Hi! It's Breeze. I've decided to just jump in and upload the prologue of one of my oldest stories, called [as you can see] Venisa's Warrior. This was made a while ago, after I had finished reading The Book Thief. I picked up the writing style a bit.
I hope you enjoy it!
Blonde hair speckled with red splats of blood. Ragged breaths that were short lived, falling to the ground dead. Tattered clothes that were barely recognizable. A boy. A boy in chains. Chained to the chair, with a fresh scar dripping down his cheek, onto his neck. A smile spreading across his face. Still smiling, even though a tall man loomed over him.
"Tell me," the man kept saying. He said it, every day he said it. It would vary in volume. Sometimes, it would be a soft whisper, with a new confidence behind it. Other times, it would be raised as the patience drained out. Either way, whether the voice was booming or barely above a whisper, the boy would give his same smile. Blood would trickle down from his brow. It would stain his face as it dripped down, all the way to his clothes, turning them a deeper scarlet.
"When you're dead," he said, every time. "Then I'll tell you."
On the good days, when the man had new confidence and patience, he would chuckle. The boy wouldn't admit it, but every time the chuckle rang, it sent a slight shiver down his spine. How he hated that chuckle. It was about as bad as the man himself. After the chuckle finally escaped the man's lips, he stooped down and looked in the rough brown eyes of the boy. The boy would keep his patient stare, flinching inwardly at the foul breath that escaped from the man's lips every few seconds. It smelled strongly of greed. Greed for power, greed for wealth and fame. It rode on his breath like a hawk, riding and searching for prey.
The man would mimic the boy's smile; with sickeningly white teeth that gleamed abnormally in the dim light. His eyes would be almost as bright as his smile, and they would shine as if he new an inside joke. Like a fox who was about to enjoy a tasty meal of rabbit.
The smile would be so broad, the eyes so bright. They would make the boy uncomfortable. His hands would get cold and clammy, and on some occasions they would twitch. Yes, the boy would certainly be uncomfortable on those days.
Then came the voice. Oh, that voice. It would come as a soft, low murmur, barely audible. On those days, the boy's ears hurt from straining them in order to hear the man's soft voice. The words were slowly pulled out of the man's mouth, a small pile collecting on the floor. Four words. A big impact.
"I will never die."
The boy was terrified. He didn't show it, but he was terrified. For a month, he had sat in the same dark room, chained to the same chair. In the presence of the same man. The man who owned the dark, sleek sword that had taken the life away from many people. For the same quest of power that landed the boy in his chair. In chains.
This four-worded statement would always, always, strike a cold fear into the boy, deep in his chest. But he wouldn't show it. Oh, no, definitely not. He would not give this man that satisfaction. His eyes, a rough, hardened brown that was once soft, did not show his fear. Not a flicker, the boy made sure of that. He knew it would give the man a heightened sense of confidence. A confidence that would escalate, higher and higher, until the worst form of torture was dished out. Handed to the boy with whatever contraption the man had.
So the boy kept his eyes empty of his inside fear. He knew that under certain trinkets of torture he would crack. Confessions would spill across the floor. A small stream would form, carrying all the secrets held inside. The man would fish them out, however slippery they were. He would know. He would know about the friends and family back in the familiar old village. He would know about the dusty old piece of parchment, neatly tucked away in the ancient library. He would know the secret. The secret that they had tried so hard to keep it just that, a secret.
So instead of showing fear in his eyes, the boy carelessly let slip a slight arrogance. It wasn't hard for him to do, not at all. He had a natural gift for it, arrogance. It had been with him since his early days. The bold brown eyes gave it off as they looked into the withering silver eyes of the man. The boy's voice also showed it off, too, as he spoke. The words never got old, not for the boy.
His lips, upturned in a smile, would roughly hand the words to the man.
"Then I won't tell you. Not ever."
Thanks for reading! Please review. Chapter 1 will come...sometime.