Clueless - Osynstry-Asþorhelm (1987)

[Alsatian Island]

(NOTE:
during this time:
Osy PM Cosgrove, Marxist (86-)
Osy King Hereward VII (55-)
Asþor PM Ögmundsson, Liberal Democratic (83-)
Asþor King Magnús IV (74-))

January 6, 1987

This was time for celebration. Not that there was much to celebrate.

Þarbjörn stared at his father forlornly. He could tell something was seriously bothering him, but they were mutually repressive of their concerns. That wasn't a good sign for either of them, they both knew that full well, but neither paid much attention to that.

The Prime Minister was to make another television announcement this afternoon. Again, never a good sign. The PM is a shrewd, secretive man, in even the best of times - so if he's built up the reserve to come on a stage and call for the usual "Átök gegn átökunum" (or conflict against the conflict), something must be horribly wrong again.

He stared at his parents, slipping back into the real world. No, they weren't struggling - but they most certainly weren't well off either. They'd both... changed since the Crash. His father just sat in silence, trapped inside the walls of his eyes, repressing his experiences of a cruel world that surrounded him, and his mother rotated between anger and despair.

Every day, he'd take a little time to himself. The path that he took each day led past the village, past the angered and often pained voices, beyond the realm of broken society and into nature. He knew one thing - little could spoil his sanctuary, as he walked beneath the great pines, traversing the hill slowly. There was no rush, nothing much to go back to, except parents scarred by a sudden turn of hardship that neither would divulge.

It hadn't occurred to him that he was alone, but who cared? If nobody was there near him, then who was there to care? Just him, and the trees, and nature itself. He felt almost safe, below the great canopies and trunks of the trees that stretched towards the clouds.

The slight trickle of water gently ceased his stream of thought, as he turned slowly toward the slight shine on the rocks, where water weaved through cracks. He found himself mesmerised by the water's ability to find ways.

At the stream, he sat. Sat staring, motionless, thinking steady thoughts of basic philosophy. Nothing could disturb him.

At that moment, he was suddenly seized from the relaxed state he was in by two far away voices. His first thought was "how dare they", and a sigh as even his refuge was exposed, however he composed himself.

Þarbjörn had always taken after his father, his mother had always commented on it. Fairly tall, with thick and blond hair, and a fair tone to his skin, his icy blue eyes proclaimed the cover of blissful ignorance that he used to conceal his inner problems. Of course, he didn't think this, but on a close observation it seemed likely.

The two voices definitely weren't any he recognised. One was as if someone had incarnated the King's speaking patterns into a young boy of 16 or 17, and the other was most definitely not male. Þarbjörn turned around, wrenching his view from the endless stream, to see a boy of a similar age to himself, with darker hair, stronger build and perhaps an inch or two taller, and a girl of fairly inauspicious characteristics, save for her eyes, which shone greener than the water-enhanced grasses of the forest he only just remembered he was still in.

His thoughts then diverted back to how dare they interrupt, and he turned his head slowly back to the wind and water.

 

[Alsatian Island]

January 6, 1987

He woke up.

The room he was sat within was white. White walls, a white door, white bed, even the chair - he had to struggle to look down to see its seat - was white. Something clearly wasn't right.

The silence was deafening, as if someone had turned off the world's very life. He knew there was an outside, but what evidence was there? This wasn't a relaxed quiet like he had at his space, this was a sharp, cutting silence, impenetrable and all-consuming.

He decided to get up.

The ropes around him decided otherwise. Ropes?

Panic set in, but it was that of a silent panic. Within his body, choas ensued.

Finally, the faint noises of leather shoes, slowly making their way towards the door - he could only presume, of course, for he did not know the layout beyond the door - was followed by a creaking as the door opened.

His arms tensed as a fairly tall, weathered man lumbered into the room, and slammed the door shut - he sat there thinking how many times the door could sustain such punishment. This man towered over Þarbjörn, his military uniform's dark shades standing out amongst the whiteness of his surroundings.

Þarbjörn tensed further as this man, whoever he was, bellowed:
"Í ró."

Of course, that meant at ease, but the poor boy in the chair sure didn't feel too at ease.

Finally, the boy spoke.
"Why?"
One word. He hesitated, as if he was going to follow it with clarification, but he couldn't quite determine the correct term to address this mysterious figure in this particular situation, and decided that it was clear enough.
His captor just looked back down at him, with a scornful, disgusted look. It almost conveyed "how dare you get yourself stuck in my chair", with a sense of bravado that reinforced the boy's theories of him being maybe related to the military.
No reply.
This silence, ensuring the boy knew his place, was followed by the silence finally being broken once again.
"You are under arrest for your involvement in the assault of Alrekur Olofsson, in November 1985."
The boy had one thought. Who was that?
"We have been told that you are likely to rebel."
Of course, the boy probably would've said "you're damn right I would resist", had he not been tied to a chair.
"Therefore you've been sentenced to the white room."
The man untied the boy, and left, closing the door - upon closer inspection, several inches thick - shut.

After a few minutes of sitting there, in the white chair, surrounded by the white room, he stood. Again, a few minutes passed. Þarbjörn thought. Did anyone know he was here? He looked at his arm, to see what time it was, when he realised his arm lacked the watch. From the window - too high to see anything except the sky out of - he guessed, from the dark blue shade in the sky, it'd been several hours since he saw the two others.

He realised he hadn't said a word, and something within him stopped him from being able to break that ever present silence.

What did the... a soldier, was he - mean, by 'sentenced to the white room"? For how long? And the greatest question, why?

He had as long as he wanted to think about this, so he did just that, surrounded by silence, and a growing trepidation.