note: If you've been reading the fantasy section for a while, it's possible you have read part of this, in which case I'm sorry- this was once part of a different story, but I decided to make it it's own. Even still, it has been changed and (hopefully) improved in the meantime.
“You may enter.”
“Sir Dracven. You are to report to the Lord Commander at the evening meal tonight,” the footman said curtly.
“Why now?” He demanded in exasperation, glancing up from the book he’d been glaring at. A smirk crossed the footman’s face at the sight of the open book, but was gone in a flash.
“It is not my place to know,” he replied, then bowed stiffly and stalked out of the room. Dracven growled under my breath. Glaring one more time at the shapes on the page, he closed the book. If he was supposed to ‘report’ at the meal, he’d better make myself presentable.
The mail shirt went on, followed by the sleeveless dark blue and green tabard and tall leather boots. The leather band on his left wrist that stayed there- he had worn it as long as he could remember. Dracven figured he’d put it on when he was young and had grown into it, as it no longer could come off over his hand.
Hurriedly he scarfed down some bread he’d taken from the kitchens that morning- being called to dinner didn’t necessarily mean he’d get to eat. Dracven briskly ran a comb through his relatively short blond hair and was just buckling on his sword belt when there came a rap on the door.
“You may enter,” Dracven acknowledged absently, knowing who it was.
“I am here to escort you to the dining hall,” it was the same footman, his nose still in the air.
“I am perfectly capable of finding it myself, thank you,” Dracven answered shortly.
“But sir-”
“You are excused,” Dracven interrupted firmly. Once the servant left, Dracven took a couple of steadying breaths, preparing himself. Keeping his face expressionless, his body assured and uncompromising, was the only way he could go about without crumpling. From bitter experience, he knew the slightest sign of emotion would give anyone and everyone the chance to rip him to shreds- again.
He’d gotten so practiced that, sometimes, he almost managed to banish those traitorous emotions and feelings from himself, as well as his countenance. When that happened, his mother would always flit through his memories as he laid there at night. That was always enough to open holes in the walls around his heart, and remind him what it was like to feel.
Dracven shook his head. Now was not the time to remember- now was the time to become iron and stone- resilient and unchanging. Protective.
The footman shot him a glare as he entered the dining hall, but Dracven ignored it- most of the servants hated, feared, or awed him, and often a combination of the three.
The dining hall was ornate, but in a gloomy, dusty sort of way. The décor had been done by the fort’s predecessor. The halls had once been carpeted, but after the endless heavy tread of dog soldiers, it had worn down to the floorboards. The lord’s servants were kept busy keeping living quarters clean and keeping up with the demands of the inflating army. The rest of the fort (for Dracven hesitated to even call it castle) was left to itself.
The kitchen and most of the roof’s support beams had burned during the ‘changeover of hands’, and though it had been rebuilt, much of the ash and dust had not been cleared. Any tapestries, finishings, or objects on display- only the ones of no value were left- had suffered many years of grime, abuse, and neglect. In the dining hall, the main room for gathering, it was most apparent. Though more clean than the rest of the hallways, negligence had taken over.
His back rigid, Dracven strode to the front table, where the lord and his highest officers proceeded over the meal. The lord sat at the center, and as the rest of the chairs were already filled, Dracven knew he had been right in assuming he was not here to eat.
“Ah, the colt has arrived,” the lord said softly. Sarcasm, as usual, was thinly veiled in his voice. Dracven bowed stiffly, ignoring the nervous laughter of the lord’s top men.
“And how did your assignment fare, yearling?” the lord asked. As if he didn’t already know the full details.
“As according to plan, my commander,” Dracven answered. The lord did not continue, and Dracven did not elaborate. He never could remember the details of his assignments- he was sure he didn’t want to, anyway.
“A boy of few words,” the lord commented dryly, rousing laughter from his men again. Dracven’s face was as hard as stone. So like the lord to play with him. “Come stand at my chair,” the lord commanded offhandedly, returning to his food and his conversation. Dracven did as he was told, standing impassively just behind his lord, knowing his purpose for being there would soon be revealed.
This is a good beginning. It hooked me. 