I can't entirely recall what happened that day – the day. A past world that seems so very long ago. Each night, as I ponder whether the memory is truly mine or belongs to someone else, frustration sets in. I'm annoyed that my memory won't unlock to allow me to understand what transpired, making me question the veracity of my recollections.
Most of it is a blur, leading me to doubt the accuracy of my thoughts. However, there are moments so vivid, so close, that I cannot question their truth but rather wonder if my memory is filling in details I cannot recall on my own.
It was a quiet, ordinary day with large gray clouds looming above my head. I can't remember if it had been raining yet, but the smell that usually precedes an incoming storm—an earthy scent like wet grass—was pungent. Rolling hills snaked around the landscape in the distance, with the only source of luminance being sunlight filtering through the sky, casting a polka-dot pattern on the ground it managed to touch. Birds, or at least from what I remember, raced each other in the air.
Humble houses populated the town, their roofs made of dark brown tiles resembling thick and hardened mud. The glass frames, or rather windows, were warped and plastered with grime. Everything made of wood was splintery and rough. Despite these flaws, they served their purpose, providing shelter from the natural forces outside. The sweet aroma of hay prevailed with wheelbarrows scattered everywhere.
What else am I forgetting? Perhaps the grainy dirt path beneath my bare feet or the woman who held my hand. She was beautiful, with long locks of chocolate brown hair cascading down like silk. Her face was round and soft, with slightly sunken, tired eyes and a short, button-like nose. Like everyone else, she wore a tunic, hers long and extending just above her dirty and worn shoes. I don't remember who this lady was, but the thought of her brings comfort. A bond that I've never felt with anyone else, even though she's only accessible through a single vivid image.
Nothing seemed wrong or even out of the ordinary—the only time in my life, from what I can remember, everything was perfectly calm, peaceful even. Until it wasn't. Like all good things, anything that can be perceived as positive subsides and is replaced by something as bad as it was good. Nothing ever lasts or remains the same forever except for the guaranteed surprise of the world always managing to mess with you, be it physically or mentally.
It began when we were towards the outskirts of the town. Farmland was just in the distance, a little way away, and from here, I could see silhouettes of horses in between. A pale blue in color but grew in time. Eventually, I could hear the hooves hitting the ground, like coconuts beating together in a rhythmic pattern. It took fifteen, maybe even twenty seconds for the visitors to arrive.
Even then, as a little boy, I could tell something was off. Gazing up at the girl, she looked frightened, her eyes locked upon the men who, if I recall correctly, bore black cloaks with chainmail underneath. There weren't a few of them, but tens, and they all skirted to a stop not too far from us, lined up like an army would be.
The man in the middle made the first move. His cloak was different, lined with golden fabric, a small emblem sewn into the top right. I couldn't see his face, the shadows of the hood obscuring his features, but after a moment, he pulled it back to reveal an old, grizzled expression—creases and scars, oh my god the scars, there were so many of them.
A few are red and old, others still scabbing. Golden hair fell downwards, messy, and untamed. On his waist, a sheath was buckled. A dagger, not very long, was stored inside. It struck me as strange at the time why he had such a feeble weapon, while all the others adorned swords across their backs.
He dismounted the horse, which snorted impatiently. His feet touched the ground with a thud, releasing a puffy cloud of brown dust. As his arms stretched out to his sides, the man's serious expression transformed into a more mocking, disdainful demeanor. It was as if everyone before his eyes were not people but mere puppets devoid of feeling. A complete disregard for anyone and everyone in the village.
The man's voice, sly and cunning yet clear, reverberated across the entire community, commanding the attention of all present. "I'm looking for a boy," he proclaimed, his words echoing. My focus returned to the woman beside me, her complexion now drained of color, her mouth agape. "My name is..." She swiftly covered my ears before he finished, steering me between two buildings in haste. I struggled to get out of her hold. Wanting to hear what the man had to say but she wouldn't remove the grasp around my head.
Moments ticked by. One second, two seconds, three seconds. Then, a resounding, muffled snap filled the air, followed by a barrage of arrows soaring into the village. Not a single one missed. Landing in the targets of their shooters, just ordinary folk, who dropped to the floor in mere time. Blood splattered. Others gushed out like waterfalls.
Everyone began to scream, but we held perfectly still, hidden within the confines of this small space. I could now see, however, the men from the horses dashing into the town. Unsheathing their swords and slashing down onto men and women. Old or young. It didn't seem to matter to them.
Tremors coursed through her body, and I could now sense the palpable quiver of her sobs. So hard that it reverberated through me, startling in its magnitude. Amidst the chaos, none of the attackers noticed, which was a surprise in itself. Her grip on me grew tighter, each squeeze a vise-like constrict, making it increasingly difficult to draw breath. Even with everything going on I never felt in any danger, never felt unsafe. Not until the girl left my side.
Two of the men, while their group moved to the other side of the town, pushed down an old man. Someone who looked in their 50's, maybe early 60's, a rarity to live so long. With graying hair and a grizzled body. They beat him down again and again. Like ruthless animals. Witnessing this brutality, she hesitated not for a moment, abandoning me without a second thought. Running to his aid, however, before she could even reach halfway, the man with the golden-lined hood intercepted her, callously knocking them to the ground,
"Look at this," he sneered, seizing her by the hair and lifting her like a trophy. She squirmed and cried out in pain, "Where'd you come from?" His gaze flickered toward me, and a sinister smile slowly crept across his face. I finally felt the cold wash over me, fear taking hold.
Panicking, I scrambled backward, but he signaled to his cohorts. Swiftly, they approached, seizing me by the legs and hauling me towards him. With a firm grip on my arms, they lifted me off the ground.
"This could have all been avoided," the man chortled, glancing back at her. "Oh, my, you're a pretty thing—" His attention was abruptly diverted as the old man, still prone on the ground, groaned from the merciless beating he endured. "Goddammit, you piece of fucking shit, I'm trying to talk," the assailant spat, delivering a brutal kick that sent the elderly man rolling a few feet.
"Don't touch him..." the girl pleaded; her voice cracking.
"Tch, tch, tch," he taunted, caressing her cheek as he drew near, their noses almost touching. "You truly are gorgeous. Don't concern yourself with him, my dear; he'll be just fine." With a nod, he gently placed her on the ground, running his fingers through her hair. "Ensure this elderly gentleman receives proper care. Take him far, far away from here," he instructed his men, who promptly pulled the old man to his feet and began ushering him away.
"Don't you dare touch him... he's my father," she gasped, the words desperate.
"Oh... I wish I could assure you he'll be fine, but..." His hand slid down to her waist, and he lowered his voice to a sinister whisper. "He won't be. They'll cut him open like a bag of grain, making him feel every sharp pain, every burning sensation. Smash open his head like an overripe watermelon... can you imagine that?" Her whimpering intensified as his hand slid up her shirt.
"Poor old daddy..." He stared at her for a few more seconds before pushing her to the ground. "Restrain her and put her on my horse," he ordered, redirecting his attention towards me, "I'll need her for later..."
'Vesperus?" One of them queried, the confusion evident in his tone. Right... that was his name. Sometimes it was hard to remember.
In a sudden burst of anger, he forcefully pushed them away. "Put her on my goddamn horse," Vesperus commanded with a bark, his demeanor shifting from frustration to a chilling calm. A disconcerting click of his tongue punctuated the statement as he nonchalantly strolled towards me, his eyes lingering on the woman before gradually, without expression, turning to fixate on me. They were hard, sharp, and cold as ice. My breath grew shallow with every step he took. This was it; my turn was imminent. The primal instinct for survival, even at such a tender age, was prevalent.
His hand wrapped around the collar of my shirt, while the other settled just below my arm. In one fluid motion, he effortlessly lifted me into the air, as though my weight was inconsequential. Vesperus's eyes examined me all over. From face to arms, to body, to legs, and back to my face. He carried the scent of a wet animal, which permeated my nostrils, and I attempted not to make a face,
"You... you are the one, aren't you?" His hand gently pushed my hair back and rested near my ear. "Care to share your name?" The man spoke to me with an unsettling calmness, as if the atrocity committed by him and his men hadn't just unfolded. It was as though, for some reason, I was to be handled with more care. "No... That's fine, that's fine, my new friend. I'll find out soon enough." Vesperus seated me on the ground. Then, with one arm he pulled out the dagger.
It wasn't a dagger. Merely something that took the shape of one. It was purple, with lavender-colored veins, that pulsed rapidly. The entire thing looked as if it were flesh. Flesh that was just attached to the end of a leather handle. It had an aura, maybe not an aura, but a feeling that came with it. Power. It felt powerful. A feeling that is not a possible feeling, but this 'dagger' brought upon it.
Vesperus raised the blade into the air, then brought it down, and in one quick slash, he sliced open his forearm. Black blood began to ooze out. It didn't even smell like regular blood, but what wafted upon me was the stench of rot and decay. As if something dead was stuffed into his veins. The sickening odor of death,
"Potent... hm?" He lowered his bleeding arm toward my mouth. "My dear boy, you're going to need to drink up." With that statement, my eyes widened, and I attempted to retreat. Something inexplicably halted my movement. "No, no, no... it's okay... it's... okay." Vesperus forcibly opened my mouth for what felt like an eternity before pressing his forearm against it.
The blood rushed onto my tongue, causing a sharp pain that resonated throughout my entire body. Suppressing the urge to cry, I began to spasm as he uttered incomprehensible words in some foreign language, "Llasvior miorrlafo pllionada."
Something transpired, or at least, that's how it feels for me. I can't speak definitively about him because he vanished. Everyone did. This particular memory, or what I believe happened to me, occasionally prompts me to question the veracity of these events. Everything else remains clear, almost vivid in detail—etched into my memory for as long as I can remember. That ended after the blood gushed into my gums.
The entire world went black. Like pitch black, not a single thing to be seen, except for a dark red floor. This dark red floor emanated out in all directions. Seemingly stretching on for miles and miles maybe indefinitely. It was illuminated, though just barely. I couldn't even see my own hands, not my own body, nor my feet. And... and in the distance, I could hear something, a haunting sound reached my ears—bells ringing incessantly, as if echoing from a distant mountaintop. That's where it ended. After I heard the bells, my entire world went back to the village, to Vesperus.
In just a minute, maybe two everything had changed, and something I would even call hope came. Vesperus was now peeking around the corner of the two buildings we were currently between. Then, in an urgent voice, the man yelled out to his men. Even I knew what that meant. Soldiers of the kingdom had been alerted, internal warriors, which were a specialized group to handle concentrated attacks.
Vesperus swiftly hoisted me over his shoulder and sprinted away. We darted out from between the two buildings, making a sharp right turn. My arms flailed with the abrupt motion, causing me to bob up and down vigorously. As I looked around, it became evident why Vesperus and his men were in retreat.
A force of at least sixty soldiers appeared on the scene, adorned in golden-colored armor with symbols of Heladon, the kingdom, emblazoned on their chests. Half of them charged in with shields and axes while the ones behind, still preparing to fight, readied their bastard swords.
"On me!" Vesperus bellowed, spittle flying in all directions as he maintained his sprint. "We need to protect the boy!" His men obeyed, forming a tight circle around us. It took barely three minutes to reach the other end of the village, but in his way, another group of soldiers emerged. Effectively cornering the lot of us.
Vesperus spun around, desperately searching for an escape route, but none presented itself. I could hear him curse under his breath before unceremoniously tossing me onto the ground, where I landed with a thud. At this point, my body ached terribly, and I rolled over groaning. Attempting to rise, I felt a foot on my back, pressing me down onto the dirty path.
"Unsheathe your weapons, slide them forward, and on your knees!" One of the soldiers commanded. The men turned their gaze toward Vesperus, who merely shrugged.
"Do as he says, boys, it'll matter not," Vesperus instructed. Hesitant glances were exchanged among his men before reluctantly complying, dropping their weapons, and kneeling. Vesperus, however, defied convention. His unorthodox, pulsating dagger remained in its sheath, and his knees refused to touch the ground.
"Not everything has gone according to plan," Vesperus declared aloud, sensing the impatience growing among the soldiers. "The boy... the boy was meant to come with me, but that'll have to do." He turned his gaze to me, his eyes searching mine, nodding as if responding to an unseen force. "It'll have to do." With those final words, Vesperus
vanished into thin air, as if his entire being dissipated, leaving behind no trace. At that moment, I entertained the fleeting notion that the universe itself had erased him, only to realize the more clear truth of his use of sorcery to escape.
With him gone the soldiers went into an uproar, dashing at his men whom he just abandoned, restraining some and blatantly murdering others. Although they deserved it, and the soldiers were merely doing their job, it made them no better in reality. Murder is murder and killing is always cold blood.
The memories that follow are scant. The soldiers placed me on a carriage that arrived about an hour later, and the subsequent three-day journey remains a blur. Our destination was a stronghold named Chlodovech Tower—a dark, gloomy place with long, cold corridors. It served as a pseudo-care facility for many of the poverty-stricken who became homeless.
It took several months for them to relocate me. Chlodovech Tower proved to be a sickly and uncomfortable environment. When they arrived to collect me, I dared to hope that I was finally returning home. However, my anticipation was dashed when they transported me to the Faust household—a family of elites with close ties to the royal family, at least during that time. I distinctly recall the first time I saw them and the ensuing conversation they had as if I were nothing more than a passive observer.
Their home, seen through the eyes of a short, young boy, was truly grand. Towering white stone walls seemed to reach for the sky, with large glass panels that were warped like all windows tend to be. Lanterns hung low, casting a warm yellow glow that played along with the shadows, that only protruded in obscure corners. A man stood next to me. Large and beefy with a stomach that sagged outwards.
He extended a hand to the door, delivering a resounding knock. Shuffling sounds echoed from within, and a tall, slender figure, who had a whiff of entitlement, emerged. His short black hair was slicked back, and it was evident that a less-than-adequate job had been done in shaving, as fresh cuts strewed about along his chin,
"Is this the child?" The question was directed at the burly man, who promptly seized me by the arm and thrust me into the light.
"It is. Chlodovech would like him to stay here, for safekeeping," he explained.
"I understand that... he... tampered with him?" Both of them now peered down at me, and the large man beside me responded,
"We don't know the extent. That's why he belongs here, Faust, for safe watch."
"Chlodovech can watch over his own child," Faust grumbled.
"Mustn't speak about him like that. Nothing good ever comes," the large man retorted, then lifting me under both arms as though I were weightless, displayed me like a possession. "He's the only survivor of Chepstow."
"That bad?" the man queried.
"Indeed. Hundreds of casualties."
"And what's so special about him?" Faust asked.
"Guess we'll find out in time."
I blocked out the remainder of the conversation and spent the following days, months, and eventually years in that house. Serving what I would come to know as the Faust family. They took decent care of me. Every night I ate a mix of bread and cheese. Sometimes fish if I was lucky. A semblance of normalcy eventually took root for me, but true to the nature of the universe, it swiftly ripped it out of my hands.
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