Drathil Courcelle: The Shadow of a Tiger

Candlelight gave the room a hazey orange glow. The nursemaid dabbed Rathor's lips. Spittle was running down his grizzled chin, the slight hint of blood red tarnishing his snowy beard. Drathil stood beside the bed, holding his father's hand with no distinct expression upon his face. His eyes were glistening but not through the need to cry, instead they were almost cheerful. This had been a moment long coming and he knew that the lordship would soon be in his grasp. In his free arm, he cradled his daughter. She slept soundlessly, nuzzled against the collar of his tunic, suckling upon a silver button in temporary replacement of her mother's teat.
"A gentle soul, is she not, father?" His eyes drifted across the withered old man who could do little more than stare back. Drathil removed his hand from his father's clutch and passed his daughter to the nursemaid who, without another word, left the room and closed the door behind her. Drathil paced the room, lifting the scattered remnants of Rathor's posessions as if he were already planning where to put his own belongings. The drapes around the bed made it hard for Rathor to remain focused on Drathil but still he spoke;
"W-Water, my son..." his voice was raspy and each syllable a strain to his throat. An audible gulp echoed the room as Rathor swallowed back rising blood. Drathil did not question his father, striding to his bed with a goblet of water. He perched it to his lips and eased it in, his eyes remain fixed on the decaying husk that lie beneath him. He had rehearsed his next words in front of his own father's tall mirrors for many years, since he was a boy. Since his mother died.

He closed his eyes to picture the moment. He had returned home from her funeral, his eyes dry as a desert wind. His father had taught him not to cry nor laugh. These were signs of vulnerability and a Courcelle boy should mask any weakness of emotion. His father had rarely spoken since Drathil's mother had died a week prior. His father's eulogy to his deceased mother was inspirational to Drathil. It touched everyone differently: some cried, others prayed but Drathil was the only one that smiled. Not at the soft spoken words of his father but the deathly silence that the families accumulated respect had emulated across the attendees. He sat on his bed, peering out at the streets of Dalaran from his bedroom window. He looked up to his father and was most proud to be a Courcelle. That was until this one particular night. As he watched snow fall upon the brightly cobbled pathways of the Courcelle manor, he heard his door creak open. His father stood, clad in a cloak with their White Tiger sigil implanted upon it, with a paper thin dagger - no larger than a letter opener - clutched in his hand. He muttered a spell and music filled the room. It was a song his mother used to sing to him, yet it felt as if a string quarter were present in the room. He waltzed toward Drathil, his movement an elegant dance as if he were about to perform for his son, though this particular performance only had two distinct moves. The slice and the twist. The screams of the one son audience were drowned out by the succession of flutes over the draping of violins. If by chance the rest of the household heard, their ignorance kept them safe. As the performance came to an end, the red drapes drizzled down the scarred boy's body. Never cut anywhere it could be seen. There were many more encores still to come and with any great theatre piece, Drathil remembered. He was very good at remembering key moments of his life. All he needed to do was close his eyes and hum that soft, orchestral piece and everything then seemed to fall into place...

His eyes opened and he now noticed that his hand was clutching his dying father's once more.
"Our blood is the purest." Drathil let out a sharp breath of air, a smile followed, "Our hair is just as pure, did you know? We share the blood of the white tiger of old. Of course, you know this. You were the one who taught it all to me. Though, you missed the true meaning behind our hair. Had you never thought to question why the school of illusion is so popular in our bloodline?"
His father did not answer, he was choking on his own phlegm, so Drathil spoke louder.
"It is because our house is one grand illusion. The colour of white as the figurehead to the greatest spell of all. Why white, I hear you ask, father? Because it is angelic, pure and elegant. Behind white, you never expect there to be a shade of black. Yet there always is, isn't there father? I never did show you my shade. I never thought to share it with another being. This is quite exciting for me, a sense of relief. I could almost laugh." He smiled softly, a look of pity upon his brow, "None could say you were paranoid and you saw this as a strength. I saw your weakness. Where a lack of paranoia is in place, an equal lack of carelessness is created. You never did spice your wine, the simple things pleased you. Though, the spices I used were a little different to your usual expectations."

Drathil stood and smiled at his father who lie with a face riddled with confusion. He strode into his father's dressing room. A minute passed before he came out with the infamous White Tiger cloak draped across his back. His father knew what was coming and instinctively looked to both of Drathil's hands, but no knife was to be found. When his father returned his gaze to his son's eyes, he saw that the white had been diluted with a thick, black wisp. Drathil's closed his eyes, muttering a spell and the familiar string quartet began to play. He raised both of his hands and shadowed streams flew gently toward his former lord of the dance. In this particular piece, Drathil did not take the role of the spectator. He had become the conductor. Yet he had written a new performance which he quite simply entitled "The Shadow of a Tiger." Those final tortured screams of the late Rathor Courcelle translated to applause through the satisfied vengeance of the now, Lord Drathil Courcelle.


(( I'll have to edit this when I'm in a better mood! Halfway through writing it, I was given pretty bad news from a friend so it completely altered my plans for the story! ))

o_ O''

Coooooool.

Very well written, love how the idea of music is used as a tool.