dimmy52
03-24-2008, 08:06 AM
Hey guys. Some of you may remember me, some may not. I was a big (by big, I mean enthusiastic :sweat:) Teen Titans Fanfiction writer before I dropped off the radar, only to appear very sporadically from time to time to start stories I never finish. This may be another one of those... then again, it might not be. So, for what it's worth, here it is. Enjoy and thanks for reading ;)
Prologue:
There was a lullaby his mother used to sing, before the war. It was a song of her homeland, a song that described the place where she grew up with every note, every word and line. Of course, she doesn't sing it anymore, because he is no longer a child, and she is no longer living.
These were the words that stirred the patrons of The Sleeping Owl from their ale-induced stupor. They were spoken by a gravely voice, a voice set in stone that belonged to a man equally hard-set. His body was world-weary, and his face weather beaten. He entered slowly, bringing the chill in as the door creaked closed behind him. His traveler's cloak was torn, and the holes were frayed and rotten from years of use. All eyes followed him as he sat on a stool and ordered a drink. All eyes continued to follow him as he picked up his mug and sipped, oblivious to the attention he had garnered.
As the inn's inhabitants slowly began to lose interest in the stranger however, he spoke again.
“Ten years ago, a young Celestial named Oren died after defeating the Despot king.”
The inn fell into an uneasy silence, punctured only by the heavy breathing of those passed out from their drinking.
“Of course, you wouldn't know that, would you? You all heard differently, heard that he was overthrown by loyalists, led by Grendal.”
“Grendal was a great Celestial, human. I'd watch your next words carefully if I were you.”
Echoes of approval rang through The Sleeping Owl, but the human seemed unperturbed. Distant, as if he existed on two different planes. “Grendal was a good man, yes, and I use the term 'man' loosely, of course. But he was by no means the only actor.”
“Who was this Oren, then, Human?” The antagonist spoke, this time with more curiosity than spite.
The stranger sighed, as if indignant that someone would even ask such a question. “Oren was a Celestial, but not a normal Celestial. Far from it. He was not 'of the elements', as you all are.”
“I see, so you are making this up, human. I should have expected as much. Take your fancy tales elsewhere, and tell them to your own kind.”
“You are mistaken, Celestial. I do not tell lies, nor fabrications. I tell history, I write events as they transpire, from the birth of Kings to the death of Gods. My name is Ur the Traveler, and I am a bard.”
The inn regulars knew of him. Everyone knew of him. His was a name that was often heard, but from where never remembered, as if the wind itself whispered the name as it blew through the land.
“Why do you tell us this, Traveler?” Another patron asked.
Ur the Traveler fell silent for a few moments, before taking another swig of his ale and replying. “I tell you this because it needs to be told. It has been far too long since anyone has spoken of Oren, or of Anzu, or Grimm, or even Baek or Mukesh. People know of Velna and Grendal, of course. Everyone does.”
“Then tell us the story, bard! If there is another side to the story of how Grendal overthrew the Despot King then by all means, share it.”
Ur emptied the rest of his ale and wiped his mouth with a tattered sleeve.
“I did not ask for permission, Celestial. A bard tells his story regardless, and those who wish to, may listen. The story is a long one, so warm your bodies around the fire and warm your spirit with some fine ale, for I guarantee you will not be leaving for some time...”
Chapter one
It was deserted. Of course, he knew it would be, deep down underneath all those layers of misguided hope. It ate at him, gnawed away like some ravenous beast, fueled by his doubt and despair. Ever since he escaped, ever since he fled that awful place where he had been turned from a free-spirited, life-loving teenager into a soulless, analytical fighting machine.
All because of his powers. Because of his ability. Because of him.
He heard a voice, and he knew it belonged to Grimm. He didn't pay any attention to it. His mind was preoccupied with something else, something a lot more important. He should be grieving. He should be mourning the loss of his family, of his life and of his friends before the war. But he wasn't.
He was thinking about revenge.
It coursed through him like a raging river through his veins, frothing at the edges and seeping into every crevice of his body. Anger, hate, spite. These emotions weren't distinguishable from one another in Oren's mind. All he could feel was...
Cold. He was numb, and he liked it that way. It felt natural to him, like it was the only thing he knew. He knew how to act cold, how to feel nothing, how to quietly despise everyone around him whilst wearing a mask of false emotions. Confronted with the sight of his family's hollowed out cottage, however, that mask cracked, and for a moment the only thing one could see was the face of a terrified young boy who was forced to grow up too quickly in a world that slowly burned under the torches of invaders.
“Oren. Oren, are you okay?” The voice was louder, more demanding. He fought the urge to snap back in anger. Grimm was just being a concerned friend. A stupid friend, but a friend nonetheless. After all, he never would have been able to escape the clutches of the military camp he had been held all those years without his and Anzu's help.
Anzu. The Arratun with the fiery temper. She was a paradox, a composition of blood that should never be mixed, and the result of a relationship that should never have existed. Maluran, the Children of Ahan, and the Kai'Maluran, the Children of Tehan. Two vastly different races, separated not only by the colour of their skin, but by their abilities, and by thousands of years of bloodshed and war. Yet here she was, helping Oren as friends should.
“Oren?” For the third time Grimm spoke, and this time Oren replied.
“I need to find something. Wait here.” His voice was empty, hollow. It did more than threats ever could. Grimm and Anzu did nothing but look at one another, frozen in silence by Oren's dead words. What could they say?
With a brief hesitation, as if wary of what he might find inside this empty shell which used to be his home, Oren rested a hand on the doorknob and turned it slowly. One gentle push was all it took, and the door swung open with silence, even after all these years of disuse. Inside, gentle streams of sunlight broke through the thatched straw roof and thick, snaking vines grasped tightly on the peeling walls. Beneath Oren's feet was what remained of the floor, rotted and soft from countless wet winters. He walked slowly, careful to not step on a piece of floorboard that looked ready to collapse. Every step he took was signaled with a loud creak from the protesting timber beneath his shoes. It was strangely cold inside, or perhaps, Oren thought grimly, devoid of heat.
Taking the stairs with a purposeful yet delicate stride, he climbed to the second floor of this run down cottage and proceeded to a room he once knew was his. “Down the end, last on the left” he mumbled beneath his breath, reciting a phrase from his memory before the invasion. The sun was brighter here. Stronger. But he still felt cold.
Down below, he heard his friends shout out to him. They were worried. Oren gave a crooked smile to no one in particular and continued towards his room without bothering to answer. He was close now, his room only a few feet away.
Then he stopped.
He froze, momentarily halted by a crushing wave of grief as he saw his bed, his own bed with the same sheets as the night they took him away. His parents hadn't changed them. They hadn't changed anything. It was all the same, just as he was forced to leave it. Everything had a thick layer of dust; his bedside lamp, his motley collection of books on the bookcase, nothing had changed. Tears welled up as he noticed the novel that he was reading the night he was taken was still on the floor, just where he left it. He forced back childish sobs and shook away his grief. There would be time for mourning, he comforted himself. Just not today.
He approached his wardrobe with ferocious intent, grief for his loss melting away into anger towards those that had taken his life away from him. He swung the doors open and in a fit of rage pulled all his old clothes off their hangers and threw them to the floor, disturbing the dust and sending clouds of it into the air. It stung his eyes and hurt his lungs, and he coughed until his chest hurt. After the dust had settled, he blinked away his tears and laid his hands on a protruding section of the wall behind his wardrobe. He pulled once, twice, thrice, until with a quiet pop, the panel relented and let go, revealing a small compartment that had been used to store all of Oren's treasures. There, lying discreetly and forgotten for years, was a sword. A sword with a black hilt and a white scabbard that hid an even whiter blade which would glow in the sunlight like a thousand flawless pearls if it were unsheathed.
Oren realized with a heavy sigh that he had been holding his breath ever since he started prying open the secret compartment. He grasped the sword gently and felt the cool, almost porcelain touch of the scabbard beneath his delicate fingers. For the better part of a decade, Oren had been keeping this sword hidden from his parents, ever since he found it whilst playing in the woods behind his home. Clutching the hilt, he felt an overwhelming sense of relief, not just from himself, but from the sword, as if it had a mind of its own and was happy its owner had come back to claim it again.
“Oren? What are you doing?”
It was Anzu. She had ignored Oren's command to stay outside and was standing at the door to his room, a mixture of puzzlement and anxiety on her face.
“What did I say?” Oren replied, calmly and coolly. Anzu shuffled slightly, but stood her ground.
“You were taking too long, I...we got worried.”
Oren smiled the kind of smile one gives to a child. Comforting and patronizing. “I'm touched.”
Oren cast one more look around his room, making certain that he hadn't forgotten anything of value. He sighed. Turning to Anzu, he spoke again. “We'll rest here for a few nights. Our trail has gone cold, and we have been traveling for quite some time.” Anzu opened her mouth to protest, but Oren raised his hand in deference. “We're protected by the forest, Anzu. As long as you and Grimm stay close, we are in the safest place in the world.”
Anzu did nothing but nod. She knew. She knew that the reason why Oren's life was snatched away from him is now the reason why they would be safe. The trees listened to Oren. So did the creatures. Wolves, bears, birds and mice. They did more than listen. They obeyed. It was the reason why they had been able to escape the camp.
Her mind danced like a figure skater on weakened ice. Every time her thoughts wandered to the camp she had fled, the figure skater sped away, unwilling to approach such sensitive topics. It seemed so long ago, as if she had lived ten lives since that moment when she first felt the cool breeze on her skin without the ever-lurking danger of being beaten, or worse. There was comfort here. There was safety. The trees would hide them, shield them against the realities from which they had escaped.
And that was all she needed.
Prologue:
There was a lullaby his mother used to sing, before the war. It was a song of her homeland, a song that described the place where she grew up with every note, every word and line. Of course, she doesn't sing it anymore, because he is no longer a child, and she is no longer living.
These were the words that stirred the patrons of The Sleeping Owl from their ale-induced stupor. They were spoken by a gravely voice, a voice set in stone that belonged to a man equally hard-set. His body was world-weary, and his face weather beaten. He entered slowly, bringing the chill in as the door creaked closed behind him. His traveler's cloak was torn, and the holes were frayed and rotten from years of use. All eyes followed him as he sat on a stool and ordered a drink. All eyes continued to follow him as he picked up his mug and sipped, oblivious to the attention he had garnered.
As the inn's inhabitants slowly began to lose interest in the stranger however, he spoke again.
“Ten years ago, a young Celestial named Oren died after defeating the Despot king.”
The inn fell into an uneasy silence, punctured only by the heavy breathing of those passed out from their drinking.
“Of course, you wouldn't know that, would you? You all heard differently, heard that he was overthrown by loyalists, led by Grendal.”
“Grendal was a great Celestial, human. I'd watch your next words carefully if I were you.”
Echoes of approval rang through The Sleeping Owl, but the human seemed unperturbed. Distant, as if he existed on two different planes. “Grendal was a good man, yes, and I use the term 'man' loosely, of course. But he was by no means the only actor.”
“Who was this Oren, then, Human?” The antagonist spoke, this time with more curiosity than spite.
The stranger sighed, as if indignant that someone would even ask such a question. “Oren was a Celestial, but not a normal Celestial. Far from it. He was not 'of the elements', as you all are.”
“I see, so you are making this up, human. I should have expected as much. Take your fancy tales elsewhere, and tell them to your own kind.”
“You are mistaken, Celestial. I do not tell lies, nor fabrications. I tell history, I write events as they transpire, from the birth of Kings to the death of Gods. My name is Ur the Traveler, and I am a bard.”
The inn regulars knew of him. Everyone knew of him. His was a name that was often heard, but from where never remembered, as if the wind itself whispered the name as it blew through the land.
“Why do you tell us this, Traveler?” Another patron asked.
Ur the Traveler fell silent for a few moments, before taking another swig of his ale and replying. “I tell you this because it needs to be told. It has been far too long since anyone has spoken of Oren, or of Anzu, or Grimm, or even Baek or Mukesh. People know of Velna and Grendal, of course. Everyone does.”
“Then tell us the story, bard! If there is another side to the story of how Grendal overthrew the Despot King then by all means, share it.”
Ur emptied the rest of his ale and wiped his mouth with a tattered sleeve.
“I did not ask for permission, Celestial. A bard tells his story regardless, and those who wish to, may listen. The story is a long one, so warm your bodies around the fire and warm your spirit with some fine ale, for I guarantee you will not be leaving for some time...”
Chapter one
It was deserted. Of course, he knew it would be, deep down underneath all those layers of misguided hope. It ate at him, gnawed away like some ravenous beast, fueled by his doubt and despair. Ever since he escaped, ever since he fled that awful place where he had been turned from a free-spirited, life-loving teenager into a soulless, analytical fighting machine.
All because of his powers. Because of his ability. Because of him.
He heard a voice, and he knew it belonged to Grimm. He didn't pay any attention to it. His mind was preoccupied with something else, something a lot more important. He should be grieving. He should be mourning the loss of his family, of his life and of his friends before the war. But he wasn't.
He was thinking about revenge.
It coursed through him like a raging river through his veins, frothing at the edges and seeping into every crevice of his body. Anger, hate, spite. These emotions weren't distinguishable from one another in Oren's mind. All he could feel was...
Cold. He was numb, and he liked it that way. It felt natural to him, like it was the only thing he knew. He knew how to act cold, how to feel nothing, how to quietly despise everyone around him whilst wearing a mask of false emotions. Confronted with the sight of his family's hollowed out cottage, however, that mask cracked, and for a moment the only thing one could see was the face of a terrified young boy who was forced to grow up too quickly in a world that slowly burned under the torches of invaders.
“Oren. Oren, are you okay?” The voice was louder, more demanding. He fought the urge to snap back in anger. Grimm was just being a concerned friend. A stupid friend, but a friend nonetheless. After all, he never would have been able to escape the clutches of the military camp he had been held all those years without his and Anzu's help.
Anzu. The Arratun with the fiery temper. She was a paradox, a composition of blood that should never be mixed, and the result of a relationship that should never have existed. Maluran, the Children of Ahan, and the Kai'Maluran, the Children of Tehan. Two vastly different races, separated not only by the colour of their skin, but by their abilities, and by thousands of years of bloodshed and war. Yet here she was, helping Oren as friends should.
“Oren?” For the third time Grimm spoke, and this time Oren replied.
“I need to find something. Wait here.” His voice was empty, hollow. It did more than threats ever could. Grimm and Anzu did nothing but look at one another, frozen in silence by Oren's dead words. What could they say?
With a brief hesitation, as if wary of what he might find inside this empty shell which used to be his home, Oren rested a hand on the doorknob and turned it slowly. One gentle push was all it took, and the door swung open with silence, even after all these years of disuse. Inside, gentle streams of sunlight broke through the thatched straw roof and thick, snaking vines grasped tightly on the peeling walls. Beneath Oren's feet was what remained of the floor, rotted and soft from countless wet winters. He walked slowly, careful to not step on a piece of floorboard that looked ready to collapse. Every step he took was signaled with a loud creak from the protesting timber beneath his shoes. It was strangely cold inside, or perhaps, Oren thought grimly, devoid of heat.
Taking the stairs with a purposeful yet delicate stride, he climbed to the second floor of this run down cottage and proceeded to a room he once knew was his. “Down the end, last on the left” he mumbled beneath his breath, reciting a phrase from his memory before the invasion. The sun was brighter here. Stronger. But he still felt cold.
Down below, he heard his friends shout out to him. They were worried. Oren gave a crooked smile to no one in particular and continued towards his room without bothering to answer. He was close now, his room only a few feet away.
Then he stopped.
He froze, momentarily halted by a crushing wave of grief as he saw his bed, his own bed with the same sheets as the night they took him away. His parents hadn't changed them. They hadn't changed anything. It was all the same, just as he was forced to leave it. Everything had a thick layer of dust; his bedside lamp, his motley collection of books on the bookcase, nothing had changed. Tears welled up as he noticed the novel that he was reading the night he was taken was still on the floor, just where he left it. He forced back childish sobs and shook away his grief. There would be time for mourning, he comforted himself. Just not today.
He approached his wardrobe with ferocious intent, grief for his loss melting away into anger towards those that had taken his life away from him. He swung the doors open and in a fit of rage pulled all his old clothes off their hangers and threw them to the floor, disturbing the dust and sending clouds of it into the air. It stung his eyes and hurt his lungs, and he coughed until his chest hurt. After the dust had settled, he blinked away his tears and laid his hands on a protruding section of the wall behind his wardrobe. He pulled once, twice, thrice, until with a quiet pop, the panel relented and let go, revealing a small compartment that had been used to store all of Oren's treasures. There, lying discreetly and forgotten for years, was a sword. A sword with a black hilt and a white scabbard that hid an even whiter blade which would glow in the sunlight like a thousand flawless pearls if it were unsheathed.
Oren realized with a heavy sigh that he had been holding his breath ever since he started prying open the secret compartment. He grasped the sword gently and felt the cool, almost porcelain touch of the scabbard beneath his delicate fingers. For the better part of a decade, Oren had been keeping this sword hidden from his parents, ever since he found it whilst playing in the woods behind his home. Clutching the hilt, he felt an overwhelming sense of relief, not just from himself, but from the sword, as if it had a mind of its own and was happy its owner had come back to claim it again.
“Oren? What are you doing?”
It was Anzu. She had ignored Oren's command to stay outside and was standing at the door to his room, a mixture of puzzlement and anxiety on her face.
“What did I say?” Oren replied, calmly and coolly. Anzu shuffled slightly, but stood her ground.
“You were taking too long, I...we got worried.”
Oren smiled the kind of smile one gives to a child. Comforting and patronizing. “I'm touched.”
Oren cast one more look around his room, making certain that he hadn't forgotten anything of value. He sighed. Turning to Anzu, he spoke again. “We'll rest here for a few nights. Our trail has gone cold, and we have been traveling for quite some time.” Anzu opened her mouth to protest, but Oren raised his hand in deference. “We're protected by the forest, Anzu. As long as you and Grimm stay close, we are in the safest place in the world.”
Anzu did nothing but nod. She knew. She knew that the reason why Oren's life was snatched away from him is now the reason why they would be safe. The trees listened to Oren. So did the creatures. Wolves, bears, birds and mice. They did more than listen. They obeyed. It was the reason why they had been able to escape the camp.
Her mind danced like a figure skater on weakened ice. Every time her thoughts wandered to the camp she had fled, the figure skater sped away, unwilling to approach such sensitive topics. It seemed so long ago, as if she had lived ten lives since that moment when she first felt the cool breeze on her skin without the ever-lurking danger of being beaten, or worse. There was comfort here. There was safety. The trees would hide them, shield them against the realities from which they had escaped.
And that was all she needed.