Adoration of a White Dragon (Sting x Rogue Fanfic)

Chapter 1: When Darkness Falls

Rogue's ROV:

The river ran down the mountain and into the valley casting a fog. Down there, the bandits were lying in wait. That was something Akros knew for certain. Beneath the cloudy curtains was nothing but unknown territory outside of what the clan chief had told him before he had left.

"No one returns," he had said. "We do not pride in asking an outsider, but we understand if you refuse for the risk. We have lost eight warriors and the one who returned only mutters about bandits hidden in the valley keep. But, the rapids keep us rooted to our land here in the mountains. We cannot lose more to them, but we also know that if no one can stop the bandits, we will starve and die."

Akros had taken the task with no complaint. He was strong and had face more treacheries as a mercenary. He knew looming danger as well as he knew the back of his hand or every toe on his foot. The dagger at his waist would carry him even—

The pencil snapped, lead popping off and rolling off his desk. It landed with a light drumming before hitting the desk leg, ceasing all movement. Kicking it off to who knows where, I groaned and begrudgingly snagged the sharpener and rhythmically turned it like a well-oiled piston until the lead grinded into a point again. It made me wish I just gave in and bought mechanical pencils at the beginning of the year, but such decisions had already passed. I suppose having too many normal pencils was never a bad thing anyway.

I glanced at the clock and saw it was ticking towards seven already. I clicked my tongue, annoyed at how late it had already gotten. Time passed much too quickly for my taste. It would be a fool's errand to try and keep writing now. I shoved the pencil back into my pouch and closed the journal. For today, the gateway was closed and sealed, the story frozen for another day. And one day in the future, it would come alive in the minds of other people if I got the chance to publish it.

Pouch and journal were both thrown into my backpack off to the side and shoved under my bed. It was a mercy that I had managed to keep it hidden for as long as I have been able to.

He would be home soon, and that paper on the counter would be his first interest. The second would be to come after me.

I closed my eyes trying to find that moment of peace. Sometimes, I wondered what life would be like if it wasn't like this, if I had the chance to live a normal life with a normal family. The Orlands were far from that whether I liked it or not. And that was being sparse.

The thundering footsteps shook the walls and roused me to attention. Picking myself out of my chair, I pushed it in and straightened out the carpet into the center of the room. Moving to the middle, I stood straight up, shoulders back, legs relaxed, and waiting for the impact. The door crashed open, and that man arrived.

"You goddamn brat!" I could nearly see the steam coming off his persona just from the venomous tone seething off his voice. "Did I say you could get a fucking B? Do you think you're going to school for recreation? For fun?" A hand slapped across my face and the force alone buckled my knees and sent me to the floor. I grunted and pressed my lips together knowing any sound would make it worse. The carpet had been a good touch, much better than the hardwood beneath it. As quickly as it came, my face left it as another hand yanked the cuff of my shirt and dragged me back up.

I strained to make absolute eye contact, but it was quickly becoming difficult to breathe. These hands were much stronger than mine, and they came with the intent to kill. One wrong move and I knew it was over. Punishment was my eternal mantra for imperfections. The B that broke the straight-A streak throughout my schooling was an imperfection even if it had been only one single point off the criteria. That was one single point closer to the end of my lifespan.

"I'm sorry, sir," I cried, hissing or breathing, I couldn't tell. "It won't happen again." My foster father clicked his tongue as he threw me down again, spitting onto my face. I cringed at the wetness slapping my cheeks and braced myself for another hit or some kind of kick, but he turned around in animosity.

"If it happens again, I'll ship you to another damn country for labor work," he growled. Without another word, he scoffed and walked out. When the door finally slammed close, I sighed in relief.

My chest felt heavy-winded, almost pained to regain my regular breathing rate. My heart felt like it would jump out of my small chest. I tried to sit up, but the shaking was too much. I gave in to my fate and rolled over pressing my face somewhere in between the cold wooden floor and the thin carpet fibers. The old splintering wood stuck up into my spine, threatening to snap if I so much as tried to haunch over. But, I could care less about it. A broken mind to match the broken body, wasn't that just reality? Weariness is just life's progression. My vision was blurring and the popcorn ceiling was becoming a haze, tainted decaying white paint peeling off and dropping fragmented chips around me.

I had always imagined that being adopted was going to bring a lavish lifestyle, but I sorely wished that I hadn't come here. If I had just aged out of the system and found a life all my own, I think I would have faired better. It wasn't a bad thing, living with no parents. The orphanage always had kids. When one person left, someone new would take their place. We thrived off each other and our laughs melted together to make our songs. Each day brought mystery and opportunity as much as it did animosity from the world. But, the reflection of who I am now, I don't think that the child from back then is still alive.

And even the current me, he was barely making it through.

They say that some of the world's greatest geniuses had hardships that were beyond comprehension. Thomas Edison was kicked out of school. Isaac Newton hated his family after his mother remarried and threatened arson. Albert Einstein wasn't accepted by society.

Was this the extent of mine? Rogue, no, Ryos Orland, genius non-blood-related spawn of Jiemma Orland and sister of Minerva Orland.

When I was adopted from the orphanage, it wasn't because I was cute or helpless. It was because I read old textbooks that local schools threw away. My level of education was beyond many of the oldest children, so I was picked to become the family heir. Jiemma didn't want some 'Rogue' though. No, he took my name and stripped everything about me. I became the one he wanted, Ryos. However, whenever I messed up, punishment was inevitable. Discipline was mantra. Absolution was habitual.

Without these virtues, I was less than mere dirt. And even if it meant getting through a beating, it was better to try to live if it meant I could at least merit above that.

I couldn't just lay here forever. There were things to do, and more goals to accomplish. The next time, and the next, I have to stay in this game. Because the next time, I want there to be no next time. And maybe, Jiemma would be proud of the son I had become.

I forced myself upright and walked over to my desk. Time was of the essence, and I had none left to mess around writing. Homework still needed to be done. I grabbed my textbooks and notebooks out from one of the drawers and got to crunching numbers and enunciating words. I would do better. I needed to do better. And tomorrow, I had to survive.