(no subject)
Day 7: Formal (wc: 1261)
alex's pov, for which i've made a shiny new icon. pets random person i don't know for looking like my character
this may or may not be a part of my story but i imagine a lot what alex must have gone through before he ran away... to have made him want to run away. it would be hard to fit in because the story is told through ricky's pov, so any flashbacks for the most part would have to be told through dialogue. IDK
On special clan occasions, he was expected to wear clan-appropriate attire. No soft cotton shirts and normal jeans, not even under his mandatory fur shawl; he was expected to bare his chest, thin and bony as it was. His brother (Phillip, two years younger, always the perfect son, brainwashed just as easily as the rest of them) had explained that it was meant to symbolize their freedom, their resistance to the oppression around them.
Alex had replied that no one was oppressing them with the horrible strain of wearing clothing. Phillip had just grunted and left the room, leaving Alex to finish putting on his attire as slowly as possible. Of course he didn't need any of it explained to him; he understood everything he had ever been taught and told, but it was amusing to frustrate his brother and his father. Their entire lives were cryptic, outdated, and ridiculous.
The scratchy mesh backing against his bare back and shoulders made his skin crawl. His father and uncle had taken him hunting on his thirteenth birthday, set out with spears and knives and tranquilizer darts to give him the honor of taking some animal's life to make this shawl, to prove how much of a man he was. They had both droned on during the hunt about how he was becoming closer to the earth, that Artemis would be pleased. It had crossed his mind more than once to shoot them both with the tranquilizer darts and make his run for it then. But he had only been thirteen, and just being outside of San Angelo the first time was scary enough.
He had been such a disappointment on "his" special day. His father seemed to be the only one enjoying it. It wasn't so bad tranquilizing the poor animal, but he had wanted to cry when the spear pierced the bobcat's neck. He had managed to hold the tears back but his father hadn't missed his reaction. Twice, while skinning the black-spotted red fur, he was forced to pause and throw up.
Phillip had outgrown his shawl twice already; he'd gone through two bobcats and now wore the skin of a buffalo around his shoulders. Whenever Phillip wore it, the air of smug superiority didn't bother Alex because he wanted to be like his brother or his father. It bothered the competitive part of him, the one that wanted to slap the mocking smile off his brother's face and show him up. Even though he hated all of them he wanted to know what it felt like to not be the disappointing child.
Not that he could if he tried. Alex was still wearing the shawl made for him when he was thirteen. He had grown a few inches but it was all legs; his shoulders apparently had no intent on becoming any broader. Any attempts by his father or uncle to build muscle or teach him how to fight failed miserably. It was mostly feigned ineptitude on Alex's part. He pretended to not understand, to not be able to perform any of it. But he internalized their guidance, and when he had the chance to be alone, practiced how to defend himself with a knife.
Having secured his shawl and put on the leather skirt ("loincloth", Phillip always corrected him) and boots strapped around his calves, he knelt before his stacks of books. Carefully, he removed three from the top and placed them to the side, finding the one he wanted and taking it to his bed.
He was careful with all of his books; degraded, missing pages and falling apart as they were, but he didn't mind creasing pages and underlining passages he loved, especially in this one, his favorite: Laws, by Plato. It was an English translation, of it's accuracy he was never entirely sure, but he loved what he read. He felt a secret connection to Plato, knowing that he was named after Alexander the Great, who had been the student of Plato's student. It was silly and never something he told anyone, but it seemed to make the words stronger, more meaningful to him than they already were. He flipped to Book V, lamenting that much of Book IV had been lost before it was in his possession, and read to calm his mind.
Honor is not to be given to the fair body, or to the strong or the swift or the tall, or to the healthy body (although many may think otherwise), any more than to their opposites; but the mean states of all these habits are by far the safest and most moderate; for the one extreme makes the soul braggart and insolent, and the other, illiberal and base; and money, and property, and distinction all go to the same tune.
"Alexander."
His father's voice was deep and booming, even when he spoke quietly, as he did now inside Alex's room. Shutting the book quickly and replacing it on the pile, Alex stood up and stared expectantly at his father. He was always nicer to Alex when he was wearing his Ravager costume.
"It's time for the paint."
The body paint was once an image of ferocity. It was war paint, really, a passé statement carried on from when the fighting against the Watchers was heaviest; when it actually meant something. The Ravagers outside of the city had more right to it than they did. Here in San Angelo they had become lazy and complacent, undeserving of any of these "honors" until they had proven themselves. That's what his uncle was going on about anyway, as a group of women painted their faces and chests.
During painting was the only time Alex felt any semblance of love towards his father. Traditionally, a man was supposed to be adorned by his wife: her hand prints on either side of his chest, her paint-dipped fingers trailing across his neck and down. He watched as Helena, his only sister and younger sibling, finished painting the scorpion between her hand prints on his father's chest in place of his mother. The entire time he stared into space, not listening to his other son and his brother quarrel over politics. He always looked lost, hurt; it was the only place Alex ever saw him appear weak. His mother had died giving birth to Helena; it wasn't lost on anyone that his father blamed her.
Victoria, the girl he had been betrothed to since the night of his hunt carelessly applied the color to his chest. She wasn't even looking at him. She was staring, without any subtlety at all, longingly at Phillip. He was jealous, not because he wanted her. He had known for years that he wasn't interested in women at all, another facet of himself that his lineage forced him to hide. It was because she should want him. He was the heir, he would be chief someday. She was very pretty, with big eyes and lips, but chosen for her family's name and money, and for her curvy child-bearing hips. Those hips that would someday bear his children. His heir.
Finally, it was time for them to leave, for Alex to sit next to his father on his "throne", surrounded on both sides by his dobermans and his two children. To watch his cousin's face be marred, tattooed with scorpions and letters and swirls that meant nothing to him and everything to every one else in attendance.
"Watch closely, Alexander," his father whispered to him as they left. "Next month it will be you."
alex's pov, for which i've made a shiny new icon. pets random person i don't know for looking like my character
this may or may not be a part of my story but i imagine a lot what alex must have gone through before he ran away... to have made him want to run away. it would be hard to fit in because the story is told through ricky's pov, so any flashbacks for the most part would have to be told through dialogue. IDK
On special clan occasions, he was expected to wear clan-appropriate attire. No soft cotton shirts and normal jeans, not even under his mandatory fur shawl; he was expected to bare his chest, thin and bony as it was. His brother (Phillip, two years younger, always the perfect son, brainwashed just as easily as the rest of them) had explained that it was meant to symbolize their freedom, their resistance to the oppression around them.
Alex had replied that no one was oppressing them with the horrible strain of wearing clothing. Phillip had just grunted and left the room, leaving Alex to finish putting on his attire as slowly as possible. Of course he didn't need any of it explained to him; he understood everything he had ever been taught and told, but it was amusing to frustrate his brother and his father. Their entire lives were cryptic, outdated, and ridiculous.
The scratchy mesh backing against his bare back and shoulders made his skin crawl. His father and uncle had taken him hunting on his thirteenth birthday, set out with spears and knives and tranquilizer darts to give him the honor of taking some animal's life to make this shawl, to prove how much of a man he was. They had both droned on during the hunt about how he was becoming closer to the earth, that Artemis would be pleased. It had crossed his mind more than once to shoot them both with the tranquilizer darts and make his run for it then. But he had only been thirteen, and just being outside of San Angelo the first time was scary enough.
He had been such a disappointment on "his" special day. His father seemed to be the only one enjoying it. It wasn't so bad tranquilizing the poor animal, but he had wanted to cry when the spear pierced the bobcat's neck. He had managed to hold the tears back but his father hadn't missed his reaction. Twice, while skinning the black-spotted red fur, he was forced to pause and throw up.
Phillip had outgrown his shawl twice already; he'd gone through two bobcats and now wore the skin of a buffalo around his shoulders. Whenever Phillip wore it, the air of smug superiority didn't bother Alex because he wanted to be like his brother or his father. It bothered the competitive part of him, the one that wanted to slap the mocking smile off his brother's face and show him up. Even though he hated all of them he wanted to know what it felt like to not be the disappointing child.
Not that he could if he tried. Alex was still wearing the shawl made for him when he was thirteen. He had grown a few inches but it was all legs; his shoulders apparently had no intent on becoming any broader. Any attempts by his father or uncle to build muscle or teach him how to fight failed miserably. It was mostly feigned ineptitude on Alex's part. He pretended to not understand, to not be able to perform any of it. But he internalized their guidance, and when he had the chance to be alone, practiced how to defend himself with a knife.
Having secured his shawl and put on the leather skirt ("loincloth", Phillip always corrected him) and boots strapped around his calves, he knelt before his stacks of books. Carefully, he removed three from the top and placed them to the side, finding the one he wanted and taking it to his bed.
He was careful with all of his books; degraded, missing pages and falling apart as they were, but he didn't mind creasing pages and underlining passages he loved, especially in this one, his favorite: Laws, by Plato. It was an English translation, of it's accuracy he was never entirely sure, but he loved what he read. He felt a secret connection to Plato, knowing that he was named after Alexander the Great, who had been the student of Plato's student. It was silly and never something he told anyone, but it seemed to make the words stronger, more meaningful to him than they already were. He flipped to Book V, lamenting that much of Book IV had been lost before it was in his possession, and read to calm his mind.
Honor is not to be given to the fair body, or to the strong or the swift or the tall, or to the healthy body (although many may think otherwise), any more than to their opposites; but the mean states of all these habits are by far the safest and most moderate; for the one extreme makes the soul braggart and insolent, and the other, illiberal and base; and money, and property, and distinction all go to the same tune.
"Alexander."
His father's voice was deep and booming, even when he spoke quietly, as he did now inside Alex's room. Shutting the book quickly and replacing it on the pile, Alex stood up and stared expectantly at his father. He was always nicer to Alex when he was wearing his Ravager costume.
"It's time for the paint."
The body paint was once an image of ferocity. It was war paint, really, a passé statement carried on from when the fighting against the Watchers was heaviest; when it actually meant something. The Ravagers outside of the city had more right to it than they did. Here in San Angelo they had become lazy and complacent, undeserving of any of these "honors" until they had proven themselves. That's what his uncle was going on about anyway, as a group of women painted their faces and chests.
During painting was the only time Alex felt any semblance of love towards his father. Traditionally, a man was supposed to be adorned by his wife: her hand prints on either side of his chest, her paint-dipped fingers trailing across his neck and down. He watched as Helena, his only sister and younger sibling, finished painting the scorpion between her hand prints on his father's chest in place of his mother. The entire time he stared into space, not listening to his other son and his brother quarrel over politics. He always looked lost, hurt; it was the only place Alex ever saw him appear weak. His mother had died giving birth to Helena; it wasn't lost on anyone that his father blamed her.
Victoria, the girl he had been betrothed to since the night of his hunt carelessly applied the color to his chest. She wasn't even looking at him. She was staring, without any subtlety at all, longingly at Phillip. He was jealous, not because he wanted her. He had known for years that he wasn't interested in women at all, another facet of himself that his lineage forced him to hide. It was because she should want him. He was the heir, he would be chief someday. She was very pretty, with big eyes and lips, but chosen for her family's name and money, and for her curvy child-bearing hips. Those hips that would someday bear his children. His heir.
Finally, it was time for them to leave, for Alex to sit next to his father on his "throne", surrounded on both sides by his dobermans and his two children. To watch his cousin's face be marred, tattooed with scorpions and letters and swirls that meant nothing to him and everything to every one else in attendance.
"Watch closely, Alexander," his father whispered to him as they left. "Next month it will be you."