Oops.

I just realized that I published Chapter One of a story I was writing without telling you any other information. So here it is:

1) This is an attempt to organize ideas. Any comments you have will be taken into account as I revise and rewrite. I often have to rewrite whole sections before I get it just right. I will repost it after the revisions are made and have the changed bits marked out.
2) This is also the story of a mountain called Westsnow. It is one kingdom and no other land within one hundred miles belongs to it. To understand the story you have to understand the following points:
-There are ten Villages in Westsnow. Each Village has its own government and representatives that assemble for the first week of the year at the White Tower on top of the mountain.
-Westsnow has frigid winters and boiling summers.
-The first day of the year is Midsummer's Day, or June 21st. Holidays include Midwinter's Day and the fall equinox, which marks Harvest season.
3) The main character is studying to be a polititian but won't end up to be. Don't worry. I don't really understand politics myself.
4) This is fantasy. The school he is at is just a starting point; he leaves (aka gets expelled) after chapter two or three. This is not Harry Potter.

Thanks and sorry for not writing this earlier. I think that I may have confused some of you.

Part two of Chapter One

(Again, self explanitory)

The cleaning process was tedious and interrupted constantly with Heath-cliff shoving Nathanael around. But eventually the work wore him down and the tables were scrubbed with painstaking perception. After assigning the other seventeen trainees to less laborious tasks Flinch returned to inspect the boys. One speck of porridge and they had to start over. Not even Bradshaw dared to defy Flinch, as it would result in his expulsion or worse.  It took the better part of the morning, and by the time the sun was halfway up the sky they finished.

 

"Hmm," grunted Flinch. He obviously wasn't satisfied (probably wanted to torture them some more, thought Nathanael) but couldn't find anything wrong and dismissed them with a wave of his hand. "Go to your Arts lessons."

 

They didn't need to be told twice. Nathanael rocketed up the stairwell to the dormitory. He had just enough time to slip into a clean (well, cleaner) robe and snatch up his viol case, running up the stairs to the attic along the way. Miss Lavinsky did not like late pupils.

 

Nathanael gasped and leaned on the doorpost. Miss Lavinsky didn't look up. "You're late, Nathanael." Her singsong accent was stern as she shuffled through her papers.

 

Katia Lavinsky was a slim, attractive woman with ice grey eyes and golden hair that was normally braided back. Her nose, prominent but not too large, was often buried in a large and (to Nathanael) unnecessarily boring volume. She could play most any kind of instrument and was the music teacher for Hardy. She also seemed to severely admire Rupert Heather, a musician from Finley. He was popular among young women, for some strange reason. Nathanael sat down in the chair opposite her, set his music up on the stand and, gasping for air, took out the viol and began tuning it.

 

"So, Nathanael," she mused. "I heard that you started a fight at breakfast today."

 

Nathanael didn't reply.

 

"It is not good for a musician to be loud and noticeable. It is not good for their mind. It does not help you play smoothlier. Look at Rupert Heather! Quiet as a stone!" She glanced at him over her folder. "Have you been practicing, Nathanael?"

 

Nathanael was again silent. They both knew the answer.

 

"Practice is key, Nathanael! If you don't practice you will never get it right! You must practice a thousand times! Then you will get it right. You don't practice-" She slammed her palms together. "Ker-splat! You're finished! Rupert Heather practices at least five hours a day, and listen to his music!"

 

"Alright, alright! I'll practice more often!"

 

Katia didn’t believe it (Nathanael didn't believe it, either), but they moved on. "What did you do this week, then?"

 

"Um, Winter Wind, Minuet in C Minor and the Hardy Anthem."

 

"Okay. Begin."

 

He began. Miss Lavinsky immediately ordered him to stop. "No, no, no, no, no! Your winter wind sounds like the cry of a dying mockingbird! Smoothlier! You must let it flow. "

 

Nathanael stumbled through it again. Katia Lavinsky frowned. "Satisfactory," although it clearly wasn't. "Move on."

 

The rest of the lesson went like that. Nathanael would play to be halted by Miss Lavinsky to provide helpful tips: "You must be steady! If people dance to this they will trip!" "Pay attention to dynamics, Nathanael!" "No, no, no. That's a C sharp, not an F."

 

When all three songs had been finished, the sun was high in the sky and Nathanael had to rush to lunch. He sat beside Lionel Carpenter and stared, not hungry, at the loaf of bread that that been laid in front of him. Lionel was tearing off bits of his. "S'pose they didn't want something too sloppy, right?" Nathanael was silent. Lionel's attempts to cheer him up were feeble. He sighed. "So how did Miss Lavinsky react to your being late?"

 

"Better than I expected." Nathanael bit into his bread and discovered that it was filled with onions and meat. "What did Flinch make you do?"

 

"Slop the pigs and scatter ash among the garden. 'Twas simple.  How was cleaning?"

 

"Was that rhetorical?"

 

"Good point."

 

They continued in silence. Nathanael threw down his bread. "I don't understand. I just don't! Why did I have to clean the stupid cantina when it was Baker's fault?"

 

Lionel took another bite. "Well," he began cautiously, "you did call Over-Bridge a liar."

 

"But that was none of their business!  Over-Bridge should have come himself!"

 

"'Tis the weak who hide behind the strong. Don't you understand Nathanael?'Tis obvious that Over-Bridge offered them a heavy reward!" He jabbed his thumb towards a table behind them. "Behold!" Timothy Over-Bridge was swaggering out the door. The money bag slung around his waist jangled, sounding considerably lighter. Across the room Bradshaw of the wood and Heath-cliff' hands held lumpy bags and greedy gleams devoured their eyes. Heath-cliff's fixed Nathanael's, and they stared at each other for a few seconds before Nathanael turned away. He shook his head, disgusted.

 

"I don't believe it! I  did all that work to earn Baker and Bradshaw a few Pieces."

 

"They suffered, too."

 

"Oh, shut your mouth, Carpenter," Nathanael explained exasperatedly. "Just leave me alone."

 

Lionel's eyes flashed. "I am not antagonizing, Mister Smithy. I am merely attempting to understand the problem that you seem to be facing with the Military Trainees. It is common knowledge that they don't care a piece of straw for anything or anyone, much less Over-Bridge. It's not as though they would be beating you up out of the goodness of their hearts. When you deal with Trade you have to see both sides of the issue." He stood up abruptly, grasping the sides of his plate. "I will be in the dormitory." So he put the plate in the dish barrel and marched swiftly out of the room. He even managed to shoulder aside Alfred Taylor (who was no small boy).

 

"Lionel!" Nathanael cried. "Wait!" He scrambled up and out the door.

 

"'Ay!" Jared Marksmen called after him. "Smithy! Ya forgot yer plate!" But Nathanael was already too far away.

First part of Chapter One

Self explanitory.

Hardy was probably the smallest Village in Westsnow. It still is, it you make it there today, but the people there are merry and kind, so it isn't like the bigger Villages like Craft or Rushtop where everyone minds their own business so much so that there wasn't much stopping to talk and laugh. Not that they're  unpleasant, but Hardy is at the bottom of the Mountain Westsnow and, truthfully, their rum is unbeatable.

 

There weren't really many important people in Hardy because it was quite looked down upon by the rest of the people in Westsnow, so to speak. The biggest industries were weaving and carpentry and tanning, but most people got their tables from Tree and cloth from Payse so the Hardy villagers didn't do much trading. However, despite to their isolation from the other Villages Hardy managed to do just fine material-wise; they grew their own crops instead of importing them from the Fields of Laurel and built boats themselves in the place of buying them from Cold. Besides the yearly Assembly in the White Tower where they would send their twenty representatives, Hardy had no contact without the outside world.

 

It was a cold, clear night. The stars were bright and laughing, but to Nathanael it was just another reason not to be in Hardy's Hall freezing in the gauzy sheets. He sighed and rolled over so that the breeze drifting in from the window didn't hit him at such a harsh angle. Lionel Carpenter, the slight, freckled boy who slept in the bunk next to him, was breathing peacefully. The other boys in the dormitory were asleep, but Nathanael didn't dare close the window. Bradshaw of the Wood, a burly, ape-faced youth, insisted it open (chiefly because it annoyed Nathanael), and even though his snores were the loudest Nathanael didn't think it sagacious to shut the windows quite yet. He shivered and snuggled deeper into the mattress, while trying to remember why he was here in the first place.

 

Located across from the Square, the vast, open space in the heart of the Village, was the grandest building in Hardy: a three-storey high mansion of brick as red as the sunset. It was the home of the representatives and twenty boys who were being trained as the next batch. Each Village had twenty representatives (all male, of course) that would be sent on Midsummer's Day to the capital of Westsnow (the Castle Blizzardtop) to discuss Village relations, Military training, Trade and the Economy, Agriculture, Law and Justice, Medicine, Housing, Technology, Education, and Labor. There were two Representatives for each department, and this term the trainees (as the boys were called) seemed especially gifted at their subjects. Of course, the people of Hardy never had much use for Village Relations, but it was taught all the same; Allard Fletcher and Brandon Bennett were the trainees for the term and didn't seem to mind.

 

Nathanael shivered and remembered his cheery room with a bed of heather and a tiny fireplace and an entire dresser to himself. The curtains were a faded cobalt and his notebook, emerald green, was filled with sketches of all of the plants that Aunt Althea grew in her garden. And the shutters were always closed past Midwinter's Day. He finally fell into an uneasy slumber.

 

 

A blinding blizzard coated the windows with a thin layer of snow; the wind pounded on the walls, wailing to be let in. Dark were the clouds to those who managed to catch a glimpse of them, and the people of Hardy woke to find their Village encased in white. But to Nathanael it was especially dray. Wednesdays were always boring; the first hour was to be spent in a room in the attics with his viol and then some time listening to the constant drone of Dr. Jason Asa, the Medicine instructor. Breakfast consisted of a lumpy, bland bowl of something that Cook called "porridge" and three spoonfuls of sugar. Nathanael 's robes, pale blue with silver thread weaving through the hems in a wavy, simple design, with its long sleeves and high neckline, was freshly washed and was still warm from drying in front of the fire. He buried himself in it as he shoveled the mush into his mouth.

 

"Hungry?" Lionel Carpenter slid in beside Nathanael. He poked at his bowl. "I never really an, with this stuff Cook makes." His saffron uniform that stood for Trade and the Economy (which the people of Hardy didn't have much use for, either) hung even more loosely than Nathanael's.

 

"No," was the reply. "Just cold."

 

Lionel made a face. "Yeah; freezing out there; the North take the cold, I say. Timothy Over-Bridge, he says that Ginny from the dairy was out milking and 'twas so frigid that the milk froze clean out of the udders."

 

"Don't believe Timothy Over-Bridge," Nathanael said, taking another bite. "Don't believe a word he says. He's a right liar, most people from Law and Judgment are, always trying to worm their way to the Assembly and tell everyone what to do. "

 

Lionel stopped picking at his food. His squint always hid his amber eyes, but now they were easily seen at Nathanael's shocking words. "Nathanael, I wouldn't say something so bold."

 

"Well, it's true."

 

"Nay, not because it 'tisn't true, it 'tis, but because the Over-Bridges have ears like the wind."

 

"Folly! That's a tale that Goodwife Lillian would tell."

 

"Then I suggest you turn around," whispered a voice from behind.  Nathanael ignored it.

 

"Baker, honestly. This doesn't involve you. Not you, either, Bradshaw." Nathanael continued to eat his breakfast, calmly as though no one had been saying anything. He didn't seem to understand why he was so afraid of him last night with the windows.

 

Heath-cliff Baker and Bradshaw of the Wood were both large and burly. Their black Military garbs were bursting at the seams. They did not like to be ignored.

 

A hideous guffaw issued from next to Heath-cliff. "Did ya hear, that, 'ear that, 'eath? It ain't our business! Well, I think we'd better make it our business, then! Turn around, Smithy!"

 

Nathanael began scraping the inside of his earthenware bowl. "Nah. I'm not done eating. Let me finish first, okay?"

 

"I think not, boy." Heath-cliff grabbed Lionel's untouched bowl of porridge and said to Bradshaw: "Let's let the boy finish Scrawny's breakfast, too, shall we?"

 

By this time the small crowd of twenty twelve-year-olds had gathered around the table that Lionel and Nathanael were sitting at. Some were yelling at Nathanael to fight, or Heath-cliff to fight, or both to fight.  Timothy Over-Bridge was smirking in the corner. He didn't like being called a liar.

 

Bradshaw picked up Nathanael by the scruff of his robe and turned him so that he faced Heath-cliff, who promptly flung the bowl so that, porridge and all, it splattered with a sickening squelch squarely on Nathanael's face. His cheeks flushed; his robes were spotted with flecks of grain.

 

A cry, a mixed "Ooh!" and "Get 'im, Smithy!"rippled from the boys as Nathanael kicked Heath-cliff in the jaw. A trickle of blood fell from his cheek. Lionel crawled under the table. Bradshaw was about to punch him but Nathanael bit him on the hand. A howl resounded as Bradshaw of the Wood threw him on the ground. Heath-cliff, savage with fury, ripped across the room and smacked Nathanael so hard that he stumbled backwards, pushing the table back.

 

"Throw Cook's mush at him, Smithy!" the Marksman brothers, Jared and Calvin, hooted. Harry Cooper lobbed a chunk of porridge at Bradshaw. It made a starburst of pale grains on the black cloth.

 

That's when it was all over.

 

Bradshaw hit Harry so Brandon Bennett clouted him back. Porridge ended up in Brandon's hair, so he attacked everyone he saw, not knowing who threw it. Timothy Over-Bridge was catapulting spoonfuls of porridge at random heads (mostly Nathanael's). There was a three-way fight going on between Bradshaw of the Wood, Robert Mason and Harry Cooper. Lionel was blindly trying to stumble out without getting trampled (he was the shortest of the bunch) but was being chased by Marcus Ashdown because he was being mistaken as Will Johnson whose yellow uniform was similar to Lionel's. Somehow Jared Marksman got pulled into a fight with Brandon Bennett and in the middle of it was Nathanael catapulting himself at  Heath-cliff Baker, biting and kicking and delivering blows with a kind of fire in his eyes like nothing ever seen before.

 

The doors to the cantina flew open. Margret Ferry, the Law and Justice instructor,  strode in, her smoky dress flowing behind her; cold grey eyes peered out from under equally silver brows on an elegant yet serious face. Silence for naught but Ferry's buckskin slippers captured the room. Scurrying behind her was Lucas Flinch, the hunched discipline manager at Hardy Hall. His eyes glinted cruelly, an expression that even Bradshaw of Heath-cliff couldn't pull off.

 

Ferry stopped in the middle of the room. Her expression remained still; nothing passed on it to show her emotion as she examined the tangle of benches and stools and bowls with Cook's muck gluing everything stiffly together. "So," she calmly breathed. "Who began this?"

 

The boys cleared to make a straight aisle to Nathanael and Heath-cliff. The larger boy let go of the smaller one; they pointed at each other. "Him  ma'am," they simultaneously  muttered.

 

"What was that?"

 

"Smithy," Heath-cliff said, then added, "Ma'am."

 

"No!" Nathanael exclaimed. "Baker struck first!"

 

"But you struck back." Ferry's voice was steely and even. "So you are equally guilty."

 

Lionel crawled from under the table. "Ma'am- Miss Ferry-"

 

"Yes, Carpenter?"

 

"Heath-cliff came and threw porridge at Nathanael."

 

Bradshaw stepped in. "But that's because Smithy was being disrespectful, Ma'am!"

 

"How?"

 

"He called Timothy Over-Bridge a liar, Ma'am!

 

"He did, did he? Nevertheless, that was to be settled between Over-Bridge and Smithy. You didn't need to step in."

 

Nathanael grinned triumphantly at Heath-cliff.

 

"But," added Ferry, "that did not make it passable for the rest of you to follow through with this barbaric activity."

 

Nathanael's smile faded.

 

"I will leave Mr. Flinch here to deal with this. I have work to do." Margret Ferry fixed each boy with a metallic stare. "I am quite disappointed in all of you. You all deserve expulsion, but that is not my position to decide." And with that, she swept out of the room.

 

The few boys who looked remotely guilty to have been caught had it melted off their faces and all looked fearful as Lucas Flinch approached, his hands wringing themselves with repellent glee.

 

"So," he rasped. "So, who would like to begin cleaning?" His eyes fixed on Nathanael. "Misters Smithy and Baker, perhaps? And Bradshaw of the Wood? Mops and rags are in the closet," Flinch gestured to a nearby door. As they rushed to retrieve the tools, he grabbed Nathanael by the scruff of his cloak. "And boy," he added, "feel free to take your time." Nathanael wrenched his arm away and stormed to the closet.

 

Okay, so I have this idea as a folk song. I tried to make it sound as old-y as possible but if there are places to revise please tell me!!

Do not fear, O southern men

Of shadows in the north

Gath'ring dark from vale deep.

The Great King shall burst forth

And at his hand shall come a wrath

That evil fears and loathes.

Light that wins the battle nigh;

The Great King's who it clothes.

 

The King shall send an agent first

Who'll rule with council wise.

His people chosen from the start

Who darkness' slaves despise,

Who shadow's host so truly hate

And try their very best to raze

The strength the King gives to his men

But naught but He's obeyed.

 

Alone the agent shall be not;

A lady shall be sent

Of insight rare and judgment great

And raised by teacher bent

With hair like fire-flax spun gold

That tumbled from the heavens;

Child of the daughter fifth

Daughter of the seventh.

 

Through ashes dark and ledges sharp

His country soon shall travel

With eyes for their Great King alone

And so the dusk unravels

At the foot of golden mount

The warring shall be closed

The souls of light be taken up

And truth to them exposed.

 

Feasts enough to feed a realm

Shall fill His halls of gold.

Decked with only light and warmth

The Great King's garb is to behold .

Yet ere all of the laughter great

Suffering cruel shall be

But only those with fervent faith

Shall dine with their Great King.