LEAR HALLOWS |★| D2

September -

His name is Lear - like the King. And he is a King, in his way. He is a King in his stride, so resolute that fear ripples through the veins of his subjects like blood. Lear is a King of presence. When he walks into a room, it falls as silent as the graves he sometimes helps to dig. Frostbitten fingers dig deep into the cracks between their sanity when his eyes fall upon them. Glassy orbs sparkle with knowing. And then there is the voice, deep and so filled with authority that it reaches it's dreadful fingers out into the unknown and grasps the darkness completely. Terrifying. Nobody denies Lear what he wishes. In return, Lear whispers his words of magic and grants the wishes of those who please him. As for those that fail to do so? Goodbye, my sweet. Better luck next time. Everyone is Lear's victim - the moment he lays his glassy gaze upon your downturned eyes, you are a player in his games. Losing is not an option for those who want a bearable life beyond that game. Step right up and roll that dice, my pretty. Don't look back; all that will greet you is darkness. He calls to the others from within their very souls, and one by one they come to him as they always do. Temptation is such an easy motivation - but with pain deterring them from turning, how can the peasants flee? How can they look upon that shadowy face, the stature of the man short yet somehow giant, with a wake like a mountain, and tell him, "No."

Lear is standing with his back to the peasant. He calls the people peasants because they are generally insignificant to his plans. Rarely they have a purpose. Categorised easily into useful, obstacle and useless, the common people are often below his notice. Not this one, though. This one has been summoned to Lears bedroom. More often than not this place is referred to as The Lair. It is the place you end up if you are about to receive terrible punishment or great reward. It is modestly furnished - nothing too fancy. A bed, neatly made. The covers tucked in just a little too tightly. A window, through which light shines. Lear stands blocking the view, his figure dark and imposing against the outside world. There is a chair set away from the great stone fireplace. The impostor feels her eyes sliding away from here; there is something sinister about it. Like perhaps the fuel that is used to keep that fire alight is not quite right. Everything about the room is threatening to the stranger. Just as Lear likes it. They hesitate by the doorway until the man commands that they enter. A sweep of his hand, the slight tilt of his head. That is all. The girl dare not refuse.

The hesitant steps she takes as she crosses the threshold linger long after her shuffling feet fall still. Lear brings the door to a silent close and gestures for the girl to sit. He is a man of actions, of piercing glares and presence. A man of few words. The air is thick with something the girl does not recognise. Fear? Apprehensiveness? Impatience? It takes her a moment longer to realise that the air is thick with none of these things; only the smoke which drifts lazily from the pipe dangling from Lear's thin lips. When he finally speaks, Lear's voice is no more than a faint whisper. Somehow it carries with it all the meaning of a billion voices all screaming at once. Loud and harsh in the depths of the girl's mind. "For what reason have you come to me, child?" It is Lear's darkest secret that he is still but a child himself. This is something that lingers around the murky recesses of his mind every moment he is awake - if they were to suspect that his tangled web of lies didn't quite add up. The outcome is almost unthinkable to the boy. (And that is all Lear is, really. Not a King. Just a boy. Afraid and self-conscious beneath the haughty demeanour )

The girl is silent for just a little too long. Perhaps lost in those terrible, cliched windows to his soul. And then she starts, just a little, coming to her senses with a sickening jolt of the neck. "I need your help." Her words are hollow, filled with despair. Lear is quite clearly her last resort. And so with shaking fingers and a trembling lip she forces out the words she needs to say. "It's my turn next." Lear knows exactly what she means by this simple sentence; he hears it enough not to flinch when she breaks down there and then. He will clean up the tears later, just as he will be the one clearing up her blood later. He looks at her steadily. Patience seeping through his skin into the hazy air, he waits for her to choke back her sobs. Raising his thick eyebrows, he let's his voice grow just a little louder. "What are you asking for?" It is not impatience that infests his voice like a swarm of ravenous locusts, but curiosity. A challenge, a game of sorts, set by the master of all games. "I'm asking for your help, Lear. You can help me." If the young girls frantic words tug upon the heartstrings of her superior, he does not let this show on his face. It is as though he is guarding his features. Like a game of cards, the gambler holds his emotions close. And so the man reaches out his hand, in one slight movement pulling a letter from where it is tucked inside his pocket. "I can help. But what's in it for me?" He folds the letter once, absentmindedly touching it's edges.

"Name your price, Lear."


October -

Lear heads out before the others to check that everything is perfect. Of course, it is, because Lear does not make mistakes. He cannot afford the peasant errors that he watches the world fall into so blindly. The grass is crisp and wet with dew under his heavy feet; the man doesn't so much as glance down in his hurry. He forgets to notice the little things in his blind hurry to find the ultimate in everything he does. As he makes his way to the battlefield, Lear believes he is all alone. Walking the well-worn path just before the sun makes it's way over the edge of the world. The battlefield is just as he left it the night before. The weapons are lined up exactly where his fingers lay them; so precise, the evening previously. He likes that part of his life. The nighttime visit to the deathbed of so many where he choses their fates so easily. Always, he follows through with the deals he has made. Sometimes even these truces with the devil are not enough to save the lives of the children. Lear doubts that the girl's granted wish will be her salvation today. He sets his eyes upon the weapons he has chosen. Most would not call them as such, however to Lear's wandering eyes, anything is a potential tool in the frightening quest to murder. He does not kill the children himself. He uses the sicking games of Melnont House to have them fight. All that was done for him before he even lied his way into the job. And now he gets to choose the little things. The details. The weapons and the setup and the things that matter. One of them will die and Lear believes that this is entirely up to him. He approves. As long as Lear can play King, everything is alright.

January -

The sky is a brilliant blue, but as Lear crosses the District he does not look up. Instead, his eyes are fixed firmly ahead of him, avoiding both his well-polished shoes and the stars that light his way. His usual shadowy cheeks are a shade darker in the moonlight and if anyone happened to be watching they would think that he isn't quite touching the ground, so faint is his step. As he reaches the outskirts of the Melnont Grounds, a look crosses his sharp features. A look he has never worn and will never wear again. A mixture of fear and anticipation and regret and excitement. He runs his tongue over his dry, cracked lips and the mysterious expression vanishes. He has reached an old, grand building. The door of
Melnont House swings open a fraction of a second before Lear's gloved fingers can reach the bell. "Mr. Hallows, why don't you come inside?" Lear nods, slipping in through the expensive entrance and suppressing his awe at the rich decor, which is evident even in the darkness. Lear recognises Altiar Melnont from the aching heartlessness which is laced within the undertones of his speech. He recognises the same sickening trait in his own careful words."I've come about the job. I believe I hold the correct... qualifications." The office is shadowy, the air stiff and dry. Lear allows himself to be ushered inside by the older man. Smiling just a little, the boy hands over an envelope. His lies are smooth, a mask covering up all the secrets beneath. "Of course, of course. You understand exactly what is expected of you?" Mr. Melnont stands over his desk, and Lear can feel his presence in the atmosphere, perhaps almost as feared and overbearing as his own. Not quite so icy, though. With another curt nod, Lear notes that Altiar lacks a certain freezing presence to his words.

He figures that not everyone can be King.