My IntroductionA Chapter by Miss_Book_Nut
Introductions
I
am not supposed to exist.
Sounds
so delicious and intriguing when you put it on paper: I am not supposed to exist. If you’re not supposed to exist, then
why are you here, sitting on this rickety old chair and writing on a
termite-infested table under the dim glow of candlelight? Makes you want to
know more, draws you closer, uncover the mystery and the depths of layers
beneath it.
Unfortunately,
when you say it out aloud, especially if you are the mystery person in
question, it doesn’t sound half as exciting anymore. Rather, it leaves a bitter
taste in your mouth and you’ll suddenly feel as though the whole world is
watching you, waiting. Waiting for you to make that fatal mistake that will
reveal who you really are.
I
am not supposed to exist.
But
I do exist. Now the question is, why? Why? I’ve been searching an answer to
that question for the past 13 years of my life, but every single fruitless
attempt just proves futile to the great powers of the Universe.
I
won’t write here why I’m not supposed to exist, because it’s a secret I’ve been
bearing all my life, and I certainly won’t reveal it now. Another reason is
simply because I am already not supposed to write ‘I am not supposed to exist’
and writing ‘why’ is simply going to throw me into even graver danger. In fact,
I’m already in grave danger by writing out that sentence, and if anyone reads
it I’ll be hanged, no matter is it true, but I’ve already confessed to an
inexplicably absurd crime(though I did not choose to be born).
Then
why am I writing this? Why am I so stupid? Why. Why why WHY. I’ve been asking
that question all my life. No one answered me. Not even the Pietists for
Heaven’s sake. Not one tinsy-witty little stingy bit of a miraculous sign. I’ve
cried and shriek before the altar of my champion Pietist, Pietist Bronicus more
times than I could count. But still, NOTHING.
So
why am I writing this? Surprisingly, I can come up with an easy answer for that
question. Maybe because after 13 years of Hiding a Dangerous Secret I’ve
finally had enough. No, no, I won’t tell anyone, I’ve always been an excellent
actor and liar, and keeping a secret only boosted this talent. I just need
somewhere, some THING to help me channel my thoughts, my emotions, so I can
concentrate better on my day. I think it’s working so far.
Anyways,
I’ll only write about really interesting events, and will probably log in only
every week or so, which is really scrimping on my part because charcoal has
been hard to come by lately, and I only have a limited amount of it.
And
so it begins.
A
(Wintry) Birthday Celebration
“Strike!”
Several
figures stood out starkly against the icy-white landscape of the land, their
dark cloaks fluttering in the biting wind, their cheeks and noses tinged with
redness from the frosty cold. One of them, his once-warm coat wet and sloshed
with snow, instantly sneezed as soon as the snowball hit him, and he shook off
the snow like a soaking-wet mongrel.
“You’ll
pay for this, Teeny!” shouted the boy gleefully, and gathered snow in his
frigid fingers " he’d refused to wear gloves when they went out, and he was
paying dearly for it. His brothers and sister giggled at him in amusement.
“Really?
Come get me then,” taunted Teeny, the oldest of the five siblings. His brother
threw the snowball at him, but missed horrendously, for Teeny had already
disappeared out of sight with inhuman speed. His brother stomped in the snow
out of frustration.
“Not
fair, Teeny,” scolded Isolde, the only sister among a family of boys. She
looked like, as most girls would at ten years-old while offering a lecture,
rather prim and proper, with her hands on her hips and lips pouting
disapprovingly. “You can’t just simply use your abilities just because you’re a
champion. And how are we supposed to win if you keep cheating?” Teeny just
laughed.
“Which
is why it’s all of you against me,” drawled Teeny, pointing at each individual
in front of him. “And which is why I have to hit each of you five times before
someone is eliminated. We agreed to this, remember?”
“It
didn’t include having you using your abilities!” protested Isolde.
“Ah,
but no one said that I couldn’t use them,” answered her brother, wagging his
finger at her. “So we’ll continue.”
Isolde
looked like she was about to argue further, but got cut off when a torrent of
snow hit her squarely in the face. “Strike five and you’re out,” grinned Teeny.
“But…but…You
" I " talk,” stammered poor Isolde, her curly hair positively drowning in the
snow. Then she threw her arms up in surrender and stormed off. “Fine! I give
up!”
Teeny
chuckled while forming the next snowball in his hands. “So, who’s next?”
“Children!”
yelled a distant voice. “Time to come back in!”
The
eldest sibling gathered his younger siblings and ushered them towards the
direction of their castle. “Come on, let’s go back before Isolde catches a
cold,” he teased. His
sister harrumphed in irritation and turned her
rather pretty nose up.
As
soon as the five children got back into the castle, they immediately huddled
about the toasty warm fireplace in the even toastier kitchen, their skins
relieved of the cold. Their mother, Marcella Rutherland padded over to them in
her silk slippers " only to be worn indoors " with the woolly blankets in her
arms threatening to overwhelm her any moment.
“Maid
Finella didn’t give you any blankets?” queried the Lady as she handed the
children the blankets. “I’ll have a talk with her about proper serving
etiquette later. The nerve of the woman!”
“Ma,
she’s only sixteen, and she’s new to the staff,” said Joblin, second-youngest
of the Rutherland siblings at eight, who was never afraid of speaking up and
pointing out awkward truths.
His
mother sighed in exasperation. “I know, dear. But really, Mistress Fostier has
the most awful taste in choosing staff. Sympathy indeed! I honestly don’t know
why I ever made her head of the staff.”
“Because
you said that she is really the most competent person in the world and she has
a much more level head than you,” retorted her eldest and turning back towards
the fire.
“And
children, when you’re done warming up, your father has requested that all of
you to go to the drawing room to celebrate Constantine’s birthday,” said Lady
Marcella, slightly exhausted to argue, calling over her shoulder while she
walked away.
“Which
drawing room?” asked Percival junior, the youngest of all the five at six. His
question was not irrelevant as they were numerous drawing rooms in Rutherland
Castle, some large, some small, some so dusty that nobody would even dare
entering to leave footprints.
“The
second one in the east wing,” replied his mother automatically.
After
five minutes had passed and the siblings felt much better, they hauled
themselves up to their feet and handed their woolly blankets to the working
charwoman before heading towards the second drawing room in the east wing.
“Happy
birthday, Teeny!” chirped Eric, second eldest brother at twelve years-old in
greeting towards his older brother as they walked.
Constantine
(as was his proper name) laughed and ruffled his brother’s hair. “But you’d just
said it to me this morning!” he said.
“Then
I’ll say it again!”
The
eldest sibling shook his head and smiled in defeat, then stopped in front of a
massive, oaken door that had ancient carvings on its handles. Constantine
inhaled deeply to steel his nerves and pushed.
This
particular drawing room was one of the larger ones, and was Lord Percival’s
favourite one. It consisted of: a fireplace, four bookshelves filled to the
brim with books, three large tables, two small desks, seven chairs, a
grey-stoned wall, eight torch holders and a rack for stationery, not
necessarily in that order.
Percival
and Marcella Rutherland were seated at the largest table side by side, with
several unidentified objects situated on the flat surface before them. Now,
with husband and wife together, it was easy to see where the children had
gotten their appearances from. The four younger siblings each had their
father’s curly blond hair and their mother’s warm, brown eyes; the odd one out,
Constantine, had obtained his mother’s dark brown locks and father’s grey eyes.
Only the most expert observer would notice that Constantine had tensed before
his father’s presence.
“Hello,
children!” said Marcella while standing up and walking over with arms spread
out, as if she’d never seen them before.
“Father,
mother,” responded the five harmoniously, while each gave their mother a tight
squeeze. Lord Rutherland sat back stoically, any trace of expression invisible
on his face. His wife guided the children to the table they were seated at. She
placed her small, nimble hands on Constantine’s shoulders.
“Well,
Constantine, your presents!” she said with relish, gesturing at the five
cloth-bound objects on the surface. Her son cautiously took them apart, and
unwrapped a book (Eric’s thoughtful gift), a bunch of lovely, but pollen-infested
wildflowers (Isolde’s lovely, but impractical gift), a fish (poor Joblin had
sobbed at this point because he didn’t know what to get), a silky, spotted
feather (Percival junior’s romantic one), and last of all, Mother’s smoothly
calf-bound book along with some charcoal, and a tiny, tiny dagger with a
beautifully adorned hilt.
Constantine
smiled and thanked everybody, all except his father. Percival then stood up
slowly to his imposing fullness of height, and said in a deep, commanding
voice, “Constantine, come.”
Teeny
gulped in response " he’d anticipated this " and followed his father meekly.
Lord Rutherland guided them towards the stone-cold balustrade, exposing them to
the dry and bitter winter wind. He swept a hand over the unimpeded scenery;
villages scattered around the snowy landscape, with little puffs of smoke
rising like dancing wisps in the air, to the east, a glittering lake under the
frozen surface, whilst to the west, a column of mountains vaulting to reach
towards Heaven, and the slow, winter sun rising behind it, timid rays peeking
over the valleys.
Percival
finally spoke. “Constantine, you turn 13 winters today, and it’s finally time
for you to begin your training as a squire in Melieva.”
Constantine
inclined his head slightly as he spoke, “Yes, father. I swear on the name of
Pst Bronicus that I will do my best.”
Lord Rutherland turned to
his son suddenly, startling him. “I want more than your best,” he said
vehemently. “You must prove your worthiness " that you are worth everything, as I did for my father, and his father before him, and so
on. The province of Rutherland is a prosperous one, and has been passed
down from generation to generation. I wish not for it to fall into the hands of
a man foreign to our blood, or to unscrupulous souls."
Constantine
remained silent.
"You
have known this since your birth, and I fully expect you to fulfil your
obligations to me. Only by becoming a true knight will you be worthy of
Rutherland. And then, and only then, will I name you as my rightful successor.
This is my gift and promise to you. Do you understand?"
Constantine
nodded solemnly. “I understand, father.”
“Good,”
was the reply, then his father turned towards the ascending sunlight, basking
in the little warmth it gave. “You may go now.”
His
son gave a quick bow and walked out stiffly.
My
Point of View
Constantine, is of course, me. I chose to write from
a neutral person’s point of view, so that I can exclude all thoughts and
feelings I had during that period of time. So there.
Now
I’m writing in aforementioned notebook, along with before-said charcoal, in a
little hiding place in the castle that’s surprisingly warm and toasty, at least
compared with the cold drafts they let in through the windows " I really don’t
understand why they asked Maid Finella to be in charge of it. That’s all for now. Not very interesting I’m afraid, but it’s all I have for the moment. © 2014 Miss_Book_NutAuthor's Note
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StatsAuthorMiss_Book_NutMalaysiaAboutI don't really know what to write here, but I hope that EVERYONE WILL TAKE NOTICE. So I love writing books (kinda obvious eh?) and reading them (how do you think I started writing!), and so I'm here. .. more..Writing
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