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tamingthemuseTitle: Circle
Fandom: Original
Prompt: Exhausted
Warnings: touch of gore
Rating: R
Summary: Ingwen is the evil warlord in all those horror stories, but perhaps he never wanted to be.
Life wasn’t always such an easy thing for him to throw away.
Once, he cared about other people. Once, he hadn’t been such a cruel person. As he guided his horse over the dirt road that led home, Ingwen of Shilor resolutely kept his gaze away from the rotting corpses lining the road.
He had ordered their bodies put up as a display to those that would otherwise threaten his castle and the local village that looked to him for protection. He had even gone so far as to have a second road mapped out so the villagers leaving the mountains wouldn’t have to see the poles that held the bodies of their enemies.
They still resented him for it. Called him a bastard of the first order and a madman to boot.
Once, they had all looked favorably upon him. Once, they had been friendly with him.
He heaved a great sigh and urged his horse back on track when it had slowed. The beast was getting old and was eager to be put to pasture. He was eager to be put to pasture.
Once, he had been full of the joy of life. Once, he had been young and carefree.
Once, his father had loved him.
His father didn’t love him anymore, because that man was dead, but when he had been alive, he had told Ingwen that terrible things would happen, and there was great evil out there. He had warned Ingwen that, above all, he must stay true to himself.
How could he stay true to himself when he didn’t really know who he was?
He could only vaguely remember his mother’s voice telling him to be magnificent. Was he, now? With all this blood on his hands, and all this power in his hands, was he? There wasn’t a person in all the country that didn’t know his name. Even the king himself showed a bit of fear while in his presence. He was great, but was his magnificent? Would Mother have been proud?
He wasn’t.
He hated who he had become. For the last twelve years he had been in war. The late King Betun had died of mysterious reasons, and the neighboring kings were greedy to take what the young prince couldn’t hold. The prince had been older than Ingwen when the war started, but Ingwen felt so much more exhausted.
He had been at war since he had been eighteen. Nearly half his life had been spent protecting the king’s throne. Protecting the castle and village his father had built.
At war, building his reputation as the most evil man in the world.
He didn’t want to be evil. He wanted to live a quite life, at home. Have a wife of his own someday, which children. He wanted love in his life, a love like the magical love his mother and father had had.
They had been so very in love that when his mother died, his father changed so very much. He became a shell of the man he had once been. She made him magnificent.
Maybe that’s what he was looking for as well. Someone to love him as his mother had loved his father, someone to bring out the best in him. Someone who could look pass the rumors and the deeds of war and see that, although he had passed his thirtieth year, he was still not much more than that unsure eighteen year old that left via this very same road, scared of what the outside world would make of him.
He doubted he could ever find such a person, not now after all that he had done, and he wasn’t sure if he had the courage to even begin looking.
Then again, his father had said that his mother had literally been in the last place he had ever expected to find such a perfect woman.
Ingwen’s horse shied at an unexpected noise from one of the stakes and he had to grapple to keep his seat on the saddle. The men around him all jumped in their armor as they paused to gape.
Ingwen felt the blood drain from his face and his body go cold as ice as he realized that a body on the stakes was still quite alive. She was a young woman, couldn’t be any older than twenty years, her long brown hair matted with debris and blood, blood running down between her legs, coating the stake. Her eyes were rolled up, only the whites showing as her head lulled on one shoulder.
“Get her down!” he roared, leaping from his horse and reaching for her.
He preyed to whichever god that still listened to him that it wasn’t too late for her.
Fandom: Original
Prompt: Exhausted
Warnings: touch of gore
Rating: R
Summary: Ingwen is the evil warlord in all those horror stories, but perhaps he never wanted to be.
Life wasn’t always such an easy thing for him to throw away.
Once, he cared about other people. Once, he hadn’t been such a cruel person. As he guided his horse over the dirt road that led home, Ingwen of Shilor resolutely kept his gaze away from the rotting corpses lining the road.
He had ordered their bodies put up as a display to those that would otherwise threaten his castle and the local village that looked to him for protection. He had even gone so far as to have a second road mapped out so the villagers leaving the mountains wouldn’t have to see the poles that held the bodies of their enemies.
They still resented him for it. Called him a bastard of the first order and a madman to boot.
Once, they had all looked favorably upon him. Once, they had been friendly with him.
He heaved a great sigh and urged his horse back on track when it had slowed. The beast was getting old and was eager to be put to pasture. He was eager to be put to pasture.
Once, he had been full of the joy of life. Once, he had been young and carefree.
Once, his father had loved him.
His father didn’t love him anymore, because that man was dead, but when he had been alive, he had told Ingwen that terrible things would happen, and there was great evil out there. He had warned Ingwen that, above all, he must stay true to himself.
How could he stay true to himself when he didn’t really know who he was?
He could only vaguely remember his mother’s voice telling him to be magnificent. Was he, now? With all this blood on his hands, and all this power in his hands, was he? There wasn’t a person in all the country that didn’t know his name. Even the king himself showed a bit of fear while in his presence. He was great, but was his magnificent? Would Mother have been proud?
He wasn’t.
He hated who he had become. For the last twelve years he had been in war. The late King Betun had died of mysterious reasons, and the neighboring kings were greedy to take what the young prince couldn’t hold. The prince had been older than Ingwen when the war started, but Ingwen felt so much more exhausted.
He had been at war since he had been eighteen. Nearly half his life had been spent protecting the king’s throne. Protecting the castle and village his father had built.
At war, building his reputation as the most evil man in the world.
He didn’t want to be evil. He wanted to live a quite life, at home. Have a wife of his own someday, which children. He wanted love in his life, a love like the magical love his mother and father had had.
They had been so very in love that when his mother died, his father changed so very much. He became a shell of the man he had once been. She made him magnificent.
Maybe that’s what he was looking for as well. Someone to love him as his mother had loved his father, someone to bring out the best in him. Someone who could look pass the rumors and the deeds of war and see that, although he had passed his thirtieth year, he was still not much more than that unsure eighteen year old that left via this very same road, scared of what the outside world would make of him.
He doubted he could ever find such a person, not now after all that he had done, and he wasn’t sure if he had the courage to even begin looking.
Then again, his father had said that his mother had literally been in the last place he had ever expected to find such a perfect woman.
Ingwen’s horse shied at an unexpected noise from one of the stakes and he had to grapple to keep his seat on the saddle. The men around him all jumped in their armor as they paused to gape.
Ingwen felt the blood drain from his face and his body go cold as ice as he realized that a body on the stakes was still quite alive. She was a young woman, couldn’t be any older than twenty years, her long brown hair matted with debris and blood, blood running down between her legs, coating the stake. Her eyes were rolled up, only the whites showing as her head lulled on one shoulder.
“Get her down!” he roared, leaping from his horse and reaching for her.
He preyed to whichever god that still listened to him that it wasn’t too late for her.
