Chapter 20
Prague, 1970…
The evening sunlight filtered through the ornate, stained glass window, casting rainbow-colored patterns across the imposing chamber of the palace. The room was awash with splendor, from the gold-gilded ceiling adorned with cherubic frescoes, to the imposing, masterfully carved furniture upholstered in rich, imported fabrics. The scent of sandalwood and roses filled the air, and the subtle patter of raindrops against the windowpane created a soothing backdrop.
In the center of the room, positioned just beneath the captivating embrace of the sunlight, stood a young man of astounding appearance. His skin - a lustrous, coal-black hue - was a sight to behold on its own, but it was the nature of his skin's texture and composition that set him far apart from any ordinary human. Seemingly made from lumps of coal, each piece molded together into one cohesive armor-like surface, his skin emitted a subtle shine, giving it the appearance of onyx. Like the scales of a dragon, the stony formations that comprised his skin were black as night, a stark contrast to the opulence of his surroundings.
However, even his shocking appearance could not distract from the incredible performance that he was in the midst of. The young man, gracefully cradling a masterfully crafted violin beneath his chin, played with a passion and skill that surpassed even the most experienced of violinists. His fingers danced along the strings with an elegance and precision that seemed almost supernatural, the bow sweeping and gliding effortlessly as it coaxed the most enchanting music from the instrument. His violin sang with a sweet, mournful melody, punctuated by the young man's fervor and absolute dedication to his art.
The music that filled the room was truly a masterpiece, a manifestation of the devotion and perseverance the young man had invested in honing his craft as a musician. It was as if the very essence of the world's sorrow and beauty had been distilled and poured into his soul, and now flowed outward through the motions of his arms and fingers, pouring forth as a symphony that transcended the bounds of mortal understanding. Each note was perfect, and the air itself seemed to tremble in anticipation of the next.
As the young man played, the sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows shifted almost imperceptibly. The shadows cast by the intricate patterns on the walls danced and merged together, forming a visual accompaniment to the intricate melody. The room became an enclave of ineffable wonder, a sanctuary in which the young man, attired in his coal-black skin, could reveal the depth of his talent without fear or restraint.
For this young man, the act of playing the violin was not only an expression of his love for music, but it was also a release from the incessant questions and curious stares that his strange appearance brought forth. It was here, in this magical space where music commandeered all senses, that he could communicate a passion and vulnerability that transcended the barrier of his inhuman exterior.
The music built to a crescendo, the notes intertwining and racing with fervor, as the young man's fingers danced faster, the urgency in his eyes reflected by the intensity of the melody. And then, as suddenly and sweetly as it had begun, the symphony concluded with a single, delicate note that seemed to languish in the still air.
The young man lowered his violin and closed his eyes, his chest heaving with exertion, the final notes of his performance echoing and reverberating within him. Though he knew that he would never be like the others - his stone-like skin an eternal reminder of his difference - it was moments like these when he embraced his talent and the whimsical beauty of life that he could almost believe in the possibility of true acceptance.
The young man, still caught up in the lingering echoes of his passionate performance, jumped slightly at the sound of slow, deliberate clapping echoing through the grand chamber. Turning his head, his beady eyes were met by the amused gaze of the General, the years having done little to diminish the authority and charisma of the man who had saved him a decade ago in a Ukrainian alleyway. His features were now slightly more weathered, a testament to the passing of time, but in essence, he remained every bit the powerful and enigmatic figure he had been that fateful night.
If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.
"My boy," the General said with a smile, the deep timbre of his voice resonating in the room, "your talents grow each day. If people could only witness the soul within you that creates such music, they would understand your face is not something just to be feared."
A savage grin spread across the young man's face as he lowered the violin. "I don't want them to do anything but fear me, General," he said, the dark glint in his eyes lending his words a seriousness that belied their seemingly playful tone.
The General laughed heartily, his eyes crinkling warmly at the corners, as he crossed the room to a side cabinet. Producing a bottle of vodka, he mused aloud, "If they did, if they could witness the majesty of how you play, it might serve to dispel the legend of The Golem we have so carefully crafted. Then again, the discordance is so great, maybe it would only enhance it."
The Golem, the fearful entity they had crafted together, using the young man's appearance to strike terror into those who might oppose them. Somewhere between a bodyguard and an instrument of fear, he had embraced this peculiar identity with the same fervor he did his music. The young man approached the General, accepting a glass of vodka as he continued to consider the General's words.
"Truly, music is for me, not for show," he confessed, a hint of vulnerability to his voice. "It's hard to express what it means exactly… maybe it's a way to prove to myself that I'm human. It feels private, like I'm exposed when I play. I don't mind you hearing it, but I send the servants away when I want to play. I'm sure they can hear it from a distance, but I don't enjoy it when I think people are listening."
The General clinked his glass against the young man's, the sound ringing out.
"Well," he said with a warm smile, "I am honored that you allow me to share in this exquisite part of your soul. It's moments like these that remind me of the incredible journey we've embarked upon together."
The Golem looked inward at the General's comment about their journey, his mind flickering back to that fateful day in the alley when he had taken the older man's hand, following him into the unknown. Under the General's guidance and tutelage, he had protected, fought, and killed for him. And what's more, he liked the violence, the fear, the feeling of invincibility that came with it. But above all, he loved the power that the General had introduced him to and placed in his hands.
Somewhere deep within the Golem, the same frightened child that had fled the facility on the night of the hybrids' attack still lingered, seeking solace in the shadows. That child had found the balm he so desperately needed—a sense of power to silence his fears and a friend who had become like a father, guiding him toward greatness.
The General placed his hand on the Golem's shoulder, the weight of the gesture the only sign of familiarity between the two. The General, unlike others, never flinched at the feel of the jagged, dragon-like scales beneath the fabric of the young man's clothing.
"You've helped make me who I am," the General said, his voice somber but proud. "Your strong hands, your unbreakable skin, your demonic terror… the legend of the Golem helped me carve out my place, helped me earn all of this. But you know you are not a mere tool to me."
"I know, General," the Golem replied, his voice quiet, overwhelmed, uncomfortable.
The General shook his head and gently squeezed the young man's shoulder, urging him to maintain eye contact. "It's easy to say such things, to feed the ego of one you mean to control. But finding you that day, bringing you in… at the time, I just saw the potential value, knowing where you'd escaped from. Over time, however, the greatest gift you brought me was the satisfaction of watching you grow and thrive. It fills me with pride."
The Golem shifted uncomfortably at the heartfelt admission, momentarily lost for words. "You don't need to…"
But the General stopped him. "But I do. It might be the vodka loosening my tongue, but you need to know that you are the greatest creation I've ever had a hand in building—not my empire of drugs, whores, and bootleg jeans. And so you understand my sincerity, I want you to know that when I am gone, all of this will be yours. You will be my heir."