04-07-2020, 06:23 PM
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Once upon a fifteenth century, a rickety farmstead loomed in the center of tilled fields and untouched woodland. A man and his wife toiled in the barn with tamed beasts of burden, the glebe with everchanging acres of crops, the orchard with columns of saplings bearing their first fruits, the lake with lurking shadows beneath to be collected in hand-woven nets, and the forest teeming with life to be hunted down for pelt and meat. An heirloom from the man's once-esteemed bloodline, the bargain for the woman's hand. It was all theirs, and theirs alone.
Yet with isolation and poverty followed the crippling lack of serfs to tend the land when they couldn't. The solution? Give birth to workers of their own. Seven children conceived, but only six raised. Rumor whispered among the town, of early death and cruel fate. The family spoke naught of the missing child, assumed to be mourning and with time, suspicions and gossip were laid to rest. When the eldest simply ceased to be, the rumor was rebirthed, snowballing into a tragic curse with each face removed from the family portrait by unforeseen mishap. Eight graves and markers border the far end of the withering field in the gap between the treeline and wheat stalks. And the ninth? Well, that's a story for another time.
Sounds like a fairytale torn right from the drafts of Grimm, unpublished and lost to time.
But as much as he wanted it to be fictional like the movies he watched unfold countless times before, it would prove to be quite realistic by the end of his insomniac stroll.
The seventh-born was none other than the street urchin turned martyr in barbaric fashion, the vessel for corruption itself, the Beck so sought after by strangers and family alike. As far as he could remember, he didn't have true relatives beyond the obscure implication of a father and a mother, perhaps a sibling or two. Adopted once off the dirt road he was stranded on, and now adopted twice by his best friend, Beck all but forgot about his birth parents. Save for the melancholic nights like this one where he could find a quiet place among the gnarled roots of a willow and ask the nobody that was listening why he was given up.
A deep yet punctured sigh slipped past scabbed lips, his head bowing in remorse. Unwanted, that's what he was. No matter how much Selby tried to convince him otherwise, with tender words he couldn't help but melt into after years with mocking silence. How could anyone ever want you? You're a pest. You do nothing but bring misery and tragedy. Beck bit his tongue, hazel eyes welling with sadness as the persistent voice fed velvety lies into his mind. You don't deserve to cry, you should know this by now, you blithering idiot--
Hushed voices lifted his attention, his tears pausing in fear of discovery. Sniffling, a bandaged paw scrubbed his eyes to hide any evidence, wetting the cotton gauze. The poltergeist sucked in a harsh breath, only to wheeze it out a moment after. Tentatively, he pushed himself to stand, dull gaze focused on the direction of soft clamor. Nobody else was likely to be awake at this hour, or at least so he figured. From his approach came no sound, even as he hopped from cypress root to muddy shore. Centuries of hiding in the shadowed outskirts lightened his step, more reliant on stealth than strength to evade capture.
The only announcement to his presence would come as a faint gasp, his eyes widening not at the varied assortment of creatures, but rather at the similarities to him. The freckles, the mix of brown and auburn hair, the lithe frames -- the freckles. Blinking, he snapped his jaw shut before wiping away a strand of drool from his missing cheek in acute embarrassment. It was just a coincidence, probably. Plenty of people could have freckles. And look like rats. Despite not actually being rats. Was that offensive, even if he looked rat-like too? The scrawny feline shuffled his paws awkwardly, knowing all too well that his name had been mentioned several times prior to his arrival as he stalked toward the group. Beck was a common name, right?
Honey-brown eyes raised to meet their faces, his breath catching in his damaged chest. "I..." he hoarsely stammered, cringing at his shrill tone from eternal youth. "How do you know Beck?" Suspicion guarded his posture, hackles threatening to spark while his gaze narrowed. He wasn't stupid. He wouldn't just reveal his identity like that. After all, the only place he could possibly be wanted was the afterlife, not as a brother or son, but rather as a fugitive and a scapegoat.
Yet with isolation and poverty followed the crippling lack of serfs to tend the land when they couldn't. The solution? Give birth to workers of their own. Seven children conceived, but only six raised. Rumor whispered among the town, of early death and cruel fate. The family spoke naught of the missing child, assumed to be mourning and with time, suspicions and gossip were laid to rest. When the eldest simply ceased to be, the rumor was rebirthed, snowballing into a tragic curse with each face removed from the family portrait by unforeseen mishap. Eight graves and markers border the far end of the withering field in the gap between the treeline and wheat stalks. And the ninth? Well, that's a story for another time.
Sounds like a fairytale torn right from the drafts of Grimm, unpublished and lost to time.
But as much as he wanted it to be fictional like the movies he watched unfold countless times before, it would prove to be quite realistic by the end of his insomniac stroll.
The seventh-born was none other than the street urchin turned martyr in barbaric fashion, the vessel for corruption itself, the Beck so sought after by strangers and family alike. As far as he could remember, he didn't have true relatives beyond the obscure implication of a father and a mother, perhaps a sibling or two. Adopted once off the dirt road he was stranded on, and now adopted twice by his best friend, Beck all but forgot about his birth parents. Save for the melancholic nights like this one where he could find a quiet place among the gnarled roots of a willow and ask the nobody that was listening why he was given up.
A deep yet punctured sigh slipped past scabbed lips, his head bowing in remorse. Unwanted, that's what he was. No matter how much Selby tried to convince him otherwise, with tender words he couldn't help but melt into after years with mocking silence. How could anyone ever want you? You're a pest. You do nothing but bring misery and tragedy. Beck bit his tongue, hazel eyes welling with sadness as the persistent voice fed velvety lies into his mind. You don't deserve to cry, you should know this by now, you blithering idiot--
Hushed voices lifted his attention, his tears pausing in fear of discovery. Sniffling, a bandaged paw scrubbed his eyes to hide any evidence, wetting the cotton gauze. The poltergeist sucked in a harsh breath, only to wheeze it out a moment after. Tentatively, he pushed himself to stand, dull gaze focused on the direction of soft clamor. Nobody else was likely to be awake at this hour, or at least so he figured. From his approach came no sound, even as he hopped from cypress root to muddy shore. Centuries of hiding in the shadowed outskirts lightened his step, more reliant on stealth than strength to evade capture.
The only announcement to his presence would come as a faint gasp, his eyes widening not at the varied assortment of creatures, but rather at the similarities to him. The freckles, the mix of brown and auburn hair, the lithe frames -- the freckles. Blinking, he snapped his jaw shut before wiping away a strand of drool from his missing cheek in acute embarrassment. It was just a coincidence, probably. Plenty of people could have freckles. And look like rats. Despite not actually being rats. Was that offensive, even if he looked rat-like too? The scrawny feline shuffled his paws awkwardly, knowing all too well that his name had been mentioned several times prior to his arrival as he stalked toward the group. Beck was a common name, right?
Honey-brown eyes raised to meet their faces, his breath catching in his damaged chest. "I..." he hoarsely stammered, cringing at his shrill tone from eternal youth. "How do you know Beck?" Suspicion guarded his posture, hackles threatening to spark while his gaze narrowed. He wasn't stupid. He wouldn't just reveal his identity like that. After all, the only place he could possibly be wanted was the afterlife, not as a brother or son, but rather as a fugitive and a scapegoat.