Post by sigurd bastien asgaard on Sept 13, 2012 5:29:33 GMT -5
SIGURD BASTIEN ASGAARD
there was nothing illustrious about the fact that sigurd was born an asgaard, as he was an illegitimate child. against his grandfather's wishes, his father chose to raise him alongside his siblings, one the same age as he was, the other, three years older. not willing to let the outside world know of the truth, his grandfather had insisted that sigurd be raised as a child the family took in out of pity for after a distant relative passed away.
he was enrolled in hogwarts when he came of age, instead of durmstrang or beauxbatons (where his siblings were). sigurd suspected that his grandfather had had something to say in the matter, but did not press the issue. he is the type of student who is passable at everything, but not exceptionally good at anything - his teachers occasionally comment that he holds potential, yet nothing seemed to come from his efforts. (perhaps he was pouring his attention on the wrong things, they said as well.)
over the years, his grandfather had grown steadily paranoid that sigurd would eventually challenge for the family fortunes and heirlooms. yet, sigurd had never shown a hint of inclination or care towards family affairs, preferring to mind his own most of the time. he eventually found out that his grandfather's accusations weren't entirely baseless; his father eventually admitted that he was a pure-blooded wizard, while his siblings were half-blooded. despite being a child born out of wedlock, he was more than qualified by magical blood to inherit everything.
unable to stand the constant accusations and arguments that preceded any sort of family gathering, sigurd chose to stay back every time the holidays rolled around, starting from his fifth year onwards. now in his seventh year at hogwarts, sigurd's relationship with his family hasn't improved any, and recently, has been bordering on strained. letters between him and his family are now few and far between, and he has come to believe the fact that even his father is being steadily influenced by his grandfather.
sigurd often lets logic and rationale lead his thinking. he isn't afraid to cast emotions aside to make decisions for the greater good -- kill one person, save a hundred? consider it done. he can and will go to extremes; though his logic may be twisted at times, he believes that what he does will eventually benefit the greater good, and of course, himself.
as a result, he rarely lets his temper get the better of him, choosing to hide behind a cool, insensitive face that precedes cynical comments. he isn't particularly quiet, or chatty; he tends to fade into the background, but merlin knows he is alert, observant, and not afraid to fight back when picked on. he thinks that emotions get in the way of rational thinking, and an emotional person is often, irrational as they would act recklessly.
at the same time, sigurd never truly believes what is told to him until he sees it himself -- as a result, his friends are few and far between, but those he does consider friends are held with more trust and concern than he lets on. however, family is always a sensitive issue for sigurd; he doesn't believe that he has ever loved his family, or felt more than simple concern for them. as far as things are concerned, he doesn't think that he has had an emotional connection to any of his relatives.
to those he considers friends, he is a good person to approach for intellectual exchanges, or casual, socializing banter. this is perhaps due to the fact that he knows slightly more than a little about everything, but not a whole lot; a jack-of-all-trades, in a way. he enjoys artistic pursuits such as playing the piano and violin, and while he is a novice at appreciating pieces of art, he does at least attempt to be a good sport at it.
drip. drip. drip.
all he can hear is the silent dripping of blood from the walls of his room. he isn't sure what happened, or what had brought the world to this state, this horrific stage that he wakes up to in the morning. he tries to ignore what he has seen; all the red, all the sanguine colors staining the walls of his room. the rest of the morning is a blur of sounds and lights as the police arrive and the paramedics rush from the ambulance to wrap thick blankets around him. they cart him into the back of the vehicle, giving him a cup of hot cocoa that he sips slowly as the doors shut before his eyes.
they tell him that everything's going to be okay, that he'll never have to see that dirty little room again. he'll never have to remember again, as long as he takes these pink-colored pills when he wakes in the morning, and these blue ones before he sleeps at night. it'll keep the dreams and memories away, they tell him. it's easy; these pills are going to fix everything. he believes what they say because he has no reason to doubt them.
even when the nightmares return to haunt him, and he wakes up with tears staining his cheeks, he tells the nurses that nothing's wrong. he insists that he is fine. just a nightmare, no, not the one with all the blood. was chased by a beast in the forest, that's all. got caught in a trap. he lies, he tries to deceive, and it seems to work. he curls up under the covers when they leave, afraid to fall asleep lest they come back to torment him.
"you're crying again."
he hears the voice from the bed next to his, and flinches. his legs are almost pressed to his chest now; the covers provide too little of a barrier between him and the voice for his liking. he remains silent, willing the voice to go away. yet, realization at the back of his mind tells him -- people are persistent beings. no one starts a conversation only to drop it, no. they want to find out more about something, and until they do, they won't cease.
but it doesn't stop him from curling up in the covers in a fetal position, hoping that something different would attract the attention of the speaker. it doesn't stop him from worrying more than he should about how vulnerable he is and how helpless he can be when alone. (alone. that's how they found him in the room. he wasn't crying, nor was he smiling. he thinks he was confused back then; how could a dead body hold so much blood?)
"if you don't say anything, i'm taking it as a sign of silent agreement."
female, the voice is female. he can recognize the slight lilt to it, the pitchiness despite efforts to keep her voice low. so his neighbor is a girl -- briefly, he wonders what she is doing in the hospital. she certainly didn't have blood in her room when she woke up the next morning. she shouldn't be here, he thinks. he wants to be alone, and if she's there, he can't really be alone now, can he? unconsciously, his hands are already at his face, trying his best to wipe away the remnants of his tears on his sleeve.
"okay, you were crying. good night."
he looks up, and peers at the girl from the small slit between the covers and the bed. 'no, i wasn't,' the words form in his throat, but he chokes them back. no point in answering if he didn't want to further participate in the conversation. mentally, he fights with himself over the fact that someone knows that he has been crying because of the nightmares, because the pills wouldn't work anymore. he can't really be alright if someone knows he has been crying -- what if she tells the nurses? he can't have that, no.
"i know you're still awake."
there's the voice again, and this time, his voice doesn't choke and he replies confidently: "i am. what do you care about me, anyway?"
