Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ A World of Realizations ❯ 1. ( Chapter 1 )

    It is like thunder. The rumbling, the raucous noise that bounces from wall to wall, permeating the very spirit of a person. The shoulder to shoulder motions of people wandering down along the hallway in search of the next venture on the neverending list of subjects to attend to. The noise of their voices as they converse freely among themselves. All kinds of emotions come along with it, too-- dread, excitement, whatever you can name.

    Or that’s how I always saw it, anyways. I keep myself nestled up in one of those ornate looking windows as I watch person to person pass by in the long halls of Attenros’ own premiere academy, Umber.

    Why they decided to call it a color that is more associated with dirt is absolutely beyond me, but I have never been one to sit and question the thought process behind the Council’s ideas. Maybe it has to do with the fact that Umber Academy has some kind of biting edge to it. It certainly sounds mysterious and unique if you do not think about it too hard.

    Unfortunately, I have been granted the ability to think about things a little bit too long. It is bothersome, but what can you do, truly?

    “Mr. Rowan, what have you been told about tucking away in the windows? You will damage them-- or stars above forbid-- yourself!”

    There it is. The voice of one of the many teachers among the school, no doubt sent my way by some of the other people that feel my every move should be observed, or even criticized. They want to say that it is to keep me safe because I am unskilled in any schools of magic, and hell, I even look a bit sickly because of the gray scales that clutter my skin, or maybe even the eyepatch that sits over my left eye.

    “Don’t you have other kids to attend to?” I can feel the ooze of malcontent that clings to my voice. I really did not mean for it to come out like that, but here we are.

    “You already know the reason why the staff keeps their eyes on you, Mr. Rowan. It is basically our heads on a pike in front of the castle if something happens to you.”

    Oh, right. Dear old Mom and Dad. King Arthur Rowan and Queen Beihdra. “...I think you should worry more about my sister.” 

    The exasperation only grows, this time stemming from the teacher’s point of view. I cannot blame him, though. I should be better to them, they are only doing their jobs, but… It feels terrible being treated like you will break like glass when you feel anything but fragile.

    The voice from below only comes softer, though: “Nik. Come on. Just make it easy on me. It has been a long day.” He calls, a hand running through dark strands of hair to only show forth that continued exasperation. It is unbelievable that he’d namedrop like that, though. It must be a rough day with the other magically volatile students, then.

    That’s why I opt to make it somewhat ‘easier’ on him, sliding to the edge of the fancy window’s sill. One leg comes along, then the other, and with a heave, I slide down to the ground. There’s a rustle of sound as my feet connect, cloak and bag aflutter in the air as I try to keep myself steady. Yes, my knees wobble a bit and I definitely show just how structurally ‘unsound’ I am for a few beats of the heart, but I quickly resume my position of nothing being amiss.

    “Thank you,” the relief in his voice is apparent. Honestly, though, I cannot help but feel a bit annoyed by it. If only because it feels like the same song and dance that happens every other day, and if I dance well enough, the staff gets praise from my parents.

    “Whatever.”

    “Your attitude is an issue, Mr. Rowan.”

    “Really now? You grow to have some attitude issues when you’re basically the weakest in a gaggle of people who effortlessly swing swords around or fling fireballs around for fun, Mr. Perys.”

    Maybe I could go a little easier on the guy, but at this point, it is all just for the sake of funding.

    “Maybe your attitude is why you’ve been in two fights since the beginning of the school year.” The dark haired man just gives that piercing gaze like it is supposed to put me in my place, but there is a moment where it seems like a thought ignites in his head. “...speaking of, how has that broken hand been treating you?”

    It is almost like it is meant to put me in my place by reminding me of my frailty. The teachers and tutors here like to remind me that I am a statistical anomaly, that I should be seen as a failure and shipped off elsewhere so that the blight of my so-called failures could be scrubbed clean from Rowan history.

    I almost open my mouth to retort with this in mind, but the sounds of a very audible clash and rubble clattering scrub the retaliation right off of the tip of my tongue as my attention snaps in the direction of where the commotion is coming from.