…You asked me to tell you my story. Of how this path I now tread on started. To tell you the truth, I was hesitant. Fearful, even. As I write this, thousands gather under the light of my window. Men, women, children, each hoping to see me, to hear my words of wisdom, hoping I will comfort them, explain to them that the hardships they had suffered are but a test of some divine being who wishes to forge them into something they’re not. You know my opinion of this. I always said I never asked for this life, for this fate the Judges decreed to me. If I had my way, Kalia and I would have long ago retired into some country estate, tending a winery or farm. Besides, I am afraid. After all, what will future generations think, when they learn that the Lord of Change had doubts, fears? That he, in truth, was a man and not a god. But, as Hypocrites once said: ‘A man is slave to Fate’ and these words apply to me now more than ever. Perhaps those future generations will call this story you write blasphemy and have it burned. Perhaps they’ll declare it a New Testament and add it to the Book of World. Whatever the case, I found that I do not truly care. So, after much consideration, I decided it might be best to tell you, my good friend, of the start of my journey. Though, do forgive me if I am rather brief on the details. There is only so much this fractured and weary mind of mine can remember.
In truth, my story starts much earlier than some might expect. I still remember the heavy scent of sea salt in the air on the day that it started. In truth, the morning had been rather pleasant – the warm sun of an early summer shone through the large windows of my family’s home, making the falling dust of the rooms ever so noticeable, much to the maid’s dismay. Long feathery clouds threw much-needed shade on the white tiled roofs and colourful mortar walls of Baye, though they didn’t help much to combat the day's heat. To many in that venerable city, it was a day like any other – shopkeepers woke early to prepare for the day, housemaids or housewives dusted old bedding before hanging it onto lines which crisscrossed back alleys, mothers accompanied by children, or the occasional cluster of maids hurried to the morning market to buy the day’s food. But to the Nocamius family, MY family, the day was special, for Mother's water had finally broken.
I remember the contradictory cluster of emotions I felt that morning, as the shining sun woke me from my dreams. I remember fearing for Mother's health and confusion about the actions of the servants and Father. Such things were hard to understand for a six-year-old boy. I clearly remember how it made me rather oblivious to the things happening around me, having to fully concentrate just to notice the servant who had brought me my breakfast. Anxiety is a slow and ingenious killer of confidence, and on that day, the entire house felt its long claws sliding down our backs. I remember how, after getting dressed, I couldn’t do anything else besides sitting by the door to my parents’ rooms. Those large black wooden doors, made of the finest hickory and ornamented with engravings of horses and traders were seared into my mind that day. I can barely recount whether that long corridor had red or yellow carpets, whether there were tapestries or wooden engravings ornamented the walls, whether the windows were left open to let in the fresh air blown in by the salty sea or covered by checkered blinds. But even now, I recall how and eye of one of the horses was slanted ever so slightly, making it look like one of those Fool’s posters, where everything is drawn to look uncanny and silly. At times, midwives or maids would exit the room, carrying small buckets of water or sweat-drenched sheets. Most would give me words of encouragement: ‘Do not worry, young Master’ or ‘The Mistress is doing very well, it won’t be long now.’ At least, that’s what I believe they said. By that point, the daze had taken hold of me completely, making me focus on only that large wooden door in front of me. I remember people sitting by me, most likely believing me worried and so trying to calm my nerves. If the words ever did have any effect, it was only temporary, as I relapsed back into the daze the moment the person moved on.
After sitting in front of that door for what felt like an eternity that passed in moments, I remember whipping my head to the sound of creaking stairs. My Father was a heavy-set man of middling height, easily recognizable by his sand blonde beard, short curly hair and the long, sleeveless fur coat any merchant of status would wear. His usually piercing blue eyes, jewels that had won him many a trade deal seemed rather faded that day. Sitting down by me, his heavy fur coat made a husky thud as he sat down by me, the golden chain that held it together chiming around his neck. For a long moment, the two of us stared blankly at that heavy set door, neither speaking a word. Father seemed dishevelled, which wasn’t surprising, as he had been kicked out of his rooms in the middle of the night, the moment Mother's water had broken. He had most likely spent that night pacing in his study, trying to calm himself in any way possible. I vaguely remember feeling something as he sat next to me, though I don’t remember what anymore.
“Who do you expect, Kosian?” I remember Father suddenly asking me, his voice as resolute as ever, though the words came with a noticeable amount of huskiness and exhaustion. It took me a moment to respond to the question, as by that point the daze of anxiety had taken complete control of me.
“A… a brother, I-I guess.”
“You guess?” Father said, raising an eyebrow and looking down at me admonishingly. “A merchant does not guess, Kosian. You have to KNOW what you want. So, what do you want?”
“A brother,” I said, trying to sound as confident as possible, though I imagine the anxiety I felt simply oozed out of me at that point. Still, it was enough to satisfy Father. With a nod of his head, he smiled, patting me on the shoulder. “Aye. I hope for another son as well. Seeing the two of you play would truly be a feast for the eyes, no? Though, I do hope whoever we meet in there takes my blondness… What’s wrong, Kosian?”
I loosely remember the days of my youth. Oh sure, I can still recall everything my tutors and father ever taught me. I am a man of knowledge after all. But everything else was always a rather thick mist. Everything, except the one thing that had been ingrained into me since the time I could speak. For my entire childhood, I was always alone. Oh, I had my family. I had my servants and tutors. But not even the sons of my Father’s closest friends ever approached me willingly. People who I was taught would be my closest allies and comrades would often strain to look me in the eye. Now, of course, I know the reason. After all, children are much more sensitive to the magical than those who’ve reached maturity, yet I had not known who I truly was then. Few things can hurt me now. It is a skill one cultivates when in a position such as mine. But even now, remembering those days, that complete solitude and loneliness. Well, let me tell you, it makes me tear up even now. And yet, those simple words that my Father said to me that day changed everything. Perhaps for the first time in my life, I realized that I will be alone no longer. Until then, I hadn’t truly understood the gravity of that day. everyone always told me how I will have to be careful, to take responsibility. But it never came to me that I would finally meet someone who wasn’t shunned by my presence. Even now, I remember the rush that enveloped me. A torrent of images conjured by my mind flew past my eyes – of me and my brother or sister playing the games I had often seen other children play. Of us lying on the white tiled roof of our mansion, naming the constellations as they passed us by. Of me defending him from bullies. Of us talking of how we would travel the world together, how we would save princesses from the evil clutches of Divided or dragons.
I remember Father embracing me as streams of tears rolled down my cheeks, soundless cries of confused joy leaving my mouth. I doubt you could even imagine it. That euphoria. That sudden realization, that finally, you will not be alone. I remember it took me quite a long moment to regain my sensibilities after that. And yet, when I looked back at the water, my cheeks bright red from the still flowing tears, a smile crossed my face. I remember Father saying later that it was the purest sign of joy and hope he had ever seen. After that, the two of us descended to one of our private dining halls for lunch. I still remember the taste of that boiled crab, accented by a garlic sauce and plated with red pea salad. I can’t recall ever tasting as good as that crab that day.
After lunch, I accompanied Father to his study. The modest room had always been magical to me as a child, mainly because I was seldom allowed in. I was awed by the large shelves full of books, tapestries of ink maps, and the mantelpiece of a singular sword above the small fireplace. There was even a small podium which held an ancient bust of a regal man, which Grandfather had bought while on his travels in the east. Sitting me down on a cushioned armchair, covered in rich red padding, Father gave me a piece of paper and a charcoal pencil.
“Forgive me, Kosian, but I still have work to do,” he said, his voice still slightly husky. “I hope you can entertain yourself with this. And do not worry, I asked Jon to send for us the moment it is all over.”
I nodded, immediately picking up the paper. As Father reviewed shipments and reports, I dreamed. I dreamt of me and my soon-to-be sibling playing, running, climbing and making all kinds of mischief. I imagined we would be known across the city! The Nocamius siblings – renowned far and wide for both the good and the bad they caused! As my mind spun these fancies like a great tapestry, I remember drawing. Most likely, it was of me and my soon-to-be brother, running across the cobblestones.
As the sun started to slowly set, mostly hiding behind the white roofs and colourful walls of the city, an urgent knock came on the door to Father’s study. Immediately, the two of us dropped what we were doing and ran, with me almost tumbling to the floor after hitting the leg of Father’s desk. A young maid, newly hired, hurriedly escorted us through the corridors back to that black and ornamented door. With the maid holding the door open, Father suddenly froze. He looked like a statue just recently cut from stone. I don’t know why, but the moment I saw him do this, I immediately grabbed his hand. Looking down at me slowly, deliberately, father still stood frozen for a long moment. Before finally giving me a confident nod as the two of us strode inside.
A damp atmosphere permeated the room as small rays of sunlight peeked through the gaps of heavy burgundy curtains. A few long pieces of cloth, still bloody, were thrown haphazardly onto the small coffee table. At the other end of the room, lying in a mess of embroidered silk sheets was Mother, her long, raven dark hair was contrasted starkly by those beautiful sand-coloured eyes. In her arms, she held a small bundle of white. Next to the bed stood at least three midwives and the head maid of our house, Jon. With her long brown hair tied in a bun, the tall maid wore a tired smile on her motherly face as she approached me and Father.
“You may approach but be gentle. Please. The birth has taken a rather hefty toll on her,” she said, patting Father on the shoulder. Seemingly gulping, Father nodded understandably and slowly approached the bed with me by his side. Mother was always frail, her pale complexion attesting to this, yet I never saw her as such. To me, she was the one who could’ve ordered mountains to carry her shopping and streams to move aside for her to pass. And that strength which never left her eyes still burned as she lay on that bed, smiling as the two of us sat down on the small stools by the bed. Cupping her cheek in his hands, Father seemed to lose himself in those eyes for a moment. Small tears left his slightly faded blue eyes as he let out a shuddered breath.
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
“How are you, my love?” he finally asked, seemingly taking hold of himself again. Looking at him, Mother flashed a smile. “I’ve been through worse,” she answered wryly, giving him a bemused look. “I don’t remember falling for someone so quick to emotion, Geoffroi.”
“Well, I guess you just never noticed,” father answered, chuckling. Carefully leaning, he peeked inside the bundle of cloth. “May I meet h…”
“Him. It’s a he,” Mother said, as she carefully passed the small bundle into Father's hands. Taking it, Father breathed a sudden sigh of relief. You would’ve believed he was holding a cracked vase that could break at any moment. And as he peered inside, looking down into the bundle, a smile bloomed on his face. Never before and, sadly, never since did I ever see my Father smile in such a way. The sheer joy, the sheer happiness that was etched on his face seemed almost contagious. He laughed a cacophonous sound that sounded almost like a bark. With tears of joy in his eyes, he turned to Mother.
“What shall we name him, Enriet?”
Mother smiled at Father but then turned her attention to me. Her eyes, as always, were as warm as the sun, seemingly bathing me in rays of comfort. Placing a hand on Father, she said: “We will have plenty of time to name him. For now, show Kosian his new brother.”
“Huh? Oh, yes, of course!” Father said, seeming as if he had just woken up from a dream. Smiling at me, he crouched next to my stool. “Kosian,” he said, carefully wiping the tears off his face, “Meet your new brother.”
I remember as everything around me fell silent. Even my breath caught, as I saw what was hidden inside that white bundle of cloth. In truth, it wasn’t anything special. It was just a tiny babe, wrapped in swaddling, his skin slightly red, his eyes closed, and his few strands of short blond hair stuck to his scalp. And yet, the moment I laid eyes on him, I couldn’t help but smile. Most men say that the birth of a child is something not even the greatest of magic can recreate. And I agree with that wholeheartedly. Just seeing that baby, moving ever so slightly as he slept, made me unbearably happy. I remember, I slowly brought my finger close to him, wanting to merely feel his skin. Suddenly, a tiny hand grabbed onto it, bringing it close. I remember the feeling of love and hope washing over me as I watched that little boy moved his head towards me, still sleeping yet obviously feeling that there was someone nearby. It strangely made me think of the story of St. Pietre the Blind. For some reason, the story of the empathetic and altruistic priest who roamed the lands in search of how to help the most people in the world popped into my head as I watched my younger brother wriggle in his swaddling cloth. Without even thinking, I said then:
“Hello, Pietre.”
Both Father and Mother seemed confused. Suddenly glancing at the two of them, I remember suddenly turning red. As Pietre let go of my finger, I started stammering: “I-I mean… I wasn’t.”
“Pietre…” Mother said, looking at me. A warm smile bloomed on her face as she looked at me next to my brother. “I like it.”
Again, wiping the tears from his face, Father chuckled as the slapped me on the back. Holding up the little bundle of swaddling cloth, he barked another laugh.
“Pietre Nocamius, may you forever bring honour and fame to our family from now on! Ha ha ha!”
…
To tell you the truth, old friend, I’m fearful of having children. Though Kalia is currently in waiting, I’m afraid that the unimaginable happiness I’ll feel will be dampened by my memories of the day which I now recite to you. For though I paint a picture that one would find at an end of a happy tale, this was only the beginning of a nightmare which lasts to this day.
As Father rejoiced, holding up Pietre, I heard a few of the midwives gasp. Turning, I remember the shock and slight mortification I felt as I noticed the new guests in the room. Three men now stood just in front of the small coffee table, the two at the sides almost a head taller than the one in between them. They were dressed in pure white cloaks which draped over their bodies, covering them completely, while a wide-brimmed, circular white hat and strange porcelain masks covered their faces. The man between them wore long and heavy robes with long sleeves that almost reached the floor, the dark blue silk embroidered with golden constellations of stars. A long golden chain, covered in prayer beads, hung around his neck, the Holy Diamond comfortably lying on his chest. The man was shorter than Father, with a shaved pointy chin and evil golden eyes. Though this is most likely an addon I made when younger, I always remembered his rare black hair taking the shape of two short horns. To me, he always was and forever will be a devil wearing human skin. Smiling in a way that perhaps meant to put us at ease, to make him more like a loveable uncle than an unexpected intruder, the man spoke in a voice that seemed strangely pitched, like that of an old town crier.
“May the Stars illumine your happiness, Geofroi, Enriet. I congratulate you in the name of the Lord, the Phoenix and the Horse!”
Father, who was holding Pietre at the time, quickly gave it back to Mother, who immediately huddled him close. “What are you doing here?” Father asked in a voice that even Kings would’ve obeyed. I remember the man giving Father an admonishing look. Still, he went silent for a moment, his gaze passing the entire room. I still remember how those indifferent eyes passed over me, looking at me as if I was nought but a piece of dust in an old and forgotten room. Finally, his eyes had rested on Pietre, scrutinizing him. Clicking his tone, he let out a sigh that seemed almost sad.
“It seems the omens were true, though even I didn’t want to believe them. Geofroi, Enriet… I’m so sorry.” The last words came out in an almost mocking sneer. As he said this, I remember seeing Father's face pale. Sweat dripping down his temple, he stuttered for a moment. Stuttered! Never in my life had I ever seen Father stutter. Taking a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his hands, he looked at the man.
“What Are you trying to say, Cleceau?”
The man held out his palm, pointing it at Pietre. His voice seemed serious, though now I believe it was simply a mockery.
“Yesterday, a dream came to me – of a baby, with the horns and tattered wings of a Fallen Angel, being born somewhere in Baye. By the phase of the moon, I had discerned that the day this creature was to be born was today,” he paused, making a face so filled with mocked sadness that even six-year-old me could see through it. “Sadly, yours is the only child being born anywhere in the city. Forgive me for doing this, but a Cursed cannot be left with his family for a moment longer, lest he curses not only them but the entire city.”
“DON’T YOU DARE GIVE ME THIS BULLSHIT!” Father raged, the colour on his face quickly turning red, his fingers cracking. Pointing at the robed man, he spoke, his voice changed from a violent fury into a calm, yet icy rage. “This is all because I didn’t approve of that ridiculous deal you and your brothers sent to the City Hall! I have no care about what malarkey you dream at night. Leave my house at once or I will be forced to call the city guard!”
Father Cleceau. That was who he was. On that day, I understood that he was the epitome of weak men. Suddenly turning red like a tomato, he spluttered, barely holding in his indignation. Perhaps in a vain attempt to hide this, he grabbed onto his chin, trying to seem like he was in deep thought. Finally looking up, his gaze changed into something soulless, almost pitying. Slowly, he waved his hand towards Pietre.
“Take the babe. If any try to resist, beat, not kill.”
Nodding the barest of nods, the two figures in their white cloaks moved suddenly and unexpectedly. As they approached, Father lunged at them. In a flash of movement, I remember seeing Father lying on the ground, while the end of a wooden baton flashed behind the white cloak of one of the figures. Suddenly, the maids screamed. Jon, who up until then had been standing to the side, threw herself at one of the men who was approaching Mother. The man reacted instantly, grabbing her by the arms and throwing her to the ground. The other had reached the end of the bed. Reaching, his hands strangely long, he wrestled Pietre out of Mother's hands. She cried out, trying to take Pietre back. Instead, the white-cloaked man backhanded her across the face, throwing her back onto the bed. As the man gave Pietre to Cleceau, Father had finally gotten up. With gritted teeth, blood dripping down his face, he clambered up to his feet and started wrestling with the man, trying to push him away to reach Pietre.
You may be asking, my friend, what I was doing at this time. Was I perhaps trying to help Jon by bravely charging the man who held her down? Was I helping Mother? Or perhaps I was trying to scramble to the door, not allowing the holy man to leave? Though it pains me to say it, I did none. In truth, I was barely able to stand, my knees shaking as if they were Shaker branches. I was scared. Terrified. For Father, Mother, for Jon. For the servants who these men had undoubtedly beaten to get in. But most of all, I was mortified by the reality that had so suddenly and morbidly crushed my dreams. Those fantasies of me and my brother playing, of all our adventures and exploits… of our future, crashed to the ground like shattered glass, like fallen rubble. And as I stood there, watching the chaos unfold before me, I remember watching as Cleceau slowly walked out of my parent's room, watching as he stopped, turning his gaze to me. Let me tell you this, my friend. Until the very last moment of my life, I will never forget that self-assured and smug look in his eyes. But in truth, what hurt the most wasn’t his gaze, but the words that left his mouth as he looked at me.
“At least one Nocamius knows his place!”
…
After that incident, my family changed forever. Neither Mother nor Father ever blamed me for what happened, ever blamed me for not stopping that terrible man. They said nothing, at least, but I knew. From their spiteful looks, from their way of interacting with me, I knew… That very evening, Mother was found passed out in the small private chapel of our mansion, the skin of her back completely flailed away. After that, the only times I ever saw her were during official occasions or holy days when the entire household travelled to the cathedral. The woman I saw on those days wasn't Mother. It was merely a ghost, hopelessly clinging to the world of the living, its soulless eyes judging me, weighing my sins on scales. Father spent the first few days locked in his study, refusing to eat, only taking a cup of water every day. Soon enough, it became a common sight to find him passed out somewhere out in the halls, bottle of brandy in hand. He grew cold, distant. To him, I became just another tool, an asset to help him in his work and the continuing of his legacy. Jon tried to act as if it was simply a miscarriage, yet those few strands of white in her hair quickly grew. I oft found her crying by my parent’s rooms, though she tried to play it off.
…
I do not know what sort of misfortunes you’ve encountered on your lengthy travels, my friend. You were always secretive of such issues, only portraying them as any bard would, and I never pried to try and find out. Yet I doubt you have ever felt that rage. That pure, unfiltered fury that… that grew, no, festered inside me. Every day, I blamed myself, forced myself to think of that terrible day, each time remembering my inaction, my sin. I spent the first few days none too different to Father, locked in my room, completely shutting myself from the outside world. And at the very end, I made a vow, an oath I swore to myself I will never betray – I will see my brother again, even if the world had to once again burn for it. I still did everything that was expected of me – I learned from my tutors, from Father. And yet, my rage, my oath urged me forward. It urged me as I fought against drunken mercenaries, as I took beatings from my tutors, as I suffered the neglect and anger of my family, it urged me on. It urged me to pick up my knuckles, it urged me to scale buildings, and it urged me to learn as much about the world as possible. And so, the years went by, with my oath slowly but surely urging me forward, leading me towards the path I now tread. Reaching my fourteenth year, my Father sent me to university. And the rest you know well. All too well.
-From the prologue of: “The Tale of Khos Nostramus”,
written by Simon the Storyseeker in 1602 A.P
“…And the Stars rang from their voice, and the Earth shook from their steps, and the sky wept fire at their command. And their eyes shone glittering amber, as their masters of old begged at their feet. And the Seven Races named them Kings of Thousand. And among their number, a man stood, blessed by the Sun and cursed by the Stars. Great was his power, and greater still his resolve. And him they named Khaos – King of the Thousand Kings, Lord of the Chaos and Change Incarnate…”
-Excerpt from a partially intact cuneiform stele, author unknown, possibly dating back to 6800 B.P