A Sliver of Snow - Work in Progress

by Ventosa Fri May 20, 2011 8:27 pm

Family Ties

It had been twenty-five years, and I remember it so well; maybe too well. Then again, we all remember it. That day was the day the world died. I get ahead of myself -- no, it wasn’t death. I had been told day after day, that it was rather a new beginning. I am constantly fed lies on a daily basis. This is what we have been degraded to (though many people did consider it the same as it always was, I saw it in our eyes, the vehemence and barbarity) in only so little time. Often did the rain come down, pouring even, but it was never truly rain. Every time the soft droplets fell down, it was because the world was crying.

There were always four of us; Constantine was the eldest, his freckles dark against his skin which was turned a hearty tan in the days the nation wasn’t weeping. He was the tallest, and with reason – Constantine was king. We were mere servants, the three left in our group. Leon was, to say the least, duke and at the throne’s right hand, the one who brought wine and food to the throne sanctum in spite of his title. Ranks within the castle made no difference, as we were all below the King. I dare call him Constantine, even if he was perceived as my friend. Juliana was merely a soldier. At least I had some control over her and my own army. What shall we call this gathering? The King’s guard, or are we simply his scapegoats?

I am Augustus. We all have sad names, and thus, considered the saddest of the bunch. I am the King’s centurion, and while I find myself detesting this name bit by bit, each passing day, I can very well tolerate it just for a little bit longer. I do not anticipate war, nor do I the sure outcome; death. I do not fear defeat; rather, I mildly accept it. Alas, I am... concerned for the sanity of Constantine. I fear he is becoming mad in his own seat, tossing and toiling as he sits in waiting. Waiting for what? If only I knew. Perchance, then I’d be able to answer my own questions. I know what I wait for, however. The shining opportunity to become King – I craved power. I needed to feel the continent between my fingers and having the knowledge I could crush every single person with one swipe.

Today, when Juliana approached me in the dismal halls around us, she took the hem of my cotton woven sleeve, and stopped me very well in my steps. My sandals slid across the soft marble below, but I did not lower my eyes to the drawn patterns as I usually would. Instead, I stared at her soul through her browned eyes. She feared me. With her lower lip trembling, not bothering to calm it with her crooked teeth. I hated those crooked teeth. I couldn’t stand her, but nevertheless, I stood with the best amount of patience I could muster. To be honest with myself, I couldn’t care less.

“They say he killed his own brother...” her voice was short and curt, mousy even. I hated that too
.
“It’s best not to spread rumours, sister,” I sneered at her, resisting the urge to roll my eyes at her.

“If I had known there would be a dead man in the cellar, I’d never go down for a new bottle of wine!” That was Juliana. A drunkard, when she considered herself more of a general than the soldier she was. When I died, maybe then she could take my rank, which is to say if she outlived me. Slowly did her hand aspire to tuck a grown, crested lock of blonde from her eyes as it fell, casting her gaze down in her sight. It seemed there was nothing more to be said, and judging by the silence, she must have known I wasn’t at all interested in the so called death of Samuel. Later in the day, I would seek out a member of the Fortibus to calm my growing suspicions and put an end to this rumour, spreading like wild fire already if it had reached Juliana. As she stepped from my presence, I watched her go; watched the frill of her corset bend to her movement down the wooden confines I was so limited to. Commonly mistaken for a bird locked into the metal cage I knew some nobles to cherish, I was only waiting for the wings to sprout from my back. No longer would I be Augustus the Centurion, but the Free! I could dream.

The other king, Saint John of Syria, had been silent indeed too long. I was the only one who had begun to worry, as our rival did not often hold his tongue as he was now. Neither did that overused wife of his, I realized after a moment of further contemplation. Perhaps those cleansed, holy doves of his had finally grown tired and died through the terrain they were forced to cross, delivering us many notes and the like. Smiling for just a moment, I recalled the time his servant sent us a copy of war plans, surely by mistake, and instead of catching us unawares his army had been smashed by our sword and forces. Momentarily scoffing to myself after this thought, mentally of course lest I be given an inquiry of my unusually aloof attitude today, I set back down the hall. It was lined with davenport benches, purple linens and shrouds over the windows tied back with a golden cord and stained glass windows I’d rather expect to see in a church. What did I know of churches? I had never been down in the city, for a soldier need not meddle in matters of poverty or grimy nails. I only left these grounds for war. Not to say I’d ever want to roam the streets like a stray.

It was an empty trek, down the bend of the hall that led me up a small flight of stairs, red carpet lining each finely carved stone as I lifted my legs in time to climb up this floor. All in all, I expected the castle to have some odd five levels, though I had only ever been to three. The basement, where battlements were stored and cells were... usually empty, was the lowest of the low. It was cold and dark, the walls so thick one could never hear what was going on down there. The perfect place to dwell and plot, but I knew no one who would dare linger there. It smelled of rotting flesh and ash, mildew and sitting water, so much that not even architects sent to renovate the area could do anything. To this day, beams they had established meant to support the floor as they demolished few things in the basement, still stood like solitary sentinels.

The corner of my lip twitched more in contemplation than it would as usual in a moment of hazy anger. I felt no anger. It would be disdain then, I decided with rushed conscience. The carpet below foot had changed to a frayed, velvety red with scattered rose petals that were swept and replaced every two days. Perhaps I spent too much time up here in order to know such things. The years I have wasted in this section of the castle were well worth it; however, I soon realized my fate after the first few, ever cautious even now. I didn’t fear the day I’d be caught up here, a man among the women’s linens, as there was simply nothing wrong with this visit. It was almost like a ritual, a daily act that had become a diminishing one now. I knew that she would question the ghost of my footsteps in the hall, but I still visited enough to recall which room was hers. Which trail of lavender was hers and where she stored her key.

Sometimes I think I’m pretentious, and that I’ve never wanted Rose for her soul, fiery as ever. Then, rolling my eyes, I knew that I was right. I don’t think I’ve ever loved her, not her blackened hair or her brushed skin and pinked cheeks. I couldn’t bring myself to have any feeling for her. My hand was lifted to the top shoot bolt of her door, and I scrabbled at the wood for a moment as I found the thick brass key on the slot she had dug out for my disposal. Twirling it in my palm for a moment, I slid it into the lock and opened it with a heavy, no less subtle, click. Gingerly did I put a crack in the door and its frame, my eyes meeting her lonely figure before the vanity across the room. The tall mirror was curled around with a wooden decoration, bolting it to the back of the desk that she spent her days at.

An oak tinted brush stroked through her hair, the curled ends frizzing with each rough sweep. I stood behind her, my hands gently going through the knots that she hadn’t broken, pulling it back into a bun, and watching it fall back to her shoulders. I saw her smile in the mirror’s light reflection, but my own face was a simply plain sign of the normality I never felt with her. Tearing the brush from her limp hands, it was thrown onto the wooden planks that shifted from the marble and stone outside. It landed with a heavy thud, but neither of us ever took any regard to the sound, or where it rolled to.

I felt like it was a prison inside here. All the bedrooms, though with the omnipresent scent of lavender and other sweet flowers I knew nothing of, it was so plain and gritty. Much like the rest of the castle, I told myself with a settling frown. The windows were not a stained, decorative glass with torch blown festooning, but an open stone carving. There were thick metal bars restraining any movement through or out it, and I often found Rose looking out them with... a certain longing in her eyes. Her eyes were ever expressive, but so dull at the same time. I gave little attention to her past the jumbling I was still doing with her bronzed hair. She, however, had something different on her mind than a wordless day, as they usually all went.

“Is something the matter today, my love?” Her voice was nothing like the aftertaste of Juliana’s, the ringing echo still pounding in my ears through the rush of blood and thoughts going faster than I could bother to search through them. Her voice was silken, like the linens I found hanging in hampers or strings in the courtyards to dry. My head, too many times, had been tainted from walking under the creamy droplets of water and soap that turned the grass a muddy tint. Do I dwell in these thoughts too much? I laughed, stifling it for a moment, thinking she’d take it more as a scoffing chortle.

“Oh, yes. Did you know, my Rose, that Juliana can get even more annoying, even after all these years?” She gave a little laugh in response, but I thought nothing of it. I never did. I ignored her much like an old woman’s death. Death was nothing to those elders, those people I mocked and pointed a wicked finger at, because they annoyed me. Perhaps I deserve to get what I do to others, a curveball heading for my head in an instant kill. I didn’t fear the Reaper either. That was fine, because I’d still be leaving behind nothing special. These so-called friends of mine, this girl before me; none of them would be my concern whenever I passed. I think I considered death too much to pretend like I wasn’t afraid of it.

“That is indeed a pity, love.” There was plain emotion behind the words, light but weighed as ever. I had never seen her downcast, to this extent, at least.

“What have you been doing today? Smelling flowers and brushing this mane of yours?”

“Certainly -- I find it most invigorating!”

This time, I didn’t reply to her musings, the ponderous thoughts she shared with me even in the glum of these days. Even in war, we had some time to ourselves, to remind ourselves more than ever, that we were human and not weapons. A sullen silence fell upon us, and I pried apart another knot in her hair, the tangled clump proving a challenge I didn’t want to face. The thick lock fell onto her shoulders again, and I buried the blemish under cleaner sorts of brown. Though they all held split ends, I had never bothered with such things. She had mentioned a few weeks ago she was going to grow it out, and when she spoke of such things, perhaps I mustered a bit of surprise. And disgust.

Without another word, I put my now idle hands to my side, and turned back from the vanity. In the hazy mirror, she watched me leave, creaking open her ancient door of carved cherubim and fancy leaves, and allowing it to slam closed behind me. She wasn’t startled, nor was I. It was a common sound between the two of us, whether it is through frustration I leave her, or boredom. The brass key had been left awaiting my return in the bronze lock, and I slowly turned it to hear the melody of a soft click. We both had our own keys. Mine remained here, for fear I’d be robbed of it by fate and my sense of loss, or lack of. I took it from the confine of the lock, and placed it back into its respective position atop the shoot bolt.

A whisper of wind tickled my ears and my cheeks from an ajar window of the hall, but I took no regard to it. I ground my teeth together, and looked over my shoulder from the door, and the woman on the other side of it. To my right, there was the way back down to the hall I was before, but to the left was another flight of stairs, to the roof past more of these living spaces. Weighing my chances, I sauntered back to the right, my boots almost in perfect resonance with my throbbing heart as I stepped down the velvety steps and the pooling rose petals that fluttered in the soft winds coming by. Capricious was the wind, just as the spinning of the flowers on benches and tables lined at the wall. The walls were plain and stone, once dripping with water when the rest of the castle wasn’t patched up. It had taken little over ten years, but soon enough; it was the perfect place to reside. I was never happy, however. I didn’t like my residence here.

My room was old and rickety, the walls painted over a pasty green that covered cracked blocks of stone, and my bed standing on tainted mahogany spokes that were almost ready to fall over. Sometimes I was scared to sleep, fearing I’d fall and catch a splinter through my neck or the like. I wanted to be King for the luxuries I didn’t have. I had friends, I had money, and I had food. The one thing I didn’t have was comfort. The rest of my walk went uninterrupted, down three more flights of stairs, though not as beautiful and picked clean as the others I had encountered. With each passing floor, down into the barracks, the walls grew darker and the light more depressing as it yellowed with the piling force of the underground.

The barracks was a few steps above the basement, and even here the stench wafted up to my soldiers. My soldiers were pitiful, if to be compared to any word I knew. They were wretched fools, but it wasn’t like we ever fought a war. Perhaps when we were stronger, we did. Now we were the bane of our own existence. For now we lived on aged broth and rusty swords. Rounding the dark corner with a tentative, light foot, I thought it soon best to clear my head. What better way than to sleep? It had been a long day, in spite of it only the third hours past the noon mark. As I stepped, with daunting manner, into the small rectangular space of my chambers, I unhooked the simple sword at my hip, the boots and their greaves from my knees, and I sat upon my bed. The flattened mattress supported me even now, and my open window at the foot of the lofty perch giving me insight into the city resting below the castle. Crossing my leg over one another, my hands upon my knees, I looked outside and dreamt of what my life could have been.

I could barely see anything. It was still something. With the barracks still being half above ground, my lips crinkled the corners of my eyes in a youthful smile. Winter winds caressed my cheeks, blowing my hair around, forcing my cotton breeches and secured shirt to billow and waver like a blade of grass in an onslaught of summer breeze. Nay, it was not summer, nor was it spring. It was winter, and the air was crisp, fresh, and forever would it be a comfort. One I had and one the King didn’t. I gawked, almost at least, at the ant like rooftops and the people below me, and wondered if they were as cold as I in their homes. I shrugged.

And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw snow. It was so little; I could consider it even a sliver of snow.

Vendetta

Monthly, Constantine arranges a meeting with his generals. George, the man of the people, always attends, and how I hate him so. He sits the nearest to King, and he always piques up at the most meager of suggestions and agrees with that... Almighty man as though he were the one never in the wrong. This carried on even when his mental stability began to deteriorate. Philip was the next in line on the winding table, his staff in his hand and his belt tightly bound to make it appear as though his gut did not stick out from the crowd, as his wife had proposed. I could stand him, and if I had ever bothered, would name him a friend. He was our cleric, and one of the most trusted bankers in the opportunity arose. I’d never admit it, but if even if he made an appearance to represent someone in court; he was rubbish with the laws of the land. What did I know, on that matter? I was a mere battlement. Philip, these days, was useless as a banker, too. For years, the castle’s income and generated expenses was a startling zero. What a shock that news had been to us all.

However, these monthly congregations had not happened for twenty-five years. Ah, the last one was so crystal clear, and I still could recall it with the ease of a younger man, as it had happened. With Constantine’s father in rule – a far better candidate for anything, if I was to input my opinion in at all – things had been going better for the once fortified castle and the people both inside it, and bellow our pillared feet. This day was marked as worthy of Constantine’s presence. I sighed, stepping into the marble banquet chamber with a memory whirling and a joyful cry on the tip of my tongue.

Past the gothic, ebony wooded double doors, there was a long mahogany table almost stretching from one end of the room to the adjacent side. There were utensils and bowls carved from elephant tusks, and the day we had thrown them into a potter’s hands; it was the last we had seen of the Ottoman army. My boots were heavy and resounding, a sound that was in no way akin to the shuffle of my usual sandal wear. I wrinkled my nose in disgust more than anything, and I saw the spread of food and men at the table this evening. Constantine, in the velvety throne at the head of the table, was... Drunk. He was laughing with a ponderous and bearing voice, while the other two men shared the humour that I was sure wasn’t as funny as they thought it. Aside from George, Philip, and I, there was a new face seated beside the empty chair where I’d have been, had I not been late. The face was fresh to the entire ambiance, but not to me. It was Rose. I set out at a slow gait, and I was sure she had heard me. The candlelight from the face of the table flickered to and fro, and marked dancing shadows over her reddened dress. Taking my respective seating, I reached my hand across the bowl of apples seemingly discarded to me, and plucked a neighbouring grape from its straying stem. I was weary of eating it, but nevertheless, chewed it down with the slightest bit of apprehension.

“They’ve all been like this since they arrived.” The whisper was low and soft, and I realized in that moment it had been Rose’s voice. Craning my neck to spare a glance at her, I noticed she had been... Missing something. I didn’t know what. I looked at the red smudge of lipstick across her lips, the dab of charcoal gray over her eyes, and the corset of blood hidden – just barely, I corrected myself – by a cloak. There was no immediate difference I could find. Maybe it was something in her voice. Maybe, but it held little matter to me.

“A foolish mistake. Perhaps if I didn’t come at all, they would never have noticed.” At that, she giggled. That was what I heard. There had been laughter in her voice, and I was inwardly bemused. What could have been so amusing about a couple of drunks? Thinking nothing more of it, I directed my attention back to Rose, who had taken a dainty sip from her brass cup.

“It would be foolish of you, darling, to do such a thing when Constantine is mad as is. Went off a while ago before he drank himself to death and back about some... Oh, I really don’t remember, dear. Something about a shoe or a wall, I didn’t hear it right. Now, there was something I heard before everything was just a slur, but I didn’t think much of it. They say that John man is coming here to sign a peace treaty.” She scoffed, and I all but raised a brow.

“Why do you speak such things to me?”

“Just thought it was a bit interesting, dear.” She took a final sip of her wine, which seemingly concluded the cup’s contents and our conversation. Rose stood, the stilts her chair stood on squawking and shuffling, but not disturbing the others. I followed her, however, and abandoned the three left, who were laughing and snorting still. We split off at the even grander hallway outside the unblocked and open French doors. To the right - as the hall spread out to the left and right - were creaky, dilapidated stairs leading down to the next floor, where Rose had her tiny bedroom. Leftwards, there were heavily stoned marble slabs modeled into stairs, which shone almost like a block of crystal. She didn’t stop me, though I knew she took her leave as an open invitation to follow her further, as I absentmindedly took the steps up. Constantine had the entire fourth floor renovated for his bedroom. I had never been there, and now my feet longed for it.

There was only a single door blocking my way as I stepped onto the tiled landing space. Biting the inside of my cheek, I reached for the knobby handle and attempted to turn it either which way. Futile. My plan had been foiled and... I noticed the thin lock that would never protect against a thing had it been there or not, and withdrew the rusted dagger at my side. The agile end was forced into the space where the key should have been placed, and I twisted it to dig around in the contraption. It made a hollow groan, but as I returned my hand to shake the handle, it still did not move. Curses! Dropping my hands to my sides in defeat, I sheathed the simple weapon back into its case, and sighed. Perhaps I’d be better without knowing what was behind the doors of the castle. Stepping away from the door with as little dignity as a beaten dog, I made my way with plodding feet down the flight of stairs and to the right, as Rose had gone. With no intentions of visiting her, I passed by her room without a second glance, but no clear decision in mind. There was something else I needed tonight.

When I reached the bottom of the living space’s floor, where most of my days have been spent sleeping - I was too lazy to be Centurion, in spite of high expectations - and I wasted little time dawdling. Radically, though I had always gotten used to such a thing, the atmosphere had changed. Above me sat Rose, where the flowers were sweet and the light was gentle; but down here it was dark and gloomy. There was a dismal setting that made my soldiers jump even after years, and beyond the hissing of cockroaches and the crackling of rats coming up from the slithering basement stench. The basement. That was where I was going. I knew the risk, knew why I was going down to roll among the damned. It was a chance I needed to take. Holding my breath, I sped past empty rooms and through a flimsy door frame and into the darkness.

There was a single torch on the wall, beneath the mantle of the looming, downward leaned stairs. Taking it in my hand with a shaking conscience, I left its holster empty and dim as I took each step by force. That wasn’t to say I was scared of what resided in the basement, because that fear melted away into the simplicity of being curious. I had never before been in this predicament, of finding myself among my own creaky, laboured sauntering I struggled to let free. On what I thought was the nearing end of the flight, my foot was caught midway to the next wooden perch, on a broken brass rivet that jutted out to the side. I swallowed my cry as my world tipped over, upside-down and sideways as my body was thrown across the expanse of stair and launched into the fury of air. As I landed, what was seconds later, my right leg was mangled and torn. The flesh, having been slit and separated from my trouser, was scarred and blood seeped rivulet by rivulet from the scattered veins. However, not only was it mutilated, but crooked and mashed to one odd side. I let out a gasp, a throaty yell as I clenched my hand’s grip around the appendage in pain. There was pain, and a little bit of determination left.

by **Nightclaw** Fri May 20, 2011 9:19 pm

:) Interesting.

by **lucky333123** Sun May 22, 2011 6:55 pm

Very nice

by Ventosa Sun May 22, 2011 7:33 pm

edited and updated a bit more. thanks for feedback C:

by Erk Sat May 28, 2011 5:51 pm

Very interesting, don't read a lot of historic setting based fiction but perhaps it's time that I give it another chance. You're quite descriptive which is good I enjoy it but... I have the feeling some people would find a bit too much so, but for the style it works.

Also I'm a bit confused by the pacing of the story and is it set after the fact or while the events are happening? That might clear up my issue depending when it's happening the pace might make sense to me. Perhaps it's just me but the pacing seems off.

Still overall I loved it. Thanks for posting.

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