"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?
