been ensnared by a beautiful fair-headed woman from the Eastern islands on the other side of the ocean. He married her. A year went by and the queen bore the king a set of twins. They were handsome boys, with hair and eyes like their mother. The people were happy, for the princes were a promise of a brighter future.
But the queen was not who she claimed to be. Under her guise of a beautiful angel, she was a witch in the wickedest of forms. Her beauty bewitched men and made them her servants. The king had only been one of her many victims, and he would hear none of the accusations against his queen. Anyone who spoke ill of his wife was promptly executed. Despite this, and even with a somewhat neglectful king at its helm, the kingdom had an aura of stability.
Except that the queen was easily bored. Her gratification had always required excess, and soon she began to need more parties and men, and wine, and young, pretty children from the court to alleviate the monotony of the men. And soon enough, drugs. The king had agreed to it all, like a shell to hold the queen's mind and nod its head yes to whatever she thought was best.
The people saw what was happening-their ruler, once so just and fair, began to punish law-abiding men and making alliances with criminals, wasting all the money in the king's coffers. Allies of the king began to fall away and withdraw their support, and ambitious fellows began to plot against the kingdom, training armies under the mask of self-defense. One day, they would turn against the crown. And who could blame them when things were so unstable? There was no law anymore, not outside the capital, for neither the queen nor king troubled to attend to it. The roads were no longer safe, and only a fool would travel alone.
Wars broke out in the kingdom, friend against friend, neighbor against neighbor, son against father. They were not proper wars, with trained battalions and armed soldiers; they were bloodbaths where alliances changed every week.
It was then that the king forbade any and all kinds of magic. It was never spoken out loud, but the whole kingdom knew it had been because of the queen. After all, a witch would never allow another witch to unseat her.
As for her two sons, only one had inherited her magic.
But the young prince saw it not as a gift, but as a curse. He bowed to take his secret to his grave, for he knew his father would not hesitate to send his own son to the gallows as he had done many before him.
Too bad for him fate would not be so kind.
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What surprised him was that the knight shot him by accident.
The arrow had plunged into him square in the arm and threw him sideways against a boulder. A warm, slippery wetness quickly spread down his arm, seeping into the tawny brown cloak he wore. On his way down, he twisted his knee; the sting of it forced a curse from his lips and crystalline tears to his eyes.
The force of the arrow knocked the air out of him. The pain was too great to ignore, but behind it he focused his mind, made it as sharp as a knife and as cold as the toughest winter. He reached toward the archer with his mind, invisible hands seeking the one who had hurt him.
Greater than the pain was his shock. Never in all his life had he ever been hurt by accident. More often the men who tried to hurt him were angry or arrogant or frightened of him; more often than not the men who came after him were greedy merchants who thought to sell him for a hefty price.
He was the monster witch from the enchanted woods; of course many would seek to kill him. Arthur kept them out of the forests, killed them on sight when they set foot on sacred woods. Although most denied his existence, there were still those that knew the tales were true and sought him out. Then, they hunted him. Then, Arthur killed them.
It was his duty, the magic that bound him to this place, and so he did as he was told.
Gasping, he clutched the boulder and righted himself. He fumbled with the knife at his thigh, cursing himself. He'd been foolish, caught off guard. Daydreaming. Arthur should know better by now. He had a scar for every time he'd been caught off guard.
Steeling himself, he clutched the knife in his hand and waited.
The knight's footfalls, and then his breath, sounded through the trees.
Arthur had no time to waste, for the knight would shoot him again as soon as he saw what Arthur was. And Arthur could not let him live, not if the knight saw his face.
Even if he'd shot him by accident, the knight would surely kill him once he saw his face.
Arthur reached for him, gently, silently; and was utterly surprised when he found he could not find a crack in the fortress of the knight's mind. His heart skipped a beat, then hammered insistently against his ribcage like a trapped songbird.
This had never happened before.
Before Arthur could reach for the long bow slung over his back, for the quiver of white arrows-before he could even mutter a spell that would kill the knight before he took another breath-the knight rounded a tree and his impossibly blue eyes caught hold of Arthur's green ones, and widened in astonishment and horror.
The knight was a handsome youth of fair hair and cornflower blue eyes. At his side was a huge warhorse, towering above Arthur. He wore black leather boots, black woolen pants, and a fine thick coat of gleaming obsidian over layers of black wool and boiled leather. A very wealthy knight then. The long sword strapped to his belt was beautiful. Jewels glittered in its hilt.
And Arthur stared. He stared and he saw what he hadn't seen in decades.
Magic. Pure, brilliant, uncontrollable and wild. The knight was haloed in it, his magic a breathing, coiling, breathtaking thing of unspeakable wonders. It sang to Arthur, the knight's magic. It whispered to him, seeking Arthur's own magic; a brother seeking its twin, long ago separate and finally reunited. It had been decades since Arthur had met another, who like himself, wielded power of this caliber.
Magic was forbidden in the kingdom of America, banished by the king. Any child born with even the smallest hints of magical talent was killed, and those who'd held magic long before the king pronounced it taboo had been sentenced to death. Arthur had watched from the edge of the forest as they had burned, their remains rising to the air and turning into ashes. He'd never set foot outside the woods since that day.
But here this boy stood, his very being pulsing with magic so sweet and so utterly wonderful that it sent goose bumps down Arthur's spine.
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Blood dripped down to the ground, splashes of red against the pale snow.
Arthur's thoughts scrambled. This boy-for he could be no older than eighteen summers at the very least-could close his mind against him. Arthur had never met anyone who could do that. It had taken him years upon years to learn how to penetrate the minds of others, and even more years to learn to shield his own mind.
Yet…when Arthur looked at him, all he could see was a boy whose mastery over his magic was as feeble and as sad as a cripple.
It was his eyes, Arthur realized with a grimace. It was always the eyes that held ones' magic. The boy's eyes were a dazzling blue matched only by the fairest of sapphires. Arthur could not recall ever seeing eyes as blue as this knight's.
A trick then. A clever trick, Arthur thought bitterly, to force him to let down his shields.
Of course they knew he would be unable to kill this boy. Magic was scarce in these lands, especially magic like the one the boy wielded. With a bit of training, the knight could become very powerful indeed. Arthur could not bring himself to kill this boy, not when he was probably the last human in this kingdom with magic coursing through his veins. Who was Arthur to take this treasure away from a world so dark and gray as this?
So it was decided. Arthur would not kill him. The forest could not possibly want his death either, and even if it did, Arthur would not kill this boy. He would take the brunt of it later if he had to. This knight was an innocent. His blood, made even more pure with magic, was far too precious to be spilled.
Arthur would knock him out and leave him outside the forest's edge for the rest of his party to find.
"Shit!" the knight swore, slinging his bow over his back. "Shit!" he cursed again, closing the distance between them with powerful, long strides.
Arthur flinched when the knight reached for him. He recoiled, glad the dark hood of his cloak hid his face from view. That his headscarf hid what made most men kill him on sight. Testing his sprained knee, he pulled his cloak tight against himself. Drawing back, he bowed his head, the slender knife concealed in his sleeve.
"I'm sorry," the knight said, viewing Arthur's behavior as one of fear. "Your cloak is brown pelt and your dress is brown," he said in a sudden burst of exasperation, running a large hand through his ash-blonde hair. He marched toward Arthur and inspected the arrow imbedded in his upper arm, the blood that soaked his cloak, his sleeve, his headscarf. "A fellow would think you were hoping to be shot by a hunter. You look like a deer."
Arthur was losing blood, and he was beginning to feel lightheaded. Pulling his hood down lower over his face, he pulled away from the knight's touch.
"What's wrong?" the knight asked, his brow furrowed in worry. His handsome face was an open book; his concern was genuine, as was his desire to help. He was honestly sorry he'd hurt Arthur. A white knight, how typical, Arthur thought wryly. Of course the one time he would be hurt by accident it would be by the hand of a prince charming. "Hey, I'm real sorry, honest. Let me take a look at it; I swear I don't bite."
Arthur felt his breath catch in his throat when the knight pushed away his hood to get a better look at his face. He recoiled, jumping back-but not before his hood fell back.
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The knight stared at Arthur with wide blue eyes, then at his hand. There was blood trickling down his fingers, thin red gashes on his golden skin left behind by the roses' sharp thorns.
It was around this time that most men tried to kill him. They'd all heard the stories of the monster witch who lived in the enchanted woods.
"T-the witch," the knight croaked, disbelief etched on his face. He took a step forward, and then Arthur was upon him.
They were almost of equal height, give or take several inches. Arthur was slim and graceful as a sharpened knife compared to the knight's muscle and heavy bulk, but he was quicker than a rattlesnake and deadlier than a boa.
He sprang and swung at the knight's jaw with the side of his hand. Arthur lessened the force of the blow at the last instant, when he realized the knight hadn't raised his arm to block him. Arthur's hand hit the knight's face with a sickening crack. He watched, horrified, as the knight toppled backwards and his head slammed against the cold, hard ground. Arthur had hit him hard. He knew he'd hit the knight hard. And the fool hadn't defended himself.
Arthur may have killed hundreds of men before, but he did not prey upon the defenseless or the weak. A killer he may be, but he had his rules, a line he didn't cross. The forest knew too, that he wouldn't kill just anyone they wanted. Arthur killed murderers and rapists and thieves and foul men who had no business in the woods. The filth of the outside that had no right to set foot on sacred ground. But Arthur did not kill innocents.
And men who were obviously seasoned warriors and who could have easily blocked Arthur's attack but hadn't counted. The boy had magic, and untrained as he was with it, he could have easily hurt Arthur first after that accident with the arrow. But he hadn't.
Arthur ran to him, gripping the arrow sticking out of his arm and yanking it out. The knight lay on his side, both hands over his jaw. A tear trickled from his eye, over his bloodied fingers, and onto the red-dyed snow. He grunted-or sobbed, Arthur didn't know which. Arthur knelt beside him and gingerly touched his shoulder with his fingertips before drawing his hand back.
It wouldn't do the knight any good if Arthur touched him, not unless he wanted to bleed some more.
Wrapping his scarf around his head and pulling his hood down low to shield the dazzling roses from sight, Arthur kneeled beside him. He pulled his satchel from his back, digging out his bag of crushed herbs and medicinal powders. The knight stared at him from behind his fingers, blood trickling down his mouth and past his strong chin.
Arthur was surprised to find no fear in his eyes. In fact, he looked curious, if not a little entranced; his half-lidded eyes sought Arthur's face, now hidden again. Arthur frowned at that. It wouldn't do the knight any good if he fell for the roses' spell. They were pretty to look at, sure, but twice as dangerous. Plus the knight looked like the roses' type, they might just eat him. Arthur had no desire to clean up after them today.
There was also wariness to be found on his blue eyes, but that was a given. The boy was a knight; it came with the job.
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Silently, careful not to cut his face more, Arthur tenderly touched the knight's cheek with the tips of his fingers. When he pulled back, he saw the red gashes the force of his blow had left behind, and Arthur's fingers were dotted with blood. He lowered his eyes to the ground.
If he'd had control over his magic, the knight would have no problem healing himself. But he didn't, so that was that. Staring at the glittering blue power he'd made, Arthur reached inside of his hood to pluck a lone, red rose petal. He crushed it in his hand before mixing it with the powder.
Baby-blue eyes blinked at him. "Um. What are you doi-"
Blowing the powder at his face, now a strange scarlet color, Arthur felt his mouth twitch at the knight's expression.
It had been a long time since he'd had contact with another person-hunters wanting to kill him didn’t count. He also couldn't remember the last time he'd heard the sound of his own voice either, but that was neither here nor there. Collecting his things, Arthur slung his satchel over his back. It was time to go.
Sneezing, the knight coughed. He waved away the remaining red, glittering dust. His eyes were watering; it was a small price to pay for having his wound healed. He looked a little disoriented. When he saw Arthur was leaving, though, he scrambled to his feet despite the headache he was bound to have.
"H-hey, wait!" Kicking up snow, the knight ran after him. "You, ah, witch! Wait!"
Arthur was taken back; he hadn't expected the other to follow him. When the knight wrapped his hand around Arthur's wrist, hissed, and pulled back to find cuts dotted with blood on the palm of his hand, Arthur did not turn around. He sped up, clutching his wounded arm.
The knight would not attack him behind his back. That was the only reason Arthur had not put him to sleep. Cheesy as it sounded, the boy was one of the good guys. Besides, only an idiot would want to get close to him. Arthur was untouchable, figuratively and literally.
Which was why when he felt the knight throw himself at his back, Arthur reacted slowly and missed when he meant to elbow the idiot in the gut.
Closing his eyes when his back hit the ground, Arthur winced. Grateful for the thick canopy of snow, he gingerly opened his eyes, blinking away the snowflakes that had caught on his lashes. He was met with a tanned, handsome face and a furrowed brow.
"Thank you," he said forcefully, perhaps a bit angrily. Then his face relaxed. He licked his lips, holding Arthur down by his shoulders. "Thank you for…for whatever you did back there," he tried again, his voice gentler this time. He sounded sorry for his sudden burst of anger too. "My face doesn't hurt anymore."
Arthur said nothing, eyes wide.
No one had ever thanked him before.
Scratching his cheek, the knight coughed. There was a pink flush across his nose. "Um," he said. "You're the witch everyone talks about, right?" he asked, and when he received no answer, he pulled down Arthur's hood as casually as he would undress his own wife.
Calloused fingers yanked at the headscarf next, pushing the cloth out of the way.
Arthur felt, and heard, the knight's sharp intake of air.
It was almost with relief that Arthur struck out at his face again.
It was just a feint, and when the knight ducked Arthur jammed at his stomach with his knee, but he twisted so that the blow didn't fall true, and came back with a fist to Arthur's stomach. Arthur took the blow, just to see how well he hit, and then wished he hadn't. This wasn't the low-life hunters that occasionally came after him, whose blows hardly touched him, even with ten of them on him at once. This one could knock the wind out of him. This one could fight, and so a fight was what Arthur would give him.
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When he pinned Arthur's arms behind his back, grabbed a handful of his golden hair, and pushed Arthur's face into the snow, Arthur kicked his feet up at him and squirmed out of the knight's grip. Arthur elbowed him in the face, and when the knight jumped to avoid the blow, Arthur flew at him and flattened him to the ground. Arthur pinned his arms as the knight had just done, and pushed his face into the snow. Arthur dug one knee into the small of his back.
His wounded arm was bleeding heavily now, blood dripping thickly into the snow.
The knight had come out worse out of the scuffle; he'd touched Arthur directly one too many times, and his hands and face were littered with tiny, bleeding cuts as proof of his foolishness. Arthur was faster than the knight was offensively-much faster-but the knight was stronger, and it was as if he had a premonition of Arthur's every turn and strike; Arthur had never known a fighter so quick to defend himself.
The magic. It had to be the magic.
Arthur held him down for just a moment, and then he let his arms go. Arthur slid from his back and jumped back several feet away from him, close enough to where the trees thickened and would surely hide him from sight if he chose to leave.
The knight rolled over and sat up, groaning. He massaged his shoulder. He touched his cheekbone and winced. Then he looked at Arthur; there was no anger in his blue eyes. He was not a typical male driven by testosterone, then. Most men-Arthur included-would not take so kindly to losing. "Your face is bleeding, witch," he said with a smile.
Arthur said nothing. He watched him for a moment as the knight swung his arms and tested out his shoulder joints. He pressed his side and groaned, ash-blonde hair sticking to his forehead. One of his blue eyes was swelling-and blackening, Arthur thought. His sleeve was torn and he was covered in snow, absolutely smeared from head to toe. Arthur knew he looked the same, except that he'd left bright, colorful rose petals behind on the snow covered ground.
Picking a few of the scattered petals, the knight rubbed them with coarse fingers. "You know," he said absentmindedly, and Arthur wondered if he had given him brain damage, for he had the stupidest grin Arthur had ever seen on his face, "you're pretty cute for a witch. Helluva left hook too!" he grinned, rubbing his jaw for show.
Arthur threw a snowball directly at his face, aiming to break his nose.
"Next time you set foot in this forest," Arthur warned him, lips set in a snarl, thoroughly ignoring the light tinge of pink on his cheeks, "I'll kill you, foolish knight."
He melted into the thick shadows of the trees, but not before he saw the knight's goofy smile and his bloodied, moving lips.
Alfred. Alfred F. Jones of the House of Jones.
For the rest of the day, all Arthur could think of was the warrior prince who carried magic in his veins, and who had been born to a king who killed all who carried magic.
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FFFFFF this reads just like an RPG xD I’m sorry I can’t do better, OP. Next up is Alfred’s story, which will hopefully be up soon. Thanks so much for you kind comments, beloved anons~!
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I wanna make fanart but I'm incapable.
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Fascinating start so far, anon. I can't wait to see where you go with this!
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even if it is like an rpg, I quite love your style ^^
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