Dawren, also known as Lemure 40, was born in a room that was not supposed to exist.
To be clear, the room did exist, and Dawren was put there by parents he never knew when he was quite young. But according to the building plan it didn’t. To the landlord it simply was not there. And if a man’s home is his castle what’s the point in arguing with the king?
His parents made it by subdividing their living room. The walls were sealed immediately afterwards, leaving only a small slot for food and messages to be slid in. There was only one light, an artificial lamp affixed to the top of the room that rarely stayed on longer than a minute before plunging him into darkness for hours.
With very little to occupy him, he tried to find things to do.
Impulses to feed, you know. That primordial itch.
He had a strange compulsion to create. At first he satisfied this by using his nails to scratch crude drawings into the walls, or smeared the floor with what remained of his meals. Eventually, he developed what he would call his hand magic. If he moved his hand a bit to the left, and thought in such a way, then a little piece of metal would appear on his hand. A metal which made the room darker, and made him feel safe when it was out.
This was why he was put in the room in the first place. His parents were fascinated by Remarks, and debated the truthfulness of the Grand Council. They wanted to know whether such a powerful magic was really innate, or taught. Both had no fixed stance on this matter, and would have fun switching positions mid debate to keep each other on their toes. To get an answer they needed a subject, and there was an easy but time consuming way to get one for free. They had never considered it before but after a intense night of logistics they decided to have a child.
In another life where such a position existed for them, they would have been scientists. Scientists without backing are labeled a menace, and they learned early on it was best to hide what they were doing.
Over the years his eyes adapted. When the light was on it was a distraction. He eventually destroyed it with his funny hand magic, and then came a good ten years or so of incredible bliss. The darkness, the contradiction of being in a room whose constraints were invisible, an emptiness that made no difference to his eyes. Open or closed, he was home.
Eventually his parents died, never to learn the outcome of their experiment. The food stopped coming. He would have expired if it wasn’t for the scratching. Some of the town’s guards were moving his parents corpses when they heard clawing in the walls. After a impromptu demolition, they found a boy on the other side, huddled in a corner and covering his eyes.
The people who found him felt an obligation to sympathy. “What those people did to you was awful!” And Dawren, for the first time in 19 years eating something that wasn’t cheese and crackers, could not find it within him to disagree.
Even as he came to realize leaving the room was the worst thing that had ever happened to him.
Though one thing that was nice about the world was how dark it was. Not metaphorically, through Dawren certainly preferred when the limits to his world were four stucco walls, but literally. Even at noon things barely got brighter than a flickering street lamp, he rarely had to bring out his Remark for comfort, even if it was always effective as such. For the last few years Dawren had worn a helmet whose eye holes were filtered through the same color and substance as his obsidian black Remark, meaning he experienced the world through a horrifyingly beautiful darkness that even his child self would have found excessive. Dawren did not think one could have too much of a good thing, Dawren did not think that he would ever get what he truly deserved.
Because what he deserved, once he had been taught the language and considered sane enough to hold down a job, was fucking everything. And this town couldn’t hold fucking everything.
But he would try to compromise.
The too bright Lemsk kept throwing her Remark back and forth, back and forth. When he was dodging her and showing enough humility not to summon his own, that's what he was doing. Compromising.
Lemsk’s speed and skill was just good enough to stop his men from rushing her as a group. Grand, that was another compromise. 14 turned out not to be the compromising type, he was a go getter, and threw himself at her in a move that was stupid but Dawren approved of the sheer moxie.
The opening 14’s death created allowed him to slip in and grab Adam. He slung him over his shoulder like a carpet and ran off laughing. Lemsk yelled something but was overtaken by the rest of his boys. They could fight over becoming Dawren’s new favorite.
He stopped close to a rock a girl was hiding behind, her bright silhouette cutting through the rocks dullness. Just a reserve member, no threat to him. He waved a hand in greeting through he knew she couldn’t see it.
How fun it was to be Dawren, he made life better simply by being there. Every town needed a him, every town needed a room. Let him itch all over the walls. What fun.
He dropped Adam and turned his head to watch the two skirmishes. One on his right, one on his left. Neither was going after him, all too concerned with killing the others. Say, one more compromise. The only ones that mattered were him and the stranger, the one they called Adam. Upon him was a relaxed apathy. The itch had been scratched. He dropped himself right next to Adam, resting his butt on the sand as he wriggled next to him.
“Transport.” Adam said.
“Sure, buddy, sure.” For a rare moment Dawren questioned himself before deciding, fuck it, he had already won. He took off his helm, blinking with disgust at the unbearably bright world. It was weird to see things not through a lens of obsidian.
He had resolved to never take his helm off until he became a Constant. One may argue it was premature, but victory was already assured. Just as he suspected, the world already looked a bit dimmer. He was gaining more pull over the world now. They said those in power could shape the world, and Dawren felt he was already doing so. Soon he would be able to see through objects without the aid of his helmet. Soon he would have everything. And the world would be in a darkness only bearable to him.
“Transport.” That dying man reached out a hand to Dawren’s leg, in response he jerked up like he had been stung.
Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.
“Excuse you! We’re not moving, my friend. Can’t you see there’s a war going on?” A war that he would win no matter what. If his side won, they’d continue as they had planned, return with Adam, become 41, upsell that to Constanthood, and become the Seventh of Lemure’s personal guard. The itch scratched for good.
No more shitty apartment with a heater that rarely worked, with windows that, try as he might, would never be fully taped over. Instead, he’d get a room with no doors or windows, with only a single hole in the center if he ever needed to leave. The rest of his life could be spent in the dark.
But if Lemsk and 29 won? He’d still benefit. He’d charm them with some groveling and beg to work under them. He could play subservient, he could make it believable. Then he’d cut their throats and that would be that.
The fight between Lemsk and his two men, 12 and 38, was turning. Lemsk had taken a risk and had made for a rush attack on 12, melee range. 12 was dead, so it must have paid off. He had only turned his head away for a second too.
Now she and 38 were fighting dirty, their heat burning Dawren’s retinas, the blaze from their Remarks grounded against each other as they wrestled in the sharp red sand. What a good pair they made, so even in strength, so even in brightness. Hopefully they’d kill each other.
A hand waved weakly, trying to get his attention. Oh great, not now. Adam’s hand was cut down the middle and swayed in the wind when he moved it. It disgusted Dawren, one of many reasons light was unnecessary, some things didn’t deserve to be seen. He turned his head and drummed his fingers to a private melody. What was going on with 29? He knew he had known his name once, but could not remember it.
29 was faring worse, but Grand if the kid couldn’t fight. They had pushed him to the wall of the cliff, but he was wiley and kept shimmying to the side, somehow finding again and again an avenue to escape, even as he remained trapped on the wall. 32, his Remark massive, only had to hit once, but 29 was getting his cuts in when he could. Both 29 and the other number were bloody, the fight was like a battle between pest control and the world's most annoying animal.
The sound of Adam’s gnarled hands clawing at the sand. “Transport, please.”
“In a second!” He shouted, turning his head the other direction. “Can’t you see they’re-”
26, their mask dangling from their left ear as they barreled forward, had abandoned the fight and was running straight to him. They waved their arms up and down, blood from a fresh wound flinging out with the motion.
32, the biggest man at Dawren’s disposal, was now alone and without backup. 29 had taken the opportunity to bolt as well, and was running towards Lemsk. CrawlCow shit it was going topside. He was tired of taking compromises.
“What are you doing?” The kid burned in fear. His eyes two burning orbs streaming down his cheeks with light.
“You need to help, I got hurt real bad and-“
“Help? Sure I’ll help.” He smiled wide. With a slowness, the kid smiled back. “You’re relieved of your duties,” Dawren said.
He always closed his eyes when he did it and he did it on instinct. It was his Primordial Itch and he knew scratching it was different from a Remark. Something original. It didn’t work if he looked, he had to close his eyes and made the world dark. The kid’s screams gave him a picture better than vision ever could.
He opened his eyes to a not quite disemboweled body, thankfully far duller and easier to look at. Everything had cooled off. The red sand was now a relaxed dark red, the covered sky in shades no brighter than gray. The duo of Lemsk and her lackey were winning, but that didn’t matter. The world was turning down the lights. When he ascended to being a Constant, the world would become one big room where he could see nothing at all.
Dawren sighed and ran coarse fingers through his thick blond hair, satisfied like… satisfied like nothing else, really. It truly scratched the itch. “Sorry about that. I’m better now. Where were we, you needing transport right? I guess I can take you after all.” With a snap he turned back to Adam
Who was staring down at him, he didn’t realize the man was this tall, when had he gotten up? In the wretch’s hand was a Remark but… it didn’t feel like a Remark. It felt more real than a Remark, like his Itch but, it made even his Itch seem illusionary.
”Transport?” Dawren said, feeling uncomfortably hot all of a sudden. “I can give you transport. Thats what you want… right?”
“No…” Adam said, raising his Remark. “not from you.”
Dawren found that the afterlife was bright.
.
.
.
Devon huddled next to a hunk of rock, concerned about nothing else but preserving her own life. She heard a scream, then the sound of something wet hitting the other side of her hiding place. Someone died, but was it her side, or the other? Did it really matter? As long as she could get back to her shitty apartment and her shitty bed, and have another night of terrible sleep, she’d be happy.
Boy, when she put it like that, her life sounded pathetic.
She scooted up to the rock and got into a runners stance, keeping herself small and quiet, but in a position to bolt. Being in situations where her best option was to hide and hope people forgot she was involved came easy to her. She had a lot of practice.
She dug her fingers into coarse sand and screamed silently. It didn’t make it any better, it didn’t make it easier.
Among the ambient shouts and yells around her, she heard a scraping beyond her rock. She stayed silent. Whoever it was was moving slow, and groaning.
When a pale bloody hand grasped the rock she gave up on it as a hiding spot.
With a involuntary “fuck” she backpedaled and did an awkward somersault onto the ground, landing flat on her face. The surviving combatants were too busy amongst themselves to notice the tiny little girl who had just made a complete ass of herself.
Wiping the specks of sand that clung to her face, she looked up to see Adam. The one who had become infamous in 24 hours, the one who some claimed would destroy the Grand entirely.
He was staring at her upside down from the top of the rock. His mouth gaping open and closed like a fish as his arms fell from the rock and sunk into the ground. Every breath seemed like a struggle.
Behind him stood the legs of Dawren. Just the legs, the rest of his body had been sliced off and laid in the sand already half buried, evoking a bust from some long ago empire.
“Transport…” He said, the words so urgent it made Devon anxious.
”Um, okay,” Devon said. “Yeah, we can- we can do that. Sure.”
”Transport…?” He said it again. What, did he not believe her?
”I mean if we escape here with our lives than yeah dude, yeah!” Devon said, risking raising her voice. “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go. Just- for right now.” She put a finger to her lips, the universal sign for “please shut the fuck up”
There was no way she could guarantee such a promise, but it was better to have the guy who could slice torsos on your side.
Adam smiled wide and he allowed himself to finally rest. His eyes closed and his hands sunk in even deeper, and he let out the first breath in her presence that didn’t seem forced. Something important to him had finally been resolved. After a moment he seemed to fall asleep, his heart rate slowing considerably.
As the sounds of bloodshed got closer, Devon took hold of one of his limp hands and gripped it like death, waiting like she often did for the violence to stop.