#fantasy-writing

A character who ‘turns’ on his or her friends is tricky to write. Tricky if you do it wrong. How do you do it wrong? By not planning it.

Traitors should be doomed from the start, so to speak. You should figure out why they are going to become traitors far before they do. See, if you don’t know how to make your character sensibly betray the group, that means you probably don’t have a reason for him or her to do so in the first place.

This applies to a lot of questions: if you don’t know how to do something, it could be due to it being forced. Take a step back. What would drive this character to become a traitor, and hurt his comrades? If nothing would do this, or if nothing happened to make the character undergo such a change, then you should understand why it doesn’t make sense.

After you assess, you should either go back and make the necessary changes to the story to accomodate this betrayal, or drop the idea entirely. If there is no prior reasoning or foreshadowing, it may feel forced or strange to the reader.

Good luck.

Falére, My Rose,

I am loath to be the bearer of bad news, but I fear our engagement will last a touch longer than either of us had originally intended. Though I am aware our agreement was that I should complete my education, and return to make you my wife within the year, an opportunity of which I cannot fail to avail myself has fallen into my lap. I can only ask that you find it within yourself to forgive me.

As my father may have told you - through gritted teeth, no doubt - I found the study of law dull and dreary, and have shifted from my plans to become a barrister. Instead, I have spent the past months burning the midnight oil as I search the archives for historical tomes. Falére, the wife of a scholar is not liable to live glamorously, and should you still wish to marry me when I return, you can expect numerous lonesome nights and curious looks from passersby about Marberona. I am torn between wanting better for you than I can provide, and hoping that you shall carry a torch for me.

But alas, for the time being, I am bound away. A professor under whom I was studying has chartered a voyage to Obo Tanie, and has invited me to join him in observing the culture of the native Tani people that live there. If you may recall, the beaded necklace I sent to you on your birthday is of Tani make. Their craftsmanship is quite popular here in the capital, but what can be found at market stalls only scrapes the surface of their greater artistic capability.

My professor has not informed me when we might return, only that when we do, we shall be greeted with great fanfare. I am less convinced, as the study of foreign cultures has not always interested the greater populace, but I intend to go nonetheless. Education is its own reward, is it not? While I am away, I shall write to you as often as I am able, and enclose what gifts the couriers are willing to carry. Unless dried, flowers will not survive the journey, but I shall endeavor to find another way to show my devotion.

Sweet Falére, I know that I do not deserve you, your unwavering admiration and loyalty. As much as it pains me to say it, I would forgive you if you sought out another potential husband. The Duérse family is well-appointed, but we are not so greatly blessed that I am an indisputable option. Your beauty deserves to be appreciated.

By the time this letter reaches you, I shall be at sea, following the stars to the far islands. Until I am able to embrace you once again, my love, know that my heart aches for you, and shall ache all the more the further away I get from my home.

Unwaveringly Yours,

Father,

I hope this letter finds you well. I must advise, however, that if you have not already done so, you relocate to your study. There is a strong likelihood that what you are about to read will not sit well.

First, I must apologize for how long it has been since my last letter. I could lie and say it is because my studies in Ringón are taking up so much time that I am unable to write, but I doubt it would fool you. As easy as it may be for me to lose myself in a book, I made no secret of the fact that studying law was a compromise. No matter how hard I have fought to remain true to our agreement, my persistence has boundaries.

During the winter, I hit my breaking point. The life of a barrister is not, and will never be, for me. Even knowing how you might react, I have abandoned that course of study and taken up something new.

Before you react with anger, I must remind you, the study of history, foreign culture, and linguistics were all embraced by great leaders and military minds throughout our great country’s rise to sovereignty. General Rosel Felitz wrote a well-received account of his battles that is still used for teaching today, and the Lord-Governor speaks five languages. Perhaps I will not reach the same heights, but I have not chosen a worthless pursuit. Please remember that.

A piece of me so feared your retribution that I had intended not to tell you until returning to Marberona, but I have other news. A well-known professor, Cesír Boncome, has asked me to join him upon an expedition to the far side of the world. While scholars have met and studied the cultures of many Sudaoran nations, there is not as yet a comprehensive paper upon the Tani people of Obo Tanie, and Mtr. Boncome intends to change that.

It will mean I am away for longer than intended, but perhaps you will take some pleasure in knowing that my tuition will no longer be a concern. The Tani live simple lives, and beyond the cost of chartering a ship to bring us to their islands, the cost of our grand adventure is expected to be small.

I would very greatly like to write to mother and Ilha as well, but there is only so much time, and I believe the most important person to notify after yourself is Falére. If you can find it in yourself to utter my name after reading this letter, please tell them I love them and will think of them often. I am told there are traders bound for Marberona that make port in the trade city of Dzahir, and merchants from Dzahir do business with the Tani, so there will be more letters once we are established.

It seems sometimes that my greatest skill is disappointing you. After so long pushing for me to become a barrister, you presented the option of a favorable marriage, only for me to switch focus to law. And now, I have abandoned that as well. It must be difficult for you to have two children so different from yourself. Ilha, so boisterous and unwilling to bend to tradition, and myself, quiet and obstinate. Were I a different person, I might strive to impress you with the renown my writing on the Tani receives, but I know you better. Therefore, this is not a request for clemency, but a notification of intent. I will return someday, and whatever you may think of me, I will return as a historian.

Kiss mother and Ilha, and light a candle for me at Asa Ferché.

Your Son,

The worst part was that he'd seen it coming.

The serrated edge of his sword caught another slash of the knife, turned it, threw it aside.  It should have provided an opening, an end to this dance, but he had no room to maneuver.  As he drew back with the long blade, his hand again slammed against the far wall of the cramped, dim tunnel.  

Another knife to his opponent's hand -- another reversion to the same bad position he'd been in a blink before.  Gods, how many did he carry?

Hiram hadn't seen it coming.  He was a good fighter, certainly, but his real talent was an affable nature - for what he was, anyway - that had made it easy for the pair to make connections, find work.  For thieves and sometimes assassins, that was vital, and Hiram's way of smiling his way out of bad situations had saved them more than once.

But he'd been too confident, and now his smile had a twin, a yawning gash in his throat.  

He gripped the sweat-stained leather hilt of his sword, swinging it brutally down overhead, trying to drive the man back, but found himself sidestepped, easily.  Too damn fast, everything was going too damn fast--

The knife caught him in the shoulder, then, a quick, forward lunge that felt like the prick of a bee at first blush.  Then came the rest, the kick of the pain like too much liquor, searing in his brain and sending him staggering back, stumbling against the far wall.  

There should have been little reason to fear this sort of double-cross.  It was always at least a slight risk, humming in the background, but people with his reputation, with Hiram's, didn't usually have to pay it much heed.  They had a solid reputation:  they never asked questions, they didn't talk about past employers or past missions, and - above all - they always completed their contracts.  

So, even though he'd felt a tickling at the back of his mind, some notion that something about this job didn't quite make sense, he'd gone down into the old sewers alongside Hiram with nothing but his sword on his hip, figuring that it was nothing, surely.  Just paranoia.

His sword dropped from slack fingers, pain from his bloody shoulder leaving them numb and throbbing.  A guttural cry wrenched itself from his throat, and he flung himself forward inside the smaller man's reach, tackling him hard with his full weight.  The two fell to the ground together, knife clattering on the ground. He  saw stars as his shoulder banged harshly against the wet stone floor, vision swimming between darkness and the harsh dim, but he held on, gritting his teeth and butting his head forward hard into the man's face.

He really should have said something.  He really should have done something, or skipped this meet, or this job, or something.  He and Hiram had been close.  Friendship was rare in this line of work, and he wasn't likely to find another like him.  

He opened his eyes again some time later, staring down at the bloody ruin of his assailant's face.  His entire body ached, his shoulder the thrumming, throbbing center of his consciousness, and he was vaguely aware that he must have broken his nose.  He tried to shove back, push himself up, but only managed to roll over, wheezing for breath through blood-sticky lips.  

"...You've made one hell of a mess."  Came a nearby voice, cold, with a tone trying to sound detached, but mostly coming across nauseated.  

He tried to push himself up, to reach for his sword, wherever it might have fallen, but only really managed to flex his fingers and lie there, gasping like a fish.