Blessed with the loss of his past, the Child studied with fervor. Many long hours spent before the Holy Writ, studying the words, carrying long internal debates and philosophies behind his cold brown eyes. Sometimes, when he stayed overlong before the tomes, he would hear Her voice. It had to be the Lady, he reasoned, blessing him with a secret he could not quite learn. Who else would fill him with such feelings of belonging and acceptance? She spoke the holy words in a patient, almost deep voice, the sound settling as a warm blanket around him. When he closed his eyes, he could not see her. It had to be the Lady. It did not match the priestesses, nor his nurse.
Annoyance disrupted his thoughts. That woman had cared for him as long as he could remember. She was quiet as he, tending to her duties without sound. She protected him. Not from the lash, his back we well scarred. But from the whispers. He heard things. Drowblood they hissed. Cursed. Failure. He asked her, she deflected his questions, or straight lied. It was an old game, he learned much from her deflections.
Until that last question. She had looked upon him with such sorrow, scars looking as tears upon her weary face. He reached out with his calloused hands. Her sorrows glistened on his fingertips. He looked to her eyes, asking in their unheard language why. She put a parchment in his hand, rolled tight. She kisses his forehead, a practice she had not indulged in since he was a babe. He never saw her again.
Gone. Because of the parchment, what lay within, or something else, he did not know the why. He did not care. He knew it to be a dangerous secret. Giving it up would gain him nothing but pain. He did ask about the rumors, being unprepared for her to actually give an answer was no excuse to throw away the parchment. He would keep it. If it were half as dangerous as it seemed, he would be lashed until his blood painted the floor for merely holding it. So it remained upon him, or near, jealously guarded against discovery.
“Grey!”
He blinked, his hand rested in the sash of his loose pants, where the Secret hid. Another flash of annoyance, for he hated that name. It was not a name, but the color of his skin. They wanted him to forget, wanted all to forget his given name. My name is Isthvan and I will NOT forget! he silently vowed for the thousandth time, bowing his obedience to his teacher.
Child of Failure
-
Misty
- Proletarian Librarian
- Posts: 1332
- Joined: Wed Jun 16, 2004 4:10 pm
- Location: Lazin' by el Rio Blanco
Child of Failure
Last PC: Laurelin ~ dancer, trickster and professional pain-in-the-backside
Currently living like Rip van Winkle.
Currently living like Rip van Winkle.
