Kind of considering starting a Tiargeth Journal since he keeps inspiring me to write things that I finish and this never usually happens…
SWTOR tumblr fandom you are wonderful and I blame you and your wonderful short PC drabbles inspiring me to do the same.
In the mean time:
He used to dance to relax.
When he didn’t want to think any more, didn’t want to feel or think about feeling he practised.
There were always others nearby, the constant thrum of voices and music would beat through the walls of the practise rooms even if no one else was using them. There were only a few rooms made sound proof and none of them were on limits to a slave by themselves.
Sometimes there wasn’t anyone else using the room and he’d set the music himself, raising the volume as high as he dared so that that beat was the only one he would hear. He practised until he didn’t have to consciously think about what he was doing, his muscles knew what to do and he just let the music take him. All he felt was the burn of his muscles and the pull of his breathing and in those moments he could forget. In those moments nothing existed outside of himself and he could forget he was a slave, forget the reason he was trained to dance and forget the niggling feeling in the back of his mind that told him he was better then this.
He’d dance the same routine again and again until he was ready to collapse and he was too tired to do anything but stumble back to the sleeping quarters.
But he wasn’t a dancer any more.
The academy at night was quiet, there was no music and the students spoke in hushed whispers to one another. All there was to hear was the howling of wind, the occasional shout or crackle of energy.
There was no thrum, no constant beat and to Tiargeth that was more unsettling then giant flesh eating worms and the constant threat of a rival or teacher who wanted you dead.
In the empty training room he gripped the practise sword, it felt heavy in his hands, still unused to holding a weapon of any kind. He knew that needed to change. He bought the sword to ready and started to go through the motions and forms he’d been taught. But the silence threw him off, without a beat he felt odd and couldn’t reach that same place of uninterrupted movement.
He tried listening to the hum of the vibration blade but it had no rhythm.
He tried listening to his footsteps but they were too changing.
Finally in that silence he heard something constant, that never ending beat that was always there, thrumming through his body in the silence.
His heart.
His blood pounding through his veins.
He spun the blade and began again.
He would no longer dance for others. He wasn’t a toy any more.
This was music for killing.
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