Post by Kasatsu on Dec 2, 2008 14:44:11 GMT -5
Thought I would throw this up for those who wanted to read, in case someone randomly happened to be interested. <3 Only one thing was changed and that's his name at the very end. ^ ^;
~~~
Grabbing the basket needed, he maneuvered onto the bed with his knees. The abilities and freedom (not to mention gracefulness it presented to movement) were always good things that came with having the legs and hands of bipedal form – not to mention that it simply made one look so much, more gorgeous.
Settling down with his knees bent to either side of him, he pulled the sheet that covered the basket off, laying it to the side. Reaching inside, he withdrew the first of his growing collection of sock puppets. It was the first one that he had ever made. He loved the poor puppet he had fondly named Sockmonkey, with its missing eye and seams coming apart at one shoulder and its right leg missing. Running fingers over it fondly, he then propped it up in a sitting position against the sheets to his right.
He had learned how to make them from one of the servants one day when, after being caught studying her work, she had handed him one with slight hesitation and a small smile. She had mentioned something about her own daughter loving them. Seeing that the stuffed toy was charming--but not nearly as attractive as he could make it--he had pulled it apart and studied how it was made. After a visit to the seamstress’s and laundry rooms in the palace, he had gathered the supplies he needed. Socks--which he had stolen from Bernard’s basket while it was still in the laundry room waiting to be delivered to his room (he didn’t want to use dirty ones, after all)--a needle and some thread that happened to be lying around, a few buttons he had plucked off a jacket or two, and stuffing he had pulled out of a bed comforter, with a few various items here and there, he had started making his own.
Reaching into the basket he then withdrew the puppets he had made of his parents, Seth and Bernard – Bernard’s, of course, being his favorite. He had wanted to make them as real as he could, so after one of the many explosions that seemed to riddle his father’s lab, he had waited till some of the blue and pink smoke had cleared enough so he could sneak his way inside. After finally locating his unconscious father on the floor, he had then proceeded to yank a few hairs before making a hasty exit. For his Seth puppet, he had stolen a few feathers while the man lounged around in bat form taking a nap. Reaching back into the basket he pulled a few more of the puppets out, each of them resembling different members of his family or those close to it.
When they were all aligned in front of him, he picked up two of them and started to create a dialogue between them – very much like what went on every day in conversation with his strange family. Bringing the puppets of his father, Bernard, and Sascha (who for the moment was being reprimanded by his father) up to eye level, he was distracted by a movement across the room. Tilting his head to the side so his entire long mane cascaded to one side, he allowed his arms to fall, bringing the puppets to rest in his lap. Sitting there, he contemplated what it was that had caught his attention.
Looking across the room to the mirror that hung on the other wall, he starred at his reflection. The person who stared back was a familiar face. The same blonde mane, the same colored eyes, the feathers, even the four wing tips. All of it was him, familiar and the same as he always remembered being. Yet there was something about it that, something that seemed to haunt him around the edges.
It was not something he could physically grasp but for some of those who looked at him it seemed to be something unspeakably relevant.
No one ever said anything aloud – at least if they did it was never while he was around – and any questions he had asked about the looks were meet with obtrusive answers, small smiles, or no real answers at all.
But he saw it, he was aware it was there, always lingering along the edges. The Look, as he now referred to it to himself, was only a quick pass of emotions flittering there in their eyes for a moment and then was gone. When he was younger he had been emotionally oblivious to it but as he had grown older he had learnt the words to describe it. Though he often tried to ignore it, some days his brain simply did not want to obey the command and the questions and feelings that look caused seemed to want to boil over him, drowning him a feeling that he still did not have words to describe. Sometimes it seemed that he did know the word, but to put a name to it would allow the feeling to consume him.
The Look held the emotions of guilt, pity, anger, and even a sense of frustration. Every time he had become insecure about how others felt of him and his own self worth, he had slowly gathered the courage to ask about the Look. Each time he had, his parents had always given his hair a fond stroke and answered that they did indeed love him and that there was nothing he was to worry about. They never outright said it was in his mind, the words just out of reach, but they never seemed to deny the feelings either.
One day, finding that their answers were not enough, he sought to find his own answers.
He spent a long, frustrating day searching everything and everywhere he could think of. During his quest he had even managed to stumble across a naked picture of what had taken his eyes a few, long moments to accept after screaming their denial, his father Seth – something he had very much never wanted to see, thank you very much.
Having no clue what it was that he was trying to find in order to achieve his answers, he had finally ended up wandering around in the library, pulling out random books and flipping through pages. That was when he had managed to stumble across a book that did hold the answer.
Picking out a random book off the shelf, “The Queens of the Pride,” he had found that it held information and dates for each of The Queens who had ruled over the Heart Court. Flipping through the pages, he stopped every now and then to read a passage or two before growing bored. It was while he was flipping through the pages half-heartedly that he had stumbled across the image. Flipping past it, it had taken his eyes a moment to comprehend what it was that had just gone by. Once it had registered he had quickly back flipped through the pages to re-find it.
If he had not touched it with his own hand he might have thought it was a mirror, reflecting his own image back at him, but finding that it was indeed a picture painted on the page he was struck dumb.
Glancing over the information given on the opposite page, he discovered that the man in the picture – the resemblance so much of himself – was a man named Blaine. It was much more than that, though: the man had been his uncle. His wonderful father Bernard’s brother. Along with the information provided was a brief explanation about how the man, who had an uncanny resemblance to himself, had betrayed and killed Queen Lin for the selfish goal of placing his lover on the throne, after which he had chased his own son and Bernard out of the palace. The two of them had later returned to take the rightful throne-- well, Serafino had, in any case--at which time family history was repeated when Blaine had been chased away.
Apparently the ironic lesson had not been enough for the man, because he had struck again, at a later time, to assassinate Queen Serafino, leaving the late Queen Shinrai to take over.
Upon reading that he had pulled his attention away, beyond disgusted and stricken by what he had just read. Staring down at the page with blank eyes, he wondered how someone could do such a thing. To attack and kill his own family in such a way! No wonder why people gave him that look; they could not help but see that man when they saw him.
Narrowing his eyes at the image that was currently reflected back across at him, he contemplated the mane he bore. From what he had seen that day it was the most striking feature that connected him to that man. If only he did not have it, if it was all cleaved off, then that Look would disappear! All he wanted in life, for the small amount of years he had graced thus far, was for that Look to be gone.
Scampering off of the bed, becoming entangled for a moment in sheets and wings, he started to search frantically in all of the drawers for a pair of scissors. He knew he had a pair in here somewhere, but since his organizational skills were something to be desired it was a matter of being able to happen upon them.
After a few short moments he was able to find them, mumbling an triumphant Aha!, before walking over to the mirror. Holding them in his hand as if they were the most precious thing in the world, he stood there before the mirror, glaring at the hair that had been taunting and haunting him, he stared down at it from bridge of his nose.
With a sneer he grabbed a handful of his locks, bringing it forward with a sharp tug. Opening the mouth of the scissors he placed them to the captured hair. All it would take was the action of closing the mouth to sever the strands. Just one chop and that Look would be gone!
Closing is eyes, he prepared himself for the task. After a few moments he opened his eyes, slowly lowering the scissors. He couldn’t do it. Releasing the locks he watched them as they fell and cascaded over his chest, only giving slender glimpses of the rank and suit they now covered.
Bringing himself to his full height, he met his own eyes in the mirror. He wasn’t that man and thus he didn’t deserve those Looks.
He was the son of King Bernard and Queen Seth. He was a Highlander, a Queen by his own birth. For no reason should he have to change himself. He was who he was, no one else, even if there had once been someone who was similar in appearance alone.
Holding his own gaze in the mirror he nodded his head in silent agreement. Then and there he made a vow to himself that even if it took him his whole life he would prove to himself and them - his family and everyone else - that he was nothing like that man. Placing a hand on his hip, he tossed his long hair over one shoulder. He was Nikolai, Queen of Spades, and everyone would know him for who he was – someone who was miraculous, marvelous, and magnificent!
The world did not know what it held before it.
With that thought in mind, he gave another nod of his head. Admiring his looks in the mirror for a moment with the tilt of his head, he then gave a practiced twirl before skipping off to go in search of his father.
~~~
Grabbing the basket needed, he maneuvered onto the bed with his knees. The abilities and freedom (not to mention gracefulness it presented to movement) were always good things that came with having the legs and hands of bipedal form – not to mention that it simply made one look so much, more gorgeous.
Settling down with his knees bent to either side of him, he pulled the sheet that covered the basket off, laying it to the side. Reaching inside, he withdrew the first of his growing collection of sock puppets. It was the first one that he had ever made. He loved the poor puppet he had fondly named Sockmonkey, with its missing eye and seams coming apart at one shoulder and its right leg missing. Running fingers over it fondly, he then propped it up in a sitting position against the sheets to his right.
He had learned how to make them from one of the servants one day when, after being caught studying her work, she had handed him one with slight hesitation and a small smile. She had mentioned something about her own daughter loving them. Seeing that the stuffed toy was charming--but not nearly as attractive as he could make it--he had pulled it apart and studied how it was made. After a visit to the seamstress’s and laundry rooms in the palace, he had gathered the supplies he needed. Socks--which he had stolen from Bernard’s basket while it was still in the laundry room waiting to be delivered to his room (he didn’t want to use dirty ones, after all)--a needle and some thread that happened to be lying around, a few buttons he had plucked off a jacket or two, and stuffing he had pulled out of a bed comforter, with a few various items here and there, he had started making his own.
Reaching into the basket he then withdrew the puppets he had made of his parents, Seth and Bernard – Bernard’s, of course, being his favorite. He had wanted to make them as real as he could, so after one of the many explosions that seemed to riddle his father’s lab, he had waited till some of the blue and pink smoke had cleared enough so he could sneak his way inside. After finally locating his unconscious father on the floor, he had then proceeded to yank a few hairs before making a hasty exit. For his Seth puppet, he had stolen a few feathers while the man lounged around in bat form taking a nap. Reaching back into the basket he pulled a few more of the puppets out, each of them resembling different members of his family or those close to it.
When they were all aligned in front of him, he picked up two of them and started to create a dialogue between them – very much like what went on every day in conversation with his strange family. Bringing the puppets of his father, Bernard, and Sascha (who for the moment was being reprimanded by his father) up to eye level, he was distracted by a movement across the room. Tilting his head to the side so his entire long mane cascaded to one side, he allowed his arms to fall, bringing the puppets to rest in his lap. Sitting there, he contemplated what it was that had caught his attention.
Looking across the room to the mirror that hung on the other wall, he starred at his reflection. The person who stared back was a familiar face. The same blonde mane, the same colored eyes, the feathers, even the four wing tips. All of it was him, familiar and the same as he always remembered being. Yet there was something about it that, something that seemed to haunt him around the edges.
It was not something he could physically grasp but for some of those who looked at him it seemed to be something unspeakably relevant.
No one ever said anything aloud – at least if they did it was never while he was around – and any questions he had asked about the looks were meet with obtrusive answers, small smiles, or no real answers at all.
But he saw it, he was aware it was there, always lingering along the edges. The Look, as he now referred to it to himself, was only a quick pass of emotions flittering there in their eyes for a moment and then was gone. When he was younger he had been emotionally oblivious to it but as he had grown older he had learnt the words to describe it. Though he often tried to ignore it, some days his brain simply did not want to obey the command and the questions and feelings that look caused seemed to want to boil over him, drowning him a feeling that he still did not have words to describe. Sometimes it seemed that he did know the word, but to put a name to it would allow the feeling to consume him.
The Look held the emotions of guilt, pity, anger, and even a sense of frustration. Every time he had become insecure about how others felt of him and his own self worth, he had slowly gathered the courage to ask about the Look. Each time he had, his parents had always given his hair a fond stroke and answered that they did indeed love him and that there was nothing he was to worry about. They never outright said it was in his mind, the words just out of reach, but they never seemed to deny the feelings either.
One day, finding that their answers were not enough, he sought to find his own answers.
He spent a long, frustrating day searching everything and everywhere he could think of. During his quest he had even managed to stumble across a naked picture of what had taken his eyes a few, long moments to accept after screaming their denial, his father Seth – something he had very much never wanted to see, thank you very much.
Having no clue what it was that he was trying to find in order to achieve his answers, he had finally ended up wandering around in the library, pulling out random books and flipping through pages. That was when he had managed to stumble across a book that did hold the answer.
Picking out a random book off the shelf, “The Queens of the Pride,” he had found that it held information and dates for each of The Queens who had ruled over the Heart Court. Flipping through the pages, he stopped every now and then to read a passage or two before growing bored. It was while he was flipping through the pages half-heartedly that he had stumbled across the image. Flipping past it, it had taken his eyes a moment to comprehend what it was that had just gone by. Once it had registered he had quickly back flipped through the pages to re-find it.
If he had not touched it with his own hand he might have thought it was a mirror, reflecting his own image back at him, but finding that it was indeed a picture painted on the page he was struck dumb.
Glancing over the information given on the opposite page, he discovered that the man in the picture – the resemblance so much of himself – was a man named Blaine. It was much more than that, though: the man had been his uncle. His wonderful father Bernard’s brother. Along with the information provided was a brief explanation about how the man, who had an uncanny resemblance to himself, had betrayed and killed Queen Lin for the selfish goal of placing his lover on the throne, after which he had chased his own son and Bernard out of the palace. The two of them had later returned to take the rightful throne-- well, Serafino had, in any case--at which time family history was repeated when Blaine had been chased away.
Apparently the ironic lesson had not been enough for the man, because he had struck again, at a later time, to assassinate Queen Serafino, leaving the late Queen Shinrai to take over.
Upon reading that he had pulled his attention away, beyond disgusted and stricken by what he had just read. Staring down at the page with blank eyes, he wondered how someone could do such a thing. To attack and kill his own family in such a way! No wonder why people gave him that look; they could not help but see that man when they saw him.
Narrowing his eyes at the image that was currently reflected back across at him, he contemplated the mane he bore. From what he had seen that day it was the most striking feature that connected him to that man. If only he did not have it, if it was all cleaved off, then that Look would disappear! All he wanted in life, for the small amount of years he had graced thus far, was for that Look to be gone.
Scampering off of the bed, becoming entangled for a moment in sheets and wings, he started to search frantically in all of the drawers for a pair of scissors. He knew he had a pair in here somewhere, but since his organizational skills were something to be desired it was a matter of being able to happen upon them.
After a few short moments he was able to find them, mumbling an triumphant Aha!, before walking over to the mirror. Holding them in his hand as if they were the most precious thing in the world, he stood there before the mirror, glaring at the hair that had been taunting and haunting him, he stared down at it from bridge of his nose.
With a sneer he grabbed a handful of his locks, bringing it forward with a sharp tug. Opening the mouth of the scissors he placed them to the captured hair. All it would take was the action of closing the mouth to sever the strands. Just one chop and that Look would be gone!
Closing is eyes, he prepared himself for the task. After a few moments he opened his eyes, slowly lowering the scissors. He couldn’t do it. Releasing the locks he watched them as they fell and cascaded over his chest, only giving slender glimpses of the rank and suit they now covered.
Bringing himself to his full height, he met his own eyes in the mirror. He wasn’t that man and thus he didn’t deserve those Looks.
He was the son of King Bernard and Queen Seth. He was a Highlander, a Queen by his own birth. For no reason should he have to change himself. He was who he was, no one else, even if there had once been someone who was similar in appearance alone.
Holding his own gaze in the mirror he nodded his head in silent agreement. Then and there he made a vow to himself that even if it took him his whole life he would prove to himself and them - his family and everyone else - that he was nothing like that man. Placing a hand on his hip, he tossed his long hair over one shoulder. He was Nikolai, Queen of Spades, and everyone would know him for who he was – someone who was miraculous, marvelous, and magnificent!
The world did not know what it held before it.
With that thought in mind, he gave another nod of his head. Admiring his looks in the mirror for a moment with the tilt of his head, he then gave a practiced twirl before skipping off to go in search of his father.
