Under a dark and sinister sky, Lodran, the grand capital of Carguria, was sinking into unprecedented decay. The wind howled fiercely, battering the windows and enveloping the normally imposing city in a feeling of suffocation before the impending storm.
Myrddin, a young vagabond, wandered the deserted streets. The street lamps, flickering weakly, barely illuminated his figure dressed in tattered rags that offered little protection from the freezing air. He moved like a lost specter, his gaze empty and unfocused, unable to remember where he was going or where he had come from.
He might try to remember, but he didn't care.
Fleeting images crossed his mind: broken memories of a life in black and white. A young boy without parents, whose earliest memories began in a crumbling orphanage after its owner's death. The world had always been empty to him, lacking color or emotion. Even in the most tragic moments, such as when the orphanage closed, he felt nothing.
They might call him unfriendly, cold, even heartless. Since he became aware, Myrddin was different, and over time, he discovered the reason: he lacked something that everyone else possessed—emotions.
It wasn't that he was completely devoid of them, but they were so weak and fleeting that he barely noticed them. He could count on one hand the times he felt something, even if only mildly intense.
Myrddin wasn't seeking to live or die; he was more like a machine, with sporadic flashes of humanity. If it weren't for his body instinctively moving to seek food, he would probably have died on some street when the orphanage closed. Even now, it was that instinct guiding him through the icy streets of Lodran.
'But with what purpose?'
He had seen beauty and evil in all their forms. His gaze transcended that of any normal person, capturing the goodness of those who gave everything for others and the cruelty of those who took everything for a coin. He had roamed Lodran for years, from the slums of wooden houses and ropes to the wealthy districts with majestic buildings.
Despite his young age of fourteen, Myrddin had already glimpsed enough of the world to come to a conclusion: nothing made sense.
He was simply tired of looking for one.
'And if nothing makes sense, what reason did he have left to live?'
As if the world was responding to his thoughts, an icy drop hit his face, wiping away some dirt. Then another drop, and the storm erupted with dizzying intensity.
Was it a punishment from the gods? For a moment, Myrddin considered the possibility. It was as if his heretical thoughts against life were being punished.
He barely took two steps before the powerful storm threw him to the ground, forcing him to fall to his knees. The pain was intense; he felt as if his knees were broken, and the water drops, the size of fists, beat down on him relentlessly, forcing him to prostrate. Though his face reflected pure pain, his eyes remained dim, indifferent to the proximity of death.
With the freezing water accumulating under his hands and the deafening sound of the storm around him, Myrddin felt like a candle burning out rapidly.
'Am I just a mistake?' he thought, as the light in his eyes faded. Perhaps he was just a mistake of nature, one she wanted to correct to return everything to its natural course.
But none of that mattered to him anymore. Closing his eyes, Myrddin felt the sound and pain disappear, and a void along with silence claimed him.
Then, an unexpected voice broke the stillness.
"Oh, what is this doing here?"
The voice, calm and deep, belonged to someone older, but had a strangely youthful tone. However, more than the tone, it was the sensation it evoked in Myrddin that forced him to open his eyes.
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The pain and fatigue did not diminish but increased, yet, spellbound, he lifted his head.
A blurry figure appeared before his clouded eyes. Though he could not see clearly, the multicolored cloak and the tattered top hat the figure wore were visible to Myrddin.
His face was incredibly blurred, but when he lifted his head, he saw a ridiculously large smile forming.
"Do you want to see a magic trick, kid?" said the figure with a frivolous voice, challenging the storm and the thunder that could not overshadow it.
In Myrddin's eyes, the figure seemed to challenge him: Dare you see me in black and white?
It was ridiculous, incredibly ridiculous, because to his gaze, the figure was staining his black-and-white world with colors, and against all odds, his heart began to beat irregularly, as if it were... anticipation.
The figure raised his eyebrows at the lack of response and rested his hands on a staff that appeared out of nowhere.
"Ahem, what a difficult audience," he commented, his voice tinged with mockery. Myrddin had no strength to speak, and any word of his would have been swallowed by the storm. However, the figure's words sounded like a silly joke from an old friend.
"Well, first..." he said, slowing his speech as he raised his right hand, "A decent stage!" he exclaimed, snapping his fingers.
And then, the world stopped. All sound disappeared.
The water drops froze in mid-air, some barely falling from the darkened clouds, others crashing to the ground. Even the lightning, which normally appeared and disappeared in an instant, remained fixed in the sky like branches of an ancient tree.
From Myrddin's blurry and flickering view, he saw a wave of colors emerging from the figure's hand, expanding and decorating the world as it came to a halt.
"Ha, ha, ha! Don't be too surprised, kid, this is just the stage," the figure laughed, satisfied with the look of amazement and the now illuminated gaze of Myrddin. Then, he slightly raised his staff and tapped it gently against the wet ground.
The surrounding water drops parted, like an army receiving orders from its general.
Myrddin's hazy gaze began to clear. Without the storm beating down on him and without those drops in between, he could see the figure more clearly.
It was a middle-aged man, dressed not only in a colorful cloak; his entire outfit was of different colors, some new and others old, creating a ridiculously out-of-place ensemble.
His face, despite the wrinkles and somewhat yellowed teeth, radiated a youthful liveliness that did not match his appearance.
Since the snap of the fingers, Myrddin's world had had color for the first time in his life, but the figure before him was like a brush, painting the world as he went.
Myrddin did not know how or why, but did it even matter? His heart beat fiercely and irregularly, pumping emotion into every corner of his scrawny body.
Emotions that appeared faintly every few years were now flooding him. Some he recognized, others he did not, but there was one that stood above all the rest.
He had never felt it, but, paradoxically, he recognized it immediately: longing.
He longed for what made the man who smiled silently special, enjoying Myrddin's changing expression.
"Perfect! It seems the audience is excited, let's start the act..." began the man, moving his hands with the grace of a circus master, his gestures wide and theatrical, as if about to reveal a spectacular trick. But then, his voice abruptly faded.
"Eh?" he murmured, his enthusiasm coming to a halt. Looking down, he saw his only spectator collapsed on the ground, half unconscious.
Myrddin's body was already exhausted, weakened by hunger, cold, and relentless pain. Now, with the storm suspended and the pressure relieved, fatigue finally caught up with him, leading him into the arms of unconsciousness.
The man watched the scene in silence for a few moments, his expression shifting from surprise to bewilderment, and finally, to a melancholy tinged with irony.
"Well, what a rude audience," he said aloud, as if expecting the very air to hear him, "Falling asleep as soon as the act begins... How hard it is to find a decent audience these days," he sighed dramatically, shaking his head with exaggerated sadness that did not quite conceal the spark of amusement in his eyes. "Poor me, here I am, ready to give it all, and I don't even get an ovation," he added, with a mix of resignation and humor.
He bent over Myrddin, observing him with curiosity. Despite his words, there was something more in his gaze, an interest that went beyond mere entertainment. "Well, kid, it seems you need a good rest. Don't worry, there is still time for more surprises."
With a smile that was half mischievous and half compassionate, the man bent down, lifting Myrddin with surprising ease. As he did, the world around them remained frozen in that strange temporal pause he had created, as if the entire universe awaited the next move of this enigmatic individual.
He walked slowly, humming a melody that seemed detached from everything around them. As he moved, the colors he had brought began to expand, enveloping Myrddin in a mantle of dreams that transported him to a place where emotions finally had a place.
"Rest, little one," the man whispered, his voice barely a murmur over the still wind, "There is still much to see, and you won’t want to miss the grand finale."