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Humpty Dumpty


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#1 Guest_Dadri_*

Posted 10 October 2004 - 06:37 PM

Humpty dumpty ran off a wall. Humpty dumpty had a great fall. All the Kings horses and all the kings men refused to put humpty dumpty back together again. A bad lesson for a child. I wonder if anyone will recognize this boy... I finally got him a name.

I actually had this one in mind for a while but never had a reason to write it down.



The dawn light shone like a candle in the darkness when young Jytherik rolled out of bed with an excited smile. He shed his silk night shirt on the black stone floor, in between two fluffy rugs. He seized the silk lined satin clothes his nanny had laid out for him. By the time his nanny came in to retrieve his nightshirt, he was already lacing up his soft suede boots while humming. He had not had a particular restful night, but the day looked bright and promising.

“Well, aren’t you in a good mood, my little princelet?” His nanny giggled. She curled a bit of her black hair in her finger and brushed it back. His nanny was a well meaning woman who shifted from place to place in a swirl of skirts. She handed him the brush, holding the bristles until he took the handle. Then she opened the golden velvet curtains, allowing the soft yellow light to brighten the gold gilt scale pattern in the enameled green walls.

“Indeed!” He chirped, pulling the brush through his young curls a couple of times to please her. He nearly put down the brush, but then remembered that Mirtour would not stand for half combed hair. He continued brushing until his hair was flat.

“Well, glad to hear it!” She said. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you humming!” She laughed. Then she bounced off down the hall with his clothes.

Jytherik put the brush down. His teacher would be so proud of him. For as long as he could remember, Mirtour had disciplined him with magic, something called mental illusion. Somehow, it caused pain without harming the body. Mirtour had told him that bruises proved his weakness. Mirtour would spare Jytherik the embarrassment of bruises.

Last night, Prince Jytherik had figured the magic out. He had terrified and killed a stray carenzi just to prove it worked. He hadn’t meant to kill it, just to test the magic, but clearly mental illusion was only meant for people. People usually killed stray carenzi anyway because they could turn feral and hurt children… But besides accidentally killing an animal no one would miss anyway, he was excited. Nobody had taught him the magic, he had learned it all by himself, and this made him feel warm and proud. He would have to remember not to smile when Mirtour came, or Mirtour might catch on to his little joke.

Mirtour’s typical reaction to a spider was to gently pick it up from himself or the wall, outstretch his hand so the spider crawled off and skittered across the floor, and then Mirtour would quite suddenly and firmly crush it with his shoe. Jytherik had seen the man do this at least a dozen times.

The plan was simple. Jytherik would “create” a spider on Mirtour’s shirt. Mirtour would reach out to pick it up and it would stay there, walking up his shirt until Mirtour realized it was just his pupil’s attempt to use magic.

Now that the prince could stand up straight, use respectful terms, use the proper utensils at dinner and learn the basics of military strategy, Mirtour’s contempt for him seemed to be melting. Jytherik wanted to impress his master; he wanted Mirtour to look down at him with a complete absence of contempt, perhaps enough amusement to cause a smile.

While waiting for Mirtour to arrive, the young prince looked out the very high tower window down at the streets below. Tiny people churned in the streets. He wondered who those people were, and what they did. A few fantasies about being someone other than a prince presented themselves. He imagined the peasants down there selling apples. He wondered what it would be like to be a keeper of livestock. He imagined they could roam the land, instead of being trapped inside on a beautiful day like this. He thought of being one of those merchants tricking people into buying trinkets. He entertained the notion of being a thief slipping through that thronging crowd, stealing the merchant purses from under their noses. He thought about being a soldier down there and catching such a thief! He giggled to himself. He thought of what he would be when he grew up, a tall leader of armies, and how those soldiers would do whatever he said. He’d send them to get him candy, and they would.

The door opened swiftly, and Mirtour stepped in, holding two old books and a Mahogany box of enchanted toy soldiers. Mirtour stood two and a half times taller than his pupil, and seemed as burly as any of his soldiers though he had wrinkles on all his skin, including his muscles. Mirtour’s eyes and hair were nearly black, but light betrayed them as shadow gray. Shadows never got truly black in the well lit kingdom, only half gray.

“How are you this morning, Prince Jytherik?” Mirtour asked, frowning only lightly.

The boy flattened his smile to a respectable level, lest he be punished. “I am doing well, Master.” He said crisply, as was expected. It had taken him a long time to figure out the correct crisp tone, if he was too flat, he was being ‘sarcastic’ and too eager, and he was ‘barking’ and too much feeling and he was ‘desperate’. All of these tones were punishable.

“Very good.” Mirtour’s dark eyes half closed, regarding him. Did he know? Jytherik could never be sure what Mirtour knew and what he did not. A safe bet was he knew everything. Half lids regarding him was always a bad sign, however. “I overheard your keeper talking to your brother’s keeper.” The word ‘nanny’ was not in Mirtour’s vocabulary, and it was one he refused to learn. “It seems you have been humming…is that true?”

Jytherik felt his eyes widen. There would be no getting out of punishment today. If he said no, well, lying was punished twice as hard. If he said yes… He took a deep breath. “You’ve never told me not to hum.” Jytherik said. It was the truth, Mirtour had told him not to smile, giggle, smirk, cry, whine, moan or scream. Humming had never been expressly mentioned.

“Were you not listening when I explained to you that armies are as difficult to control as rivers, that you have to control all sides of them and leave only one way out? To show any emotion to them is to betray weakness, something they can exploit to their own advantage? Armies need strict discipline, and none have to be more disciplined than their rulers. They need to have no doubt in their minds that your orders are to be followed, young prince Jytherik.” He said sharply.

Punishment followed. As many times before, overwhelming pain squeezed his body, and Mirtour did not stop the punishment until the boy stopped screaming, crying or whimpering. Unlike any other time, his nanny came in and found the boy on the floor in agony.

“Why is he on the floor? Is he having a seizure?” She panicked. “Why are you just standing there, Mirtour? Jythe needs help!” She scooped up thick soft blanket and tried to scoop him up.

“Leave us.” Mirtour growled. She looked at Mirtour, and then at Jytherik. Mirtour would punish him longer because of his irritation with her, Jytherik knew. Mirtour hated his nanny, and Jytherik had never figured out why. Recognition blazed in her eyes.

“You can’t do this to him!! He’s only a boy!! Barely past a toddler, why are you doing this to him? Who taught you that spell?!” She demanded. “Isn’t that spell illegal against prisons of war? Why are you using it on a prince!?”

Mirtour smiled darkly, half lidded eyes regarded her. Was Mirtour about to punish his nanny? She couldn’t take it, Jytherik knew, if she was punished, she would never stop crying. “Listen, girl, this boy has a responsibility far greater than anything you can comprehend. His parents conscripted me to teach him the discipline to lead the armies. Harafaen is to sit on the throne, a symbol to the masses; the smiling face of rule. No one will lay a hand on that boy to teach him anything. They are afraid the future king will bear them ill will. Brendsidor is to control the lords and merchants with smooth words and flattery. He is also being deprived of much needed discipline. Jytherik has the most important job of all, because if the peasants revolt and he still has charge of the armies, the kingdom will not fall. If the peasants, the lords and the merchants are all peaceful and only the army rebels, no one can save this kingdom.” He snapped. Jytherik lay there, still and quiet, Mirtour had stopped the pain, finally, but he could resume at any time. “I will not allow him to run wild and undisciplined as the other two. An army will rip him apart if he does. They expect firm leadership. They expect to know the rules will be enforced.”

“Discipline is fine.” His nanny snapped, raising her voice for one of the few occasions he had ever heard her do so to an adult. “This is not discipline, this is torture.” She said. “Mental illusion is torture!” She said. “Now, tell me, who did he kill to warrant such disciplinary action?” Her eyes blazed.

A slight sneer took over his upper lip as he looked at her. Jytherik tried to will her out of the room, tried to will her to run for her life. She didn’t. “And what are you going to do about it, little girl? I’m a thousand years your senior. You may recognize a spell, but you know very well that if I know that spell, I know others.” He said, and his eyes flickered. Her eyes widened. She tried to run. Jytherik never knew what she was trying to do, because she only got three steps before she stood still, somehow bound in the spot. Jytherik felt confused. He could taste the magic, a sharp metallic bite in his mouth.

“No!” She said. “You can’t do this, don’t you think they’ll wonder where their son’s nanny went?” She cried.

“Oh, you’ll be there, alright.” He said. The smile that crept up his face was calculated to frighten. He started chanting. The room stilled. The furniture creaked. The window glistened suddenly. The words made no sense, and were repeated in echoes around the room, it sounded as though Mirtour were one of a crowd of people chanting this, not the only one. The gray shadows in the room thickened into a blackness. The words began to turn to smoke hovering in front of Mirtour. Jytherik felt dizzied by the words, they seemed to be throbbing in his mind. Something in him wanted to chant too, but he lay there instead, watching. Tears ran down his nanny’s face and she continued to struggle to move, but was held firmly. Smoke gathered around her, slithering around her ankles, and flickering around her hair, and tightening like a blanket being wound around her. She continued trembling and crying until the smoke tightened and disappeared into her head and body. Her eyes fell open, her body still. She stood there still, like a doll for a moment, then walked away with a dazed expression on her face. Mirtour stopped the chant.

That settled, Mirtour settled his eyes on Jytherik. Mirtour caught the expression, the puzzled horrified expression, and the punishment for that expression seemed to go on forever.

* * *

Overall, it had been a fun day, Jytherik decided. It had started bad, but then they had played soldiers, and he had executed a few maneuvers that had caused Mirtour to pause and give him an approving look. Mirtour had even called him a clever boy at one point. His nanny had brought in lunch like nothing had ever happened, and skipped back down the hall.

Mirtour had finally let him look at those books, after having brought them to this room every day since the boy could speak and resolutely not letting him open them until today. These were written accounts of battles, and various techniques from famous generals were written down and explained. Mirtour had been amused that Jytherik could read so fast and greedily. For some reason, Mirtour had expected that he would need large print and pictures in his books. Jytherik would show Mirtour that he was not just a weak child as everyone seemed to think he was. Sure, skin contact hurt, but he had other skills. If Mirtour was using magic on him that was illegal to use against prisoners of war, that just meant that he was a tough boy and he would grow up to be a tough general. The light sank behind the walls of the castle below. The sky still glowed golden.

It was time. If Jytherik did not do it now, he would have to wait until tomorrow. He turned to Mirtour. He could not stop a little smile from forming.

“Master,” He said quickly, trying to hurry before Mirtour caught him. “You have a spider on your shirt.” He imagined a small furry spider on Mirtour’s crisp white shirt. He directed the imagination into Mirtour’s mind. Mirtour’s expression went blank, then degenerated into terror. His eyes widened. His frown fell open in shock and his face drained of color.

“Spiders!!” Mirtour screamed, and ran his arms all up and down his body frantically. This was the moment Jytherik realized that it had gone totally wrong. He had tried for one small spider, and hadn’t expected Mirtour to really believe there was a spider involved. He could feel his eyes drying out.

“Master, it’s not real!” He said desperately.

Mirtour did not listen; he grabbed handfuls of his clothing and ripped them off desperately, throwing them and screaming. He let out a final scream and ran, jumping through the glass out the window. Mirtour screamed about the giant spiders all the way down. Jytherik looked out the window at the horrible scene on the far roads below. Somehow he had wanted Mirtour to be looking back up at him, perhaps angrily, but standing upright. Instead he saw the smear of red meat and glittering shards of glass that had once been his teacher and his window respectively. This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t right. He ran wailing to his nanny. She wrapped him in a soft blanket and tried to consol him, but she could not put Mirtour back together. So he had gone to the butler, who also did nothing. He went to the cook, to the steward, and finally to the priestesses of the Blood Queen. The royal priestess Sohranhi sat the young prince down at a velvet padded bench.

It seemed an age before the old woman opened her mouth, after he had gaspingly confessed. “Young man, I know this is difficult for you to understand, but death is part of the Blood Queen’s plan.” She said. “It was Mirtour’s time, and even if you had no hand in it, he would have died naturally.” She said.

“But! I need Mirtour!” He wailed again. “Who will teach me to control armies? Who will teach me discipline?” He bawled. “I need Mirtour! I didn’t mean it! Why did that happen? I only imagined one spider and it was small!! It shouldn’t have been big in his mind, it shouldn’t have been!”

“Child, look me in the eye.” She said. He obeyed. Her eyes were large and faded to a soft gray. Somehow they were as iron cold as any young sharp black eyes could be, perhaps more. He found that her gaze froze him in place. He felt tendrils around him circling him gently. His breathing slowed to sleeping breath. She was not looking at him, she was looking into him. Was she trying to determine his truthfulness? Was she going to punish him? He knew he should be punished and he waited. She blinked and he felt the hold loosen, like clothes falling from his body. “I am truly sorry for your loss, young prince, I can see that you truly loved your teacher and did not mean for such a thing to happen, but I cannot defy the Blood Queen and her will is to keep his soul.” She said. No additional arguing worked with her, so he set out for his last chance.

In desperation, he appealed to the highest power in the kingdom, his parents. Surely, they would do what was right. He needed to be punished and his teacher needed to be alive again. He straightened up, took a bath, put on his best clothes and waited in the court for them. It took thirty minutes, and he summoned every bit of courage. Perhaps the reason no adults would take him seriously was that he was not behaving himself. Mirtour had expressly forbidden him to cry, and here he was crying and whining and acting exactly the way he was taught not to. When he was finally allowed in to be seen by his parents, he took a deep breath and spoke clearly, as crisply and emotionlessly as he had been trained to, explained every detail and appealed to them to raise his teacher and punish him however they must. All the best wording did not work. They apologized to him, but they would not raise Mirtour, it would be too expensive a procedure, he had been too old and would have died soon anyway. No amount of pleading worked. They were not concerned with what was right, they were concerned with wasting spells, and that meant they thought nothing of Mirtour. They told him they would get him a new teacher. Jytherik stood there, eyebrows knitted. It was as if he had torn a towel and his nanny would get him a new one…

#2 Guest_Bri_*

Posted 11 October 2004 - 02:14 AM

Very nice, and yes...when all was said and done, casualties were usually shrugged off by the nobility.

Of course, not a whole lot has changed in the intervening years I guess...




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