"Heartache doesn't last forever"
Briar knew something was wrong with her father. She could tell from the way his eyes emptied each time she stole a glance at him, the way he hung onto the music wafting through the car as though it held his life in the ivory keys and silver strings. In fact this particular symphony she and not heard since her grandfathers funeral. Her father had cared greatly for his, and as a tribute the symphony he cherished the most was played; he gave a part of himself to the departing.
So Briar knew something was very, very dangerously wrong. Her father kept his lips sewn shut, did not spout a word. Perhaps that was something else that happened to warn her, normally he had a lot to say about her performances. Her father had always been her biggest supporter.
........
Robin had been Amias' greatest friend. They had trained together, fought together. They had become brothers in arms, comrades and friends. When Robin died Amias reached success without him, but never had he forgotten about the little boy Robin had left as his legacy, the young girl that protected him so viciously. Robin had not been Harry' biological father. But he had been his dad. And that was everything to Amias.
Just like his father, Harry had always been the best in his rank. In fact, Harry was also the best in the two ranks above him. Harry was gifted, which is why when he failed his test and was placed on exterior guard duty on the High Council Headquarters, Amias forced his instructor to push him further.
Ozias was very much aware of Harry's hatred towards the High Council. As much as the lad had thought to be a non conformist, many of his classmates also hated them with a passion. Hell, he hated them. The thought of round, pink, fleshy faces digging into the precious, privileged food the people from the lower castes so desperately fought for was sickening.
Alas, their ranks were run by generals and officers appointed by the High Council themselves, no doubt there were handsomely paid rats in their lower classes. Death was an assured price to those who were vocal. But Ozias had hope, that Harry would one day lead the revolution, start a rebellion more organised and effective than the disoriented crap Ambrosia Orissus was running, the kid was smart enough. So when Amias, head of the guard, had suggested to him personally that they train him harder, push him further, Ozias had not resisted.
He called Harry to his office that afternoon. He waited at his worn desk, picking at the exposed wood. His wooden chair was hard and cold and uncomfortable and the room itself was dark, windowless and damp. But if Ozias was to complain he would no longer have a tongue and so instead, he tried to ignore the growing moss and mould.
Harry stumbled through the doorway, almost falling flat on his face as he did. The room was built as a bunker in World War 3, for the children that resided in the hospital that served as Headquarters nearby.
"Take a seat,"
Harry collapsed into the rotting wood chair Ozias was offering to him. He had been training for hours and, his hair clung to his neck with sweat. He let his legs splay out in front of him, resting his aching arms on them; his head was lolled onto his slumped right shoulder.
Ozias made no move to discipline him, "Why did you fail your test Styles?"
"I don't know what you're talking about sire," was Harry' immediate answer.
"DON'T SCREW AROUND WITH ME STYLES!" He shouted manically, before slamming his hands down and chuckling darkly. This was his hope, a symbol of the future a boy with no understanding of the gravity of the situation they were in.
Ozias had a voice to shake mountains, Harry would have been lying if he said he remained unfazed after that confrontation. What really made him think was why this mattered so much to his instructor, he was a common soldier in the lowest rank; what did it matter?
"I was feeling off, sir," he offered.
"No. No Styles, I think the real reason is that you have a bubbling and insatiable hatred for the Council, is that right?"
Styles sat up straight upon hearing this, terrified of what it could mean. Death was surely on the horizon. "N-no sir, I-I...there is no...I...b-but,"
"Relax you pathetic imbecile, everyone hates them. Keep quiet about it though won't you? Look, to take them down we need to attack the heart of their foundation, so no more flunking," all of a sudden Ozias grew serious, "You will lead the revolt,"
Harry laughed hysterically, "You're crazy. Insane. I'd rather hang! Burn!"
Ozias looked worried for a moment, his cool facade broken. Had they misinterpreted the hate? Ozias looked dangerously at the low born.
"Your father would've been disappointed Harry, greatly so," he sighed when he saw Harry continue his stoic disposition. "I had hope for you Styles, but your death wish can be arranged," Ozias growled before leaping forwards onto the weakened boy.
Harry felt himself winded from the attack, his back ached as he was pushed further into the damp, cold ground. He groaned as Ozias randomly attacked his jaw and cheekbones. Droplets of blood from his knuckles were bleeding into his vision. When the older man's hands wrapped around his throat, squeezing the life from his lungs, Harry sprung into action.
He gave a carnal growl before forcing the smaller man off him. He was weak, and less skilled but he was bigger, a lot bigger, and he had a knife hidden in his right boot. He wasted no more time in pinning his instructor to his desk, twisting his arm till it snapped. Ozias gave a cry, unused to the pain he had once endured daily.
Harry moved to his neck, hands immediately moving to his jugular and squeezing; hard. Ozias grew red and flustered as he yelled to empty ears, empty rooms. Harry twisted his neck with all the effort in his left arm, Ozias painfully straining against him, before slipping the dagger from his boot and stabbing the craniocervical junction. With his last strangled gasp for air Ozias fell limp in Harry' hand.
Tossing the body onto the floor, he let the knife slip back into his boot. His mind spun with the vivid memories of what had just occurred, death was something he had seen before one too many times, but never had he inflicted it onto another person. Shaking slightly, he turned to leave the room only to be blocked by the burly and shocked assistant instructor.
...........
Briar watched her father look anxiously out of the window. He was thinking of her mother she was sure. She could not figure why, however, they were driving towards the seaside and away from the city centre. She had tried again and again to decipher what her father's weary looks and dead eyes were trying to say. Only she was a sheltered girl and the recent attacks had not ever come to light. She was oblivious to her father's burden.
She watched as the oak and pine trees turned into tiny shrubbery and sand. The ocean was on the horizon, she grew more excited and curious as they gained on the water. It had been a solid, five years since her last visit to the beach.
Her father was obviously less than excited and as the car rolled to a stop on the rocky, gravel driveway his mood only further dampened. He got out of the car himself with no words to his daughter about where they were or why. Dominic, their chauffeur opened the door for her and she exited the car gracefully, with proper etiquette in mind. She did not bother with the bag in the back seat full of her dance gear knowing that Dominic would bring it out for her. She was hell bent on getting answers from her recently distant father.
She made her way to the white washed beach house her father was standing in the doorway of. It was quaint and small with a driftwood door and lace curtains. The door opened to reveal a tall and thin woman who looked exactly like her father. A strong straight nose, sharp hollow cheekbones and thin lips. They looked more masculine on her which was a shame because they looked too feminine on Briar' father.
She gave them a warm smile and wrapped Orion in an almost immediate hug, whispering something through closed eyes and squeezed cheeks. She moved to the side, spying Briar directly behind her father. Unsure of how exactly to act Briar let the woman look her up and down, before giving a small smile and a delicate embrace.
"She's so grown up," the woman said quietly to Briar's father.
"Azalea and I have a favour to ask,"
The woman's eyes flashed with something as red as her wine coloured hair. "What?" She bit, voice laced with untamed ferocity. She must've been important if that didn't warrant her death.
"We need you to look after her, hopefully Aspyn will be joining soon. The got the Walkers,"
Briar became even more curious at the mention of her sisters name. Being the youngest she was sheltered and protected more and was hardly allowed out of the house. Bringing her here was something completely out of the ordinary. Even more alarming was the eerie mention of the Walkers. She had been good childhood friends with Naia for years and worried about what could have happened to them.
The fiery woman softened at the mention of their name "all of them?"
Orion nodded sorrowfully as the woman choked on a sob. Her father gave her a moment to compose herself though it did the woman little good.
"Will you help?"
"Well I have little choice now, do I? I can't just let them die!"
Orion moved towards the woman and wrapped her in a warm, tight, comforting hug to which she responded gratefully. "Thank you Crown,"
Orion turned to face his daughter. "Briar, sweetie, you and your sister are gonna stay with your Aunt Crown and her family for a while ok? We'll be back to pick you up in a couple of months," he whispered, stroking her cheek lovingly.
Briar knew better than to ask why.