"All that glitters is not gold, but all that is pure most certainly is."
The Dark Ages are over. Camelot has been lost. Killahead is scattered. Those that remember recall bright days filled with the laughter of young boys, one with a crown on his he...
Tyler yawns, stretching out his spine as he walks through the halls of Arcadia Oaks High. Nightmares had plagued him throughout the night, and he found himself seeking the comfort of the furnace when he awoke sometime around three in the morning. Watching the glowing embers of coal was what had eventually calmed him. That and the faint smell of something familiar.
His mind runs in circles as he tries to identify it, bringing him to scowl at his feet. It's not purposeful, just an natural expression that occurs when he thinks.
With every step, his thoughts return to the word 'petrichor', and a distant memory of sitting in the woods after nightfall. Each time he thinks of it, it gets more detailed, and it starts to feel real.
He can feel the damp soil between his fingers and toes; hear the rustling oaks as they whisper among themselves in their own language. The smell of rain is not quite overpowering, but it's there, haunting his memory with a touch like silk.
"Watch where you're going, Reynolds," a voice orders him, shortly before he's shoved against a locker.
He bites his tongue to withhold a pained yelp, tasting blood as someone else shoves him. His breath grows ragged as he fights the want to recoil, and he grits his teeth in fury. For once, his soul is begging him not to do something, and for the first time, he listens to it.
Amber meets brown, and Tyler sighs in disappointment. He'd really been hoping it was somebody else.
"Back off, mate," he suggests kindly. "It's not a fight ye'll win."
Steve smirks, but just like last time, the boy can see the hesitation in his eyes. This is his way of getting out his frustration. He beats down others so he can feel higher than them, better than them.
"What, scared I'll kick your butt?" he scoffs, looking down at the newcomer.
"No," he disagrees, getting to his feet. "Worried that ye'll do somethin' ye'll regret."
The bully blinks, not prepared for that kind of answer. Very few people have voiced concern over him like this, and it's easily startling to find that one of his victims appears to share sympathy.
"Steve, I want ye to call me by me name," he starts, a hand out as a sign of peace. "An' I want to help ye with what I can."
"I don't need help from you," he snaps, wearing an expression of disgust. "I don't need help from anybody! I rule this school!"
"Aye, well," the boy sighs. "If ye need me, ye can find me in the library."
Tyler weaves around the stunned lad and continues on his way, letting loose a small whimper as his shoulder jostles.
All he wants is for people to feel safe, he wants people to confide in him when they have no-one else to go to. He wants to be the safe place that students seek when they feel alone or are breaking apart inside. Everyone deserves sanctuary.
A silver-coloured object goes flying past his head, and he whips around to face a wide eyed Toby with his arm outstretched. Panic and regret echo in his expression.
"I'd watch where ye throw things if I were ye," he comments, momentarily catching Jim's eyes before moving on. Guilt glimmers in his own eyes as he recalls what he did to the letter.
His trip to the library is short and not sweet, and he soon dumps his stuff on a table in the far corner, taking real care as he takes out his leather-bound book. It doesn't remain in his bag for sneaky little reading breaks but for the sense of security it gives him. How odd it is that a book that's over fifty years old provides a welcoming feeling when in its presence.
Tyler chuckles to himself, running his thumb down the yellowed pages before settling into his schoolwork. The load is never ending, but at least the works comes easy now that he knows what he's doing. His memory may be terrible, but his work ethic and speed easily make up for it.
《《》》
He adjusts the reading glasses on his nose to study the biology of invertebrates, only stopped as someone knocks one of the bookshelves. With slight confusion, the boy takes off his glasses and folds them neatly, his gaze set upon the shelf.
"Who's there?" he asks, tucking the glasses in his jacket.
He receives no reply except the sound of students checking out books.
Tyler snorts and slides out of his seat, treading without caution toward the source of his curiosity. There's nothing in this school that can hurt him besides other students, and even they lack a fighting spirit to rival his.
His eyes catch a glimpse of someone darting around the bookshelf, and he snaps his head to the side to identify the person, only to find no-one. Suspicion arises within him, and he can feel the hairs along his spine rise with each passing second. The air is tense and yet he cannot recognise who is punking him. His senses are dulled.
"I don't want to play games," the boy informs, lips drawn back in irritation. "Just leave me alone and let me work."
He hates that he knows the person isn't giving up. It bothers him that he can't tell who is toying with him, and he has no natural defense besides his own words. He's not scared, just more irritated than what is probably wise.
"If ye get yerself hurt 'cause ye jumped me, I won't take the blame," Tyler warns a final time before returning back to his schoolwork.
Something hard and fast smacks him in the back of the head and he yelps in surprise, spinning on a dime to glare at the absent opponent. Nobody.
He winces slightly and raises a hand to rub his head. It'll surely bruise, if not welt.
"Mhallaich thu le fortan dràgon," he hisses lowly as he stares strangely at the object on the floor.
A horseshoe. Of all the things to be thrown in a school.
The boy snorts once again and stoops to pick it up. Whoever it belongs to is going to have quite a time today.
As his hand grasps the iron object, he lets out a furious screech, dropping it back on the floor without hesitation. The smell of burning flesh is hard to miss and the blistering pain that burns his hand certainly gives it away.
Tears spring to his eyes, and he whimpers in pain, crouching on the floor with his hand curled to his chest. Only in story books had he imagined this. Only in tall tales from medieval times. Perhaps some of them are true after all.
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Times are changing, and we must all learn to adapt. Should we not, we will perish.
