[Flashback] Command (Solo)

by **Trente** on June 6th, 2012, 7:21 am

78, Summer of 498

A fortnight had passed since the night of Trente's awakening. Awakening to fear, and fear it had been. It grasped him, and followed him through every shadow. His mother had been quite sympathetic, but her patient wore thin. Trente wanted to sleep with her every consecutive night, which she had granted for several days, but business, and her tenuous relationships demanded otherwise, and so she insisted Trente stay at home alone. They had no lock on there door so Trente had taken to pushing the dresser in front of the door before going to bed with the lanterns blazing. Once his mother caught him at this and there was severe disapproval, presented by a tactfully phrased lecture in the expense of burning lanterns throughout the night, and the ridiculous and rather uncouth nature of sliding the dresser before the doorway. And so, reluctant, and terrified Trente had accepted the darkness as a terrifying companion through the nights.

The days were little better, and though Trente's mother had coaxed him into acting and speaking sociably as he used to, Trente found no charm in the narrow Syliran streets. Instead of vast oceans of playful water ways he saw nothing but cold hard and shadowed stone paving the streets of the place he had once considered a home. Now is was a cell of horrors.

He absolutely refused to travel within a bell of sunset or sunrise, and going within five blocks of the streets he had walked that night was entirely out of the question. Even during full sunlight Trente would sprint from place to place, and spent as much time as he could in the upper tiers to distance himself from the darkness he still remembered so vividly from below.

Accompanying his sleep the previous several days had been shakes and shivers, coldness waking him from a light and fearful sleep. He was traumatized, and destroyed by the memories which plagued him, and for the first time in his life he mother's presence did little to comfort him. The women who once had the power to correct the whole world with a smile had been reduced to mere mortality.

He was alone, again, as he awoke that last morning. His mother had stayed the night with another, clear across time, and as usual was not due back till mid morning. Trente had slept shallowly, with dreams just beyond his recollection, but he awoke with a jolt, his heart pounding. He felt the grasps of cold around him once more, and the panic of nightmare. Had he dreamed of it again? No, this time left a different flavor in his mind, an aura of a frantic nature, not fearful. He felt unlike himself, and he could not get the memory of that smell out of his mind. That acidic smell the women had worn on the hand she used to stroke him. Then, between the shivers as his mind came to, he realized, perhaps in falsehood the smell. It fastened, quite physically through the air around him.

His eyes shot lazily open, his heart still racing. He went to sit up but could not, there was a delay, an odd sensation of restriction in his muscles, before with some amount of panicked struggle he pulled himself up, only to find himself perched upon his folded legs beside his mother's bed, where he slept the night without her.

His hand burned, ached with an unfamiliar tingling sensation, and it held something? His eyes were still ablurr, but his nostrils were alive. He could smell it. It was still dark, early morning, just before first light when the night had reached its darkest.

There was something in his hand, something that felt warm in contrast to his frozen and bloodless fingers. Cylindrical he brought it up with a crude and unsteady motion to his face, and it touched upon his cheek with a sharp prick. It was a quill. He sat upon the ground, wreathed in darkness, with a quill in hand. He moved again within the throws of nighttime clumsiness and tripped over a small object as he groped for the lantern. Wetness touched his food, which seemed equally as warm as the implement he grasped tight at. He immediately thought of the women's blood, it was all over him, it had dripped from the stub that was moment's before her head, and was sprayed in haunting pulses onto him as he vomited, and now it was on the ground, between his small toes.

Frantic now he grabbed the tinder and strike with numbed fingers and fought tears as he struck once, then strike, only finding the lantern after he held the delicately waving flame in hand. With a spark and catch the room lit up, and warmth slowly seeped back into him. Only to be stolen again by what he witnessed around him.

His mother's finely crafted papers had been sprawled out about the floor and on the bed, her pen had been used to the point of bending in his hand, with ink and charcoal spread everywhere. It seemed random at first, compared to Trente's usual practiced calligraphy, and his mother's flawless letters, but he realized, over several sheets, and the once white sheets of the bed were scrawled uneven words. Trente swallowed hard and looked to his hand and feet. Ink covered them both, the warm liquid had been sticky black ink, wasted upon the wooden floor. His night clothes were sullied, as were the sheets, with dark smudges and stains.

The scene left his throat dry, and heart pounding as he stepped forward again into the ink, against what seemed to be his own will. He went to the bed, where he had been kneeling, and looked to the letters that were crudely scratched about the spot.

ravanga Revange revenga Revenge revenge Revenge kill him Kill Murder the Knight Revenge Revenge Revenge slit his throat !!kill him syliras murder revenge reap reap blood kill revenge revenge revenge...

Endlessly the words scrawled on and on over several sheets of papers, rough and nearly illegible. Trente screamed, expelling the gnarled pen across the room to clatter violently upon the opposite wall. He stumbled back and pulled his knees to his chest. Shivering and cold he cried to himself, weeping and sobbing till finally morning light came. He had no understanding of such things, and he feared she had come back for him, that she would kill him for screaming, and so he got quiet, and tried not to cry or make any sound.

The message itself was lost to him till he finally cultivated the strength to rise and gather the evidence together. He conspired to throw the papers away, and wash free the ink and charcoal from the room. While busying himself, and sniffing quietly against the aftermath of his breakdown he worked through the haunting demands. The writing demanded that Trente take revenge, that he murder the battle ready Syliran Knight that had happened across the atrocious scene. The mere thought of it all caused Trente great anxiety. He felt that his chest could not rise or fall, that he could not get enough air. And feeling a sense of distance and numbness throughout his small body Trente worked his hardest to scrub the ink free, ultimately to no avail.

His mother would discover the mess, but Trente would admit nothing. Never had he lied to his mother, not so insistently, not so deliberately. And so she worried over him, and for several nights in each week began to find the time to sleep at home with him, having the neighbor check in on him when she was away with her older men.

This was not the end of the horrors, however, and Trente woke night after night, sometimes several times with those shivers and icy shakes, surrounded by that odorous smell. Trente cried every night, and it pained his mother that he could say nothing to express his fears.

by **Trente** on June 6th, 2012, 8:04 am

90, Summer of 498

Trente looked firmly to the stolen piece of paper before him, fresh smooth and empty. He picked his mother's new pen from the ground beside him, and dipped it carefully into the open ink well. Then precisely, carefully, and clearly he wrote to sweeping letters. Never had he meant two letters more in his entire life.

NO

That morning had plagued him every night since, and he had finally grown more than afraid of it. He had grown defiant. Angry at the tremors that now shook his bed when he awoke, angry at his mother's concerned looks when she testified that he now kicked and tossed violently in his sleep, mumbling incoherently, sometimes yelling in a voice that was scarcely like his. Trente hated this, whatever it was, and he had decided to give the commands an answer. He would not carry out the pleas for revenge, and he would not take the life of a Syliran Knight, nor could he.

It seemed empty a moment, the words on the page. He had somehow expected some conclusion, some sense of accomplishment. But there was just silence in the empty apartment room. Then with sudden cold white pain the shudders of his sleep coursed through him. He felt pain, icy cold pain from head to toe, and his hand shook. With an alarming glare he threw the pen away, and stood up, taking a step away from the paper. And just like that the cold faded, and with a dull ache he was again unmolested, though quite panicked. Swallowing hard he busied himself with folding the paper and disposing of it, then putting the pen and ink back where he found it.

Later that night he discovered that his attempt at disposing of the sheet had failed, however, when his mother came to him by the hearth, it unfolded beside her. Trente suddenly felt the familiar grip of fear, the one he felt every time she asked him of the event.

She settled elegantly beside him, without a word, and put a warm arm around him. She still comforted him, still made him feel safe, even as he looked away into the fire. Her voice came next, the familiar seductive yet clear tone that she altered just slightly for him. Trente could not place it at that age, neither did he try, but later he recognized the tone as love, something she had only for him. Trent would realize in time that she had no love even for herself. Only him.

"Oh, my trifling man." She uttered along with the crackling of fire before them. "Speak to me, Trente. Tell me what you deny." She set the paper, open before him, revealing the 'NO,' and the drop of ink that fell from the pen in his hurry. Trente felt the pressure build in his chest, but he said nothing, and simply stared harder into the fire.

She cried, an easy occurrence for his mother, but Trente knew this was true sorrow, for she did not adorn it with sobs or attempt to make it beautiful. Instead she shook warmly beside him and cried. After several chimes she kissed him, a wet and bloated kiss upon his forehead, and Trente did not fight it. He loved her, yet could not bring himself to console in her. He could not answer her. And after some time she quieted, holding him in a very present embrace, then finally let go and gathered the things for bed. She took a cloth to Trente's teeth, as she often did to clean them, and again Trente gave no struggle. He looked her in the eyes as she scrubbed each tooth clean of grime, then rinsed the cloth again in boiled water to scrub free her own face and his. Trente saw in her eyes a look that no other would ever give him, she pitied him, and cared for him. His pain was her pain, and she had no concern greater than him in that moment. It brought Trente nothing but guilt. Still, he let her busy herself upon him, and once changed to his sleeping gown she lay him to bed with a sweet song, ended by quiet sobs. Trente, however, did not sob that night, he did not mimic her tears as he had every other night, instead he anxiously waited for sleep to see if his declaration had been heard. To see if he had freed himself from his cursed existence.

It was the slight sound of squeaking bats that woke Trente in the night. And it took several moments before he realized the comfort surrounding him. Warmth permeated him to the core, and he felt no coldness. His heart beat normally, and his chest though still soar from nearly a season of anxiety felt lighter than it had for some time. Trente smiled, and fought the urge to laugh. He wondered if it was the note, or that nighttime ritual. If it had been his mother's love that cured him of the curse. He laid there awake, calm and thinking contently to himself for some time. He thought of how happy his mother would be the following day when he woke without tears. He decided to make her tea before she woke, an easy task since he always awoke before her. She enjoyed so much the comfort of bed through to even mid morning at times. A true sloth, though she would deny it. Hedonist, perhaps, but never sloth.

Trente decided after a time to join her, quietly, in her bed. The trek across the room was comfortable, warm as the end of summer was, without the humidity of mid summer days. The nightmare was over, and he slipped blissfully into bed beside his mother. He wrapped his warm arms and legs around her to share his warmth with her, and nuzzled his cheek against he bosom. She stirred slightly to the touch and Trente stilled himself, hoping she would slip back into her deep slumber. Instead though she spoke. Horrifyingly enough, however, it was not her voice that came, but an all too familiar one.

"Oh, little baby. Little Trifling man, is that your name? I will kill her, I will end her life if you do not listen to me. This is your last warning. Kill the Knight. Kill Reginal Gernold or I will take your mothers life in the darkness and you will be alone, just like me. I will kill everybody until you reap revenge, you swine."

Trente's mouth lay agape in mortified disgust as the women who had been decapitated upon him spoke through the garbled voice of his mother, the sound vibrating hollowly through her chest. His mother then fell deathly silent, and smelt of that herb, that acidic herb. Most alarmingly her heart seemed to stop, and skin grew cold. It had only been a tick but seemed too long, Trente feared the worse. He scream. A whaling keening cry that shook his mother beside him. She clumsily flailed for a moment before pulling her screaming child closer to her.

"Oh, Trente, son, calm down, love. It's ok. You have just had a night terror. Calm yourself, my Trifling man. Temper." Her voice came as a tired but wistful humming, unrequiring of a hushing sound, for it in and of itself was calming.

It would not calm Trente, however, he screamed and cried, and clung to her in absolute terror. A dead women was going to kill his mother, the same one who nearly took his own life, the same one that killed a man before him and bled through a hand wide wound all over him. And he didn't know what to do, so he cried, and he cried, until daylight finally broke. And he still, he still refused to tell his mother a thing, for he could not form words, and his voice was too sore when silence finally came. And beyond that he could still not find words, he could tell his mother what had happened. He could not explain the terror he felt. He did not want to lose his mother, he feared this above all things. And so he decided upon an escape, the only one that made any sense to a boy of his maturity.

To be continued...

by **Chevalier** on June 23rd, 2012, 6:05 am

Trente

LORE

Dealing With Trauma…Poorly
Lying To Those You Love

EXPERIENCE

Skill	XP Earned
Writing	1
Observation	1
Subterfuge	1

Storyteller Notes

Secret :