Post by The Jenn on Oct 19, 2007 19:14:53 GMT -5
Thoughts buzzed and flitted through Serafino's mind, staying near the edges of his consciousness and touching every now and then at his awareness. Mostly, he just felt, and those emotions were nothing he wanted to be feeling right now. He should be white-hot with rage, ice-cold with hatred, and everything in between. Instead, his insides felt hollow and numb, as if someone had just carved out a piece of him and he couldn't quite grasp the depth of the pain.
His mother...
They had killed... his mother. She was dead now, buried in the gardens by his and his uncle's hands, her gleaming scales smeared with the blood of her heart and the dirt of her grave. The sight had made him want to scream, to gag, to run and fly away and not look back until he could bring with him an army of demons from the furthest plane to wipe clean the slate.
He wished he could feel that now. Righteous anger, indignant fury, a lust for vengeance, anything would be better than this silent, aching blankness. The pillows of his bed were soft against his curled bipedal form, wings tucked as close as they could possibly get to his long, limber teenage body. He needed to groom himself, to wipe away the tear stains and brush away the dirt, but he couldn't summon the energy to lift an arm, much less all of him. The late afternoon sun cast a golden hue throughout the room. He would have liked to close the drapes as well and wallow in the dark, but again, he didn't have the energy.
Very early that morning, what felt a lifetime ago now, his uncle had walked into his room and shaken him awake, much to his grumbling. His complaints died the moment he saw Bernard's face, the wide eyes and ashen-pale complexion telling him that something was Very Wrong. In quiet, shaky tones, the King informed him of his mother's death, her murder, and the subsequent rise of a new Queen. Apparently his father and sister had played key roles in the plot.
Apparently his father had stabbed her in the heart with a serrated knife. Multiple times. While his sister went through and murdered several of her mother's Kings who might object. Bernard had been spared only because of the key role he played as the Court's current mage-King, something no one else had quite the skill to take up.
He had felt the rage then, and the hatred, and everything in between. It lasted until he actually saw his mother's body, stuck to her sheets and cold. Then he had just felt... powerless. His bastard father had just killed his mother, on behalf of another woman, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
He was a Queen, but not an adult. He had no proper allies save one, not after his sister's bloody spree throughout the palace. He didn't even have consistent control over his most powerful ability yet. It still knocked him unconscious with every use and the blaze often raged out of his control. Bernard had told him control would come with time and practice, but he had devoted neither to mastering the ability. That would have to change. But not just yet. He had gone to be violently ill in the hallway, and then crawled back to his room until his uncle came to collect him for the burial. No one had helped them then, not wanting to be associated with the murdered Queen in the eyes of their new ruler. That was alright. He wouldn't have let them, even if they'd tried.
Now he just lay curled around himself, the tears and the shaking over. His eyes were dry, if somewhat red, and his breath came at a normal pace instead of in hiccuping sobs.
He heard a door open behind him and tensed, but relaxed at familiar footsteps that approached his bed. A smooth human hand reached out to touch one red-gold wing, hesitantly, as if not sure of the welcome it would receive. Fino slowly uncurled and sat up, not quite looking at his uncle, then reached out and wrapped his scaly arms around the thin torso. "We're need to do something about this," he said quietly, pleased that his words were steady and not as shaky as he thought they would be. "They're... not going to get away with it. Maybe for a little while, but not forever. Not for long. I need your help, uncle."
His mother...
They had killed... his mother. She was dead now, buried in the gardens by his and his uncle's hands, her gleaming scales smeared with the blood of her heart and the dirt of her grave. The sight had made him want to scream, to gag, to run and fly away and not look back until he could bring with him an army of demons from the furthest plane to wipe clean the slate.
He wished he could feel that now. Righteous anger, indignant fury, a lust for vengeance, anything would be better than this silent, aching blankness. The pillows of his bed were soft against his curled bipedal form, wings tucked as close as they could possibly get to his long, limber teenage body. He needed to groom himself, to wipe away the tear stains and brush away the dirt, but he couldn't summon the energy to lift an arm, much less all of him. The late afternoon sun cast a golden hue throughout the room. He would have liked to close the drapes as well and wallow in the dark, but again, he didn't have the energy.
Very early that morning, what felt a lifetime ago now, his uncle had walked into his room and shaken him awake, much to his grumbling. His complaints died the moment he saw Bernard's face, the wide eyes and ashen-pale complexion telling him that something was Very Wrong. In quiet, shaky tones, the King informed him of his mother's death, her murder, and the subsequent rise of a new Queen. Apparently his father and sister had played key roles in the plot.
Apparently his father had stabbed her in the heart with a serrated knife. Multiple times. While his sister went through and murdered several of her mother's Kings who might object. Bernard had been spared only because of the key role he played as the Court's current mage-King, something no one else had quite the skill to take up.
He had felt the rage then, and the hatred, and everything in between. It lasted until he actually saw his mother's body, stuck to her sheets and cold. Then he had just felt... powerless. His bastard father had just killed his mother, on behalf of another woman, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
He was a Queen, but not an adult. He had no proper allies save one, not after his sister's bloody spree throughout the palace. He didn't even have consistent control over his most powerful ability yet. It still knocked him unconscious with every use and the blaze often raged out of his control. Bernard had told him control would come with time and practice, but he had devoted neither to mastering the ability. That would have to change. But not just yet. He had gone to be violently ill in the hallway, and then crawled back to his room until his uncle came to collect him for the burial. No one had helped them then, not wanting to be associated with the murdered Queen in the eyes of their new ruler. That was alright. He wouldn't have let them, even if they'd tried.
Now he just lay curled around himself, the tears and the shaking over. His eyes were dry, if somewhat red, and his breath came at a normal pace instead of in hiccuping sobs.
He heard a door open behind him and tensed, but relaxed at familiar footsteps that approached his bed. A smooth human hand reached out to touch one red-gold wing, hesitantly, as if not sure of the welcome it would receive. Fino slowly uncurled and sat up, not quite looking at his uncle, then reached out and wrapped his scaly arms around the thin torso. "We're need to do something about this," he said quietly, pleased that his words were steady and not as shaky as he thought they would be. "They're... not going to get away with it. Maybe for a little while, but not forever. Not for long. I need your help, uncle."
