Fanfic:The Hidden Facets of All
| Author(s) |
|
|---|---|
| Character(s) |
|
This is a piece of fanfiction. Only the original author(s) or Librarian(s) should make content changes to this page. |
His one living eye studying the colour of the small glass, Caden Ives realised that he had used to prefer mulled wine in his youth, but now, only strong brandy in small doses quenched his thirst when he was just withdrawing from his study to his chambers. The reason, like all other changes in his life, was due to the events that had taken place in the Tower some weeks ago.
During which he had become a demon in human flesh.
While the left side of his features displayed the face he had known for nine and thirty years - pale skin and the carved features of a Gaidin, a green eye set under a noble forehead and high cheek-bones. A face he had prided himself with in his ignorant youth. While the right side... it was something taken out of a gleeman's darker tales. The skin was burnt, yet healed, like a ruin covered with the bliss of moss to hide the raw truth. His ear was gone, only a hole in it's place, and his eye was as white as the belly of a fish. The rest was a twisted mass of scars, with craters and cracks in slick skin. The flesh of his chin was very very gaunt, as most of it had been seared away. His lips was unhurt though, yet his yellow blonde hair - which he wore tightly bound in a leather tong behind his neck - grew only in patches on the charred side.
He walked away from his desk and stood by the open fireplace. Of course, it was unlit. He never lit it anymore. The old ashes were a inferior sight, but the alternative was unthinkable. Since he was a scholar of warfare and had studied the results of the burn injuries soldiers suffered in war, he knew that the most common reactions were grief over loss of appearance or self-image and drop of self-esteem. Social phobia and withdrawal followed, while the individual's self-concept remained in ruin. Craven anxiety, then utter isolation, leading to a lonesome death. Insight about these soldiers helped, even though he was not like them.
He suffered even more.
At night, the nightmares tore at his mind, daring him to cross the edge to insanity. In his dreams, monsters of searing flames leapt at him and tore out his insides. Vile creatures of the Shadow they were, malice radiating from their lidless eyes. And then the vision came once more, as it always did, where the fire came for his face. And the pain came back, blinding and blighting. The branding hiss blended with the smell of burning flesh and melting hair. He always tried to scream. Yet he choked on the cries and just when he was on the verge of loosing it; the moment before his horror turned to hoarse laughter, he woke in sweat and crippling spasms. Then the slow process of recollections ensued, and he was helpless to avoid the cruel reality of his situation. Reality slapped him in the face and mocked him, and his single green eye closed again to it. The other, the all blind and yet all knowing one did so as well, but he was numb to what it did. Then, ire began to mount - began to blend with his blood.
Only now, during the past week or two, he could have such dreams while he was awake. Luckily, the visions always struck him when he was alone. Fury coiled like snakes in his stomach. The sight of fire was now unbearable. He could stand the stares of people he taught and held council for and he could endure the fact that few dared to meet his gaze anymore. But he could not help to feel the flutter of fear's wings whenever fire was near. Thus the fireplace remained cold. Without warning, a cord of restraint snapped in his chest and he flung the glass of brandy into it. The ashes recoiled from the shards that exploded against the stone. The act was one of defiance, even if it was single-minded. Had there been fire there, he would have set the strong beverage aflame. I'm a ruin. Ruined! Now, I'm a bloody outcast. A freak! Vehemence radiated from the cold dead centre of his single eye.
"I live," he rasped thickly when control came at hand, "that's what counts. Burn my suffering. Burn it all. I live." The echo of his faded Domani accent taunted him. And what a life you own, he thought in spite of his words. I live to preserve the life of a woman who has to bear the sight of my scars every day. A woman who will learn to loath me. Do I really serve Leanna then? Or is my bond just an exuse to be close to her these days? Is the purpose of my protection false?
"No," he had to assure himself. "She still loves me." His claim echoed just as irreverently in his scorched mind.
Three short knocks on the door made him shift his miss-matched eyes to the side. Yes... it had to be Justan Muralle. In reality, he was not in the mood to see a returning member of the Yards right then - especially not one of his predecessors. Yet it was he who had summoned him, and for good reasons. The Gaidin Captain clenched himself and strode away from the fireplace, adjusting his hand-and-a-half sabre where it hung in its baldric. The deep green hue of his coat could be discerned under the flow of his fan-cloak. Postioning himself in the middle of the room, he took a deep breath.
"Enter," he rasped finally, the unburnt side of his face showing nothing.
