Switchfooted (His Name is Mark)
May. 10th, 2008 04:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jheti
There should probably be content warnings? A little imagery? A touch of male chauvanism? Whatever.
Hahahaha Markus with a k = Leena with all of her weaknesses and none of her strengths. Because I'm confusing. Ooops. XD
He is not sure how he got here, half man and now half something else. Something is wrong, different and wrong. He can feel it, pressing in against the crown of his head, stabbing behind the roots of his eyes, burning. Especially his jaw.
His father once took a grozing iron to his face. This hurts more.
His sister is gone. She left with the sorcerer, laughing at his back, purring over what a weakling he was as everything went dark.
He has always been weak. Soft. Tender in every place no matter how hard he trains. And he does train harder than all the rest of them, every day from noon to dusk in the open sun. He does not stop for his father's ceremonies, and he does not pause for the sorcerer's holy days. No god can save him.
He believes his father will execute him, with the same faith that he believes he is only treated this way because of what he is not.
"What," and it isn't even a word, a thick low groan slimed with spit as he strains to get a whole consonant through the blinding pain where his mouth should be.
"Rest!" gasps the assistant. She's cute, mild-tempered and smart enough as women go. Any other day, he would waggle an eyebrow at her and ply her with beer and tales of falconry; it's the only thing he's any good at, and it impresses even the stupid shrews at court, a little. "You shouldn't--you'll hurt yourself!"
He'd be more popular if he'd just talk about the arena, but he can't.
The drinks and flattery are for some other day, some other time when he does not feel as if his skull has given way and is slowly splitting in half, starting at the bottom. He feels like a gourd cut only on one side; he still needs to be pried apart in order to go to pieces.
He swats her aside, barely noticing when she screams, feeling no guilt to see her bleeding. Her shrill hysterics irritate him. It's such a high, thin noise. He ought to shut her up for good.
What he seeks flickers on the table. That glittering distraction--silver-backed glass.
The mirror. He'll know how bad it is once he has that.
He is vain. This does nothing to improve the soldiers' opinions of him. But then, no one thinks much of him; the lineage will go through his sister, unless he finally summons the resolve to end her.
She has her mother's eyes and voice and hands. He barely remembers, but she won't let him forget.
He could never deny her anything.
"Don't!" the assistant shrieks, keening, but she stays where she is. "Oh, Prince--"
A calm, detached part of his brain is satisfied; the pain makes sense. He has a mouthful of cutlery. The mirror hits the floor, bounces, shatters, a silver snowdrift of glass.
"Why?" It's a rasp that cuts his tongue, and he's always noticed the taste before, but it's never been like this; the outlines of the words glow with pleasure. "Why did they--"
"You wanted to be strong," she says, and why do women always wail around him.
"Yes," he says, and it goes through him, from the tip of his tongue to the base of his spine. "Later. You tell me."
He would talk properly--lapses are not tolerated--but the pressure in his head is unbearable. Light hurts, air hurts, her choking attempts not to cry burn his ears, and he's just finished making mince of his own tongue trying to reassure her.
He wants to take a bite. Instead he sits on the floor, cross-legged, ignoring the pallet he's been thrashing about on for some days--he has a dim idea of that, of agony, of tears, his first in a century.
His face was gone, either way. His ears feel like they will ring forever from the report of the musket. He can hear it even now if he strains.
He knows in the same way that he still sees his maid twisting in the rafters now and then when the lighting is uncertain, when the rebels have been especially stubborn, when his sister is more vicious than usual. This battle was the same, memory so exact it leaves him breathless with sudden cold. It will never let him go.
He would be mad already if not for his mother's blood. For them, life is no great prize--the living hunger, the living thirst; the dead rest--and agony is the same as bliss.
"You," he says--he can't remember her name--she's just another female. "Water. Linen. Meat." His tongue sticks against his fangs at that last, but he's already learning not to push it so far forward. "Now."
She gulps and rushes to obey, wide-eyed and pale. At last! A little respect.
Respect and fear are the same. He learned this at his father's knee, but only now can he see how right it is.
By tomorrow, this will be the best thing that's ever happened to him.
Hahahaha Markus with a k = Leena with all of her weaknesses and none of her strengths. Because I'm confusing. Ooops. XD
He is not sure how he got here, half man and now half something else. Something is wrong, different and wrong. He can feel it, pressing in against the crown of his head, stabbing behind the roots of his eyes, burning. Especially his jaw.
His father once took a grozing iron to his face. This hurts more.
His sister is gone. She left with the sorcerer, laughing at his back, purring over what a weakling he was as everything went dark.
He has always been weak. Soft. Tender in every place no matter how hard he trains. And he does train harder than all the rest of them, every day from noon to dusk in the open sun. He does not stop for his father's ceremonies, and he does not pause for the sorcerer's holy days. No god can save him.
He believes his father will execute him, with the same faith that he believes he is only treated this way because of what he is not.
"What," and it isn't even a word, a thick low groan slimed with spit as he strains to get a whole consonant through the blinding pain where his mouth should be.
"Rest!" gasps the assistant. She's cute, mild-tempered and smart enough as women go. Any other day, he would waggle an eyebrow at her and ply her with beer and tales of falconry; it's the only thing he's any good at, and it impresses even the stupid shrews at court, a little. "You shouldn't--you'll hurt yourself!"
He'd be more popular if he'd just talk about the arena, but he can't.
The drinks and flattery are for some other day, some other time when he does not feel as if his skull has given way and is slowly splitting in half, starting at the bottom. He feels like a gourd cut only on one side; he still needs to be pried apart in order to go to pieces.
He swats her aside, barely noticing when she screams, feeling no guilt to see her bleeding. Her shrill hysterics irritate him. It's such a high, thin noise. He ought to shut her up for good.
What he seeks flickers on the table. That glittering distraction--silver-backed glass.
The mirror. He'll know how bad it is once he has that.
He is vain. This does nothing to improve the soldiers' opinions of him. But then, no one thinks much of him; the lineage will go through his sister, unless he finally summons the resolve to end her.
She has her mother's eyes and voice and hands. He barely remembers, but she won't let him forget.
He could never deny her anything.
"Don't!" the assistant shrieks, keening, but she stays where she is. "Oh, Prince--"
A calm, detached part of his brain is satisfied; the pain makes sense. He has a mouthful of cutlery. The mirror hits the floor, bounces, shatters, a silver snowdrift of glass.
"Why?" It's a rasp that cuts his tongue, and he's always noticed the taste before, but it's never been like this; the outlines of the words glow with pleasure. "Why did they--"
"You wanted to be strong," she says, and why do women always wail around him.
"Yes," he says, and it goes through him, from the tip of his tongue to the base of his spine. "Later. You tell me."
He would talk properly--lapses are not tolerated--but the pressure in his head is unbearable. Light hurts, air hurts, her choking attempts not to cry burn his ears, and he's just finished making mince of his own tongue trying to reassure her.
He wants to take a bite. Instead he sits on the floor, cross-legged, ignoring the pallet he's been thrashing about on for some days--he has a dim idea of that, of agony, of tears, his first in a century.
His face was gone, either way. His ears feel like they will ring forever from the report of the musket. He can hear it even now if he strains.
He knows in the same way that he still sees his maid twisting in the rafters now and then when the lighting is uncertain, when the rebels have been especially stubborn, when his sister is more vicious than usual. This battle was the same, memory so exact it leaves him breathless with sudden cold. It will never let him go.
He would be mad already if not for his mother's blood. For them, life is no great prize--the living hunger, the living thirst; the dead rest--and agony is the same as bliss.
"You," he says--he can't remember her name--she's just another female. "Water. Linen. Meat." His tongue sticks against his fangs at that last, but he's already learning not to push it so far forward. "Now."
She gulps and rushes to obey, wide-eyed and pale. At last! A little respect.
Respect and fear are the same. He learned this at his father's knee, but only now can he see how right it is.
By tomorrow, this will be the best thing that's ever happened to him.
