Before time even showed signs of existence, there was a village daringly situated between a chain of sharp and steep mountains, home to mysteries and horrors that no soul cared to unravel. This indifference stemmed from the secure existence of the beings there, protected by the mountains, with fertile land bestowed upon them, ensuring a carefree life for all except one boy.
This little one looked like any other in the village, except for the gleam in his eyes, considered by many as an ill omen. The sparkle revealed his raw and naked curiosity about the reasons behind things. Why worship the mountain? Why not question this fact? Why not inquire about what lay beyond those mountains?
He was always curious about what existed behind the cursed mountains, surrounding him without his consent, slowly suffocating him, hindering his exploration and dreams of glory. He saw no harm in questioning it; after all, what did he owe to the mountain? On the contrary, the mountain owed him.
The boy despised the arrogant chain that confined him. 'What right did it have to do this to me? Worse than a tedious life is a life I didn't choose for myself,' he thought relentlessly. His incandescent eyes, full of cunning, served as an antidote to the poison that had corrupted the minds of others, making him glimpse the fearsome truth – the mountain provided no blessing; it was a curse, one he felt obliged to break free from.
His interpreted truth left him indignant. After the shock, the little one headed to the base of the mountain. His parents had long stopped worrying about him when they realized he scorned everything that allowed them to survive peacefully. He didn't care; after all, how would those fools understand his feelings when all they cared about was themselves? 'Salvation is individual,' he thought, embarking on his journey for salvation.
The closer he got to the base of the mountain, away from the village, the more he noticed the stark differences. It was an unexplored place, stirring his blood without him realizing, making everything around him seem more alive, colorful, unique. His indignation had long dissipated, replaced by pure joy, the kind only a child could generate, awakening something within him.
'If only the base of the mountain is like this, imagine what lies beyond it,' he thought, trying to lose himself in the imagination of the unseen.
The little wanderer roamed through woods with a putrid smell he couldn't recognize, rivers of fire with a strange color forming strange symbols in his ears, and even a huge hole that seemed bottomless, echoing sweet whispers in his ears. He paid no attention to these futile things and chose to keep walking. After what felt like ages, without realizing the passage of time, he reached a narrow path leading to somewhere he couldn't see, but he wasn't deceived. He knew that was his goal, the way out.
He happily walked toward the passage until an old and decrepit man, with a breath of death, appeared. His eyes were deep, vacant, seemingly reflecting no light. His teeth were crooked and black, as if hygiene had never mattered.
His garments were of a proud crimson hue, the fabric, once illustrious and expensive, now found crumpled and dirty, as if a crowd had just trampled over it with muddy feet, mocking the man by dancing upon his frail body.
His posture was upheld only by the rudimentary staff in his hand, but above all, what caught one's attention about the old man were his sweet and gentle words, akin to a devil's whisper.
"Poor boy, little do you know that you possess everything one might envy in anyone else, yet you fail to see the value of things and cast it all aside, pursuing suffering. Is it worth trading security for war, abundance for hunger, health for sickness, or life for death for a mere dream of glory, O little one?" said the dirty old man in a clear tone, as if it were the most sensible thing to say.
"A life I did not choose to live, an empty joy, an eternal stability—of these things, which can be envied by anyone sane?" said the boy with a raised eyebrow, puzzled. "I, and only I, will be responsible for my choices, regardless of the outcome, as long as the choice is mine."
A beautiful song was playing, and the old man knew it. Like a skilled conductor, he led the orchestra.
"What do you have to sustain yourself in the world beyond this expanse of stone, little one?" he said with a grotesque smile, his black and fetid mouth now contorted.
"My glory will be a source of power, putting an end and the same time creating wars," said the youngster as he confidently walked towards the old man, not taking a step back, for how could he retreat after coming so far?
"My imagination will provide abundance, ending hunger and thirst," he continued reciting in a trance, lost in the future, forgetting the present.
"My curiosity will guide me in the pursuit of knowledge, becoming the nemesis of any evils that may exist." His baritone tone was commanding, as if merely uttering such heresies would be enough to make them a reality.
Having reached the old man, the no longer so small youngster looked up as if challenging the deceased elder.
"Falsehoods do not affect me; they only make my preferred statements stronger."
"I am open-armed to whatever comes my way. Whatever you provide, malicious or not, will be graciously accepted by me, even the most poisonous water or the oldest meat."
After a few moments of silence, the old man laughed.
"Your insolence does not seem to hold an antithesis to death, does it, little one? Therefore, you must return whence you came and never tread here again."
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"You are mistaken, O devil," said the youngster, "Death is a choice, and being the king of choices, I can simply choose not to die." He said with a smile on his face.
With these words spoken, the boy took a step forward, hoping to cross the narrow passage, only to be stopped by the old man one last time.
"You truly are a beautiful melody in this silent world, little one, but will you really remain so? I only tell you, the final act of all songs is the hardest to play." The voice of the old man was heard, but he was nowhere to be seen, as if his voice were the voice of all things.
The boy pretended to ignore the old man's words as he took his final step, but he certainly did not fail to listen to the last words of the one who set him free.
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Surrounded by numerous books on a simple wooden table, a boy could be seen closing a now-worn book, as if it were a cherished and beloved piece of art for a long time.
The books around him also bore a certain worn appearance, though not to the same extent as the freshly read one, as if they were only supporting characters in the grand scheme of things.
The scholarly boy, who looked like he had spent several sleepless nights, emphasized further by his natural dark circles and messy hair, wore a badge made of poorly carved wood with lazy, curved letters forming a simple name, Danael.
"It's no wonder the classics written by the churches are so sought after; they truly are a great source of information about their gods, even if it's a summary of the entire history," he said, sighing. "At least, the tale from the Church of the God of Destiny was easy to obtain. I shudder to think of the astronomical price for the divine tales of other churches." A chill ran down his spine as he contemplated the exorbitant cost he would have to pay to get his hands on the stories from the others.
Fate, Unnameable, War, Mistakes, Progress, Thought, Providence, and Emotions. Each of these churches has its own tales, ranging from the general summary of their gods' history to detailed parallel stories of their journeys.
Standing up from his table, he notices that it's almost dusk. "I guess it's nearing closing time for the library. I better get everything in order before that old crow starts squawking about how tough his life is."
The books he surrounded himself with today were mostly literature, staying in the same section. As he neared the completion of organizing the books he had taken back to their respective shelves, a peculiar book caught his attention.
The book had a beautiful royal purple cover with an intricate pattern of green veins, giving the illusion of forming a beautiful garden. 'I once read that in nature, the more vibrant the colors, the more poisonous the animal.' He thinks to himself with a certain level of apprehension, hesitating to speak his thoughts aloud for fear that if someone overhears him, they might give him a questioning look for comparing a book to a venomous creature.
After a moment of contemplation, with his rational side prevailing over his instinctive side, he finally picks up the book.
Ignoring the discomfort, he searches for a title, finding it within the book, written in golden letters.
'Iliakós Apógonos,' he recited in his mind, finding it strange that the book was written in the ancient language of the Hellenes. 'The Hellenes were a prominent people in the third era, renowned for literature and runic writing, but they were extinct by the believers of the Goddess of Emotions for some reason they refuse to disclose.'
The time Danael lived in was full of skeptical and gloomy individuals regarding the future, choosing to believe that the gods had abandoned them and everything was futile, earning the name the Dark Era, or for specific individuals, the sixth period of the golden calendar.
'That's not important now, not even how such an old book ended up here. All I know is that I have to go to the orphanage before it gets completely dark, or else I'll have to sleep on the streets.' Danael thought, choosing to quickly tuck the book into his worn leather bag instead of reporting it to the old man who oversees the library, as he doesn't pay much attention to such matters; after all, he always takes good care of the books he borrows.
After leaving the old and worn-out library and stashing the poorly made badge in his pocket, Danael realizes that the sky is now darker than before. He begins to run at a steady pace, the rhythmic sound of his shoe soles echoing through the evening streets.
As he agilely ran through the streets bathed in a fading sunset, he appreciated the scene of such dead beauty, becoming nostalgic for the illustrious past he experienced before the onset of the Dark Era. The once bustling streets filled with vendors were now nothing more than a vast open space, as if to emphasize the emptiness even more. The houses, once synonymous with happiness, now lay in ruins, and those still standing had lost their luster, comparable to any dull gray stone.
The city's residents had long grown accustomed to living in this destroyed setting, caring little about the appearance or condition of things, as if all that mattered to them was the need to continue in misery, suffering, and decay.
Danael simply couldn't understand them, considering them like a bunch of blind people who don't see the main point, just as they couldn't understand Danael, asking him what the need was to see the beauty in a world as dirty as that.
Not wanting to lose momentum by pondering unnecessary things, he ignored it all and focused on the path ahead. Running without breaking a sweat, he arrived at the immense gate of the 'orphanage' in an instant, which, by the way, was already closing. He managed to enter that detestable place under the irritated gaze of the guard because he was delaying his rest, but he didn't care and kept walking.
That place used to be a kind of refuge for children, where they enjoyed care and the possibility of a better future. Now it seemed like its entire purpose had been reversed, nothing more than a roof where he lived with all the other people he didn't care about, everyone except one.
"It's a shame that Adonis is traveling. I can't stand living with these people who hate me anymore," Danael thought resentfully that his brother had never taken him on his journeys.
Under the gazes of those worthless individuals, he went straight to the room he usually shared with his brother when he was in town. After entering, he locked the door and set the traps his brother had taught him in case someone managed to sneakily break in. After all, that place wasn't so trustworthy.
Upon finishing, Danael sat on his bed and took the strange book from the bag, tossing it aside, giving full attention to the peculiar object in front of him.
Illuminated by the candlelight scattered throughout the room, the book took on a cozy appearance that became uncomfortable when his touch reminded him of the veins, making the room's atmosphere extremely strange.
Without further ado, he opened the book.
The first page of the book seemed like a dedication written in a language Danael didn't know, which he found odd since the title on the cover was written in Hellenic. He ignored it for now and turned the page, gripping right at the edge, which happened to be sharp and ended up cutting his finger perfectly, staining the book's blade with a small spot of blood.
Danael was too absorbed in the atmosphere bordering on the profane to worry about the tiny and insignificant pain in his finger. When he saw the content of the second page, he recited it without realizing.
"For your servants
From the bowels
Flutes may sound
Your wondrous deeds
Embrace sin
Welcome the blessing
Of these impure souls
May my dream
And your will
So be done."
After that, darkness.