Mortimer Du Font is many things, but he is not weak.
Mortimer Du Font has never felt weak. He was raised not to know the word, not to know it’s meaning, nor experience it. He has never heard the word outside of sacrificial speeches, and only knows it’s accociation to those that are killed on the alters that hide underneath his family home. His family and those it asociates with do not believe in raising weak sons and daughters, they do not wish to bare children that are easily crushed, they take no issue in disposing of those children who are not good enough for the cult or the families. They do not allow their children to cry, or to complain, nor do they allow their children to think it is acceptable to show vaunribilities that those beneath them might exhibit outside of the cult. From the moment they are born into the cult, the children learn that above all else, if they are not powerful, they deserve nothing but death. The strong rise above and do not crumble. There is no place for weak people in the new world, and the only way to prove that you are not weak as a child, is to show that you are strong.
Mortimer excels at this, at demonstrating how better than his peers he is. He takes gleeful joy in breaking others down to prove himself superior. He hurts others for the fun of it, too; chases them until their legs can’t carry them, beats the other children with branches from the yard to show that he is stronger, and in sacrifices, he sits as closely as he is allowed, his smile never wavers as the cults weak victims scream out in agony and in fear. The sound of weakness being abolished makes him giddy, and after each sacrificial gathering, he asks his father if he may join in at the next. So far Mortimer has always been refused, but he knows he will earn his place one day soon; he just needs to prove himself more.
Mortimer Du Font does not know weakness, it has been bred out of him, and so when he is struck violently with a fever like he has never before experienced, he has no idea what what the feeling means.
He keeps quiet of course, it does not occur to him to go running to his mother or father; he is not a weak child, he does not need their help as a weak child might. Instead, Moritmer lays in his bed, limbs heavy and difficult to control. Even to just roll to his side takes an effort that seems almost impossible to him. He feels cold, and yet is damp, nightclothes soaked through as if he has been out in the sun all day, the sweet sick smell of his own body off putting and foreign to him. He does not know what to do, but trusts that whatever this trial is, it will only make him stronger. It is a test, he tells himself; this is a test to see if he truely deserves what he has been seeking so long. Only the strong survive, but the strongest are those allowed to rule. This is a test to see if Mortimer is strong enough to be amongst those people; he can think of no other reason why he might be in this bizarre and alarming condition.
Mortimer is still young, only ten and still a boy in every sense of the word. As a young and privileged elf, he does not yet know the cruelties of the world, though he has experienced many second hand. He has always found those cruelties beautiful in their own right, the snapping of bones, or casual disregard for life has never disgusted him, and in being so young, Mortimer has never seen the violent hand of the cult turned on one of it’s members. He knows only of the punishment that the weak must face, there is no reason for him to suspect that somebody there might be responsible for what has happened to him today. They punish the weak, not the strong, and so tells himself that some higher power that blessed him when he was born is responsible for the sickness he feels now. He lays there, so close to death, and fights back through his test. Naive and blindly faithful as he is, Mortimer is a strong boy, he will one day be the head of the family, he has his whole life ahead of him, and he will not yield to this nor any other challenge placed forth before him.
He does not understand that somebody might seek to snuff that light out. Without the concept of weakness to explain his heavy limbs and the chills that strike him so, Mortimer simply accepts that he must suffer to prove his strength. He lays there weak, and yet does not know it. He cannot grasp that he might be something other than strong in that moment, he simply sees it as being less strong. His strength will come back to him so long as he proves himself worthy, and Mortimer is so confident in that fact, that the misguided understanding of the world may just keep the elf boy alive.
One day, Mortimer will realise how close he was to death, when he is older and has learnt much about poisons, when he learns to use them against others much in the same way he now beats the other children with sticks; but for now, he is forced to lay there with his blood boiling as his body fights to stay alive, and attempts to shut down at the same time.
His bedroom door opens slowly, as if somebody is trying to sneak in. Mortimer knows exactly what the door sounds when somebody is trying, he has snuck in himself many times before, long after he was supposed to be in bed. He has spent so many long nights exploring the cultists sacrificial chambers underneath his fathers estate. He has learnt their every in and out, knows every secret passageway there is to know, and knows exactly what his bed chamber door sounds like as it’s carefully opened in the hopes of not alerting anybody to whoever is sneaking in. The door opens slowly, the bottom hinge on the door squeaking in protest, and though it’s hard to keep his eyes open, Mortimer watches as two of his fathers associates walk in. His chest rises quickly, though not in fear, every breath burning as if he has run all night, eyes blurred slightly as if he is staring into the sun. It hurts to look so far across his room, to try and focus on one thing, but Mortimer will not relent. He will pass this test. The elves look at him from the door, before entering fully, closing it behind them with the same gentleness that Mortimer uses as so not to be heard. He does not know why they are there, but knows that he does not want them there. This is his room, they are not allowed to enter, especially not without his permission.
He tries to tell them to leave, but his throat closes over and traps the sounds in.
“The wicked boy is still alive.” One grunts. He is the taller one, with dark hair that’s kept in a tight ponytail at all times. Mortimer has heard that he has an attraction to humans, though his father says it’s only a lie to lure more sacrifices into their home. His name is Omhar. “He should be dead by now, you said that the dose would be enough.” Why they think Moritmer would be dying he does not know, but now he finds his tounge heavy in his mouth when he tries to ask, little more than a groan escapes as he tries to get an answer. He has never struggled to talk before, and wonders if that is part of the test.
The elves ignore his efforts completely, they ignore his sounds as if he is not even there. Moritmer has never felt like nothing before now, but he vows with what consciousness he has left that he will never allow anybody to disregard him like that again.
“It makes sense that he is fighting it, I suppose.” The second, the rounder, shorter, of the two concedes. Mortimer does not know his name, though he has seen his face before. “He was a blessed child, it will take longer, but it will come.” He walks over and feels at Mortimers face, from here, Mortimer can clearly see the smirk on the second’s face as he checks. “He is close, not long now and he will be gone. A way can be made for a second child. Convinent for the family, there can only be one, after all.”
There can only be one. Mortimer has heard that phrase so many times. A second child would mean that he would be replaced. Siblings are pitted against one another in the cult, each of the families in the inner circle of the cult can only have one successor. There was a fight last week, two siblings, twins far older than Mortimer, fought to see which one would begin their training to take over their family, to join the cult, and which one would die there on that day.
They mean to replace him, Mortimer realises, but he will not allow it. This is not some test from some higher power, this is the work of men.
Whatever they have done to him, he will fight it; he is a blessed child, strong and cunning, he will not die to make way for a lessor one than him. He has the strength of eight men and women inside of him, he is the heir to the Du Font name, and he will not die because weak men like those in the room with him demand it. He bends to nobody, not even the death they have somehow put inside of him.
“Blessed be damned!” Omhar one walks forward now, joining his shorter friend. “We should plunge a dagger through his heart and be done with it! This boy is a demon, he’ll only bring us ruin.”
“If we kill him with a dagger, they will know.” Mortimer closes his eyes, thinking of what it would be like to kill these men with a dagger instead, he thinks of how he would do it, sitting atop them in their beds, he would strike fast and true, just as he has seen on the sacrificial tables. “We cannot run the risk, it must look like he was overcome with illness.” He would be covered in his blood, the strongest of them all, rising above them. There is no room for the weak.
“He has never been sick a day in his life. They will know regardless. Best to own what we have done, and rid us all of the boy.”
They continue to argue like this over Mortimer’s body, and he finds that he cannot bring himself to listen. Each sound becomes more and more dull, his body goes from feeling heavy and hard to control to being completely unable to be felt. He feels light, as if there is nothing holding him back from flying like a bird, but he cannot open his eyes to see if he is indeed in the air.
It feels as if he might be going somewhere without his body, and he realises that he can no longer hear the voices in the room with him. It’s peaceful, and there’s an inviting sensation that envelops him, calling him to let go, to give in, to give up.
But Mortimer Du Font does not give in. He does not surrender, he is not weak.
He has never vomited before in his life, but as he throwing himself out of that blissful nothing that so sweetly tormented him to give in, Mortimer makes up for all the times that he has not. It comes in waves, thick in his throat, first all over his bed and then the floor beside it, acidic and painful as it comes up and out of his mouth. He has no idea what it is, and as his day of firsts continue, Moritmer feels afraid for the first time. His insides are coming out, and he has no idea how he might get them back in, has no idea how so much could come out in the first place. The two elves that came into his room watch on in horror, he hears them shout in disgust and perhaps surprise as his body purges itself of the toxin they have tried to kill him with. The smell is disgusting, and as tears prick his eyes, Mortimer is sure that he will never be allowed to call himself strong again.
He is a blessed child, he tries to remind himself as he stares down at all that has come out of him. He is a blessed child, eight men and women where sacrificed in his name as he was concieved, and eight more when he was born. He is so much more than others, and yet he can’t help but to shake as he looks down at the mess he has made. He does not understand what he feels, an icy and prickling sensation wrapping tight around his throat as he tries to breathe and finds that he cannot, invisible daggers from every angle driving themselves into his body as he stares down at his insiders splattered thickly over himself, his bed, and the floor.
His bedroom door bursts open, guards brought forward by the alarmed shouts from the elves who had snuck in to watch him die, their swords drawn as they charge into the room. In his state, Mortimer cannot tell what is being said, he only sees the men dragged out of the room.
Somebody else enters, a man he has never seen before, followed by his father. His father towers above most, he is built wider than most elves, strong and impassive, near white blond hair platted several ways to keep it from his face. Moritmer hopes he’ll grow up to look like him, the exact definition of what strength means, both mentally and physically. He’ll work hard, unafraid of what it takes to get there.
He’ll change his mind in years to come, but for now it is all that Mortimer can hope for.
“Poison.” The strange man says. He has run his hand through Mortimers insides, tasted it on the end of his tounge. “He should have gotten rid of it all, he is a strong boy, blessed, he will be fine.” His father nods at the words and waves the other man off, the other man leaves without further command, Mortimer’s father can do that, he controls people without needing to say a thing, Mortimer often wonders if it is some magic that allows him to do so.
“How do I get it back in?” Mortimer knows not to seek comfort from his father, he is not even sure of what that might look like. A handshake, perhaps, he is seldom touched unless it is needed, he has never been held in his life. “All of my insides— how do I put them back in?” His father looks between his son and the mess, and Mortimer wishes he could tell what the look on his fathers face means. Cold eyes fix onto his ruined night shirt, before he removes a water skin from his hip and sets it on the unspoiled drawer next to his bed.
“You don’t.” He replies curtly. “You clean it up and get rid of it. The shirt and bedding too. Get it done.”
“Yes father.” Mortimer, though his legs feel once again like lead, stands up and begins to remove the bedding and his clothing, hoping to mop his insides up with them, save ruining anything else. When he turns back around, his father has already left. He does not know what he will do now that he has no insides left, but he supposes he is strong enough not to need them. He cleans the mess up himself, and when he is done, follows the sounds of screaming to find Omhar and the other elf being followed in the courtyard of his family’s estate. He’s too tired to watch for long, and instead finds a tree to climb so that he might rest.
There will be many more poisoning’s, and many more attempts on his life, but when they come, Mortimer will be more prepared. He is a strong boy, a blessed boy, and he will not fall to the hand of lessor men.
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