On the fifteenth trial of Ymiden during the 718th arc...
As he glanced around the foyer, Doran checked for signs of struggle. The door had shown no signs of forced entry, nor was anything out of place from what he could tell. The small space housed a well loved rug in its center, two small tables on either side with an array of small pots and planters filled with various plants. On the wall to the left hung a portrait of his uncle's father, on the right, his aunt's mother. He'd never really understood the importance of those two particularly members of his family, but they stared back at him as impassively as ever. If they had been witness to the intruder - for Doran was certain that was who owned the deeper voice he'd heard before - they had nothing to say about it.
Booted as he was, Doran did what he could to quiet his steps. The wooden floor bent beneath his weight, and from memory, he tried to avoid those that creaked. The voice had started again, too hushed for him to make out what was said, though he strained to do, but he could clearly hear the whimpering of his aunt. In his haste, he misstepped, a loud creak sounding through the quiet hall and both voices fell quiet. Every muscle in his body tensed, his breath caught in his throat, and he flinched reflexively. Chaos erupted within the next handful of trills.
His aunt's muffled shouts erupted with a frantic, renewed vigor, smashing the silence into a million pieces as a dark figure slid through the doorway at the end of the hall, daggers in hand and face covered by a veneer of darkly dyed cloth. Without hesitation, the blades flew through the air. Already discovered, Doran had no need to mute his movements as he slammed his shoulder into wall, narrowly avoiding the whistling projectiles that landed with two sickening thunks into the door, slamming it shut. Seemingly unbothered with his miss, the man shot forward in a burst of speed, another dagger glinting dully in the sudden murk of the hallway, the only light a small muddied beam that passed through the little window in the door.
Heart bashing about in the cage of his chest, Doran pushed himself away from the wall, unarmed and eyes wide with panic. His hands scrabbled over one of the tables, fingers finding the hard, sturdy surface of a pot. Without thinking, he hurled the potted plant at his attacker, too wrapped up in his own whirling thoughts to make a sound as he stumbled backward, blindly snatching another and throwing it in turn. His efforts were brushed against, the small pots hitting the man in the chest and falling to smash themselves harmlessly upon the floor beneath him. In the next moment, he pinned Doran to the wall. The man's free hand pressed into his chest, while the metal of the blade settled cold against the soft, sweat slicked skin of his neck.
He braced himself for what was to come - or as best as he might. Thoughts and images flashed through his mind at an impossible speed: Alistair's warm smile, Jonathan's writhing witch mark, Damien's crystalline face, a hundred or thousand nameless moments with nameless people... Lily. Her eyes were bright, filled with the light of their childhood. He could hear her gentle laughter, still feel the warm blush of embarrassment at here reprimand, and feel the weight of her hand in his. When she had died, a large part of him had gone with her. It was where his roiling thoughts finally settled: he was going to see Lily again.
But the cut never came. The man's grip that had once been enough to white his knuckles had softened, fingers splayed with a soft, almost tender pressure against his chest. The dagger was withdrawn, and though most of the man's face was concealed beneath his cloth mask, he could clearly see the man's oddly familiar, pale green eyes, tinged a dusty hazel in the half light of the hallway. There, in the man's gaze, was an alarming mix of surprise, recognition and... love?
In that moment, it didn't matter. Doran didn't hesitate. The moment the man began to draw breath, clearly readying to speak, Doran lurched forward, smashing the hard curve of his skull into the other man's face with all the force he could muster. With a pained grunt, the man stumbled back, and Doran continued to press his advantage. Whatever had caught the man off-guard, he strove to keep him from recovering, gritting his teeth against the splitting pain of his head as he followed up his initial attack with a quick uppercut to the man's stomach and sharp elbow to catch the man's jaw and his body instinctively curled forward. He felt the bones in his arm protest at impact, and he stared, panting from both fear and effort, as the man collapsed onto the floor, his dagger slipping from his fingers as they loosened.
After quickly kicking the blade away, Doran was at loss. His aunt was still very much alive, from what he could tell from the quiet but still frantic moans and shouts from the other room, but he didn't want to just leave the attacker in a position where he might rise up and begin the fight all over again. He doubted he'd be lucky enough to stop him a second time. With no rope, he couldn't subdue the man, and without knowing why it was he'd been in his aunt's home in the first place, there was little leverage he had available to him. The stray thought crossed his mind that he could, simply, kill the man, but it was entertained for a whole of a half trill before thrown away. He was no murderer.
As he pondered over his next move, the man stirred, a low rumble of a groan in his chest. Without conviction, Doran took a step backward. He felt as though he was in marginally less danger after having disarmed the man, but as he pushed himself up, he found what little confidence he'd gained faded quickly. Hands ready and knees bent, he prepared for another round, but to his surprise - and, to some extent, small swell of triumph - the man raised a hand in a universal display of yield. Keeping his stance, Doran cleared his throat, his voice so airy it almost seemed a whisper. "T-thank you." Immediately he cringed, a thousand different things flooding through his mind. Questions and demands. "Er-" He swallowed, heart still beating strong as if he were in mid sprint. "Who... who are you? What are you-"
The man staggered to his feet, and Doran's voice cut sharply out. He had been far too preoccupied with the act of not dying to notice much more about the other man aside from his weapons and general lack of unconcealed features. He was at least a head his superior in height, with wide shoulders and a piercing, powerful gaze. Even in defeat, the man was intimidating - and Doran had the creeping suspicion had the man wished to continue, he would have had no difficulties doing do.
When his spoke, his voice was lower than Doran's, rich and full. There was a, however, an oddly gentle waver in his tone. "You look just like him. Like he did." Doran felt a shiver run down his spine; the manner in which the man looked at him was wholly uncomfortable - like a wolf who wanted to keep a lamb for its pet. Though his voice carried no hint of aggression, he'd seen the man's eyes as he'd run toward him before. They had been filled with an intent to harm, to kill.
"I- what?" His confusion rushed forward, overpowering his angst for a moment.
The man took a step forward, and Doran tried to do the opposite but found his back pressed up against the wall. "My name is Ziemowit Wrona." Gently, the man set a hand upon Doran's shoulder, his other moving to peel away the cloth from his face. His features were sharp and angled, ears sticking out to either side of his handsome face, and his eyes, though gentle as they looked upon him, sat beneath a firm, prominent brow. He recognised nothing, never having seen the man before, though he still couldn't shake the niggling whisper at the back of his mind that he had seen the eyes somewhere before.
Slowly, almost tentatively, the man's grip on his shoulder tightened in what would have been a reassuring gesture had he not tried to kill Doran just a bit a go. His lips turned just slightly, a grim smile on his features, and Doran could do nothing the stare with a perplexed and equally timorous expression that shimmered in his worried eyes. "And I am your brother."
The man's words left his lips a moment before the heavy, cast iron pan slammed into the back of his head as Doran's aunt shouted with a fiery, shrill screech, "Let go of my son, you bastard!"
As he glanced around the foyer, Doran checked for signs of struggle. The door had shown no signs of forced entry, nor was anything out of place from what he could tell. The small space housed a well loved rug in its center, two small tables on either side with an array of small pots and planters filled with various plants. On the wall to the left hung a portrait of his uncle's father, on the right, his aunt's mother. He'd never really understood the importance of those two particularly members of his family, but they stared back at him as impassively as ever. If they had been witness to the intruder - for Doran was certain that was who owned the deeper voice he'd heard before - they had nothing to say about it.
Booted as he was, Doran did what he could to quiet his steps. The wooden floor bent beneath his weight, and from memory, he tried to avoid those that creaked. The voice had started again, too hushed for him to make out what was said, though he strained to do, but he could clearly hear the whimpering of his aunt. In his haste, he misstepped, a loud creak sounding through the quiet hall and both voices fell quiet. Every muscle in his body tensed, his breath caught in his throat, and he flinched reflexively. Chaos erupted within the next handful of trills.
His aunt's muffled shouts erupted with a frantic, renewed vigor, smashing the silence into a million pieces as a dark figure slid through the doorway at the end of the hall, daggers in hand and face covered by a veneer of darkly dyed cloth. Without hesitation, the blades flew through the air. Already discovered, Doran had no need to mute his movements as he slammed his shoulder into wall, narrowly avoiding the whistling projectiles that landed with two sickening thunks into the door, slamming it shut. Seemingly unbothered with his miss, the man shot forward in a burst of speed, another dagger glinting dully in the sudden murk of the hallway, the only light a small muddied beam that passed through the little window in the door.
Heart bashing about in the cage of his chest, Doran pushed himself away from the wall, unarmed and eyes wide with panic. His hands scrabbled over one of the tables, fingers finding the hard, sturdy surface of a pot. Without thinking, he hurled the potted plant at his attacker, too wrapped up in his own whirling thoughts to make a sound as he stumbled backward, blindly snatching another and throwing it in turn. His efforts were brushed against, the small pots hitting the man in the chest and falling to smash themselves harmlessly upon the floor beneath him. In the next moment, he pinned Doran to the wall. The man's free hand pressed into his chest, while the metal of the blade settled cold against the soft, sweat slicked skin of his neck.
He braced himself for what was to come - or as best as he might. Thoughts and images flashed through his mind at an impossible speed: Alistair's warm smile, Jonathan's writhing witch mark, Damien's crystalline face, a hundred or thousand nameless moments with nameless people... Lily. Her eyes were bright, filled with the light of their childhood. He could hear her gentle laughter, still feel the warm blush of embarrassment at here reprimand, and feel the weight of her hand in his. When she had died, a large part of him had gone with her. It was where his roiling thoughts finally settled: he was going to see Lily again.
But the cut never came. The man's grip that had once been enough to white his knuckles had softened, fingers splayed with a soft, almost tender pressure against his chest. The dagger was withdrawn, and though most of the man's face was concealed beneath his cloth mask, he could clearly see the man's oddly familiar, pale green eyes, tinged a dusty hazel in the half light of the hallway. There, in the man's gaze, was an alarming mix of surprise, recognition and... love?
In that moment, it didn't matter. Doran didn't hesitate. The moment the man began to draw breath, clearly readying to speak, Doran lurched forward, smashing the hard curve of his skull into the other man's face with all the force he could muster. With a pained grunt, the man stumbled back, and Doran continued to press his advantage. Whatever had caught the man off-guard, he strove to keep him from recovering, gritting his teeth against the splitting pain of his head as he followed up his initial attack with a quick uppercut to the man's stomach and sharp elbow to catch the man's jaw and his body instinctively curled forward. He felt the bones in his arm protest at impact, and he stared, panting from both fear and effort, as the man collapsed onto the floor, his dagger slipping from his fingers as they loosened.
After quickly kicking the blade away, Doran was at loss. His aunt was still very much alive, from what he could tell from the quiet but still frantic moans and shouts from the other room, but he didn't want to just leave the attacker in a position where he might rise up and begin the fight all over again. He doubted he'd be lucky enough to stop him a second time. With no rope, he couldn't subdue the man, and without knowing why it was he'd been in his aunt's home in the first place, there was little leverage he had available to him. The stray thought crossed his mind that he could, simply, kill the man, but it was entertained for a whole of a half trill before thrown away. He was no murderer.
As he pondered over his next move, the man stirred, a low rumble of a groan in his chest. Without conviction, Doran took a step backward. He felt as though he was in marginally less danger after having disarmed the man, but as he pushed himself up, he found what little confidence he'd gained faded quickly. Hands ready and knees bent, he prepared for another round, but to his surprise - and, to some extent, small swell of triumph - the man raised a hand in a universal display of yield. Keeping his stance, Doran cleared his throat, his voice so airy it almost seemed a whisper. "T-thank you." Immediately he cringed, a thousand different things flooding through his mind. Questions and demands. "Er-" He swallowed, heart still beating strong as if he were in mid sprint. "Who... who are you? What are you-"
The man staggered to his feet, and Doran's voice cut sharply out. He had been far too preoccupied with the act of not dying to notice much more about the other man aside from his weapons and general lack of unconcealed features. He was at least a head his superior in height, with wide shoulders and a piercing, powerful gaze. Even in defeat, the man was intimidating - and Doran had the creeping suspicion had the man wished to continue, he would have had no difficulties doing do.
When his spoke, his voice was lower than Doran's, rich and full. There was a, however, an oddly gentle waver in his tone. "You look just like him. Like he did." Doran felt a shiver run down his spine; the manner in which the man looked at him was wholly uncomfortable - like a wolf who wanted to keep a lamb for its pet. Though his voice carried no hint of aggression, he'd seen the man's eyes as he'd run toward him before. They had been filled with an intent to harm, to kill.
"I- what?" His confusion rushed forward, overpowering his angst for a moment.
The man took a step forward, and Doran tried to do the opposite but found his back pressed up against the wall. "My name is Ziemowit Wrona." Gently, the man set a hand upon Doran's shoulder, his other moving to peel away the cloth from his face. His features were sharp and angled, ears sticking out to either side of his handsome face, and his eyes, though gentle as they looked upon him, sat beneath a firm, prominent brow. He recognised nothing, never having seen the man before, though he still couldn't shake the niggling whisper at the back of his mind that he had seen the eyes somewhere before.
Slowly, almost tentatively, the man's grip on his shoulder tightened in what would have been a reassuring gesture had he not tried to kill Doran just a bit a go. His lips turned just slightly, a grim smile on his features, and Doran could do nothing the stare with a perplexed and equally timorous expression that shimmered in his worried eyes. "And I am your brother."
The man's words left his lips a moment before the heavy, cast iron pan slammed into the back of his head as Doran's aunt shouted with a fiery, shrill screech, "Let go of my son, you bastard!"
