toy soldier || Astor series
May 15, 2019 20:51:50 GMT -5
Post by pogue on May 15, 2019 20:51:50 GMT -5
"Again, Astor."Sweat drips from his forehead as his Father steps away from him, cracking each one of his fingers as he stares at his son. Astor doubles over, pressing the palms of his hands into his kneecaps as his lungs gasp for breathe. His Father had slammed the air from his lungs on the wrestling mat they stood on, crept away as his son groaned and writhed on the floor. His hearing blurs for a brief moment, senses heightening as he stares intently at the white floor beneath him.
Breath. His lungs grasp at the air, pain shooting through his chest.
Crack . His Father's fingers flex and groan, screaming through the silence."Get up, Astor."His eyes drift upward as he pulls his hands from his knees, straightening his chest and letting the ripples of pain course through his body. At this point, the ice that rests on his skin is painted with spots of purples and blue, flowering across his chest and stomach from where his Fathers knuckles had connected. Training was always temperamental, hinging on his Fathers emotions-
No, not his Fathers emotions, the businesses success.
On successful days, training became a bonding activity, father and son, the closest thing he had felt to a bond between him and his father. On bad days, it became a battle, his fathers anger and frustration exploding from white knuckles and cemented by purple bruises.
Today was part of the latter.
His Fathers eyes narrow, fire burning in his irises as his fists raise up. Astor mirrors his movements, his muscles groaning in protest as he takes one breath, two, three-
And then they are off again, fists flying and muscles tightening, breaths cut short and pain erupting from beneath the skin. He was raised to be a storm, brooding and powerful, but his Father was lightning, calculated and destructive. In all his years, his father had never slowed, had never missed a beat. In all his years, he had never won a spar.
Like a broken record, today was no different.
He hits the mat with a thud and feels pain erupt through his veins, the heavy air again knocked from his chest and darkness speckling the edges of his vision. His fathers shoe presses against his chest, grinding against his ribs as Astor lets out a groan. His father doesn't look at him-
not on a day like today.
The boot his father is wearing connects with his body and his entire right side goes numb, a yelp crawling desperately from his lips as he rolls on instinct, bracing his body for the next kick to come. But it doesn't, and the silence stretches between father and son, hanging heavy against the padded white walls of the room. Anxiously, nervously, he regains his composure, glancing to his father as his breaths come heavy, pulling his body until he rests on his knees."You're nothing, Astor. Not with a fight like that...
Pathetic."The words sting, aching worse than any wound that decorates his skin. A Pendragon is built on expectations, on success, on the desperation to perform. To achieve."Get up and get changed, we have a dinner to attend."He listens to his fathers footsteps as he shuffles out of the room, the way the door creaks and shatters the silence that rests between them.
A Pendragon was not supposed to be pathetic.
"Yes, sir."
