Accordingly, Treize had stayed behind, clear of duty while the hunting party ran down the last of the rebels. He had chosen his location carefully, upwind of the fires they had set in the woods to burn the rebels out, and released his hounds and his soldiers to be his hands. His tools, individual extensions of himself. A faint, wintry smile touched his lips, and he gave the bloodhound’s head a last pat before releasing him.
He didn’t have long to wait; before five minutes had passed, the hunters he sent out returned, clustered in a tight knot around their captured prey. Almost unconsciously, Treize sat up, leaning forward and half-holding his breath.
The noise resolved into voices, shouting and cursing. Much of it was familiar to Treize after so many years, and he let the guttural vulgar sounds wash over him without effect. But one of the voices was new to him, lighter and clearer than the others. Treize felt a shiver work loose in his spine, just listening to the voice.
They came to a stop a few feet in front of him, and motion halted except for the form that still struggled and fought, suspended off the ground by the grips of two of the soldiers. Treize couldn’t help but marvel at the fluency of the prisoner’s threatening curses; the men who held him were each twice his size and near twice his age, but he doubted they could match his proficiency. At a slight nod from the General, the two burly soldiers flung the boy at the General’s feet.
He struggled to his knees, painfully without the use of his hands, but could manage no further. Treize took a moment to observe him, while he fought for his breath back. Most striking, and least expected, was the long braid of soft brown hair that hung down over his shoulder and trailed in the dirt. It was half-disordered already, strands coming out of the neat plait and plastering against his skin and clothes in a most appealing fashion. He could not pull the hair out of his face, for his arms were tied behind his back with coarse rope. His clothes were filthy, and torn in many places; Treize noted the places on his back, and on one leg, where blood soaked through the ripped cloth and crude bandages. Arrow wounds, he guessed; the hunters had been armed only with bows. His head hung down as he gasped for breath, chest shuddering in great heaves against his exhaustion.
Treize was not surprised; the boy had led him and his men on a merry chase over the past week. They had fought like demons, he and his fellow rebels -- only appropriate, since that was the name they had chosen for themselves. Maxwell’s Devils. They had been working in this area for almost seven years now, appearing to burn down a supply convoy or to attack a base camp in the dead of night before vanishing into nowhere again. They had fought with unbelievable tenacity, but now, it was over. This young man was the last one alive -- and, according to what Treize had learned about him, he had been the leader, too. Duo Maxwell. Fifteen years of age.
The boy raised his head at last, and the very arch of his neck bespoke his defiance. Treize nearly shuddered with pleasure as the boy’s eyes met his. They were a startling color of violet, eyes the like of which Treize had never seen before, and they blazed with such hatred and passionate intensity that Treize could nearly feel the scorching heat of it.
Re: To the Victor
Date: 2006-02-27 11:11 pm (UTC)Accordingly, Treize had stayed behind, clear of duty while the hunting party ran down the last of the rebels. He had chosen his location carefully, upwind of the fires they had set in the woods to burn the rebels out, and released his hounds and his soldiers to be his hands. His tools, individual extensions of himself. A faint, wintry smile touched his lips, and he gave the bloodhound’s head a last pat before releasing him.
He didn’t have long to wait; before five minutes had passed, the hunters he sent out returned, clustered in a tight knot around their captured prey. Almost unconsciously, Treize sat up, leaning forward and half-holding his breath.
The noise resolved into voices, shouting and cursing. Much of it was familiar to Treize after so many years, and he let the guttural vulgar sounds wash over him without effect. But one of the voices was new to him, lighter and clearer than the others. Treize felt a shiver work loose in his spine, just listening to the voice.
They came to a stop a few feet in front of him, and motion halted except for the form that still struggled and fought, suspended off the ground by the grips of two of the soldiers. Treize couldn’t help but marvel at the fluency of the prisoner’s threatening curses; the men who held him were each twice his size and near twice his age, but he doubted they could match his proficiency. At a slight nod from the General, the two burly soldiers flung the boy at the General’s feet.
He struggled to his knees, painfully without the use of his hands, but could manage no further. Treize took a moment to observe him, while he fought for his breath back. Most striking, and least expected, was the long braid of soft brown hair that hung down over his shoulder and trailed in the dirt. It was half-disordered already, strands coming out of the neat plait and plastering against his skin and clothes in a most appealing fashion. He could not pull the hair out of his face, for his arms were tied behind his back with coarse rope. His clothes were filthy, and torn in many places; Treize noted the places on his back, and on one leg, where blood soaked through the ripped cloth and crude bandages. Arrow wounds, he guessed; the hunters had been armed only with bows. His head hung down as he gasped for breath, chest shuddering in great heaves against his exhaustion.
Treize was not surprised; the boy had led him and his men on a merry chase over the past week. They had fought like demons, he and his fellow rebels -- only appropriate, since that was the name they had chosen for themselves. Maxwell’s Devils. They had been working in this area for almost seven years now, appearing to burn down a supply convoy or to attack a base camp in the dead of night before vanishing into nowhere again. They had fought with unbelievable tenacity, but now, it was over. This young man was the last one alive -- and, according to what Treize had learned about him, he had been the leader, too. Duo Maxwell. Fifteen years of age.
The boy raised his head at last, and the very arch of his neck bespoke his defiance. Treize nearly shuddered with pleasure as the boy’s eyes met his. They were a startling color of violet, eyes the like of which Treize had never seen before, and they blazed with such hatred and passionate intensity that Treize could nearly feel the scorching heat of it.