Shattered

"Nnh-..."

Practice sword put up, and a quick, clean change of clothes later, the young man stretched. As long as the day had been, he felt as though almost nothing was accomplished...and now he had tired himself out too much to give anything else a go.

Ah, well....he could try to play a bit on the piano....though it may be too late in the day for that....

Or, of course, he could read...but there was nothing of interest at the moment.

A calm, confident stance was important, and Elliot made sure that he kept his form composed as he took out the practice 'sword'.

Long gone were the days of make-believe...where he assumed that being some sort of hero gifted, as if by magic, with all the talents necessary to live with the honor he so desired would come to him with time. Long gone was the naivety that left him a stupid child carrying around a wooden sword...pretending to be that hero. And with its leave came a ferocious desire to prove himself as worthy.

To prove to all those who batted their eyes at his family...to show those that spoke with low, whispering voices, disgusting gossip aimed at the Nightray Dukedom..and..most of all...to combat those words that stayed with him...mocking him at every corner, the voices of those that doubted, those that pitied, those that tried to manipulate, fueling the flames to a fire that burned with hatred inside of him.

He'd use that fire, as his father had told him to....not only to throw his rage at that damned Vessalius family....but also to build in himself the honor he knew his family deserved. To earn it. To make everyone regret ever doubting him, or the Dukedom in the first place. 

With quick thrust forward with the 'blade'.....and a horizontal strike in immediate succession, he made his move. A blow for his anger, a jab for his pride, and one hard strike for all the suffering he had endured through the ignorance of his fellow 'nobles'. He would never be a 'gifted' swordsman. He would never hold the title of prodigy...of genius in the craft....but assuredly no one could stop him from trying. If something wasn't done with all of his energy, all of his strength, all of his will...then it wasn't worth doing at all....and with strike after strike, the boy could feel his strength draining from him.

How many times had he done this, practiced so fruitlessly with a skill he never seemed to better? He wasn't one to give in, to drop what progress he had made, even if it seemed too insignificant to matter...he had to do this. If he wasn't going to bare 'Raven' for the Nightray family...if he wasn't going to be who they needed him to be....then he was going to at least become strong for them.

"Ghh..."

Taking off a glove to wipe the sweat from his brow, the young nobleman temporarily set the fake sword down. He'd have to clean up soon...to return before his absence was noticed, but he felt as though....leaving too soon would be detrimental to all the practice he had done today. Maybe if he went for a little longer...worked himself a little harder...he could make today more worth while....If he could time himself...see that his speed has improved, his strikes harder....his blows more consistent.... but as he looked back towards the manor he knew his time for practice was over.

((My first update in weeks and it's a picture of my muse with his head partially cut off..that I drew. Fantastic job being an admin, Jack. Absolutely wonderful.

Nnh....I'll see if I can get to replies soon, I just...I've been iffy on whether or not I want to stay in this community for reasons dealing mostly with my own fears and issues, aha;;

"....!!"

Sudden as it always had been, the pain of the incuse turning had nearly knocked the boy to his knees. Had he not backed himself into the stern surface behind him, his feet would have given out, though, Elliot was lucky enough to find himself sliding slowly down the side of the wall...the cool surface feeling like ice against the back of his heated neck.

How close was he? How much longer did he have...?

How soon would he, too, perish at the metaphorical hands of the monster bound to him?

"........"

He couldn't will himself to look. He couldn't will himself to move...even after the throbbing subsided.

Oh, what pride he felt. Trembling on the floor like some sickened mutt off of the street.

Oh what honor he brought his family, mourning his own death before it had even come.

Oh what strength he held, falling to pieces after all the damage he had done, unable to stand up and face his responsibilities.

How...had he let himself fall into such a gloomy state....? He was supposed to be a hero, the one who reclaimed the Nightray name with the pride it so deserved, the honor and strength it was meant to carry with every utterance.....

Instead...he sat quivering under the weight of the pain building in his chest....

"WHY THE HELL WOULD YOU-….?!"

Though he was quick to argue with the logic behind this…decision that was made, as his hands felt the top of his head carefully, the young man realized it was far too late to fight with the one responsible.

What was done was done….and as much as it irritated him, he’d be stuck like this for the time allotted.

Although he quite liked cats…..it never occurred to him that he would be turned into one… because, of course, it was an absolutely nonsensical idea..an impossibility that wouldn’t even need considering..and yet, here he was, adorning a real pair of cat ears and a tail.

…It wouldn’t have been nearly as bad if he didn’t know how much the Nightray family disliked those fuzzy feline friends….. 

After all..they were a known favorite of those damned Vessalius…and that alone was enough to spur on a considerable amount of hatred.

"…………."