1...The Runaway

He sat in the western tower room, a blank piece of paper before him. Beside it rest a silver dinner knife, left over from dinner. A low rumble broke the silence, and rain began to peck the stones of his window. The stub of candle melted to his desk, wavered in the wind. In its flickering glow, his shadow reached across the desk as he took hold of the quill, dipped already in ink.

To the King of Asmalen, he began. Elegantly curved lines were disguised as the chicken scratch of peasants and lower guardsmen.

For your refusal to forfeit your throne, we have taken your son. Negotiations are doubtful, for you will find that not even your weight in gold can raise the dead. We are greatly sorry for your loss.

The storm blew out his candle, and he dotted the last ‘I’ on The Guild of Thieves.

Thunder cracked through the sky as he stood, and placed a polished black stone on the corner of his letter. There were voices outside the room, and muffled though they were, he could hear each word.

“Who’s there?” asked the guard, the boy stashed the knife in his pocket.

“I only bring firewood.” The queen’s youngest maid, Talia had a voice that trembled like the papers fluttering in the breath of the storm. “It’s a cold night, and he’s only twelve. That boy needs more than quilts to stay warm.”

“You know better,” said the knight. “It’s the King’s orders. This room remains locked until sunrise.”

 The boy crept to the base of the window, the stones damp and chilled. No one knew the center bar was loose.

The maid and guard argued on, but the wind and rain slew their voices. It made them nothing more than shifting shadows under the door. He jiggled the bar until it loosened enough to drop at his feet, and looked down at the crumbling stones and jagged cracks. The stones were rough and cracked with age and wear in what was at best a suicidal climb to attempt, for most. To him it was a natural stairwell created by fallen rock, albeit the storm changed a few things.  The wall sunk into the darkness like the black waters of the mote.

 “I can do this,” he said. The wind and rain lashed against his hands and face.

 One foot at a time, he stepped onto the ledge and sidled through the gap. His boot scraped the stone as he turned his back to clouds that crackled and swelled. His fingers were white-knuckled around the bars that wobbled when he craned his chin over his shoulder. Within seconds his oversized shirt was plastered to his back.

Lightning webbed the sky. In the flash of light, he watched the fur stacked bed and the bookshelf crammed with old, rolled papers and stacks of journals fade into shapeless shadows and colorless shapes. He looked over his shoulder, and closed his eyes. Taking two more deep breaths, he slid onto the first foothold.

The wind lashed the needle sharp rain around the tower, and whistled by his ears. Already it was a bad idea. No going back. He climbed downward, pausing when the wind hammered to the chilled marrow of his bones. Ledges cutting his fingers crumbled, and the lower his weaving decent, the further spaced his stepping stones became.

The heavy tower door swung inward with a thud against the wall.

 “Prince,” the maid called. Not Aaden, but Prince.

 “Get the king,” followed a voice that resounded over the rain. They found the note.

 “No.” Aaden banged his head. “Not him.”

 Focus. Gazing to the tower’s base, he stifled a groan at the empty drop. Rattling to his teeth, he reached for the next handhold.

“Aaden.” The familiar voice broke through the rain like a swinging sword. Through torrents of rain and water, his attention darted upward to the lit tower window, and a face accompanied the voice. Grahn, his mother’s knight.

“Wait right there, don’t you move,” said Grahn. He shimmied through the bars, and climbed after. Aaden went faster with his heart in his throat.  

There was no way to make it to the ground before Grahn caught him. The knight had longer legs, and stronger arms. Lightning flashed, and Aaden looked up. Shadowed in the tower wall was a narrow stairway window. The shutters were closed and locked at night fall, and rattled with every gust. They were old and worn, and would break with enough force.  I can use the passageways.

Rock and mortar, shook loose from Grahn’s fumbling, bounced off his bloody knuckles. Aaden worked his way back up. Making sure his toes were secure on the foot hold, he leaned towards the window. The rock under his toes crumbled, leaving him holding on with the tips of his bleeding finger..

“Hold on,” said Grahn. The knight cursed when his foot slipped. Aaen flinched when the rock pummeled the cusp above him. It could have easily been his head.

His toes scratched the walls is wet streaks, and the narrow holds were slick like moss on river rocks, but he got his chin over the ledge. His fingers curled tighter. His elbows and knees were cut against the stone, and the supporting rock wobbled under him. He reached for the shutters and missed.

“Damn it,” Aaden said. He ground his elbows and stretched his arm. The rock teetered on the edge, but he could feel the wet shutters against his fingers, but couldn’t shake the image of the bottomless drop reaching for his ankles with ghostly fingers. Grahn landed on the window cusp where the water careened in tinny falls. Laid flat on his stomach, he reached for the collar of Aaden’s shirt.

“Come on.” Aaden stretched his arm a little further.

“Grab my hand.” The warmth of Grahn’s fingers near the back of his neck made him itch.

 He found a foothold in the tower, and more of his weight leaned onto the loose ashlar.

“Aaden, the rock.”

He wrapped his fingers around the shudder. The wood was rotted. It snapped, the stone rocked, and Aaden fell off the wall.

In a flash of white pain, he hit the courtyard like a slab of tender meat.

“Raise the gates,” said the lookout on the outer curtain. The metal creaked and groaned in the gatehouse when the portcullis’s teeth grated from the stone. “Lower the bridge.” The chains clattered and clanked in their trunnion as the drawbridge lowered over the moat’s black waters. The knights on duty were on their way. The boom of their steed’s collective hooves quaked the ground.

Aaden groaned at the accompaniment of fresh bruising on his back. The ones left from Ayrrian’s fencing were still purpling his ribs on top of it. The ground beneath him tilted like a balancing board; even still he rolled onto his side and crawled. He tucked himself where the shadows were thickest against the tower, immune to the struggling glow of the torches’ light.

Three knights rode to the opened gates. Their armor illuminated orange in the fire, silver with the lightning, and glistened with the raindrops that dripped down their helmets. The last of them vanished through the arch when Grahn landed on the ground with all the skill of a tossed cat.

Aaden crouched tighter against the wall where the night hugged him closer in its shadows. Grahn had no weapon on his belt unlike the rest. His shirt was untucked and hung to his knees where it wasn’t pressed against him. He had pale skin, like a full moon on a winter night, and dark hair that plastered to his brow, crinkled deep like the jagged scar from an old break at the bridge of his nose. He stood close enough where Aaden could smell the wet hide of his boots.

The gravel crunching under his toes made Aaden flinch. He clamped a hand over his clattering teeth, and his nostrils flared with each stifled breath. Not this way. The thunder rumbled deep in the distance, and the rain slowed to a light patter. He held his breath.  

A net of lightning tore open the sky. It lit the castle stones, still streaked a dirty white, and robbed the courtyard of every shadow. He bolted towards the gatehouse.

Grahn shouted. Aaden’s feet hit the ground harder, but his legs wouldn’t move any faster. A calloused hand snatched his elbow.

“Let go,” Aaden said. His voice cracked. With his free hand he tore into his trouser pocket.

“Wait.” Grahn held him tighter.

Aaden kicked, and pulled, and stomped on the knight’s foot. The dinner knife was caught on a hole in his pocket. The gate. The chains rattled as it closed. He pulled until he felt the inner lining of his pocket rip

“Aaden listen to me.” The knight captured both his arms, and held him tight. Aaden looked up. They had the same shade of green eyes, like spring grass. Something in them stopped Aaden’s struggling. The furrow between the knight’s eyes lessened, and his fingers eased. He opened his mouth to speak, and Aaden sunk the knife into his arm. He ran, leaving his sole means of defense behind.

The space below the iron spikes was shrinking. Aaden dove, but fell short. The bars clattered to meet the stone, the spikes so near he could feel their phantom images sinking into his back. He scurried out from under them, just as the ground shuddered when the gate closed behind him. The drawbridge gears began to turn. 

He lumbered up the swollen wood, light footed with fingers against the ground. When he couldn’t run he crawled up the bridge that rose ever higher, ever steeper. He reached out his arm, and when his toes slipped out from under him, he grasped the top.

The sleeves of his shirt snagged on the splinters and nails that jutted outward.

Despite their cutting into his finger, Aaden heaved himself over the top.  The black water lapped at the walls, with a sound like the hunting dogs made as they tore into raw, fresh kills. He Aaden couldn’t see the waters, but he could feel the slimy mist that curled off it filling his nose with the pungent stench.

He jumped, and landed hard at the bank of the mote, flooded from the rain water that drained through the walls, and rolled through the hoof- marked mud.

The prince lay for a moment with the side of his head in a puddle. His eyes faced the drawbridge as it creaked upright beside the torches on either side. Outside the range of their glow, he curled his fingers around a fistful of mud. Keep going.

The mud caked on his saturated clothes sloshed to the path as he stood. His knees shook, and his arms were heavy. However, the Prince of Asmalen limped down the road without looking back to the bridge that echoed like the parting storm as it fitted in place.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~u~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The throne room was simple and uncluttered, aside from the elaborately carved walls. They depicted the kingdom’s rise from the ice, and had been there longer than any living man or woman could remember. Throws in lush browns and deep reds lounged on the sparse furnishings of the room, embroidered with the old tales of Asmalen’s mountains, long past forgotten. Though in the dark, the depictions of honor and glory distorted the faces into agonized expressions, and the eyes of the dragons and spirits glittered dangerously.

Both Queen and King sat side by side, the only lit torches in the room by their chairs. The Queen slumped in her throne, her face turned away from the fire, and masked by the shadows. When Grahn ran into the room, he saw the glisten of silently falling tears on her cheeks.

A handful of guards were bowed at the King’s feet, the parchment crumpled in his hands. Grahn stopped beside the nearest pillar to the great chairs, and the Queen indicated him with a straightening of her shoulder. Her gold earrings jangled like seashell wind chimes, and her silken gown wrinkled under her clenched hands.

“What does it say?” she asked. There was a tight quiver in her throat. Almost at the same time he King’s voice rumbled the chamber.

“Was this found in his room?”

There were dark rings under his beady eyes, and tendrils of dark hair seemed tucked hurriedly beneath the jewel studded crown. To most he would seem handsome in his younger years. To Grahn he was fair skinned as a corpse gone blue, and just as bloated. His thick knuckled fingers were decorated with heavy gold rings. Some with precious stones that glittered like the kingdom’s lost treasures. He flipped the paper on its back and then forward again. As if it could change with each glance.

“Answer me,” said the King.

The knight nearest him flinched. He cleared his throat.

“Yes, My King. It was found on his desk with fresh ink on the quill.”

“Why would they write it in his room?” the Queen asked. The King waved a dismissive hand at her.

 “Oh shut up,” he said, and slammed his fist into the throne. Dark eyes speared the knight “Answer the question.”

“Yes, my Queen. We’ve sent men to the village in search. Messages were sent to double the guards at the docks, as well as those in the forest along the mountain paths.”

“Good. Send another group after them. I want the entire road searched before morning. No one leaves these mountains without permits signed by me.”

The King relaxed in his chair. When he turned his head, his eyes sparkled to fiery pinpoints by the light of the torches. Grahn didn’t look away as the others, but he smiled.

“You,” said the King. He rubbed the wrinkles at his temples. Grahn raised his chin. Rain water dripped to the floor. It had turned from white to grey over the years, and rust red where the blood had been spilt upon it

“Why are you here?”

 “I only came to see my Queen.” Grahn bowed his head, his lips smiled between defiance and mockery.

“There’s blood on your arm. Why?”

A drop fell from his hand to the floor.

“I turned a corner too sharply and hit a nail. This is just such troubling news. I had to get here soonest I could,” Grahn said with an exaggerated shake of his head.

The King’s mouth pinched tight as he ground his teeth. When he stood, the rest of the guards in the room bowed their heads. His adviser and personal servants scrambled into lazy procession.

“I’m off to bed,” said the King. Grahn noticed how he scanned the unlit edges of his court with squinted eyes. “Sound the bells. I’ll settle the rest tomorrow.”

Grahn stepped aside as the King passed to the open double doors. Those sworn to follow as cowed dogs on chains, were waved aside. As bid, they left to seek their own beds or posts, while the King walked opposite the direction of his chambers.

The room emptied of all but the maids stacking logs into the fireplaces on either side of the throne. Grahn turned to his Queen who took the few steps from her chair with weary elegance. He bowed to one knee when she stopped before him, and while it wasn’t extended to him, he took her hand to place atop it a gentle kiss. Her skin was soft under his lips, like the skin of a ripe peach.

“Laila, there’s something you should know,” he said. A side long look at the maids by the fire made them hurry to the back of the room.

_______________

‘The less you know, the safer you are.’ Her mother had said since she was five, who had been serving castle and King all her life. In court, that was the rule. Servants were no more than ghosts in the halls, and lived by the saying curiosity killed the cat. Her mother also used to tell her she was far too much like a cat, and her curiosity had been peeked.

When the other maids hurried out of the throne room, Talia ducked behind the drapes by the doors. The knife the Queen’s knight drew from his pocket shimmered in the fire’s light, and the Queen plucked it from his hands as if the stem of a wilting flower.

She watched the Queen guided him to his feet. Her face came from the shadows when her chin rested on his shoulder.  Her hair, toneless locks of rich chocolate lay in tangled ringlets on her back. She didn’t often let her ladies brush it. Tears stained her golden, sunken cheeks, and her colorless bottom lip was held tight between her teeth.

Talia’s ears were positively straining when Grahn leaned close to her ear, his fingers petting the back of her neck. His lips moved slowly, and the echoing of heavy raindrops shadowed what little there was to hear. Her tears stopped, and the young maid watched a small glint of hope flash in her eyes.

“At last,” she said, barely louder than the snap of the heavy drapes in the wind. “Prepare for his funeral tomorrow.”

The Queen pulled away, and Grahn kept her hand in his as long as they were close enough. His eyes always took on the look of a whipped puppy around her. All the maids saw it and prattled on day and night with scorn on their tongues.  

The Queen let him dry her tears away with the rough palm of his hand. However, that was all before she headed for the doors. Talia ducked through them, and ran on her tiptoes down the hall before she could be seen.

_________________

The doors shut behind his Queen, leaving Grahn to fade in the dark as he took a seat on the King’s throne, his head sunk into his hands.

“I don’t understand why he continues to let you breath,” said a voice that lurked in the shadows of a nearby pillar where the figure it belonged to stood.

The figure stepped beyond the bounds of the darkness, as if it was an extension of the shadows. He wore a hooded shawl. It was black and dusty, and fell to the top of his buckled boots. What drew the eye was his grin. He had a row of straight, white teeth that matched the bird beaked mask hiding his eyes and nose.

“I don’t understand how you get around unseen in that getup,” said Grahn.

With a deep, throaty laugh, the figure spread his arms. “Birds are messengers. Given my role in this game I think it fitting.” 

“What do you want?”

“Many things-”

“Get to the point.”

The figure’s grin widened.

“I have a message.”

Grahn walked down the steps.

“But I didn’t expect to have something so interesting to bring back,” he said.

The storm clouds parted, and a beam of cold moonlight came through the topmost window. It speared across the floor between them. The way it caught the figure’s eyes made them glimmer darker than the King’s.

“I told you to get to the point,” said Grahn.

The clouds covered the moonlight again.

“Innara’s unsettled by the number of the guards in the city. She wants you to get that wench of a woman to swindle Ayrrian towards a few new trainees she has in mind.”

When Grahn’s fists clenched at his side, the figure flashed his grin. “Her words not mine. I don’t think the queen a wench at all. I’m sure she just uses those sweet looks to snare men like you.”

“Tell Innara I’ll see what I can-“

“You’ll do it,” said the figure. He stepped towards the shadow of the pillars.

“If you don’t, her temper might get the best of her. The wench is still alive because of you Grahn. If you wish it to remain that way, it’s best to follow big sister’s rules. Until next time, oh captive king.”  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~u~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Reviews

[Patrick Henry]

To start with, the character building needs work and needs to not be so one-dimensional like you would see in a cartoon where only one conversation or instance takes place at a time. Out of the 3273 words in your short story, there are 684 words like "the, he, his, it, her, and a"!! I didn't count the of's and you's, though. You have fun with adjectives in a story like this, and even though I wish I could climb inside this story to give you the biggest hug ever, all the adjectives right in a row come off as "rambling" and that's unfair to read that AND write that because you have all this beauty in your head when writing poetry, writing letters, designing things etc.... but I think you concentrate on what you assume will attract another person to enjoy your story by being impressed to what YOU consider the character building, and it's not what it is. I am guilty of putting a gross number of details inside a story, and would find it "normal" for you to find fault with that. At the same time, I freakin' like you A LOT, so any criticism you would wish to give ME would be seen and received ad a little tough because of the work put into it, but also as great respect because your opinion would mean that much more to me than others!!

There are, also, a crazy number of sentences built like this one. This one is where you have those really long dashes in the beginning and the line starts out like "‘The less you know, the safer you are.’"..... the sentence that comes after it does not read like a sentence WOULD. No matter what is contained within one, a sentence has to be complete.

Another big part of your story is "keeping it rea". lol Yuppers!! I really wrote that. What I mean by it, is like "Hey! Where are you going?", asked Renaldo, choking on what little of his sandwich he had left. If he is choking on his sandwich, you can't write that he was yelling at the same time. The other side of THAT is.... mix it up a bit. Don't always follow a quote with "he said, she said, he asked etc..."

I could write a whole book on what to criticize, spell check...remarkable NONE!!!, and help to improve on character building and/or settings that include what they wear and that they all have different moods and habits, and knowing when to close a scene to open another. I really think you did great and a huge part of me just wants to smash a hug on you for attempting a story with soooo much dialogue, but it needs to be written in a realistic way that doesn't feel like table tennis, creating depth inside the words. *Big Hugzz* xoxox -Your Mark

[Melissa Rose]

Thank you for reviewing! This is the fist chapter of my completed novel. (The first part is completely changed at this point) I used to have a lot more of my usual poetic language, but not many people could follow the story. (And after they pointed it out, I realized I was getting a bit carried away with it.) Lately I've been working on a balance of keeping my poetry with the rules of modern literature. (For example using anything but said and asked is considered amateurish so I've been cutting most of them out and using beats instead.) It's been a struggle, but only for the first few chapters, which are the oldest. I wrote them about five years ago when I was still in high school. The first chapter I focus on action. Writing novels is all about playing head games. The mechanics are so subtle that the reader doesn't notice they're being played. lol Meaning, for a high action scene such as this, (Even though my newest chapter one is so much better) you want to use quick, sharp sentences. The downfall of starting with action scenes is that you don't always have the space to really describe the characters and the world they live in. But it just means you get to gradually get to know them like you would if you were to meet someone and gradually learn how they work. In theory it sounds nice at least. lol. Character depth is something I've been working on especially when it comes to the King. It's been a matter of meeting my characters. When I started this book I only had a paper doll cut out of them. Only now that I'm putting the final touch-ups on it are they really becoming full flesh and blood. I'll have to put the new revision up soon. :)

[Patrick Henry]

You do an amazing job, Melissa Rose.... I know. I couldn't help say your name again!! lol Seriously, Love it!! I have a story that would be a little tough for "hardcore" dark enthusiasts to read. If I showed you the first paragraph of this story I started and never went back to, would you like to see it? The story "the written part" is about 64,000+ words and was written in 5 days!! lol I could show you an example of it if you'd like..... Character building was the ONLY thing I was having fun with. lol If the beginning is a little tough on language or specific things that upset you, let me know or let me know WHAT might upset you. O.K.? I Love reading you... I'm wording this wrong. I don't like reading stories on this site because I don't understand most of the stories and could care less the author's point of view. That may sound unfair to a certain point, but if I went to a bookstore and bought a book, took it home and read it, and hated the author or found the author a bit of a bore.... I wouldn't be happy with that at all!! : ) You? You have written a story and I have actually read it a few times. TBH, the reason I do that is two-fold. I have an awful memory AND I really really like you, so you are a bit of a celebrity in a way for getting me interested in your writing, just by reading you. You need the tools to help pull out all that beauty that is in that mind of yours I get to see on your blog, in your poems, and in your letters, Melissa Rose. O.K. THAT time I just really wanted to write your name again. You get me emotional in a most awesome way!! lol Many sites out there will aid you in constructing a story that works for you and you may even find that you work and re-work a story for years..... I think I still have in my blog, in the first few that I posted, ones that have links to help with that kind of writing.

http://www.killermovies.com/forums/archive/index.php/t-442947-words-to-replace-said.html

Keep me in touch with how this story is progressing if you can. xoxoo -Your Mark

[Aaron Browder]

Your narration is deliciously poetic. I think that's my favorite thing about your work.

The dialog is comparatively weak. It seems to be written in the same style as the narration, making it unrealistically poetic and often not descriptive enough to communicate what is going on. I think that a real conversation would be more verbose.

There is a lot of action in this chapter, which is great. But I could get more into it if I knew anything about what kind of person Aaden is and what kinds of experiences he's had. I won't say anything more because I'm not 100% sure where you should add it or even if it will make the story better at all.

In the second section of this chapter (the part with extended dialog), the detailed descriptions are becoming excessive, and it's getting in the way of the action. This is partly true of the whole of the chapter, but it's more of an issue in the second section. The dialog gives more insight into who the characters are, and it pushes the plot forward at the same time; at this point I don't need to be constantly reminded about the wrinkles under the king's eyes and the rain dripping down his face.

Most of the extended narration is lacking commas. When you do the next proofread, read your work out loud and try to find the places that need more commas. If I do another pass later (and I plan to), I can point out the ones that you missed.

When a dialog is followed by "he said", "he thought", etc., the dialog should end in a comma, not a period. This problem seems to be most everywhere.

I know this is a lot of criticisms, but seriously, overall your writing is really strong. After a couple more rounds of editing I could easily see this published. I'm looking forward to reading the rest of it. :)

[Melissa Rose]

Criticism is what I need! lol so don't worry. I have a tendency to over describe things and repeat descriptions. I'll go look over than.

I'm not sure where I could put information about Aaden in this chapter. It's so action heavy that it would be difficult to slip it in without interrupting to much but I'll play with it. Dialog used to be a difficult thing for me, but it starts to flow better as the chapters go on. I've been correction places where it seem to formal, I'll keep an eye out for elegance, lol

I never knew that about the commas. I'll have to go through and fix that.