Young Writers Society

Do kids that grow up with their parents know what a gift they have? Or was that a realization reserved for after you lost yours, no matter how young or old you were at the time?

How would his life have been different if he'd been raised by parents instead of by the street?

He hoped his parents were dead. As much of a monster as he felt to think that, it was better than the alternative -- that they were alive and well and intentionally abandoned him. That thought hurt worse.

Not that it particularly mattered.

The universe had decided he was undeserving of any parents. And no amount of pining would change that. Ever. He just needed to accept that already. He didn't deserve love -- and he needed to stop envying those fortunate enough to have it.

Gaius sat in silence for a moment after that. He'd often wondered if Oscar would have been like Michael or his father had he been allowed to get older. It was a thought that mostly made him ill; Oscar had been a constant in Gaius's life, a sort of anchor when he was hurting. To think Oscar might have been alongside Michael in the taunts and the constant torment wasn't something Gaius enjoyed considering. Besides, he hadn't lived. He'd been a sick little boy and he'd died, and now he was immortalized as a stone baby smiling up at the sky. Gaius had spoken with worse.
"Perhaps you would do the same, if you were desperate and had a daughter," he mused. "I have a daughter, but I'm not desperate. And she's four years old. I can't betroth a toddler to anyone, can I?"

What was so good about love, anyway?

Why should he want someone to be sorrowful on his account? The thought itself was absurd. When he died, it would end his suffering -- no more pain or hunger or sadness, ever again. And it wouldn't shuffle the sadness off on anyone else.

His reputation would fade from the minds of rich men and from the mouths of his fellow scoundrels. The vultures would use his death to maintain their lives. People would be safer... well, at least most people. He supposed he did help people sometimes, like the few girls he'd saved from men trying to hurt them one way or another. And he'd purchased freedom for a few slaves.

But he was a hazard to everyone else. And it'd be no great loss when he finally got that sweet release.

He could, technically. It wasn't against the law; they would just have to marry the children when they were of age. But what was the point? Gaius had never been one for arranged marriages. Hell, his wife was a farmer's daughter he'd met in exile. Same with Tomhas and his own wife. Why smother a child before they even discovered breathing?

/Damn/ you, Pratik. He rubbed his face, frustrated. There were many things he hated about himself, but one of the main ones was the very fact that he hated himself this much. He let himself get in his own head. And it always made things much, much worse.

He needed to focus his attention elsewhere.

Get your angst out. He sat upright and swung his legs around to sit upright. He'd found that writing poetry tended to help him process these overwhelming emotions. To force him to put all of his feelings into words and put them down on the page, transferring them from his own mind to the safety of his notebook where no one had to deal with them.

He'd rather die than admit that to anyone, though. A mercenary that wrote poetry? He'd get scorned out of the profession. And, rightly so. He was meant to be strong. Stoic. Harsh. Not a crybaby that wrote sad poems because he couldn't manage his own feelings.

He grabbed his bag and reached in the back pocket to grab the little notebook that he scratched the poems down in. He didn't feel it. The idiots had probably dislodged it when they ruined the rest of his organization in these bags, but, it was just as well. It wasn't like he couldn't simply re-organize the bag. He should probably do that later anyway.

But, for now. Poetry.

He pulled the bag closer to him so he could peer inside, then frowned. He still didn't see it. He dug his clothes out of the bag, one at a time to be sure it hadn't gotten folded into a sleeve somewhere. Then pulled out his medicine bag. His tin of coffee beans.

The longer he looked, the more desperate he got. He ripped open the other half of his bag and yanked the top items out as well. Then he turned both bags upside down and shook the rest of his things out on the bed. The notebook wasn't there.

Goddamn them all! He ran his hands through his hair, tugging on it as he tried to think of what to do. They probably thought he had some sort of secret in it -- which was actually fairly true, but not the sort that would be useful to them. It was his notebook. They had no right to it. None whatsoever. He shoved his feet back in his boots and stormed across the room, then pounded on the door loudly with his palms.

(We don't have to go this way if you don't wanna! You can take the lead on this, play it off as a recruit taking it out thinking it was useful or whatever if you don't think Ash would read it -- and we can definitely just have no one come to let him out of the room, too. Just thought it might be a helpful glimpse for Ash to have of Pratik not being as much of a hard-ass as he claims to be lol)

(Gaius would absolutely read it. In fact let's say that was what he was doing before he read the letter.)

"I thought I might find you out here." Gaius looked up at the sound of Sara's voice, and he smiled wearily.
"Am I that easy to read, my dear?"
"I've picked up on your habits." She gestured to the bench. "May I join you?" Gaius scooted over to make room, and Sara seated herself beside him, resting her elbows on her knees.
"How is he?" she asked after a long silence. Gaius shrugged, resting his cane in the crook of his right arm so he could take her hand.
"A rock, the same as always. A good listener."
"'Stones keep secrets, men tell lies. One is foolish, both are wise,'" Sara recited. "What secrets will Oscar be keeping today?"

(Cool! I'm improv-ing so let me know if anything I say needs to change lol)

The longer Pratik beat on the door, the angrier he got. He switched from pounding on it with his palm to hitting it with the end of his closed fist hard enough it rattled on its hinges.

It felt like an eternity had passed before he heard shuffling outside his room. His jaw was set, brow darkened as he steeped in the idea of Ash -- or anyone at all -- reading something so personal to him. His only hope was that maybe it hadn't been passed along to Gaius yet.

He clenched his fists and angrily waited for the door to unlock.

(You can write who comes to let him out if you want? I was thinking maybe it be a servant or like 1-2 soldiers and he just pushes past them and/or disarms them if it's a handful of soldiers lol and then storms down the hall and causes a whole big ruckus haha but also good for whatever ^^)

(Pratik's crazy if he thinks anyone is gonna let him out XD)

"No secrets today." Gaius watched as Sara's fingers locked with his, her thumb running over his bony knuckles. "Just ponderings. About Lyra, mostly."
"Poor thing." Sara rested her head on his shoulder. "I can't imagine how frightened she must have been. Must be. What was Tomhas thinking?"
"House Loquitur isn't rich," Gaius said absently. "The dowry must be high by itself, but Tomhas must be in dire need of help if he's offering her to Ithicus Tarr."
"Perhaps you ought to call it off," Sara suggested gently. "You're brothers, Gaius. Brothers fight."
"I'm well aware." Gaius waved his damaged hand at her. "Well aware of the consequences."
"So make amends. You're not in too deep yet, you can still fix this."

A fresh surge of anger ran through him as he realized that whoever it was in the hall, they didn't seem to be planning to unlock the door. He slammed his fist into it again and shouted. "Let me the fuck out of here! I WANT MY NOTEBOOK!"

"What notebook?" came the shrill response. It was the voice of a child, quivering with fear. "Are you a ghost?"

Gaius let go of her hand and pulled away slightly.
"You know I can't," he said softly. "You know I can't do that, Sara. What Tomhas wants to do is wrong, and if I can't stop him by talking then I'll do it by force."
"Like Michael would," Sara chided, turning his face to look at her. Gaius flinched away from her as if he'd been slapped.
"Wh--" He jerked his face back to front, eyes wide. Why would she say that to him? She knew what that name was, what it meant to him. To compare him to Michael was...
"Gaius..." Sara reached for him, but Gaius rose, whirling on her.
"You are my wife," he said stiffly, trying to keep his composure. "You are my wife and I love you. But if you ever compare me to that--that--that pile of bearshit..." Gaius trailed off, throat tightening. "Goodnight," he finished shakily, and limped away as quickly as he could.

Pratik forced himself to take a deep breath, then blew it out. Then take another one. It was a child. He wouldn't hurt a child. And he wouldn't scare them either.

He forced himself to unclench his teeth and make his voice gentle as he bent down by the door. "Are you a young Ash?"

"Are you my grandfather?" the voice demanded. "I'm Mattathias."

Gaius reentered the Keep and stalked to his room, where he threw down his cane and sank into his chair, burying his head in his hands. Why had she said that? Why had she done that to him? Michael, of all people. Not his father or his other ancestors. Michael Ash. He'd thought Sara knew better than to speak of him at all.

"Hi Mattathias," Pratik said, forcing his voice to stay gentle even though he was still fuming with rage. "No, I'm not your grandfather. I'm your Papa's friend. You saw me at dinner, remember?"

It was worth a shot.

"I really need to talk to your Papa, it's really important. Do you think you could get him for me?"

"Papa's busy," the boy replied. "I had a nightmare. A ghost got me. Do you have nightmares?"

Gaius began to take deep, slow breaths, closing his eyes. He'd taught himself this technique years ago, before Sera had ever come here and before Tomhas was even born. It had served him well for decades, and it would serve him well. Now.
Gaius pictured a tree. It was a gigantic tree, with leaves branching out on all sides and a thick, rough trunk perfect for climbing. In his mind Gaius climbed, higher and higher until his head poked out above the canopy and he could see a blue, blue sky above. A new branch, twisted and gnarled as the others were, grew up out of the canopy with him. Gaius clambered onto it and followed the limb until it grew too thin. Then he sat there, listening to the wind blow the leaves about.

Pratik ran his fingers through his hair, but it ended up him dragging his fingernails in scratches from his scalp down the back of his neck. This was painful. If it was anyone -- anyone else in the world than a child, he'd be shouting all of the vile things in his mind.

"It's really important that I talk to your Papa, buddy," Pratik said, still forcing himself to be calm even though it wasn't possible to feel more differently from calm than he did now. "Even if he's busy. It's that important."