In the desolate landscape where I found myself wailing, the surroundings mirrored the torment within. Barren trees, stripped of their leaves by the cruel winter, stood like skeletal sentinels, their twisted branches reaching out in silent agony. The ground beneath was hardened by frost, and the occasional glimpse of withered grass hinted at the harsh reality of a land caught in winter's icy grip.
As my tears fell, the crystalline droplets mirrored the frost-kissed surroundings. My appearance, once regal and adorned in the trappings of royalty, had deteriorated. Tattered clothes clung to my shivering frame, and the dirt of a harsh life clung to my tear-streaked face. The luster of nobility had long faded, replaced by the pallor of exhaustion and the haunted gaze of one who had lost too much. Unbeknownst to me, a shadowy presence lurked, its eyes fixed on the distraught figure. Slowly, a wolf emerged—a creature of the wild, its fur a deep black that blended seamlessly with the wintry landscape. Its growls reverberated through the air, but my wails drowned out the ominous sounds as it circled, a silent predator in the desolate theater of my despair.
In my grief-stricken state, I finally caught sight of the stalking beast. No larger than a pup, it was nonetheless a wolf, and I, bereft of the magic that once marked my royal lineage, faced the predator with a growing sense of dread. Fear coursed through my veins as I abandoned the sticks and ran, my screams merging with the growls of the relentless pursuer. I sprinted through the unforgiving terrain, my legs carrying me as far away from the impending danger as possible. The wolf, relentless and swift, pursued me with a primal determination. Panic gripped me, my breaths coming in ragged gasps, and the cold air seared my lungs with each inhale.
Desperation guided me up a short-branched tree—a skill retained from my former life. Climbing came as second nature, a skill I clung to amidst the chaos. Finding a stable branch, I clutched onto it, the rough bark digging into my numb hands. The wolf, unable to follow me upwards, circled the base of the tree, its eyes fixed on me for I am its prey.
My cries for help pierced the frigid air, carried away by the biting winds that seemed to mock my desperation. The barren landscape absorbed my pleas, the echoes of despair lost in the vast emptiness that stretched out before me. The desolation became an accomplice to my isolation, amplifying the hopelessness that clung to my every breath.
Exhaustion and shivering convulsions overtook me as I clung to the tree branch, my hands numb and my body battered by the relentless pursuit and the merciless cold. The cruel reality of my predicament sank in deeper, wrapping its icy tendrils around my heart. In that desolate expanse, it felt as if my cries were swallowed by an indifferent void, leaving me alone with the haunting presence of the relentless wolf.
The pacing wolf continued to gaze up to me its eyes fixed on me with an intensity that sent shivers down my spine. It stood as a guardian of the desolation that had become my refuge, a stark reminder of the wild forces that awaited in the unforgiving wilderness. As I clung to the tree, battered by the elements and the relentless gaze of the predator below, a sense of resignation settled over me—a realization that in this desolate realm, my pleas were mere whispers in the vast, indifferent wilderness.
As my pleas for help echoed into the desolate expanse, it felt like an eternity before Captain Rhodes and Old Booker arrived. Running up the hill, their figures emerged against the wintry backdrop, a welcome sight amid my desperate predicament.
Old Booker, with his wild red hair and weathered face, approached with a mix of concern and bemusement. "Lad, lad, we heard ya yelping like a bird pup for teet. What's the matter with ya?" he inquired, his rough voice carrying both worry and a hint of humor.
Captain Rhodes, with his deep green and black hair and a sheathed sword by his side, followed suit. "Did you get stuck up the tree, fella? Got stuck and afraid to get down?" he quipped, unaware of the imminent danger lurking below.
Horrified, I gestured urgently toward the wolf, its red eyes fixed on me with hunger. "Stop, stop!" I cried out, trying to draw their attention to the unseen threat. "Wolf!"
Both men, seemingly oblivious to the predator, looked around in confusion. "Where, lad?" Booker asked.
Scanning the area for danger Captain Rhodes drew his black sword. "There should be no wolves here. Did a portal open up?" he questioned, their guard now raised.
"No, it's here. It's here!" I insisted, pointing down. The wolf, circling the base of the tree with predatory intent, remained invisible to their eyes.
Despite their reassurances, my heart pounded with fear as I clung to the tree branch. "I'm not joking! There's a wolf right there!" I pleaded, the invisible predator circling beneath me. The cold wind carried my words, but it seemed they fell on deaf ears.
Captain Rhodes and Old Booker exchanged puzzled glances, uncertainty clouding their expressions. "You sure you're not just spooked, lad?" Captain Rhodes questioned, eyes scanning the surroundings for any sign of danger.
The wolf, growing bolder, edged closer to the tree. I tightened my grip on the branch, desperation clawing at me. "I'm not imagining it! It's right there!" I insisted, frustration and fear gripping my voice.
Captain Rhodes sighed, seemingly unconvinced. "Alright, come on down then. We'll make sure you're safe," he offered, gesturing for me to descend.
"I'm not coming down, and you should get back before it eats you!" I exclaimed, desperation lacing my words. The invisible wolf seemed to grow larger with each passing moment, a looming threat that only I could perceive.
Booker, stroking his grey and red beard thoughtfully, regarded me with a knowing look. "What's the wolf doing now, lad?" he inquired, his tone calm and collected. Panic coursed through me as the invisible predator continued to expand in size.
"It's getting bigger!" I managed to choke out, my fear palpable. I clenched my eyes shut, unable to bear the sight any longer. "Please kill it before it reaches the top! It's growing!" I shouted, the urgency in my voice reflecting the imminent danger.
Captain Rhodes approached the older man, concern etched on his face. "Is he okay? This doesn't seem like a lie anymore, Gramps," he remarked.
Acknowledging the gravity of the situation. Old Booker nodded, affirming, "He's fine, but will you please go get Ms. Westbrook for me and leave the wee lad to me."
The older man, his expression gentle and reassuring, addressed Captain Rhodes, "Everything's alright, lad. Just go fetch Ms. Westbrook with haste." The captain, acknowledging the urgency, ran off towards the harbor, leaving me alone and desperate.
"Captain Rhodes, come back!" I shouted hopelessly, clinging to the tree for dear life.
"Nah, nah, lad. The captain will be back shortly, but I'm going to need you to do something for me," Old Booker said, his face serious.
"What's that?" I asked, my voice trembling with fear.
"Just slowly climb down," he responded calmly.
"Are you crazy, Old Man Booker? The wolf!" I interrupted, panic rising within me.
He paused me with a stern look. "The wolf has always been there. Wolves are vicious creatures, son, but they can also be our best friends. They feed off desperation, and they can be a symbol of triumph over it. You have to decide whether to let that wolf consume you, get lost in your desperation, or decide to let go. Jump and let go, lad."
Crying, I refused to jump, shouting in despair, "Mommy, why won't you save me? Daddy, why won't you love me?" My sorrow radiated from me, and before I knew it, the branch gave way. Time seemed to stand still as fear took over, and all I saw was myself falling. The beast's mouth was gaping, waiting to devour me.
"You're no son of mine. I strip you of everything—title, name, and position in this family."
"You're a stain on this family, a dark mark we're better off without."
"Magicless, nameless, and now, worthless. I should have cast you away sooner."
"Even the wolves wouldn't want the likes of you. You're a burden, a mistake."
The fall felt interminable, a freefall into the abyss of my father's scorn. The imaginary claws of rejection tore at my soul, and despair clouded my surroundings. Yet, amidst the cacophony of self-loathing, a voice cut through the darkness.
"I'm coming, son."
The words snapped me out of my daze, and I saw Booker hobbling toward me. Part of me wanted him to stay away, to let me succumb to the impending doom, but the sight of this old man, whom I'd known for less than a year, struggling to save me struck a chord.
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In that moment, a newfound determination surged within me. I no longer wished to surrender to the waiting beast below. Balling my fists, and gritting my teeth, I summoned every ounce of strength. With a punch aimed at the wolf's waiting mouth, my fist unexpectedly went through, and the wolf vanished. But my momentum remained, and my body crashed violently into the ground with a resounding thud.
As consciousness waned, Booker's voice echoed in the fading darkness. "Lad, do you hear me? I gotcha, my boy. Hold on now."
His words faded in and out, the world growing darker until eventually, the abyss claimed me.
----------------------------------Two Days Later------------------------------
The warmth of the room enveloped me as I stirred from my slumber. Slowly, I surfaced from the pool of darkness that had held me captive. Blinking against the light, I found myself in an unfamiliar setting—a room adorned with clean, quilted sheets, a stark contrast to the shack I had grown accustomed to.
The room, fashioned entirely from wood, emanated a cozy atmosphere. A large and comfortable bed cradled me, clad in warmer clothing that I wasn't familiar with. As I listened to the muted voices drifting through the air, a sense of disorientation lingered. Everything seemed foreign, like pieces of a puzzle that didn't quite fit. The voices became clearer as I approached the door and a sense of familiarity washed over me. The room was a stark contrast to the cold desolation I had experienced before, and I felt a strange mix of comfort and confusion.
Old Man Booker sat in a wooden chair, his pipe in hand, cleaning it meticulously. Captain Rhodes, with his unmistakable black sword at rest, held a large tin mug. Ceres Westbrook, tending to the hearth and adding peculiar items to the cauldron, completed the trio.
The warmth emanating from the hearth enveloped me, and a sense of safety settled in. The soft crackling of the fire was accompanied by the muted conversations of the three figures. Despite the familiarity, I couldn't comprehend their words. It was as if I were listening to a foreign language, the syllables blending into an incomprehensible melody.
As I stood there, barefoot and clad in unfamiliar attire, I felt a pang of disorientation. It was as if I had stepped into a different world, one where everything seemed both vividly real and eerily surreal.
Ms. Westbrook. sensing my presence, turned toward the door. Her eyes met mine, and a warm smile softened her features. She gestured for me to come closer, her expression a mix of concern and reassurance. Slowly, I opened the door and stepped into the room.
"Ah, the lad's awake," Old Man Booker greeted, his eyes twinkling with a mixture of relief and amusement.
"Well, fella, looks like yer back on ya feet. How 'bout not giving us such a scare next time, eh?" Captain Rhodes remarked with a gruff chuckle, his tin mug raised in a half-salute.
Ms. Westbrook approached me, her eyes reflecting genuine concern. "Are you feeling any discomfort?" she asked. I shook my head, feeling a strange mixture of gratitude and confusion. My inquiry about what had happened only deepened the mystery.
"You had a nasty little fall is all," she explained, leading me to the table. I settled into a chair that seemed disproportionately large for me. The room held an air of secrecy, evident in the exchanged glances between the three of them. It reminded me of the hushed conversations among the royal staff before my outcasting.
Booker, after gently setting his pipe on the table, stroked his beard in contemplation. "Well, lad, I don't exactly know how I'll be explaining this to ya."
Captain Rhodes chimed in, "Not too many ways to say you hexed yourself."
Ms. Westbrook chided him, "Let's see you pull off illusion magic perfectly on your first try."
"Illusion magic?" I repeated, my eyes widening in disbelief.
Looking at me with soft eyes, the red-haired woman continued, "You had a mild accident where you self-hexed yourself. It's common among those who have just started practicing illusion magic."
I was shocked, my mind racing to comprehend what she meant by illusion magic. I chimed in with a soft tone, "But I didn't do illusion magic."
The pirate captain slammed his mug down, laughing proudly. "Don't be ashamed, little fella. It's a wonder you're even practicing illusion magic at your age."
"But I can't," I said in a defeated tone, holding my head down, overwhelmed by the revelation.
Taking note of my sadness, the red-haired woman came up behind me. "It's okay, dear. Everyone who's ever tried to learn Illusion magic has hexed themselves at least once," she reassured me. I protested, explaining that it couldn't be what happened, tears slowly forming in my eyes.
"Honey, this is nothing to be ashamed of. We aren't mad. It's okay," Ms. Westbrook comforted me, pulling me into her embrace.
Old man Booker chimed in, his deep voice resonating with the weight of a story that had remained untold. "Perhaps I can explain better." Leaning back in his seat, he took a moment to gather his thoughts, his weathered face revealing the scars of a life lived on the edge of both magic and mundanity. The flickering light from the hearth cast shadows that danced across his lined features as he began to unravel the enigma of my past.
"To be honest," he continued, "if it weren't for you and the Captain here, lass, I would not be telling this story. But you both have proven to be trustworthy folk in this cruel world. So I ask that you please not share what I am about to tell you."
Pausing to pick up his pipe, he dug into his pocket and loaded the device with dried leaves. He didn't light the pipe; instead, he held it for a moment, a contemplative gesture before delving into the revelation.
"You see, our little Nemo here is the sixth son of King Pluto of Celestria." The words hung in the air, carrying the weight of untold secrets and hidden lineage.
Ceres and Captain Rhodes exchanged bewildered glances, grappling with the gravity of the disclosure. The hearth's flickering flames cast an intimate glow, illuminating Booker's weathered face as he began to unravel the complex tale that had shaped my existence.
"When the little lad came of awakening age," Booker continued, his voice now a somber cadence, "it was discovered he has no Aether field, therefore it's impossible for him to channel magic. So for that reason among other things, he was stripped of his name, title, and home."
A shiver ran down my spine as the echoes of past rejection reverberated through my thoughts. Captain Rhodes, his anger evident, voiced the collective outrage.
"No, you are not about to tell me this kid was kicked out of his home just because he couldn't weave. He is what, six, seven years old? You can't be serious. What kind of parents do something so heartless?"
The room fell into an uneasy silence, the truth hanging in the air like a heavy mist. Booker, his gaze filled with empathy, finally broke the silence. "In this land, life is more liberal, I have noticed, than in Celestria. I do not agree with the King nor his methods, but..."
Booker paused, setting the pipe down. "Life's a complex tapestry, lad, woven with threads of fate and choices. Sometimes, the choices made by those in power can be harsh and unforgiving. But I believe we are all forgetting one thing here."
He turned his attention to me, and I saw neither shame nor fear in his eyes—only pride. "The little lad here still was able to use Illusion magic." This revelation shocked everyone except Booker.
"That's true," Ceres said, her curiosity evident. "How is that possible?"
Looking down at me with a look of concern on her face, Ceres voiced her worry, "Without an Aether field, the channeling should have been extremely painful. Did his family make a mistake?" She continued to comfort me, providing a sense of warmth reminiscent of my older sisters back home before they began to look at me like I was an abomination.
"Mistake or not," the captain commented, his anger still palpable, "what kind of parents just toss their child on some ship like that?" His outrage remained unabated.
"The royal families of our land are not known for their fairness," Booker added, his tone reflecting a hint of bitterness, "but fate often has a way of dropping Ruach users in the most strange places.
The anger immediately left Captain Rhodes' face. The pirate leaned forward, shocked, while both Ms. Westbrook and I were left confused. I remained silent, grappling with a mixture of confusion and hope. Could I have used magic? Did this mean I could go back home? Hopeful thoughts of returning to my former life began to bubble up within me.
"What's Ruach?" I finally asked, seeking clarity. Old man, Booker set his pipe down and embarked on an explanation of what Ruach is. He described it as a rare form of magic known as Spirit magic or Spirit energy.
"I'm sure you kids know how you are both body, mind, and spirit," Booker began.
"Well, your physical body moves based on your stamina, and your mental abilities, such as magic, rely on your Aether reserves or mental capacity to weave spells. Ruach, however, is the system that governs them both. Your body is not alive without its spirit, and without life, how can one weave? Unlike magic, where you just learn to weave and boom, Ruach requires a balance of body, mind, and soul. And unlike your Aether reserves, your Ruach is based on one singular focus."
"What's that?" Ceres asked, intrigued. Even now, my curiosity was piqued, especially if this meant I could return home.
"Your faith," Captain Rhodes responded knowingly.
Booker explained further, "And faith is the strongest weapon of all."
The room fell into a contemplative hush as Old Man Booker, with the weight of experience etched on his features, further elucidated the intricacies of spirit energy. He emphasized that mastering Ruach demanded training, focus, and hard work. Unlike Aether, Ruach couldn't be improved; it could only be mastered. Ruach reserves were intricately tied to one's life force, and using too much could deduct days, weeks, or even years from one's lifespan. It required a delicate balance and unwavering focus.
As they questioned my actions when I first experienced the wolf, I explained that I was gathering sticks and thinking about home. Reflecting on those moments, I realized that the despair that once gripped me had diminished. With Ruach, I felt a newfound hope that things could be better.
Turning my gaze toward Old Man Booker, hope gleaming in my eyes, I eagerly asked, "This means I can go back home, right?"
The older man's words cut through the air, shattering the hope that had briefly flourished within me. "Son, being a Ruach user grants you more rights to any throne this world has to offer. Many who possess such power have often pursued or defended the Immortal Throne with their lives and they are also hunted by those who stand at the top. In your untrained state, your father and possibly your brothers would see you as nothing but a threat."
The weight of those words bore down on me, causing a torrent of emotions to surge forth. Hurt, betrayal, and the realization of a shattered dream overwhelmed me. Tears flowed uncontrollably, and the sobs echoed through the room. Amidst my anguish, no one urged me to be quiet, no one told me to get over it. Ms. Westbrook, Captain Rhodes, and Old Man Booker offered me the solace of their silent presence. In those vulnerable moments, they allowed me to express my pain, to let out the wailing cries of my shattered dreams.
For the past few months, even when I was difficult, unresponsive, or downright mean, they stood by me with unwavering patience. In easy times and hard times, they remained a constant presence. What meant the most to me, however, was the gentle hand Old Man Booker placed on my right shoulder. He, with the weight of age, clad in humble attire, walked with a limp, and bore the signs of a life far from royalty. Yet, his actions spoke louder than any regal decree.
"It's okay, son. Let it out. It's okay."