Just another Breakfast

The candle-light fluttered upon his face, lighting his sculpted features passionately. His lips were the most perfect shade of rose, matching his faint blush perfectly. Long eyelashes cast shadows across his skin, almost as feminine as a princess’. He looked into my eyes, grazing my face with a tender breath. My own caught in my throat, and I really cannot finish this god damn book
With a groan, I crumple up the piece of paper in my hand and toss it to the floor, muttering about deadlines and bards and the Gods know what else. I lean back in my chair, rubbing my temple in frustration; it’s been a month or so since I’ve been hired by the travelling band of entertainers, but my work’s not been up to its usual standards. I hiss, before throwing myself to my feet and walking out of my caravan.
I shield my eyes from the blinding sun with a raised hand, looking around the camp. Children run across the fields, tripping each other with sticks before jumping away again. Women sit in circles around barrels of water, nattering about their husbands while washing their family’s clothes. Their dark eyes flicker to me, and they wave good-morning before going back to their daily duties. I reply in kind before turning away, looking at the men of our troupe.
Erik stands at the campfire, turning last night’s hunt on the spit. We nod at each other and I approach him, folding my hands into my pockets.
“Morning, Erik,” I say.
He grunts a reply, his eyes already back on the food. The smell of cooking meat fills the air, rich and delicious, and my stomach growls in hunger. Erik raises an eyebrow, smirking slightly as I groan. “Long night?”
I yawn, and Erik looks me dead in the eyes. I laugh.
“Did you manage to sleep well with the lamp on?” I ask. He points at his eyes, which are ringed by dark circles.
Erik turns away from me as I grin, stopping the spit to stick a fork in the food. I hold my breath in anticipation, last night’s work finally taking its toll. Waiting patiently, I watch Erik test the breakfast by making sure it’s perfect – crispy on the outside, tender on the inside. He glances up at me and nods, and my stomach lets out another, slightly happier grumble.
I take one side of the spit and my friend takes another, and together we take it to the centre table. Placing it carefully on top of the large serving platter, we call the troupe to breakfast. Hoots from the children come from all around the camp, and the men slap our backs and thank us for cooking; I avoid Erik’s glare as I wave off their praise.
Moments later we’re all seated around the table, laughing and insulting each other like family. Two young girls sit either side of me, their eyes cast up to my face in awe. One of them pokes my arm, and I lean down to listen to what they have to say.
“Can Erina and I braid your hair later, Luke?” the girl asks. I ruffle her hair, before promising to let them do what they wish as soon as I’m free from my writing. Giggling together, they turn back to their food and chat over my lap, the men around me chuckling.
With a wink to Erik I pick up my share of breakfast, and fleetingly wonder if there’s any more of the child left for afters.

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Do Not Worry

“Silence!” Gargon yelled, his bearded face darkened by fury. The people at his feet whimpered, drawing their naked bodies together to hide from his glare. Standing from his throne with little grace, the Giant Father stared across the sea of skin. His great axe was held within his right hand, while his left cradled two women to his side.
The Giant Father paced across his platform. Back and forth he went, his escorts dragging behind with fear etched onto their faces. The younger girl clung to the other, tears tracking down her face as they were exposed to their people. Gargon bared his teeth in a wild snarl, throwing the naked women to the ground before him.
“Whores!” he said, kicking at them as they tried to scramble away.
Faces stared up at the young women on their knees, one holding the other protectively. The brunette stroked the red hair of her friend, watching Gargon with blank eyes. Her mouth wavered, as if wanting to speak, but the other held a finger to her lips.
“Lamia, no,” Token said, the wet tracks on her cheeks shining in the sunlight. “He already gave Felix to the circus; don’t let him take you away from me, too.”
Lamia hesitantly nodded in reply, biting her tongue as she looked back up at their captor. At over seven-foot-tall, Gargon’s his green skin was wet with sweat, and his muscles tensed up as he walked across his stage. Leather bound his broad chest, carrying belts with daggers and potions over the taught layers of brown. Piercings littered the Giant Father’s face, declaring his victories over the years he had spent on the battlefields.
He was terrifying.
With a grunt, he pointed out to the crowd of people, randomly targeting a young man. Gargon’s guards yanked him up onto the stage, and forced him to kneel in front of the Giant Father. He was shaking, trying to cover himself with his hands and legs. The orcs laughed at him, before ramming a staff into his back. Gargon smirked.
“You, boy,” he said. “Do you find these girls attractive?”
Turning his head slightly to the side, the man glanced at the two women. Lamia nodded reassuringly, and Token stared in disbelief. The man swallowed around the lump forming in his throat, looked back at Gargon, and muttered a slight affirmation.
A harsh laugh came from the Giant Father, before he reached out and grabbed the man by the throat, pulling him to his feet. He turned them both to face the girls, his axe threateningly close to the man’s stomach. The orc whispered in his ear, and his captive paled. Words passed between the two of them, brief and to the point, and Gargon smiled. With a jerk of his head, he gestured for his men to pull Token to her feet, their fingers laced through her hair.
“It seems you two have quite the history,” he boomed. “And now you have the perfect audience to rekindle the lost relationship you share.”
The two stared at each other, aghast. They stood motionless for a moment, before the orc warriors slammed Token into the man. As she looked up at him, she saw tears in his eyes and she reached up to wipe them away. Her lip quivered as she pulled his head to her shoulder, arms tightening around his neck.
“Do not worry,” she whispered, stroking the hair that matched her own. “There are worse men he could have given me, brother.”

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Mockery

Alistair folded his legs, one on top of the other, as he took his place upon the throne centred in the middle of the Great Hall. Candelabras surrounded the room, lighting the natural darkness with an eerie glow. The young lord placed his elbow on the arm rest, placing his head on his hand as if he were bored.
Before him stood a servant of about seventy, with greying hair and a speckled beard, standing with his arms in front of him. The wrists of each hand were bound together with rope, and dried blood lined where it had rubbed and chafed his skin. The servant’s head was bowed, but he was shaking. Alistair sighed.
“Are you scared, old man?”
The servant froze, stiffening himself. Looking up at the throne, he kept his eyes lowered as he shook his head quickly. Alistair raised a blonde eyebrow and he unfurled his legs to straighten himself in the large seat. A faint smile played on the Lord’s face as he leant forwards, leering at the man before him.
“Oh, my,” he said. “Do you really think that lying will help you?”
The servant gulped. Alistair’s smile grew further, and he stood up. Placing one foot onto the step below him, he began to slowly descend towards the old man, ice-blue eyes watching for any reaction. He walked up to his servant, and stopped close enough that he could feel quivering breaths on his face.
“M-milord…” the servant said, pulling back. “I didn’t mean to –“
“To make a fool of me, hm? To out me as some kind of cowardly child?” Alistair’s smile dropped. In an instant he had leapt forwards, his hands clutching onto the soiled cloth of the servant’s rags. The servant yelped, raising his arms above his head to cover his face, his chains tinkling against the floor of the throne room. Alistair shook him, his face reddening with fury as he recalled the previous day: the laughs, the talk, the rumours… all from this man.
“I did not run from the hunt!” He yelled, voice echoing through the empty room. “My father had chosen me, Alistair of the Faerwen, to guard the castle.”
“Milord, I did not say such things!” the servant sobbed, gasping for breath. His pale, fragile hands scratched at the others, leaving faint tracks of pink across his Lord’s skin. “I swear upon the Gods, milord! It wasn’t I!”
“Then who was it?” Alistair responded, pushing the old man to the ground. A resounding crack sliced through the silence, and cries of pain and fear joined them. Alistair knelt, his hand pressing the servant’s throat, keeping him on the floor.
“You were the only one present, you fool,” he continued. “You were with us on that hunt. You saw me go. And you expect me to believe that it wasn’t you who told of my leave?”
The servant looked up into the eyes of his Lord, milky eyes watering with tears as his mouth opened and closed, trying to find the response that would save his life. Alistair shook his head, his lips a thin line. He placed a hand on his belt, fingers wrapping around the bronze hilt of his sword. Closing his eyes he muttered a quick prayer, stood, and raised the sword above his head.
“I am not a coward,” he hissed, before swinging his blade.