So, you tell me which is better: the red pill, or the blue pill?
Well, you'll be choosing between two of them, because I've already discarded one. I'm not going to tell you anything about anything, so you can read without any baggage dragging you down. I'm not particularly pleased with either one, and they are rough drafts, but... you get the picture. I want to know which one is more... salvageable.
The RED PILL:
The letter, in every way, shape, and form, was both beautiful and hideous to him. Ignoring the handwriting, which spoke volumes by itself, Thoramir examined the paper, a thick, leathery sheet that was unusually smooth. Furthermore, it was had an unmistakable silver sheen, like the pulp had been dyed or painted before use.
And what a use! Written in a rich, green ink, the jerky scrawl promised to fulfill Thoramir's dreams, if for a price... a price he could handle, in time.
Murder, in the end, was a small, even miniscule, price. A price Thoramir would very willingly make, considering the victim.
“Tor!”
Thoramir slipped the letter into his boot, being careful to fold it exactly as it had been; he had to focus, for now. He would have to put the glory of his triumph away, if only for a few more hours.
Or, he could quit.
“Tor! If your forge gets any colder-!”
The threat hung in the air, unfinished; to Thoramir, it was nothing more than a fly buzzing around his head, insignificant and easily ignored. The same threat, made a few hours earlier, would have cut Thoramir more painfully than a double-edged sword through the chest.
A few hours earlier, he had been a refugee, a nameless face, an escapee.
But now- but now! He had the opportunity he had longed for, the chance to make a name for himself, to become his own person...
To kill his father, even...
He could just image it-
“Tor!”
Thoramir shook himself from his daydreams and re-entered the forgery; the pulsing of the hammers threatened to drive his new found freedom from his mind, but he couldn't allow it.
“Tor!”
Thoramir was strongly tempted to ignore the head blacksmith, Markus, but common sense convinced him otherwise.
“Sir?”
Markus gave him the eye. “How long does it take to read a letter?”
“Not long.”
“Then act like it! We have eight more orders to fill before the days end, and distractions don't help! Get busy, before I'm busy with you!”
Tor rolled his eyes and picked up his hammer.
Perhaps the letter could free him.
Or the BLUE PILL?
The letter was both beautiful and hideous to Thoramir.
He started with the paper: a thick, leather-like sheet. And rather than sporting the typical white or yellow tinge of paper, the letter glinted with a silver hue, like it had been dyed or painted before use. Not cheap paper, by any standard, but that was part of the letter's glory.
The handwriting, next. It was rather jagged, jerky, like the author had been in a rush. Legible, yes, but narrow and tall, with calligraphic curls and loops on the capital letters. A man's scrawl, undoubtedly. The ink also told a tale; Thoramir had never heard of someone using green ink in a mere letter before. A painting, obviously, but a letter? To someone of his lowly stature?
And the seal, perhaps the second-most important part of the letter. The seal was made of green wax, matching the ink; however, it conveyed a very different personality than the handwriting. There was a triangle imbued in a square, and inside the triangle... he was not sure. It was too small, but something was there, and he knew that it was, by definition, important.
He would have to find out later.
That left the most important aspect of the letter: the content. It was so right it could have been wrong; someone less suspicious than Thoramir would have doubted its truth.
The author made it right: the King had the power to fulfill what he promised, that is, Thoramir's dreams.
But the nature of the promise made it wrong: how could someone fulfill Thoramir's dreams, in all seriousness? Yes, it was the King, but... the last time they met, he had been four and a half. The King didn't know him, and he didn't know the King- he didn't even remember him!
But it was the King! The King had personally asked to meet him, the King had personally requested his services-
“Tor!”
Thoramir folded up the letter and slid it into his boot; he'd have to save the thought for later.
“Tor! We need you!”
Running a hand down his face, Thoramir heaved a sigh; he wasn't sure if this letter was going to make his day better or worse.
“Tor! Tor! Please! Come back! Hurry!”
Thoramir turned from the empty stall and strode into the courtyard of the stables.
Yes, they did need him.
Three men, holding ropes and a halter, failed to calm Braedor, the stables' prize stallion and most tempermental charge. The horse bucked and kicked as the shouting increased; during his last rage, Braedor had ruined three doors and nearly created a stampede- if Markus was nearby, and anything was damaged...
Well, it was too late for that. Blood dripped from the ropes as blisters popped in the men's attempt to hold Braedor down.
“Tor!” One of them cried, relief washing across his face.
“I should leave it to you.”
“Please!” His co-worker pleaded, nearly getting yanked off of his feet by the dancing stallion. “Please, Tor, I know I already owe you-”
“Yes, you do.”
Sighing, Tor took four steps into the courtyard, making his presence known but easily ignored. Braedor stumbled but did not otherwise react; and from the snap and the cry, someone's shoulder had become dislocated from the yanking. -The yanking dislocated someone's shoulder-
“A little speed would be nice-!”
Four more steps, and Tor was immediately beside one of the stablehands- in the way, in other words. He silently took the rope from the hand's bleeding grasp and held tight as the bucking horse tried throwing him, to no avail.
The others holding down the tempermental horse looked towards Tor, waiting for his move. Some people, Tor was convinced, would never learn. With Braedor, you had two options: wait out the storm, or fight the tornado.
They obviously didn't know how to fight.
Tor waited until Braedor needed a breath, sides heaving, mouth foaming-
And Tor pounced.
Leaping from the ground, he mounted the wild horse in one swift move, locking his knees around the barrel of the horse, wrapping his arms around the sweaty neck.
“If you get a broken back-!”
Tor wouldn't, and everyone knew it. He had never lost a horse, as people said; it was that reputation that convinced the stablemaster, Markus, to buy Braedor in the first place. Tor was supposed to break an unbreakable horse.
Now was a good time to start.
Red or Blue? Neither? Tell me!