Death Whisper

Chapter One: Back Stab

A/N: Yes, this is Kryst's past. Depressing, dark, etc. Writing in first person is very strange. Anyways, you may not like how this story because of the choices he makes . . . But this is how it goes. Get over it. Just put yourself in his shoes . . . Every choice is able to be rationalized. There is always an explanation for why someone does what he or she does. You may not agree with Kryst's rationale, but that's too bad. He will do it anyways. Also, I'm trying not to use names in this story for a purpose. It's this effect I'm trying to give it. Later in the story, ((In chapter two)) he explains that what happened in his past isn't important, and that there's no need to dwell on it. Giving the people names would signal that it was important enough for him to remember. Let me know if you get this feeling from the story. Also, I mix a bit of first person with third person in the last paragraph. Yes, I did that on purpose. This is also for effect. It's symbolizing that he no longer feels in control of his actions, and that another part of him is taking control. This is also why most of the second chapter is written in third person. Just let me know if this all gets too confusing. I can't bring myself to change it, because I feel that this is the way it is supposed to be written, and that it would be a crime to write it any differently. Anyways, read on and enjoy!

I wasn't always Kryst, infamous underground fighter for hire. Surprise, surprise. I was common-born, raised in a quaint little village in the middle of nowhere. The only things nearby were the logging camp across the river a mile or two away from our village, and the combat training school a mile away in the opposite direction of the logging camp.
I had a father, a mother, a sister, and quite a few cats and dogs. I was more of a cat person, but my dad bred dogs for hunting and tracking, so I learned to deal. My sister was only one year younger than me, and we were rather close. I looked after her, and she looked after me.
Now, this is all very cute, but it is also rather dull. Things picked up when I reached seven years of age.
"He'll do," the training master said gruffly after a long moment of scowling down at me. Every year, the masters of school came to our village, or ventured to others, in search of young boys - or, in some cases, girls, though it was a rare family to allow their daughter to go into training, and an even rarer master to accept one - who were interested in learning the, quote, un-quote, "art" of combat. It had taken forever to convince my parents to allow me to try for it. I had, after all, learned how to hunt and to track game from my father.
My parents were proud, nonetheless, and we spent out night together happily. I was to leave the next day to begin ten years of training, as the master had explained to my parents. As a going-away present, my sister gave me a special band to tie my hair back with. Yea, I used to have long hair. It was hot, too. Anyways, I would get this band wet, and then put my hair up with it. When it dried, the band would shrink, holding my hair in place. She had embroidered a design on it, "all by herself," she had proclaimed. Of course, it was a pathetic thing; all the stitches were loose and knotted, but I took it anyways. It was from my sister, and she was only six years old. Her embroidery would no doubt improve, but until that time, I would use this hideous hair tie.
And, so, training began. The first thing we learned was that us "pathetic excuses for trainees" wouldn't even go near a sword until our third year of training. Then, we learned that the next ten years would be one big bruise.

Training was hard. For everyone. I always got yelled at; I wasn't strong enough to do a lot of things. I was really scrawny compared most kids. I had skinny limbs, and I was growing vertically more than I was growing anywhere else. At age eight I had already hit five feet; quite a few inches taller than most of my peers. This meant I had to work extra hard. I didn't mind it, really. I'd do anything to improve. However, I was a fast learner once I picked it up. On rare occasions, me and a few other students from my year who were also very good practiced with some of the older boys.
We learned hand-to-hand combat. They drilled into us how to fall and how to block, so when we needed to use them in combat, it would come naturally. We learned to leave trail signs, how to ride and take care of horses, how to use various different kinds of bows, and how to survive in the wilderness. We also took classes to strengthen our minds. Those who could not read were taught to do so, as were those who couldn't write. I could read and write a little, but the masters were appalled by my handwriting. We learned mathematic, battle strategies, and tactics. We were told that when we got older, we would be able to choose more in-depth classes on certain subjects that interested us. The masters told us that only nine of out ten years were spent at the school. In our tenth year, we would be booted out of the school and left to our own devices in the world. If we survived our last year, we would "graduate", be given a title, and a bunch of other legal mumbo-jumbo that nobody really cared about. That was a long ways off, anyways.
We were allowed to go home for a month and a half during the summer, though we were expected to keep practicing. I used that time to catch up with my sister. It seemed to me, at least, that she was growing up ten times faster than she was supposed to, but she was always fun to talk to. She seemed to have a knack with a longbow; my father must have taken her hunting. Apparently she had brought down a rabbit 30 or so feet away. Her embroidery did, indeed, improve. She was always embarrassed to find that I still kept her going away present. As she got older, I always promised that if any of her "love interests" ever broke her heart, I would be more than happy to have a nice, long chat with them.

In our third year, as promised, we began our training with swords; the main weapon of most warriors. I'm not going to say it was easy, because it wasn't. We trained for a few years with all different kinds of swords, learning the uses and the styles of every one. Later, we made the type of sword that we used the best, and finished off our training with that sword only.

In our fifth year we were allowed to pick some of our classes. I was lucky enough to be there the year a former student came back to visit the school. This student had spent his tenth year in the ruthless slums of a city. He had picked up knife fighting very fast. Knife fighting was very interesting. We started off learning the basics, and then we got to spar against partners. This was nothing new. We did it in our other classes. But, knife fighting was very different, we soon found.
"Why are you all staring?" the former student asked calmly. "You look like fish."
No one answered. We were in awe of the fact that our teacher had just taken out his opponent by dodging his attack and landing a hard punch to his kidneys.
"Excuse me for saying so," a student two years ahead of me began. "But, we've never been taught how to fight . . . Well . . . Dirty."
The instructor met the student's eyes calmly. "That's exactly what I thought," he began softly. "But, the world is dirty, and nobody plays fair. I didn't know that. It damn near killed me."
There was a long silence before the instructor smiled and clasped his hands together. "And, now you know . . . Come on! Partner up, let's get going!"

Eventually, the end of our ninth year approached. At the end of our second to last year, we would be taking an exam to prove that we were ready to go on to our tenth year. If we failed . . . Well, nobody wanted to think about that.
Over the years of training, I had made a friend. He was a year older than me, but he was still in my same class. We would fight every once and a while, but it was a friendly rivalry. We had spent some time after supper talking about the upcoming exams. We ended up arguing about the best way to unseat a warrior who was on a horse, but we left each other in good spirits. The news that came the next day blew my life into a million pieces.

My friend was dead, and they were charging me with his murder.
The following events happened in a blur of shock and disbelief. For once in my life, I didn't do it. But, that's not what they said. "The evidence pointed to me," they said. Well, I didn't give a damn what evidence they did or didn't have; I knew it was all completely fake.
I finally had a moment to think. I was sitting on a bench outside a room where someone was talking to everyone else . . . I didn't really care at that moment. I knew - or thought I knew - that my parents would stick with me. And my sister. Yes, my sister would side with me. She was now 15. She would see the truth.
The person who had reported the death of my friend was another year- mate of mine. We never really liked each other, but er never dis-liked each other, either. Was it possible that he had set me up? I didn't think so . . . It's not like he'd be jealous of me or anything; he was an exceptional student as well. I couldn't think of any enemies that might like to blame me for a crime like this.
After a few more minutes, a stony-faced master admitted me to the room I was sitting outside of. I couldn't help but feel relieved. I was going to see my family, and they would know what to do. They would see through these lies.

Yet again, I was met with another surprise. My parents turned their back on me, announcing that they were going to disassociate themselves from me, and that I was no longer their son.
Somehow, I didn't see the tears streaming down my mother's cheeks.
I looked to my sister. Surely she didn't believe this madness.
She stared at me for a moment, her eyes wide. She turned away and followed my mother and father out.
Something inside me clicked, and another part of me began to emerge; and he started planning.
Well, if he were going to clear his - and my - name, he would just have to find the person who had framed me and kill him. Even if that meant he had to kill everyone. They had turned their back on me, and he was going to show them that those who are back-stabbed, stab back.

A/N: So, what do you think so far? Suspenseful, eh? Wow . . . This is like, three times as long as a normal Greava chapter! XD Well, this is what happens when you appoint Kryst to the position of "sub-conscious". I'll try to have the next chapter up soon!