stranger and stranger still // gabranth

[strife]

The world… was not the same place it used to be.
This was a worry he could not swallow, a thick discomfort lodged in his throat. The agriculture was all different, the colors, even the smells had warped beyond his belief. His head wound over itself a hundred times, his feet hopelessly wandering across plains towards the horizon. Towards the buildings that were circles with what appeared to be planes. He had a lot of doubt about wandering into a strange city, all things considering, it could be enemy territory. But what choice did he have? His head was up in the clouds, slender hues darting back and forth across the vast blue sky, watching the large box-looking compartments traversing across the open space. His fingers continued to play upon the hilt of his sword, a safe weight in his hands, retiring his thoughts like a wave returning to sea. People strayed away from him, parted as if he were a walking disease. Whispering crudely amongst themselves. This was hardly anything compared to the smell drifting out of some of the smaller shops now that he’d climbed a few stairs. It seems the shopping section was isolated by this large over-pass. Noctis pressed his gloved hand against the glass of one particular shop and felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as a warm wave greeted his body. He didn’t have a penny to his name here, somehow he’d have to find a way back—

”Halt!” A parade of metal clashed upon his ears, his brows immediately furrowing just from the irritation as he turned to face the commotion. There must’ve been around thirty guards, all of them holding offensive positions, odd enough, none of them had guns. “Drop your weapon immediately and disengage!” The prince was not about to be idly taken into the custody of this place, he knew now that they were extremely hostile, and turned on his heel to make a run in the other direction, however, the same protocol was set on the other side. They didn’t intend to let him leave without a fight. He detested the idea of making such a bad reputation, but as of now, this was his only choice. He wasn’t even quite sure if they knew who exactly he was… no, they couldn’t. Or they would’ve sent everyone they could muster. His feet took firmer hold on the ground, a new color bleeding over his eyes.

“This is your final warning- or we will proceed with violent measures!” A wind stirred almost playfully at his toes, an unholy sort of blue light erupting from his core. He just had to rough them up a bit, then he could get out. He gave a powerful swing of his sword, normally, this would’ve induced the summoning, projecting a barrier around his form but instead he felt something familiar to a spark. His eyes widened in mute surprise. The air suddenly felt heavy, the wind that had been building at his feet blew away like dust. He still felt his power, a dense mass deep within his chest, but for some reason he couldn’t access it. A nauseous wave washed over him, free hand clutching over one of his eyes. He was digging, frantically, through himself. What scared him was not the men standing before him, but the possibility that he had lost this gift altogether. He needed to calm down, like when he was a young boy. Channel it, not fight it. It was supposed to be natural-

“You time has run out.” The man seemed to be spitting out these words. “Take him.” A rush of men catapulted towards him, and for once in his life, he fought with nothing as disciplined a swordsmanship, it was a struggle to raise his sword and parry a blow as his guts seemed to tie themselves in knots. It was all he could o to out-step them, shove them back, and he wondered how long this would last. There was the brief tightening of twine before the wooden bolt pierced his shoulder, bearing his teeth like an animal as he dropped down to one knee. For one of the first times since his child-hood, when he lived under his father’s boot, he felt helpless. It was a horrible feeling, more so then the blood that trickled in a tiny stream down the crook of his arm. The last thing he saw was his father’s face, tight with anger, before one of the soldiers slammed the back of their sword down on his head.

When the throbbing of his headache finally pulled him from his sleep, his body was stretched across an egg-shell colored cot, his left arm numb to him. His vision was blurred, but he could hear bits and pieces of voices.
“…Magister, you honor… found something you… interested in…”
In his state, he yearned to just fall back to sleep. Perhaps to wake up in his own bed. With a cold glass of water, his throat was parched beyond belief. They hadn’t killed him, this had to be nothing short of a dream.