( chapter three. . . )
Life was strange; so unpredictable. In the seven years since Nicolas arrived in the dank rain-slicked Telmarine lands, he thought he'd seen his fair share of darkness. He had nothing left, and often, he's lost grappling for some sense of warmth in the coldness of the vast pirate empire. He was alone here, in a land of strange, evil men. No amount of reassurance from Sona or Dante could keep him from believing he was a black stain in the seafaring country.
People glared at him maliciously, no doubt plotting his very messy demise. Their whispered voices hissed like serpents and followed him at every turn. The fifteen-year-old Nicolas was frequently chased away, down the icy corridors. Many of the lords took to naming him Outlander in their advising sessions, bringing about mocking laughter. He was kept resolutely out of conversation; no one spoke to him, except in hard, accusing tones. Sometimes, much to the boy's confusion, it was like he didn't even exist! As much as it rightly frustrated him, Nicolas couldn't fathom the reason for such unfair treatment. Much less, why he deserved such a thing.
Dante's pursuit to adopt Nicolas did little to brighten his situation. He was profoundly grateful to Sona and Dante for taking him in. Even so, Nicolas still felt lost and alienated. Being here in Telmar only solidified that dense void. As a recognized son of a highly ranked General, Nicolas thought the foreign courtiers would begin to accept him, but he was sorely mistaken.
Regardless of his newfound standing in the castle, both noblemen and women alike continued their heinous abuse of the teenager. The jeers and whispers became harsher, and the attempts to displace him in palace high society were evermore pronounced. Enraging as it was to experience, Nicolas forced his chagrin down, dampening the growing cloud of fury with a strong fist. He wanted to endure, hope it would cease, but somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he knew that notion was impossible.
Certainly, that could only ever be imagined, he thought darkly. Never could it be reality!
If he had anyone to blame, it was the damned Telmarines. Their soldiers attacked his home; they were the ones that murdered his family. It was the Telmarines that stole everything he knew, everyone he loved, and forced him to act as a prisoner of war. Leave it to pirate lords to ignore accountability for their crimes! Nicolas never asked to be here, for any of this!
Granted, his parents understood, even validating him in his bitterness of treatment so vile. Still, he couldn't control the words of others, however cruel. His only hope was that time would soften everyone's view of him. Nicolas scoffed inwardly at the thought, making a point of rolling his eyes.
Such optimism for such a black-hearted people!
Sona had smiled demurely, her eyes glinting in mischief; he knew she agreed with him. Nevertheless, he was instructed to give the courtiers the benefit of the doubt, despite how little they deserved it. Dante had embraced him tightly, assuring Nicolas that he was as good as their blood; that he was their son, regardless of true origin. He had their unconditional love and support.
Of course, Sona and Dante never fit his description of coarse or evil; he adored them! No matter how dark his mood became as the days passed, Nicolas was always given solace by the people he could happily call his parents. There was no one he could believe to be better, than them. Dante introduced and instructed him in the ways of the sword at the age of thirteen. He had only one rule--Stick them with the pointy end. Sona hated that Nicolas reveled in violence as a way to cope with his pent-up aggression from the court. In her view, it was dangerous; whereas, he believed it to be a healthy outlet of expression. At Dante's good-natured agreement and promise to protect him, Sona then relented to the prospect of Nicolas earning proper lessons from a mentor.
However happy and excited this made the teenager, Sona prayed to Aslan harder than ever. On the off days from training, Sona worked to educate Nicolas in better academics; botany, history, mathematics; and literature. As a bonus, she thought it the best time to pass on everything she knew of Aslan and the Faith of the Golden Age. Such a subject was to be kept firmly secret; they could be severely punished for such beliefs—the sole idea of punishment for having hope baffled Nicolas. But, given the cold disposition of the noble Telmarines, he couldn't say it surprised him much.
Nicolas was frequently caught up in such a fury that he would often shout out his frustrations out loud, with only his mother to watch. He should feel ashamed, but he was simply angry. One memory of such an instance circled in his mind and it only fed the fire burning in his chest.
It had taken place within their new family chambers, with rooms much too fine to be given to him.
Nicolas counted himself lucky that no one had found him out, protecting his blooming faith in Aslan with everything he possessed. Despite his promise, however, the teen felt a sliver of trepidation; what if someone did find out? He didn't dare explore the doom that possibility held. He could hardly stomach it. To quell the anxiousness that tested him, he prayed long and purposely, begging Aslan and the Heavens that he had the strength to hold to his word.
With that, no harm had yet come to him or his family. To his surprise, his life had turned for the better. He was given a proper academic education, one he attended with children his age. Until then, Nicolas wasn't aware there were other kids besides himself in the castle. How he thanked the Heavens for that! Whether it was because of Dante's fervent influence with the King or some other force, it didn't matter. He was only glad that he could belong, no matter how small a way he could. So, it was under the tutelage of Professor Cornelius that he met both the royal princes, Caspian and Mattias.
The boys welcomed him with open arms, finding interest in him as they had understandably never known of him before. Even less, seen him before. He spent as much time as he could in their company--as much as their titular positions allowed. It was still evident that while the adopted boy was allowed formal privilege, he was still of a lesser class. Nicolas tried not to let it get to him, for it wasn't their fault their parents were royal asses. Still, the boys formed a tight bond, practicing their swordsmanship in the courtyards, joking around, and having short conversations together whenever they crossed paths. He could safely admit that the princes were the better of all of them.
In actuality, it was the appearance of a girl in the Professor's study one day that truly caught Nicolas's attention. She appeared to be only twelve, maybe on the verge of thirteen. Had dark, smooth hair extending midway down her back, and a serene, graceful countenance that told him she too, was sure of royal blood. Her colors of choice were gowns of sage and gold, which married well with her flawless olive skin. Caspian and Mattias always greeted her warmly and made her smile, an action that sent an ache pulsing in his heart, for it illuminated her entire face in the most glorifying way. Nicolas ignored the little stab of envy that berthed within, seeing the two boys able to make the girl smile so wonderfully.
Although she hardly spoke, the girl had wit as sharp as an arrowhead, when she did talk to anyone else. When she did, she had a curious vernacular, slightly accented like all Telmarines; yet, smooth as silk and ethereal. Nicolas couldn't explain the sheer peace such a sound gave him. It was a far cry from the rough-edged tone of the brigands milling around. Different from even those of the princes, who had a more polished and educated tonality themselves.
Nicolas did then conclude that her voice was beautiful, though illusive. When she did not speak, Nicolas found himself missing the sound. She truly made him curious, finding her silent presence magnetizing. And when she looked at him from across the rounded table for the first time in weeks, he knew he was utterly ruined. Her eyes were forged in the most resplendent, exquisite golden hue he'd ever witnessed.
In a rush of awe, Nicolas felt his jaw drop open, an action that brought the girl's petite hand to her lips to stifle her giggles. The silver of the rings on her fingers glittered in the candles lighting the space of the private room the Professor chose for their exams. Caspian nudged him from the side, biting back an amused smirk. Distantly, Mattias coughed, surely to cover what was seemingly a laugh, from somewhere in the room. As they had been separated to avoid cheating, the four of them were paired up to reside at two tables. Caspian was his partner at one, while Mattias was coupled with the girl at the other. How awkward that a girl's gaze, however mystifying, was enough to get Nicolas flustered!
Furthermore, his reaction, much to his embarrassment, had been seen by the younger royal boy. Abruptly aware of himself, Nicolas forced his eyes back down to the scroll of parchment before him, on which he and the rest were composing responses to which King first founded the Telmarine lands, and then emphasizing, in detail, how productive the sovereign's reign was.
It was the last bit of tutoring they would receive before the Professor allowed a two-week break for the spring holidays. However excited they were to be dismissed, the elderly man was firm in his instruction to compose mindfully academic answers, not careless ones. He did understand their fervor, for it had been a long process of exams over the last couple of weeks. Although, proper time must be taken to complete the questions asked.
Nicolas, still burning in the effects of his shame, quickly scribbled his words. His quill scratched across the parchment as he trained his eyes studiously down on his work. In the back of his mind, distracting from his scholarly knowledge, a vivid image of the girl's shining gaze marked his mind's eye. He drank in the allure of the color, feeling a stark pull calling him to look up, just to see her eyes one more time.
When he did, the girl was striding to the Professor's oak desk, situated to the right of the large open bay window overlooking the raging sea. He gladly took the parchment from her with a smile. "Thank you, Cattia. I will see you here after the holiday, yes?"
The girl named Cattia bowed shortly, her back briefly facing Nicolas, sitting at his table. "Of course, Professor."
She left quietly, clasping her hands tightly in front of her as she then passed him. Her eyes caught Nicolas's curious gaze for a moment. He did not miss how her brow furrowed, watching him as he did her. All too quickly she dropped her face, hurrying out of the room before he could do anything else. A sharp urge to get up and follow her encompassed him, turning his body eagerly in the direction in which she vanished.
Unfortunately, before he could, Caspian gripped his sleeve, anchoring him to his stool with a thoroughly exasperated look. His eyes fell on Nicolas's unfinished composition. Focus. He did just that, albeit with some difficulty, desiring nothing more than to see this Cattia again.
Nicolas couldn't get out of the study quickly enough, his feet stumbling on the slick cobblestones of the winding hall. Caspian and Mattias appeared beside him, each holding their amusement on their faces rather poorly.
"You seem keen on Cattia, eh?" Mattias chuckled, nudging Nicolas lightly in the shoulder. He dutifully ignored him, indeed keenly peering down the hall, wondering just where she could've gotten to.
"Where does she go, after lessons?" Nicolas asked blindly, paying no heed at all to the boys. He started down the hall, not waiting for the answer; he'd search the whole castle himself to find her if he had to. He missed Caspian giving a roll of his eyes and trailing after, Mattias following. The royals, upon meeting the Archenlandish teen, understood his burdens and the abuse he took on. They agreed then, to protect his honor. The boys vowed to never leave Nicolas to suffer alone.
"You see her once, and all of a sudden you love the girl!" Caspian called teasingly as Nicolas ran down the hall anyway. He paused, indecisively faltering as he came to the fork in the path. The older prince gripped Nicolas's arm, turning him to look at him. "She's probably gone to the library--"
"Why?" Mattias interjected. "What's this interest all of a sudden? It's only Cattia."
Caspian glared at the younger boy, frowning over Nicolas's shoulder. This made him recede, coming to the boy's left. "I love her just as much as you do, Cas! Really," he promised fervently, then sighing. "It's just strange, isn't it?"
"No," Caspian stated rigidly. "Of course not. Cattia is all but a recluse outside of attending our lessons. She needs friends."
"She has friends!" Mattias countered. Caspian rolled his eyes, shaking his head.
"Besides us, you idiot!"
Nicolas's mind spun with images of Cattia's hauntingly beautiful golden eyes. "I want to get to know her," he added honestly, nearly bouncing on his feet with anticipation.
He peered between the royals, finding their gazes narrowed slightly. The blond was already denying their unspoken question. They were surely wondering whether he was naive enough to gain feelings this soon.
Somehow, Nicolas couldn't disagree; in the least, he did like her. Yet, to give them the satisfaction of being correct--he refused to do that. It couldn't be as serious as love. He only found her interesting. After all, wasn't that what they were insinuating? There was no harm in befriending the girl.
"Come off it, will you?" Nicolas grumbled, unable to stomach their silence any longer. "Where did she go?" He finally ventured into the wide expanse of the main castle, the royals dutifully trailing him. Upon entering, both Caspian and Mattias straightened their composure.
Already, many courtiers sneered and glared at Nicolas, pointedly giving him a wide berth. Even still, he barreled past the hateful masses, intent on vacating as soon as possible. The outright volume of the exclamations rang in his ears, adding pounds of pressure to his young shoulders. He let it roll off his backside like the relentless rain, stifling their sting, numbing himself to them. Thankfully, Caspian and Mattias acted like a buffer, protecting him from the onslaught. The pair took the brutality with ease.
Soon enough, the three made it to the other side of the chamber, and Nicolas felt like he had been dragged through the harshest of Ettinsmoor's mountain passes. Beaten raw and bruised. He felt colder than ever, wholly disturbed; his skin was alarmingly ashen, turning sallow. His breath came heavier, each attempt to quell the screaming anxiety in his chest defective, tasting like bile.
Nicolas collapsed against the stone wall, far from prying eyes. The firelight in the sconces was sharp, silver like knives, its burn twice as painful. They each flickered against the cold gray stone, bathing the outsider in icy blankets of metal. In an attempt to hold himself together, he wound his arms around his torso, squeezing the pieces tight. He may appear strong against the cruelty, but he didn't know how much more damage he could take.
Nicolas was truly falling apart.
Light hands touched his shoulders, and he barely noticed. His pain rolled through him, growing into a tempest that roared turbulently within him, twisted and nauseating. There was a muddled voice speaking and Nicolas looked up through the din, his eyes wide and panicked. He had forgotten his friends and he glanced up at them from his crouched position on the floor; he must have fallen in the chaos. Caspian stood a little away, his stance opposing, warding off any sadistic soul daring to come near. Whereas, Mattias crouched at Nicolas's level, his eyes holding a disgusting amount of concern, directed solely at him. The boy offered him his hand.
A short, hot flame of rage ignited his chest in the next moment and Nicolas was blindly shoving the boy away, not daring to take in the pity that shone in the prince's navy gaze. He hated it. He hated everything! Swiftly getting to his feet, he was gripped by an intense desire to flee, far away from anyone showing him compassion. Anyone who cared, for undoubtedly, they could be liars.
Nicolas Davenwood was not weak and didn't want to be regarded as such. Mattias knew him long and well enough to know how he felt about sympathy. It was for children and that was one thing he wasn't.
"Don't!" he shouted shakily. Mattias stopped immediately, putting up his hands in surrender. He nodded once, knowing he had overstepped. A part of Nicolas despised also that, when wrapped in such a panic, he was like a caged animal.
Seeing how deeply his words affected his friend, guilt gnawed at him. The notion of Nicolas causing harm only contributed to the deep-seated hatred within him. The pain inflicted by the abuse and its effects wasunknown to them. It would shatter them, and they'd hold themselves responsible.
It was akin to a weighty stone bathed in blazing fire. The nauseating sensation grew stronger as it undulated in his stomach. He fixed his gaze, his face growing more determined as he pressed his hands against his stinging eyes. Stop, stop. He couldn't cry, not in front of them. If he did, Nicolas could never escape it. Just like the stain of his lineage.
Breathing was difficult, feeling too short and static. His body rattled as Nicolas tried to hold his pieces together; he couldn't break them. Not here. He had to leave. In the next moment, he was up on his feet, tripping through the gilded hallway, fleeing the chaos. All he heard was the stinging chime of bells in his ears. His skin became overwhelmed with a heinous and disgusting heat; he wanted to tear his skin off in rivets.
With each turn, the storm grew, bubbling and expanding inside his body. He feared he'd burst into a shower of bone and bloody innards, oozing over the tiles, and running down the walls. Nicolas couldn't push his legs any harder, or run any faster without feeling death itself. His sweating palms grappled with a tainted silver doorknob, heaving it open in a panic and tumbling inside. It closed him inside a dark, quiet room smelling of parchment and aged leather.
The screaming inside his mind built to an unshakable uproar, akin to a ravenous pride of lions thirsty for his blood. His skull pounded, feeling a thousand pounds too heavy to hold on to his neck. With his pale skin crawling with a foreboding itch, Nicolas fell to the ground, right there against the heavy oak door. His knees came up to meet his face as he buried himself away, folded in and squeezing away the hurt, hiding from his impending storm. He gripped his legs tight and closed his tearful eyes tighter, whimpering and moaning at the mercy of vicious, racing thoughts.
There, the boy broke, cracking under the dam as he forged against the pain, hurt, and confusion. The tears flowed thick and burning over his flushed cheeks, unable now to keep them within. His sobs shook him as each wave washed through, drowning him in their malice. Underneath it, he couldn't understand why. He had done nothing to deserve this cruelty. Even in the back of his mind, knowing it wasn't his fault, Nicolas still loathed himself for everything; he was to blame. Maybe that was what he needed. To accept the claims, fall for the lies, and become the monster everyone expects him to be.
He wasn't sure how long he had been crying, but it was a soft, tentative touch on his forearm that stilled him. Nicolas sniffed, slowly looking up. His eyes, red and swollen gave him a blurred and watery image of a shape in front of him It was crouched off to the side, kneeling at his level. A small girl appeared through the candlelight as he blinked away his last tears. The girl was from the professor's study. Peering around further, he could see that he had made it to the library. Warm light from the center mantle cast thick shadows across the room.
Cattia studied him, concern etching her delicate features. Nicolas' chest caved. As he moved, the girl removed her hand, holding it carefully suspended in the air between them. She appeared like she was uncertain as Nicolas bit his lower lip, embarrassed. She had seen him cry. Would she tell anyone?
"Hi," Nicolas said in a coarse whisper. His throat was swollen with stone, he was sure; swallowing hurt. He blinked at her, scrubbing his hand across his sodden eyes. Trying his best to appear stable, he smiled.
"Hi," Cattia whispered, her eyes moving slowly over his face. Suddenly aware of her hand, she let it drop, clasping it in her pearlescent skirt. "Are you okay?"
As soon as she asked him that question, Nicolas's features cracked again, his chest swelled with despair. His mouth trembled as he weakly let out a sob. Before he could stop himself, he fell forward into her arms, where she quickly wrapped him up and held him against her. The pair stayed like that for hours as the poor soul Nicolas Davenwood drowned, falling deeper into the abyss, with no one but Cattia as his anchor.