Stars Fade Blue
Jorgen
The country had been on the verge of war for years, but things had seemed to be peaceful. Things were peaceful until that night, the night he was obligated to leave her. The hostiles of the Triranian Territory of the west had finally decided to make their move. Their goal was to win over the friendly country of Theyar.
Theyar had a long and diplomatic history. In the past it had not been unified and its regions had been their own separate countries. Through treaties and settlements, the land had eventually become a country of great standing among others. Its king was wise and intelligent, though there was fear for his death since he had no living heir.
Strategically, the Triranians had planned brilliantly. It was common knowledge that the king was growing older and that many disputes had risen in accordance to his throne. As a whole, the country was weakened from this. The Triranians intended to cut through to the capital, and if---or when---they reached it, he who killed the dying king would have his crown.
Emmerich struggled every day with the thoughts of losing his homeland to a people so vulgar and barbaric as the Triranians. He worried for his sisters and for what that would leave his fellow citizens with. Most of all, he was scared for Farrah and what would happen to her if he didn’t make it.
He sat in his work tent, pointlessly sketching maps and plans without his full attention. The two men seated around him took notice, but did not question their superior. Their Major General would not falter on the battlefield, though something was on his mind then.
“How are the recruits faring?” Emerie asked halfheartedly, quill pen scribbling against the parchment.
“Quite well, surprisingly. Most of them are young street rats from the capital,” one of the men stated. Emmerich did not lift his head, only nodded.
“Their skills with swords are equal to their skills with bows?” Emerie questioned.
“Well…not quite sir,” another man admitted. To this, Emmerich visibly stiffened and then inclined his head to view the advisors.
“What are you saying, Jorgen?” the Major General prodded. The man, Jorgen, sat back in his chair and looked to the floor to hide his shame. There was no excuse for weak troops, he knew, but he had not expected his commander to request so much after only a day with new men.
“They’re capable,” the first man defended his comrade, eyes narrowed at Emmerich’s sudden change of mood. “Many of them have made their living as thieves and shiners, Yves. We cannot expect their bones to pull back an arrow or hold a sword as deftly as a farmer.”
Realizing he had been irrational and brash, Emmerich bowed his head to the wise man.
“I apologize,” he said softly to Jorgen. “Gareth is wise; I have been unnecessarily rude.”
Jorgen was a man of excellent military background. His father had been a commander of the king, as his father before him. Though Jorgen was somewhat less experienced than most, and also more affectionate and emotional, he was intelligent and clever when it came to devising methods of both offense and defense. He was scared of battle, terrified of blood, but he was loyal. Two years older than Emmerich, Jorgen stood half a head shorter and was visibly less physically able. His sand colored hair was a family trait from his father; his conversant brown eyes his mother’s, as was his submissive nature hers as well.
Gareth had risen to his position from the very ashes of the enemy. As a child, his village was burned, orphaning him. He was found by a merchant and carried into the city where royal guards took him captive and brought him to their king. Being merciful and respecting the youth of a child, the king granted the boy permission to reside within the walls of the military academy. Gareth was too young to have formed an opinion of the international feud, and even if he had he would have sided with Theyar, for it was his own people that set his home ablaze. Raised by commanders, Gareth learned of nothing but the sword and all other combat. Though he found wisdom from within himself, he was a brute and above all thirsted for battle and blood. He was but a year older than Jorgen; however appeared he could be ten. His thickly muscled tan body was covered in scars, the sunned shade of his skin being expected from a man of Triranian decent. If he had been on the other side, Emmerich would have feared him, for Gareth was as tall as he, stronger than he, and carried himself with not a trace of aristocracy but agility instead.
“It’s of no particular consequence,” Jorgen shrugged, regaining his composure to look at Emmerich. Gareth remained stoic, only observing their exchange.
“But it is,” Emmerich insisted, rising from his seat and rubbing his face with his hands. “I’ve been distracted and it’s made me irritable. You did not deserve to be treated that way.”
“Of course, sir,” Jorgen agreed in hopes of ending the discussion. “Is it anything we could aid you with? Your troubles, I mean,” he offered. Gareth started to pay attention then, realizing that he had been brought into the conversation once again.
“Nothing I can’t handle on my own, Jorgen.”
“It’s a personal issue, then?” Gareth questioned in his deep voice. Emmerich nodded silently.
“Well then…I suggest we wrap around and cut them off, like this,” Jorgen changed the subject. He began to draw a rough sketch of his plan, avoiding the places where the Major General had drawn pointless things.
“That’s excellent, Jorgen,” Gareth praised, patting his comrade on the back. Jorgen grinned, not often receiving compliments from anyone. His father was disappointed that he wasn’t a real soldier, and many others resented that he was not as physically involved in the methods of war. A compliment from Gareth was one of the highest honors the young man had ever been given.
“Yes, very good,” Emmerich mumbled, his mind drifting once again. Every time he thought about fending off the enemy, he thought of the king, and therefore what his death might do. His heart wrenched when her face flashed like lightening in his mind. He was tempted to send a search party out for her and bring her to him so that he himself could protect her, but he knew how much danger that would put her in. He wanted her to be safe.
“Sire!” a voice shouted from outside his tent. All three men became rigid from the fright in the tone. Emmerich clenched his fists at his sides, fearful for what---among so many terrible things---could be happening.
“What is it?” Gareth asked, pulling back the flap to reveal Joseph. His face was frightful as he struggled to hold the arm of a thrashing body.
“We’ve found this woman lurking about the outskirts of the camp,” Joseph explained. “What do we do?”
Emmerich rushed forward and gasped when he met her eyes. They were unforgettable eyes, and he was not the only one surprised.
So, I've chosen to leave you with a "cliff hanger". *grins*
Anyhow, I'd love it if you went and read this story for me, it's absolutely fantastic. However, it is off on FictionPress... You should still go read it, it's fantastic already. =]
The Lion Man
Theyar had a long and diplomatic history. In the past it had not been unified and its regions had been their own separate countries. Through treaties and settlements, the land had eventually become a country of great standing among others. Its king was wise and intelligent, though there was fear for his death since he had no living heir.
Strategically, the Triranians had planned brilliantly. It was common knowledge that the king was growing older and that many disputes had risen in accordance to his throne. As a whole, the country was weakened from this. The Triranians intended to cut through to the capital, and if---or when---they reached it, he who killed the dying king would have his crown.
Emmerich struggled every day with the thoughts of losing his homeland to a people so vulgar and barbaric as the Triranians. He worried for his sisters and for what that would leave his fellow citizens with. Most of all, he was scared for Farrah and what would happen to her if he didn’t make it.
He sat in his work tent, pointlessly sketching maps and plans without his full attention. The two men seated around him took notice, but did not question their superior. Their Major General would not falter on the battlefield, though something was on his mind then.
“How are the recruits faring?” Emerie asked halfheartedly, quill pen scribbling against the parchment.
“Quite well, surprisingly. Most of them are young street rats from the capital,” one of the men stated. Emmerich did not lift his head, only nodded.
“Their skills with swords are equal to their skills with bows?” Emerie questioned.
“Well…not quite sir,” another man admitted. To this, Emmerich visibly stiffened and then inclined his head to view the advisors.
“What are you saying, Jorgen?” the Major General prodded. The man, Jorgen, sat back in his chair and looked to the floor to hide his shame. There was no excuse for weak troops, he knew, but he had not expected his commander to request so much after only a day with new men.
“They’re capable,” the first man defended his comrade, eyes narrowed at Emmerich’s sudden change of mood. “Many of them have made their living as thieves and shiners, Yves. We cannot expect their bones to pull back an arrow or hold a sword as deftly as a farmer.”
Realizing he had been irrational and brash, Emmerich bowed his head to the wise man.
“I apologize,” he said softly to Jorgen. “Gareth is wise; I have been unnecessarily rude.”
Jorgen was a man of excellent military background. His father had been a commander of the king, as his father before him. Though Jorgen was somewhat less experienced than most, and also more affectionate and emotional, he was intelligent and clever when it came to devising methods of both offense and defense. He was scared of battle, terrified of blood, but he was loyal. Two years older than Emmerich, Jorgen stood half a head shorter and was visibly less physically able. His sand colored hair was a family trait from his father; his conversant brown eyes his mother’s, as was his submissive nature hers as well.
Gareth had risen to his position from the very ashes of the enemy. As a child, his village was burned, orphaning him. He was found by a merchant and carried into the city where royal guards took him captive and brought him to their king. Being merciful and respecting the youth of a child, the king granted the boy permission to reside within the walls of the military academy. Gareth was too young to have formed an opinion of the international feud, and even if he had he would have sided with Theyar, for it was his own people that set his home ablaze. Raised by commanders, Gareth learned of nothing but the sword and all other combat. Though he found wisdom from within himself, he was a brute and above all thirsted for battle and blood. He was but a year older than Jorgen; however appeared he could be ten. His thickly muscled tan body was covered in scars, the sunned shade of his skin being expected from a man of Triranian decent. If he had been on the other side, Emmerich would have feared him, for Gareth was as tall as he, stronger than he, and carried himself with not a trace of aristocracy but agility instead.
“It’s of no particular consequence,” Jorgen shrugged, regaining his composure to look at Emmerich. Gareth remained stoic, only observing their exchange.
“But it is,” Emmerich insisted, rising from his seat and rubbing his face with his hands. “I’ve been distracted and it’s made me irritable. You did not deserve to be treated that way.”
“Of course, sir,” Jorgen agreed in hopes of ending the discussion. “Is it anything we could aid you with? Your troubles, I mean,” he offered. Gareth started to pay attention then, realizing that he had been brought into the conversation once again.
“Nothing I can’t handle on my own, Jorgen.”
“It’s a personal issue, then?” Gareth questioned in his deep voice. Emmerich nodded silently.
“Well then…I suggest we wrap around and cut them off, like this,” Jorgen changed the subject. He began to draw a rough sketch of his plan, avoiding the places where the Major General had drawn pointless things.
“That’s excellent, Jorgen,” Gareth praised, patting his comrade on the back. Jorgen grinned, not often receiving compliments from anyone. His father was disappointed that he wasn’t a real soldier, and many others resented that he was not as physically involved in the methods of war. A compliment from Gareth was one of the highest honors the young man had ever been given.
“Yes, very good,” Emmerich mumbled, his mind drifting once again. Every time he thought about fending off the enemy, he thought of the king, and therefore what his death might do. His heart wrenched when her face flashed like lightening in his mind. He was tempted to send a search party out for her and bring her to him so that he himself could protect her, but he knew how much danger that would put her in. He wanted her to be safe.
“Sire!” a voice shouted from outside his tent. All three men became rigid from the fright in the tone. Emmerich clenched his fists at his sides, fearful for what---among so many terrible things---could be happening.
“What is it?” Gareth asked, pulling back the flap to reveal Joseph. His face was frightful as he struggled to hold the arm of a thrashing body.
“We’ve found this woman lurking about the outskirts of the camp,” Joseph explained. “What do we do?”
Emmerich rushed forward and gasped when he met her eyes. They were unforgettable eyes, and he was not the only one surprised.
So, I've chosen to leave you with a "cliff hanger". *grins*
Anyhow, I'd love it if you went and read this story for me, it's absolutely fantastic. However, it is off on FictionPress... You should still go read it, it's fantastic already. =]
The Lion Man