On the fifteenth trial of Ymiden during the 718th arc...
The smelling salts were fetched from the bedroom, no further questions asked. Doran knew well when was the time to speak and when was the time to do as he was told when it came to his Aunt Lisette - and he kept his lips sealed tight as he handed the little glass bottle over to the expectantly waiting hand. She had not once mentioned hailing the Knights, nor had she seemed inclined to do much beyond binding the chestnut haired man. There was no doubt she had tried to paint the man a common burglar, though why was yet unclear, and she clearly wanted to ask him some questions. The entire string of events reminded Doran of a particularly absurd novel he'd read when he was younger: one of lost siblings, twisted political plots, and eventually, death.
He hoped the endings, at least, were different.
There was a cough from the floor a few trills after Lisette had knelt down to administer the potently scented, little glass bottle's contents beneath Ziemowit's nose. Doran had been given the responsibility of knocking the other young man back into the oblivion of unconsciousness should he prove to be a thread once more. The handle of the frying pad felt slick in his nervous hands, but his Aunt Lisette was in a mood - one in which saying "no" would likely land him tied up next to his self-proclaimed sibling. So he waited, curious to hear it was she wanted to discuss with him - or interrogate out of him; either or.
Still groggy, Ziemowit groaned as he, no doubt, felt the swelling bump on the back of his head, paired with the bruises he'd received from his fight with Doran. It took an entire two trills before he realised he'd been bound, naturally beginning to struggle. Lisette, her voice loud an commanding, spat down at him. "Stop squirming like the worm you are, or I'll have you back out into blackness faster than I can snap my fingers." Doran had hear her particular choice of tone many, many times before, and things had never ended well for him. As she glanced toward him, positioned as he was behind the man where he was unable to see him, he offered his aunt a timorous nod of his head. Now that the not-burglar had been subdued, he couldn't help but feel a bit guilty at the thought of having to hit him with the heavy kitchenware that pulled at his shoulders with his weight. It seemed a little excessive.
The man continued to struggle, a growing panic in his eyes as he stared up at the woman with a frantic defiance. "Bitch." He received a kick in the ribs, sharp and without hesitation from the thin, elegant woman. Doran could hear the air whistle out of his lungs and through the small gaps of his teeth before the man fell into a fit of hoarse coughs. Lisette didn't seem to mind.
"Speak out of turn again, little worm, and the next one will be lower." Her gray eyes glinted with an assurance she would follow through with her threats. There was nothing malicious about her - mostly, she seemed angry; incredibly so. The quality of her voice, though strong and almost brazen, had the slightest quiver, and while she put on a show of browbeating her captive, there was no sense that she enjoyed what it was she was doing. "Are you really Emil Wrona's son?" Her dubiety was apparent in both the raised brow of her expression and impatient meter of her words.
Doran had heard the name before - not recognising it when paired with Ziemowit's - passed around the markets. Though the specifics of the man weren't well known to him, he was a trader of relatively high standing - or at least high quality. What he had to do with anything he could only guess. It was apparent his mother had some idea - or rather quite a few ideas -, and his curiosity seemed only to grow with the passing of each, apprehensive trill.
Ziemowit didn't respond right away. He continued to push against his bonds, breath heavy; his furiously burning gaze bore into Lisette's face with a raging violence. As if worried he might find a way to wriggle free of the cords that bound him, she took a step forward and, as menacingly as her wounded confidence could muster, muttered, "Answer me."
He spat, a small wad of his saliva landing squarely on her foot, which she recalled immediately, a reflexive expression of disgust on her face. Licking his lips, Ziemowit drew a slow breath in through his nose, eyes squeezing shut, before he finally gave his reply, though where before his voice had been low and rolling, now there was a panicked waver. "I am." There was pride in his voice - but it was mixed with a mounting terror, like a child afraid of the dark. Doran frowned, confused by the man's seemingly drastic shift in character. Though he could only see half of the man's face from where he stood, it was not difficult to tell the man was in a growing state of distress - one that seemed to only increase in intensity as his consciousness grew stronger.
A frustrated sigh rushed from Lisette's flared nostrils. "Well fek." Doran's eyes widened in astonishment. He'd never once heard the woman before him curse. She winced at his expression, but seemed to decide to press on and ignore the slip of her tongue, instead steadily glowering down at the other man. "Why did he send you? After all these arcs?" There was something almost pleading in the woman's overtly exasperated tone. Uncertain though he was, Doran imagined he might have heard a hint of fear as well. "Why... now?"
This time Ziemowit answered without hesitation. "For your son. For my brother." His voice had dropped to a growl, and his movements had begun to grow frantic once more, little grunts of efforts escaping from him.
Again, the man claimed relation to Doran and, slowly, he began to piece everything together. The trader, Emil Wrona, was his father. Through whatever events still unrevealed, his mother had conceived him and presumably fled - back to Venora. In such a scenario, Emil certainly seemed the villain; but Doran couldn't decide what that made Ziemowit. Was he an enemy? An ally? The man Doran might have been had his mother not whisked him away?
Lisette, who had no difficulty recalling the details of her history with the boys' father, glared down at him, her anger swelling up once more and drowning out the creeping hesitation that had begun to claw its way up and over her features. "And what do you both - stop squirming - want with him?" Again, where she normally would have denied ever having a son, it now sounded as though it were an unarguable - though perhaps equally unimportant - fact. Doran listened carefully, his grip on the pan growing tighter and tighter out of anticipation for what might be said next, the idea of ever using the makeshift weapon never once popping into his mind.
"To p-protect him!" There was no indication in the man's voice that he were lying. If anything, the growling shout was comparable to a fatherly guardian - though one cornered and afraid. It was startling in how genuine it sounded, and both Doran and Lisette seemed quite taken aback: eyes wide and uncomprehending.
Doran was the first to recover, his quiet, airy voice aflame with concern. "Protect me? Protect me from what?" Had the man not hesitated, he would have killed him long before he might have ever realised Doran was the one he'd been sent to guard from... the Seven only knew what. Well, the Seven and Ziemowit.
"Not what, b-but who." The man was visibly sweating; his pupils had begun to dilate as he'd turned over to stare up at Doran, his expression almost pleading. "Please-"
Impatiently interrupting whatever supplication Ziemowit sought to ask of Doran, Lisette snapped a curt, "Well then, who?" Her arms had crossed, finger tapping against the smooth skin of her bicep. She didn't appear to enjoy being snubbed by the young Wrona, but there was far more restless worry in her voice than anything else.
Ziemowit continued to stare up at Doran, his familiar eyes flickering with a mix of resentment and shame beneath his ever mounting panic."I... I don't know!" He then broke his gaze he'd held with Doran, groaning furiously against his bonds. "Please just-"
Lisette once more interrupted him, numb to the man's apparent suffering. "You don't know? How in the name of the Seven are you supposed to protect him if you don't even know who you're protecting him from?" The exasperation in her voice pushed her volume into a half shout.
There was a sharp, cold flash of defiance in Ziemowit's eyes for the briefest of moments before his wide shoulders strained with all his might against his bonds, and he let out an embittered shout. "I don't know!" Near flailing agains the floor, he locked gazes with Doran once more, his eyes wild and entirely frightened, tears shimmering at the corners of his eyes, trailing down his cheek and pooling in the space between his face and bridge of his nose. "Please j-just untie me!"
It was then he finally realised where he'd seen those same eyes before. He had seen them so often in shopfronts and ponds, spoons and silver kettles, mirrors and in the reflection of people's stares: they were his eyes. Blinking down at the man, Doran hesitated for only a moment before knelt down and began to do as he was asked.
Lisette let out her own frantic, "What do you think you're doing?!" But Doran shook his head as he undid the first of several knots, Ziemowit, the man who shared his eyes, now sobbing in relief as he felt the bonds begin to loosen.
"He's scared; he won't be able to tell us anything like this." It could have been a trap - and in fact, it would have proven quite effective. Yet, he knew his own eyes; he knew what it was that Ziemowit was feeling, the overwhelming fear and despair. The exact same desperate gleam of green had been what stared back at him the first night he'd stood alone in his empty home. He refused to subject anyone to the same, even if had only bits ago tried to kill him. After all, they weren't completely defenseless, as Lisette had hurried over to fetch the frying pan from where Doran had left it on the ground. "You try to run, and it won't end well." Though his voice was soft, his words were sharp, and Ziemowit nodded, his panicked sobs quieting as the last of the knots was finally removed.
"Thank you... brother."
The smelling salts were fetched from the bedroom, no further questions asked. Doran knew well when was the time to speak and when was the time to do as he was told when it came to his Aunt Lisette - and he kept his lips sealed tight as he handed the little glass bottle over to the expectantly waiting hand. She had not once mentioned hailing the Knights, nor had she seemed inclined to do much beyond binding the chestnut haired man. There was no doubt she had tried to paint the man a common burglar, though why was yet unclear, and she clearly wanted to ask him some questions. The entire string of events reminded Doran of a particularly absurd novel he'd read when he was younger: one of lost siblings, twisted political plots, and eventually, death.
He hoped the endings, at least, were different.
There was a cough from the floor a few trills after Lisette had knelt down to administer the potently scented, little glass bottle's contents beneath Ziemowit's nose. Doran had been given the responsibility of knocking the other young man back into the oblivion of unconsciousness should he prove to be a thread once more. The handle of the frying pad felt slick in his nervous hands, but his Aunt Lisette was in a mood - one in which saying "no" would likely land him tied up next to his self-proclaimed sibling. So he waited, curious to hear it was she wanted to discuss with him - or interrogate out of him; either or.
Still groggy, Ziemowit groaned as he, no doubt, felt the swelling bump on the back of his head, paired with the bruises he'd received from his fight with Doran. It took an entire two trills before he realised he'd been bound, naturally beginning to struggle. Lisette, her voice loud an commanding, spat down at him. "Stop squirming like the worm you are, or I'll have you back out into blackness faster than I can snap my fingers." Doran had hear her particular choice of tone many, many times before, and things had never ended well for him. As she glanced toward him, positioned as he was behind the man where he was unable to see him, he offered his aunt a timorous nod of his head. Now that the not-burglar had been subdued, he couldn't help but feel a bit guilty at the thought of having to hit him with the heavy kitchenware that pulled at his shoulders with his weight. It seemed a little excessive.
The man continued to struggle, a growing panic in his eyes as he stared up at the woman with a frantic defiance. "Bitch." He received a kick in the ribs, sharp and without hesitation from the thin, elegant woman. Doran could hear the air whistle out of his lungs and through the small gaps of his teeth before the man fell into a fit of hoarse coughs. Lisette didn't seem to mind.
"Speak out of turn again, little worm, and the next one will be lower." Her gray eyes glinted with an assurance she would follow through with her threats. There was nothing malicious about her - mostly, she seemed angry; incredibly so. The quality of her voice, though strong and almost brazen, had the slightest quiver, and while she put on a show of browbeating her captive, there was no sense that she enjoyed what it was she was doing. "Are you really Emil Wrona's son?" Her dubiety was apparent in both the raised brow of her expression and impatient meter of her words.
Doran had heard the name before - not recognising it when paired with Ziemowit's - passed around the markets. Though the specifics of the man weren't well known to him, he was a trader of relatively high standing - or at least high quality. What he had to do with anything he could only guess. It was apparent his mother had some idea - or rather quite a few ideas -, and his curiosity seemed only to grow with the passing of each, apprehensive trill.
Ziemowit didn't respond right away. He continued to push against his bonds, breath heavy; his furiously burning gaze bore into Lisette's face with a raging violence. As if worried he might find a way to wriggle free of the cords that bound him, she took a step forward and, as menacingly as her wounded confidence could muster, muttered, "Answer me."
He spat, a small wad of his saliva landing squarely on her foot, which she recalled immediately, a reflexive expression of disgust on her face. Licking his lips, Ziemowit drew a slow breath in through his nose, eyes squeezing shut, before he finally gave his reply, though where before his voice had been low and rolling, now there was a panicked waver. "I am." There was pride in his voice - but it was mixed with a mounting terror, like a child afraid of the dark. Doran frowned, confused by the man's seemingly drastic shift in character. Though he could only see half of the man's face from where he stood, it was not difficult to tell the man was in a growing state of distress - one that seemed to only increase in intensity as his consciousness grew stronger.
A frustrated sigh rushed from Lisette's flared nostrils. "Well fek." Doran's eyes widened in astonishment. He'd never once heard the woman before him curse. She winced at his expression, but seemed to decide to press on and ignore the slip of her tongue, instead steadily glowering down at the other man. "Why did he send you? After all these arcs?" There was something almost pleading in the woman's overtly exasperated tone. Uncertain though he was, Doran imagined he might have heard a hint of fear as well. "Why... now?"
This time Ziemowit answered without hesitation. "For your son. For my brother." His voice had dropped to a growl, and his movements had begun to grow frantic once more, little grunts of efforts escaping from him.
Again, the man claimed relation to Doran and, slowly, he began to piece everything together. The trader, Emil Wrona, was his father. Through whatever events still unrevealed, his mother had conceived him and presumably fled - back to Venora. In such a scenario, Emil certainly seemed the villain; but Doran couldn't decide what that made Ziemowit. Was he an enemy? An ally? The man Doran might have been had his mother not whisked him away?
Lisette, who had no difficulty recalling the details of her history with the boys' father, glared down at him, her anger swelling up once more and drowning out the creeping hesitation that had begun to claw its way up and over her features. "And what do you both - stop squirming - want with him?" Again, where she normally would have denied ever having a son, it now sounded as though it were an unarguable - though perhaps equally unimportant - fact. Doran listened carefully, his grip on the pan growing tighter and tighter out of anticipation for what might be said next, the idea of ever using the makeshift weapon never once popping into his mind.
"To p-protect him!" There was no indication in the man's voice that he were lying. If anything, the growling shout was comparable to a fatherly guardian - though one cornered and afraid. It was startling in how genuine it sounded, and both Doran and Lisette seemed quite taken aback: eyes wide and uncomprehending.
Doran was the first to recover, his quiet, airy voice aflame with concern. "Protect me? Protect me from what?" Had the man not hesitated, he would have killed him long before he might have ever realised Doran was the one he'd been sent to guard from... the Seven only knew what. Well, the Seven and Ziemowit.
"Not what, b-but who." The man was visibly sweating; his pupils had begun to dilate as he'd turned over to stare up at Doran, his expression almost pleading. "Please-"
Impatiently interrupting whatever supplication Ziemowit sought to ask of Doran, Lisette snapped a curt, "Well then, who?" Her arms had crossed, finger tapping against the smooth skin of her bicep. She didn't appear to enjoy being snubbed by the young Wrona, but there was far more restless worry in her voice than anything else.
Ziemowit continued to stare up at Doran, his familiar eyes flickering with a mix of resentment and shame beneath his ever mounting panic."I... I don't know!" He then broke his gaze he'd held with Doran, groaning furiously against his bonds. "Please just-"
Lisette once more interrupted him, numb to the man's apparent suffering. "You don't know? How in the name of the Seven are you supposed to protect him if you don't even know who you're protecting him from?" The exasperation in her voice pushed her volume into a half shout.
There was a sharp, cold flash of defiance in Ziemowit's eyes for the briefest of moments before his wide shoulders strained with all his might against his bonds, and he let out an embittered shout. "I don't know!" Near flailing agains the floor, he locked gazes with Doran once more, his eyes wild and entirely frightened, tears shimmering at the corners of his eyes, trailing down his cheek and pooling in the space between his face and bridge of his nose. "Please j-just untie me!"
It was then he finally realised where he'd seen those same eyes before. He had seen them so often in shopfronts and ponds, spoons and silver kettles, mirrors and in the reflection of people's stares: they were his eyes. Blinking down at the man, Doran hesitated for only a moment before knelt down and began to do as he was asked.
Lisette let out her own frantic, "What do you think you're doing?!" But Doran shook his head as he undid the first of several knots, Ziemowit, the man who shared his eyes, now sobbing in relief as he felt the bonds begin to loosen.
"He's scared; he won't be able to tell us anything like this." It could have been a trap - and in fact, it would have proven quite effective. Yet, he knew his own eyes; he knew what it was that Ziemowit was feeling, the overwhelming fear and despair. The exact same desperate gleam of green had been what stared back at him the first night he'd stood alone in his empty home. He refused to subject anyone to the same, even if had only bits ago tried to kill him. After all, they weren't completely defenseless, as Lisette had hurried over to fetch the frying pan from where Doran had left it on the ground. "You try to run, and it won't end well." Though his voice was soft, his words were sharp, and Ziemowit nodded, his panicked sobs quieting as the last of the knots was finally removed.
"Thank you... brother."
