Bang!
Cannonballs fired one after another. Breaking through the threshold of the city walls all hope was lost. Innocent civilians ran aimlessly through the labyrinth of chaos. What was once their peaceful home was now a ceaseless battle zone in a war of attrition.
"Wahhh!" Babies cried, and mothers wept. Carrying their children in fastened hands, running as fast as their legs allowed them, was all in vain.
Bang! Splat!
A cannonball broke through the city wall, tearing apart sides of evacuated homes steamrolling the mother and her crying infant. Red blotches stained nearby debris. Fathers were drafted to the front lines in a bid to make one last stand to protect the city from the advancing forces of the enemy nation. However, even when you have something to fight for it doesn't mean you will be able to protect it.
"Stand your ground!" The army general shouted, pointing his saber forward.
"Sir yes, sir!" The untrained fathers yelled, rushing forth armed with steam-powered rifles. Crouching before some stone,s they mounted their guns to take aim. One soldier lined up the enemy within his sights. Narrowing his gaze, his index finger instinctively moved towards the rigid trigger trembling from trepidation. What he saw was a knight clad in silver armour walking towards him. His broad sword sheathed alongside the waist, his right arm was raised burning with fire. The father gritted his teeth, feeling a rush of adrenaline. Pulling the trigger, he shouted. "They have a Hermit on the frontlines!" The bullet propelled forward due to compressed steam sending the firing pin to hit the primer, igniting the gunpowder. The bullet ricocheted off the right shoulder plate of the knight, he recoiled back from the force slightly. Pulling the firelit arm back, he threw a ball of flickering light across the desert field.
The soldier watched in horror before instinctively attempting to jump out the way. Albeit, the fireball erupted upon reaching the allied front, exploding into a plume of orange flames.
…
Knock, knock, knock.
The fire engulfed everyone that day, and another city was lost.
Clyde Mayberry opened the front door, allowing the Summer breeze to rush in, sending an unwelcome shiver down his spine whilst blowing his unkempt semi-curled hair that parted in the middle reaching down to just above his jawline. Dark brown eyes devoid of any joy stared into that of the anxiety-ridden postman with one arm. The young man, no older than twenty, extended an envelope with shaken hands and a cursed smile. Clyde's gaze shifted to the right to billows of smoke rolling over the horizon below from the lost city. A soft sigh escaped his lips before he snatched the envelope hastily and quickly slammed the door.
The postman blinks three times over before stepping away from the door. Placing a hand on his chest with a deep inhale he moved his attention to the dusty round window split into four panes. Lifting the white bill of the blue postman's cap to peer inside the curtains shut on their own magically. "Rude…" The postman shied away from the window, turning his attention to the dirt path that led down the hill to the left. "Mr. Mayberry sure does live on a large hill secluded by the mountains." Walking forward onto patches of enriching green grass, he adjusted his navy uniform with golden buttons, looking down at the valley below divided by a winding river leading towards the burning city. "That's the third town this week. How can he just sit by and pretend like nothing is happening?" Pulling down the bill of his cap, the blonde postman with messy hair and emerald green eyes descended the hill's spiraled trail.
The house was relatively small, with a round window on each side of the door. A lantern hanging from a wooden post stuck in the ground was said to ward off evil spirits in the dark of night with its warm light. The roof of Clyde's home was reminiscent of a red wizard's cap, the round edge brimmed acting as a gutter. Inside this cozy wizard-like house was an open concept room that encompassed all necessity. Dark oak floors stretched from wall to wall. On the left side was a makeshift kitchen deserving of a pitiful bachelor, while the right was a rectangular chest with a feather cushioned red top to lay across acting as his bed when closed. Behind the chest was a ceiling-to-floor window, one could gaze out to the horizon beyond the valley below. In the back was a partition with a desk before it and a doorway to the right that led to the facilities in the back as well as two ladders: Descending to the basement and ascending to the attic. Behind them, an unlit lamp sat waiting to be used to illuminate above and below.
Taking a seat at the desk in front of the partition, Clyde Mayberry opened the letter in a well refined manner. Opening the folded paper with his left hand, he flicked the envelope with the right, enveloping it in scarlet flames and letting the ashes fall gently like snow to the floorboards below.
Dear great Hermit Mayberry. This is a letter courtesy of King Weston, informing you to report to duty immediately. You have been called to arms in service of your country. Further negligence will result in immediate action, resulting in your arrest.
-Sincerely, the King's Court.
Clyde gave a cursory glance a few more times, lost in thought. Taken aback by the threat of the kingdom, he tossed the letter to the left, where a pile of similar letters sat from various levels of government. Shaking his head indiscriminately, he could not help but talk to himself. "It seems my lack of response over the years has finally been passed on to the top of the government's hierarchy. Soon, they may even dispatch a Hermit to my residence. What would I do then?" Clyde lampooned and stood up from the wooden chair, not bothering to push it in. Walking across the open concept room, he took a seat on top, the chest sprawling across it, letting the right leg hang off while the left was raised in an arch. Allowing the sun's bountiful rays to cascade down across his rugged yet handsome face. Clyde closed his eyes, running a hand through his short, well-kempt beard that was thick enough to hide the contours of his jaw but short enough to remain braced to the bone. Within minutes, he had wandered off to sleep, dreaming of days past.
…
A young Clyde was twenty-two. Walking down the street, he carried a brown leather mail sack burgeoning with letters. Taking a few out at a time, he sifted through them, sliding the proper envelopes into their corresponding mailboxes. Sighing in exasperation, Clyde grabbed the bill of his postman cap, letting wavy, curled hair flow down his back past his shoulders. Shimmering with rich natural oils gave the curls a handsome look with a slight bounce with each step.
How much longer do I have to keep this up? Day in and day out, letter after letter. When will I be able to leave this small town and get my shot in the city? I could have been born anywhere in the world and I wound up here? Tough luck.
Clyde's dull brown eyes exuded an elusive wistfulness. "Ten more streets." About to take another step, Clyde felt a small tremble in the ground. He looked down and watched a pebble in the crack of the cobblestone sidewalk vibrate. People stopped in their tracks, averting their attention to the stygian skies. Clyde followed suit and a blazing meteor reflected in his dull brown eyes. Horror began to fill him. Pieces of the asteroid broke off scattering across the celestial entering Earth's atmosphere. People began to scream and scatter like roaches exposed to the light. In a matter of seconds shrapnel pierced rooftops of homes, split open cobblestone burrowing deep beneath the earth. Clyde watched as the man next to him had their head blown apart leaving a three foot swarth tail wriggling and whipping in the air as it dug itself down the body's neck subsequently vibrating. Clyde retched instantly turning to vomit when a piece of the asteroid pierced his back embedding deep into his heart. His eyes widened filled with fright. His mouth agape no words escaped.
That day changed everything. The parasitic epidemic took root in two bordering nations. Those who were infected by the first wave were called Generation Zero. People who suffered fatal injuries were fully restored within a matter of days. However, there was no way to remove the parasite, but to many this was not a curse but a blessing. Those who were infected began to experience mutations; their vitality bonded with the alien and its powers became our own at the cost of our vigor. The more power you use, the loftier the expense. They named these individuals Hermits.
Clyde stood on the top of a cathedral's spire. A long coat blowing in the wind he wore a red buttoned vest with an untucked white dress shirt underneath. His limpid brown eyes reflected the setting sun. A new glistening clarity unclouded the ordinary miserable dullness. A smile uncontrollably tugged at the corner of his lips; the old stagnant oppression washed away in his revelry. Looking down at his gray dress pants with black checker lining he hesitantly stepped out. Holding onto a pointed fence, he felt terror as he pressed down ambivalently. The sharp dress shoe felt pressure stepping on thin air identical to solid ground. The corners of his mouth twitched. Slowly letting go of the fence, Clyde stepped off with the other foot bringing it in front. Feeling the air taut with minute slack, the air pressure adjusted around his step akin to a trampoline.
One more, another, just one more.
With each and every slow step the one that followed was a bit faster than the last.
Step, step, step!
Clyde Mayberry smoothly transitioned from a rigid walk, to a smooth jog, into a full sprint. Running across the sky above his hometown the young man took on the embrace of the golden sky in its entirety as he pressed down hard causing air to bend and propel him high into the sky. Crossing the subsiding sun with one arm behind him and the other in the air his eyes streamed with glistening tears in the amber twilight. Laughing with closed eyes he ceased walking and dived. Swimming through the air the weight of his responsibilities melted away. The shackles forged of his own self-oppression shattered with an audible break as he soared high into the sky like an angel.
…
Knock, knock.
Meek and mild knocking echoed from the door. Opening his eyes, Clyde groaned sitting up. Placing a hand on his head leaning forward, curled hair fell in his face.
Knock, knock, knock.
"Who is banging on my door this early in the morning?!" The thirty-two year old man barked stumbling forward catching himself on the handle. Hauling the door open he bared his teeth hatefully to see nobody. "Sorcery?"
"Down here!" A high pitched voice sounded.
"Oh." Clyde looked down stoically. "What do you want, kid?"
The ten year old boy sported ruffled dark hair. His soft brown eyes gleamed with the brilliance of youth. Wearing brown shorts with a flaxen sport coat and a black and white checkered scarf. "Excuse me, sir. May I come inside? Also, it's past noon, not morning."
Clyde deliberated carefully. Organizing his words in a way a child could understand was no common occurrence. He hadn't interacted with any prior to the postman in over a year. "Why?"
The boy's eyes darted around fidgeting with his hands. "I'm hiding."
"From who?"
"The Scribe Hermit!" He pleaded with closed hands leaning into the doorway.
The Scribe Hermit? He is the leading military general in the enemy nation's forces. I hear he has had scientific breakthroughs in understanding parasites and how to increase the longevity of Hermits without omitting the practice of magic. Why would this kid be hiding from him?
"You from the city that was besieged today?"
The boy shook his head yes. "I narrowly escaped the knights! Thank goodness no Hermits were with them!" The sound of armour clacked and clanged up the spiraling path of the hill. The boy looked to see towering spears bobbing up and down with every step. "Oh no!" He exclaimed in a hoarse whisper bolting it inside Clyde's house.
"Oh great. Come in, make yourself at home." He tsked with the indiscriminate shake of his head noticing the knights climbing the remainder of the hill's path. Closing the door he sighed.
"You can't let them find me, mister! If they do, they will take me to the Scribe and drain my life like they did my parents!"
Is that the Scribe's breakthrough? Circumventing his own vigor being drained by absorbing other's via magic? I suppose it's possible but it seems to contradict the few laws that revolve around parasites.
Bang, bang, bang.
Loud knocking came from beyond the door. Clyde locked eyes with the fear stricken child before groaning, shooing him away with the dramatic wave of his hand. Giving the boy a moment he opened the door giving a halfhearted smile to the knights. "Good day, gentleman… if I can call you that." He mumbled the latter. "What can I do for you?"
The two knights were clad in silver armor with chainmail underneath meshing the openings of the helmet fully concealing their identity. "Where is the boy?"
"I have no idea what you are talking about." He leaned against the doorframe resting the left hand on the handle.
"Don't get smart with us, Weston rat. We followed his tracks up this hill. Step aside or pay with your life!"
Clyde's eyes were supported by tired bags barely noticeable in direct sunlight. "Normally I would love visitors but your arrival happened to fall on laundry day so… come back another time."
The knight's gave each other a cursory glance before driving their spears forward. However, before the spearheads made contact their bodies froze in place. The knights grunted in exertion but no matter how arduous their efforts it was to no avail.
The boy crouched behind the partition watched in confusion and awe. "He's a Hermit!" He whispered superfluous with excitement.
Clyde raised an index finger and rotated it, spinning the guards around. Raising it higher and bringing it down he made it requisite to march towards the edge of the cliff.
The knight's continued marching professionally attempting to break free of the spell. No matter how onerous their efforts all were in vain. "This is Compulsory Magic! He is an Ivory Hermit!" The two knights began to plead to their god, the Scribe and cried out for their families as they marched off the edge. Screaming out their sorrows resounded through the valley below ending with a crash.
Clyde sighed at the sound of their deaths closing the door. Feeling a strand of hair turn gray he reached up, yanking it out and throwing it out letting it fall to the floor.
Burning envelopes is one thing, but casting spells on two men is another. That must have taken weeks off my lifespan.
Upon seeing the man re-enter the house the boy ran out from around the corner. "Mister Hermit, that was so cool! I didn't know you were one of them. What generation are you?! What generation are you?! First, second, third, fourth?!"
Clyde feeling taxed from the Compulsory spell he took a seat in the wooden chair at the desk before the partition letting his head rest on the back with closed eyes. "Zero."
"Generation Zero?! You are one of the original Hermits! Just like the Scribe! You two must have met before during a space expedition!"
Clyde, over-exasperated and fatigued, lacked the strength to refute the child or kick him out of his house. "Yes."
"What was he like before he went all evil?" The boy grabbed the legs of the wooden chair looking up at the tired man with wonder and reverence.
Evil? Huh, I forgot how black and white life is for kids. I suppose his home belongs to the losing side of the war.
"He was…"
…
Clyde Mayberry walked into the ruins of an ancient civilization deep underground. Engravings of sacred symbols unknown to humanity were etched all over. A stout and short middle aged man with side combed cream-white hair walked sporting steampunk goggles with a blueish-green lens. Gripping the leather straps of his suspenders he rocked back and forth on his tiptoes."It would seem there are traces of mana here as well." Pinching the right lens he turned the thick brass frame shifting the lens to fully green.
Clyde chuckled, shifting his gaze in a dreamy manner towards the symbols on stone columns, "I am impressed you can detect mana residuals despite not being a Hermit."
"Science my boy, science. These goggles I developed know no bounds."
"Is that right?" A smile suffused Clyde's lips, his facial muscles taut with hubris.
Walking past the two men was a man of Eastern descent with long black hair flowing down his back; his eyes amber from the empowering magic of a golden Hermit. "Hm."
The flesh of parasites came in assorted colours: red, blue, yellow, green, purple, ivory, silver, and gold. Each one corresponds to a different domain in the magic world. None were overall better than the other, but it was said gold, silver, and ivory were more taxing on vitality making them more potent but lacking in longevity.
The stout middle aged man watched him walk by forced to avert his gaze due to the blinding amount of magical power. "Did you notice anything, Fusheng?" He asked nervously.
The Scribe carried a thick leatherbound hardcover book. Its coffee brown cover was adorned in golden embroidered symbols from an unknown language different from the hieroglyphics of the ruins. Opening the page a mysterious wind flipped through the parchment pages rapidly stopping dead in the center. A golden light emanating from the pages its secrets were only visible to the Scribe and blinding to everyone else. "I see."
The pages of the spellbook contained unique spells related to the golden Hermit domain; these two pages allowed once to transcribe information one perceived onto paper transliterating it from the arcane meaning to esoteric text that only the Scribe could understand putting the majority of the expedition's finding in his hands. "Ah, it would seem there is little of value here." He spoke calmly whilst grinning ear to ear back to the people.
Clyde examined him carefully but found no concern due to his lack of interest in the secrets of the magical world. "I will explore some of the buildings." Shoving his hands into his coat pockets he pressed on alone traversing many ruined structures that were once places of reverence and worship.
A god was praised here. Does this mean the asteroid wasn't the world's first encounter with the parasites?
Deep inside the recesses of a half standing cathedral, Clyde discovered a large symbol of an eye. Approaching carelessly he looked up at the symbol that far exceeded his height. "Strange." Placing a hand on the pupil, an ivory aqueous light rippled across it. Stepping back the young man gazed inside the eye to see a pathway in the blinding void. Feeling a deep longing inside his soul he figured it was the will of the parasite within his heart to enter. Indulging in his hedonistic pleasures of magic, Clyde stepped through, passing into the white void. Walking through a formless corridor a doorway stood erect on the other side showing paths of the universe. Emerging from the door, the young man began to float aimlessly. Taking in the sights he was bewildered before experiencing asphyxiation. Placing a hand on his throat, Clyde used magic to create self-contained oxygen at the entrance of his nostrils. Taking a moment to calm down, he soon gazed out to the heart of the universe. Many golden stardust trails twisted and turned into one another. Spiral upon spiral, twists and turns, intersections and conjoined side trails made one jumbled three dimensional mess of lines. Walking along these golden stardust paths were iridescent crystalline dust silhouettes of people. Some he recognized, others were foreign.
Flying up through the labyrinth's complex network of fates he arrived at a floating island at the top, a small house built upon the foundations. Floating through the infinite cosmos looking through one of the house's windows he saw a lonely boy seated at a desk inside a small makeshift archive. A candlelight burning slowly, this child bit his tongue in strenuous effort writing with a quill. Everytime the boy finished writing a page a new golden stardust trail would billow through the chimney on top of the house and slither amidst the cosmos joining the maze of fates.
Is this boy a Hermit? Or is he the god the ancient civilization piously worshipped? Is he writing the fate of every person in the world, or even the universe resulting in a golden starlit path joining the heart of the universe? Does that imply there are no accidents and even my being here is by this deity's design?
Clyde Mayberry averted his attention back to the paths to see various colored stardust trails. Some roads were red, others blue or green mixed in amongst the gold. However, crawling adjacent to the labyrinth was a lonely black stardust path. Walking it was a hooded figure.
Are the colours indicators of the Hermits' fates? Does parasitization change their scheduled fate? If so, what does black indicate? Is there a parasite type that never made it to Earth? Were we all chosen, given a specific parasite for a reason? Is this destiny?
…
As thirty-two years old Clyde recounted his sole experience with the Hermit he now realized the deeper meaning of the Maze of Fate and the sinister intentions of the Scribe that clearly exuded malevolence.
The ten years old boy stood wowed with closed hands filled with awe and wonder. Satisfied with newfound understanding, the boy felt sapience tingle throughout his entire body. "That's so cool Mr. Hermit!"
The tired man forced a smile. "I suppose it was."
"When was the last time you did something as cool as gazing into the fate of the universe?!"
Clyde deliberated before shaking his head indiscriminately, "a long time."
"Aww, how come?"
"There is no reason to anymore nor do I have the strength."
"What happened? Why did you become so weak?!"
He chuckled at the brutal honesty of the boy.
I forgot how the honesty of children is sharper than any blade. Ha.
"Hermits grow weaker the more they use potent abilities. I was reckless in my youth, and I spent all the energy I had doing meaningless party tricks."
The boy looked at the stack of letters on the other side of Clyde who remained seated. "Is that why you have been avoiding the king?"
"Yes." A moment of silence passed as Clyde furrowed his brow. Lifting his head to glance at the letters followed by the boy he pursed his lips, "how did you know about that? Those letters could have been anything."
"Uhm, lucky guess!" The boy shouted in panic, holding his arms out. "I should be going. Thank you for steering those knights away… literally!" Turning away he began to waddle for the door.
"Stop." Clyde spoke calmly, stopping the boy in his tracks. Turning around he sighed supporting his naturally twisted posture with an arm on the back of the chair. "Don't make me use my mind powers on you." He spoke in a dramatically grave tone that could only frighten a naive child.
And it worked. The child felt shivers run down his spine. Forcing himself to maintain composure he turned back around towards Clyde with a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry for lying to you Mr. Hermit. I'm not from the lost city. I am from the enemy nation. That's why the knights were specifically looking for me."
"What?" Clyde stood up moving the chair out of his way. "Is this a ploy to entrap me in the enemy's snare? I have no intention of fighting your war let alone against my own nation."
The boy pouted, hanging his head in utmost shame. "No, no. You see, sir. I have been on the run since the war reached a dire state this year. The Scribe grows more powerful by the day, and he has learned to circumvent the loss of vitality from using potent spells repeatedly by creating a siphon sorcery draining the life energy of others. This started as a spell used for exhausting torture but he soon discovered the benefits of longevity that accompanied it. They even suspect it can lead to immortality. Initially they used prisoners taken during the sieges of your cities or our own criminals but we quickly ran out. Ordinary people do not supply nearly enough vitality. Hermits offer an abundant amount, especially the older their generation; but few of them exist at a time. To compensate they collect the parasites of your nation and give them to soldiers. When they die they collect the parasites from the corpses before they are expelled and can abscond to give them to the next in line. At the beginning of the year they recently obtained a silver Hermit and wanted to bestow it to a member of the royal family due to the rarity. However, when their time is up they will be subjected to the Scribe since all Hermits die a miserable death! The one they chose to bestow it to was me since my eldest brother is next in line for the throne if something were to happen to the emperor."
This kid was not only keeping his past a secret but his intelligence too. It would have been obvious had he spoken this way from the beginning. So, he is the emperor's son. If I were to hand deliver him to king Weston I would be let off the hook for skipping out on war duty. I could deceive them into thinking I was on a secret mission henceforth the lack of communication.
Clyde studied the authenticity of the kid by scanning his mind and emotional state with magic. Feeling a sense of empathy he gritted his teeth behind closed lips. "You can stay here. After the war is over you will be on your way. Do you understand?"
"Okay!" The boy hugged Clyde's leg excitedly. "Thank you so much Mr. Hermit! If it weren't for you I would surely be dead in a matter of days. It's hard to travel when you are so small. It was only a matter of time before they caught up to me!"
"I said you could stay, don't yap the entire time or I will kick you out."
"I'm sorry Mr. Hermit!"
"That's another thing. My name is Clyde Mayberry."
"Okay mister Clyde Mayberry Hermit!"
The man sighed and mumbled, "whatever." Before cursing under his breath looking down at the boy who still embraced his left leg. "Agh! Let go would ya?" The boy apologising remained fastened to his limb. Shaking his head, mumbling magic empowered curses under his breath in a foreign language he created, Clyde walked across the open room concept to the kitchen area dragging the child wrapped around his leg.
…
Clyde snored soundly. An amiable expression spread across his face pleasantly accentuated by the sunlight shining through the floor to ceiling window. Small foot steps pattered across the floorboards rapidly approaching the slumbering man. "Wake up." The boy shook his shoulder lightly. "Hmm… WAKE UP!" The boy slapped Clyde's forehead, snapping the man awake.
He groaned, holding his head swiftly sitting upright. "What do you want?!" He snapped, frustrated.
"I'm hungry." He blinked with a blank countenance.
"Make a sandwich or cook some eggs. They are over there." He snapped his fingers creating a fire over a stove to fry the eggs on before laying down and turning over. A moment of silence passed before he felt another shake. "What?" He protracted the end of the word half-annoyed.
The boy twiddled his index fingers speaking softly out of embarrassment, "I don't know how to cook."
"They don't teach you anything with that extension aristocratic curriculum?" Watching the boy's shame he reflected on his own youth before standing up brushing the kid's head. "Don't worry about it, I gotta cook every once in a while or else I'll lose the skill."
The boy's face lit up, he turned; and watched Clyde rummage through piled up pots and pans. "My mom used to cook for us instead of a chef. We even cleaned up together instead of the maid so we could spend time together. It was one of the few fond memories when she could slip away from her duty as empress."
Clyde ceased his rummage and stared down at the strewn mess over the countertop.
"Mom I'm hungryyyy!" The ten year old Clyde Mayberry rushed into his parents room shaking her to wake up on a Saturday morning.
"Five more minutes, honey."
The sound of his mother's ethereal sleepy voice lulled him to daydream when the squeaking voice of the boy ripped him back to reality. "Mr. Hermit?"
Clyde turned and smiled. "This place is a mess. It will take forever to make breakfast alone."
"Oh… it's okay, I don't need to eat. When I was on the run sometimes I only ate every two to three days."
The corner of Clyde's mouth twitched poignantly. "Then we better get to work!" He forcefully exclaimed with his hoarse voice snapping his fingers bringing life to the pots and pans. Dancing on the counter he spun around dramatically, causing the pots and pans to circle him putting on a show for the boy. "What's your name, kid?"
The boy's eyes lit up in awe and wonder once more dazzling with illusory sparkles. "Prince Dorian Edwards Kingsley!"
"Alright, Dorian; let's get to work!"
The boy giggled running to the other side of the room. Clyde grabbed the pan and the fire danced glistening with ivory dust reminiscent of stars giving off an opulent hue. Eggs rolled through the air circulating the boy's head like a halo. Swatting his hands in an attempt to catch one he squealed in excitement chasing them around the room before one lightly bumped against his head cracking the shell. Gliding to the pan over the fire in the stove the yellow yolk accumulated at the source of the crack. Pressure applied to the crack split the shell in half perfectly down the middle allowing the viscous substance to seep down into the pan emitting a satisfactory sizzling mixing with the melted butter.
After the magical preparation of breakfast Clyde led Dorian outside where they were welcomed by the warm embrace of brilliance from the sun, blanketed by a clear blue sky; fluffy white clouds drifting ever so slowly. Their plates floating behind them, Dorain felt warm, mystical air circulate gently surrounding his body, lifting him to the roof and sitting him on the edge of the round rim. His place gravitating towards him he reached out giggling. Looking up he saw Clyde standing on the peak of the roof's tip using magic to balance effortlessly. Holding his plate high above with one hand he looked down with a smile. "Enjoy."
…
"Eight, nine, ten… ready or not here I come!" Dorian yelled, uncovering his eyes in the corner of the room in-between the desk and the partition to the back of the house.
I bet he's using magic to hide in plain sight! He seems to possess auxiliary magic! If he was a Red Hermit he would probably blow the house up after being discovered.
Running to the right of the open room he opened the chest looking inside to see robes, hats of various sizes with different points. "Hmm." Biting his tongue in deliberation, the boy ran for the front door looking outside.
He couldn't have gone too far. Maybe he is in the attic!"
Rushing back inside across the room, Dorian grabbed the lantern on the floor and began to climb the ladder. Upon reaching the top, he climbed through the hole into the attic. Lighting the lantern he looked around to see a window at the end allowing minimal sunlight to seep inside forcing the darkness to crawl back to the corners of the small arched storage room. Looking around he saw a stand which had a purple-gray robe on display with a long pointed hat with a large brim resting on a wood carving resembling the shape of a head. On the other side was a wooden staff taller than Dorian resting up against a slanted side of the roof that had descended diagonally to meet the wall narrowly above the floorboards.
What is all this? It's like a mini dungeon.
Dungeons were magical burials and various structures from an esoteric civilization that once lived deep underground. They believed it was related to the asteroid that contained the parasitic epidemic. Walking to the end of the room a desk was positioned horizontally under a round window that looked out to the front of the house where the hill's cliff could be seen giving view to the lost city that had no longer any remnant fires or smoke. Etchings of writings in an unknown language were spread out as well as closed hardcover books standing against the wall at the back of the small desk. Dorian pondered before scanning the documents. They were lessons in magic. Records of what Clyde Mayberry had achieved throughout the years and the steps taken to realize them. A manuscript to a spell book. Not wanting to waste time he decided to step away and leave the attic.
Climbing down the stairs he crouched to set the lamp down when he noticed the depths of the dark basement call out to him, humming his name. Creeping down the steps unannounced, Dorian Edwards Kingsley felt a dark calling come upon him. His skin crawled and the hairs on the back of his neck stood erect. Extending his arm to allow the lamp to better illuminate the darkness, orange light flickered along the walls dancing intimately with the dark. Waiting at the end of the basement was a set of double doors made of bronze with golden embossings.
How queer.
Deliberating carefully, the boy reached out for the handle, hesitant of what may lay in wait on the other side. Inch by inch his fingers crept closer. Shakingly slithering through the eerily cold air emanating an illustrious sense of enriching horror. By the time a finger reached the golden handle he paused unassertive of the developing situation he found himself in. Swallowing a mouthful of saliva that secreted from building trepidation; Dorian reached forward in an abrupt pseudo confidence.
Bang!
Dorian collapsed to the ground feeling a heavy hand on his shoulder. Bursting into tears he let out a shriek looking up to see Clyde staring down at him, "what are you doing down here?"
"I-I was looking for you and the door sud-suddenly called out to me. I'm sorry Mr. Hermit, I'm so sorry." His youthful eyes continuously flooded with tears.
The salty drops pattering against the wooden floor. Clyde scrutinized the child's actions before reluctantly pulling him into a gentle one armed embrace. "Everything is alright, I got you."
…
"Wake up." A light shake of the arm pulled the boy awake. Wiping his dreamy eyes, Dorian looked over at Clyde who was crouched beside his hammock. "Oh, good morning Mr. Hermit. This is new, is everything okay?" A hint of worry permeated through his voice.
"I want to show you something. Get ready and meet me outside."
Dorian watched him leave the house before blinking blankly. "How odd." He mumbled out loud. Crawling out of bed he prepared his usual clothing before opening the front door and closing it behind him. "Mr. Hermit?"
Clyde watched the boy look around from above. Floating down from the sky he offered a hand. "Come on." He smiled.
Together the two of them flew through the warm summer air, a slight chill breezed by from the speed at which they travelled. Clyde held Dorian's hand looking over amiably. "Ever fly before?"
"No! Not ever! This is amazing! Is this what you wanted to show me?!" He yelled over the rushing winds.
"Not quite." Clyde smirked before rolling past Dorian overhead swiftly taking his other hand increasing their velocity whilst changing the trajectory towards the mountaintops in the distance.
Landing on top of a cliff along the side of a mountain peak, Dorian was amazed as ever. Clyde chuckling internally lost his laughter when he felt the skin on the back of his hand wrinkle ever-so-slightly.
I need to restrain myself from any more party tricks or I will appear eighty by the time I am fifty.
Shoving this worry to the back of his mind, Clyde smiled genuinely through a deep huff. "Take in that view. Isn't it amazing?"
Dorian watched the valley on the other side of the mountain range that was barely visible in the fading distance. "Simply wonderful… thank you, Clyde."
The thirty-two years old man looked down at the unalert boy in disbelief feeling a warm fondness in his heart develop despite the blowing cold wind. "You're welcome."
…
Clyde had flown across the valley many times despite his apprehension until the sun began to set and Dorian was tired out. Returning home, the child had fallen asleep mid flight. Taking him into his arms, Clyde landed softly blowing the door open with a gentle gust of magical wind. Placing him in the hammock, he stepped away to leave behind the partition back to the open room. However, he could not bring himself to leave just yet. Instead he watched the child stir innocently in his sleep for but a moment reflecting on the years he had spent alone, and regretting the bitter moments he caused himself with self-isolation, and the choice not to help others despite having more power than anyone to do so.
…
Clyde and Dorain played chess. The man had learned when he was younger and seldom played with himself using magic to move the opposing pieces. Despite this it seemed that the aristocratic curriculum provided far more advanced lessons in chess than being self-taught. "That's ten games I've lost in a row." Clyde bit his tongue, seething the words through gritted teeth.
"Haha you lose!" The boy pointed. No matter how kind he was and how mature he had become for his age he was still just a kid. This made Clyde smile, finding happiness in losing to Dorian.
…
"What kind of Hermit are you? I don't remember if you told me." Dorian laid on the cushioned chest resting his head across Clyde's leg.
Clyde bit into a rosy red apple that appealed to the soul. Seeing the lust in the child's eyes for sustenance he snapped his fingers creating a carbon copy of the apple with a bite taken out of it. "The germs don't transfer." He mentioned wryly before answering the question. "I am an Ivory Hermit."
"Oh right! I think you may have mentioned it once before. "You must have been one of the strongest."
Clyde chuckled wistfully, "you could say that I was the strongest once upon a time."
The boy sat up hurriedly. "Even stronger than the Scribe?!"
He snickered, reminiscing, "a lot stronger."
"Then why didn't you fight in the war? You could have put a stop to it and crushed my father's forces."
Clyde thought it over with a solemn look. One that surprised the boy.
Because I was scared. Because I was mentally weak. Because I was a coward. Because I only cared about myself.
"Had I done that we never would have met." He tried to come up with a valid excuse."
The boy nodded indiscriminately. "But a lot of people wouldn't have had to die."
The silence became deafening, and the room was thick with the seriousness of the matter. All the innocents that had to suffer on both sides of the war; even the soldiers that were only following orders. Thus, the respite from his daily regrets came to an end, and the emotional punishment and mental torture continued as if it never stopped.
…
In the night a rumble came from underground. Waking Clyde up from his sleep he looked out the window to his left to see fire raining from the sky. It brought him back to that fateful day that changed everything. Fireballs crashed into the sides of mountains, landed deep into the valleys of the earth resulting in massive craters setting the greenery ablaze. Dorian next to awake looked beyond the glass and too saw the sky cry fire, shedding tears of flame as the ground groaned emitting billows of black smoke. This assault continued profusely. "What's happening?" The boy asked, confused, unable to look away from the horror.
Clyde remained silent for a prolonged period of time. "This aberration must be the work of a powerful red Hermit. It would seem your father has pushed the advance units forward to take what's left in the night." Watching as a sea of flames descended for their hill, Clyde swiftly flew towards the door passing through it like an apparition. Watching the celestial ocean of hell descend, he raised a hand creating a periwinkle glass dome around the house. Violent red flames awash with malice drowned the hill burning all vegetation surrounding it leaving a deep imprint of death and destruction on the once beautiful land. "Disperse!" Clyde yelled from within the safety of the dome, his booming authoritative voice echoed throughout the land echoing deep within the mana of the flames forcing them to split apart and recede to the four corners of the earth from whence they came. After a deep breath he stepped forward filled with sorrow as all the remaining land was being relentlessly attacked by flame as well as the splitting of the earth swallowing cities whole cascading them to an endless abyss at the world's belly.
This is the work of a demon, what man could do such evil? They don't want to take the nation for resources or land; they wish to destroy it entirely!
Hearing the door open behind him, he looked back amidst the flames falling like stars to see the boy. "Are we going to die?" Dorian asked in fear, trying his best to mask his emotions afraid of appearing weak.
Clyde felt his heart break, shattering into a million pieces. Trying to withhold tears he forced a strong and gentle smile crouching before the boy he could call a son. "Dorian, listen to me. Bad things happen to good people. This world is filled with cruelty, and heartache. But hidden in this dark world are many little lights scattered across space and time. These lights are gifted people, like you. People who bring kindness, reassurance, and strength to the hurt and to the weak. It is your job as a brilliant light to help those in need. Never lose sight of who you are and never turn your back on someone in need. You are a prince that can bring change no matter how wicked the ways of your father are."
Dorain furrowed his brow and curled his lip down into a frown. "Why are you telling me this all of a sudden?" A sudden sense of alert and panic began to well up inside.
Clyde's eyes met the ground as it trembled and quaked from the raining destruction. "Because people need the light now more than ever."
"And you are going to be the light?"
Clyde shook his head in denial. "Not me. You."
"I don't understand." Dorian looked lost and confused like the day they met.
Clyde placed an ethereal hand on his head ruffling his dark hair. "Every light needs a spark. When you are older the world will need you, my prince. These past few months have been the best parts of life. I would do it all again to meet you, Dorian Edwards Mayberry."
"What… What are you saying?! Clyde you can't go! You aren't as powerful as you used to be, and they have an army of Hermits! Not to mention the Scribe has grown super powerful! He is like a deity!"
"Be good." Clyde held the boy in a deep embrace shedding a single tear.
Dorian welling up hugged him back with all his tiny might. "Don't go! Please! Like you said someone else will do this! It doesn't have to be you! We can still be a family! Don't let them take any more from us!"
Clyde withdrew gently. Standing up he wore a profound smile. "No matter what, we will always be family, no one can take that away from us; not even the Scribe. Be proud of this old man, and always stay true to yourself. Heed my words, Dorian. A day will come when you will be the hero everyone needs." Holding out his hand the purplish-gray robe from the attic descended and flew out the front door wrapping around him with a mind of its own. The pointed hat next to follow he tilted the brim down to the boy with a nod as he began to levitate.
"Clyde, no wait!" Running forward he reached out but fell. However, before he could hit the ground, Clyde floated close, catching the child with one hand gently setting him on his feet.
"Come on, don't cry kid. You've done more than you could ever know, so thank you."
Dorian wiped the flooding tears from his eyes. "Thank you? For what?"
"For saving my life. You are my hero. Now, it's time for Mr. Hermit to do what he does best." He smiled ear to ear, the radiance of his kindness caused Dorian to stop momentarily taken aback.
Before he could formulate an answer, Clyde gave a nod and turned pushing off thin air at sonic speeds breaking the sound barrier blowing the boy off his feet and rattling the house. Watching his figure quickly fade faster than the speed of sound, Dorian crawled to his feet running alongside the edge of the cliff not paying attention. "No! Come back!" His foot sliding off the edge of the cliff he fell face forward off the hill. But before he plummeted to his death he was caught by an invisible force gently placing him back down away from the edge patting his head lightly. An uncontrollable giggle followed by a terse smile crept onto his face as he watched Clyde Mayberry, the man who changed everything for him fade from view.
Clyde flew into enemy territory relatively quickly. Thunder roared incessantly, followed by a labyrinth of lightning networking through the sky. Down below, many soldiers lifted their heads to the sudden change in weather. "It looks like we got another Hermit! Ready your arms!" Before the men under the general's command could obey the order, a swath of silver lightning smote down incessantly blowing the soldiers apart violently chaining the lightning throughout their entire army. The tumultuous storm blew through like a hurricane tearing apart their structures and buildings.
…
"Your majesty! Your majesty!" A man rushed in panting heavily. "A new Hermit has arrived on the frontlines and has pushed into enemy territory!"
"I never authorized the use of our final defense line! Who has gone against my will?" The king sat up vexed at the thought of someone undermining his authority.
"It is a rogue, someone not a part of the army. They summoned a barrage of lightning and destroyed the frontlines effortlessly. That's more power than half of our Hermits put together!"
The king paused. Pondering the words he sat back in his throne with a smug smirk and a wry laugh. "Haha!"
"Your majesty, what's so funny?!"
"Haha! That is no mere Hermit. That is Clyde Mayberry. We can rest assured now. The rest is in his hands."
…
Clyde breezed past camp after camp annihilating them with gigantic bolts of energy. Without as much as a glance any Hermit he killed along the way had their parasite torn from their cadavers and amalgamated into a sphere of mana that followed the man.
In front of the castle walls an iron knight stood strong with fire flowing from his left hand, this was the same knight that had pushed the most recent lost city. Condensing the flames in his palm he extended the arm shooting a beam of compressed flames into a high-pressure energy.
Clyde pulling down the tip of his hat extended his hand. The five fingers surged with electricity as he shot a bolt splitting the beam into two and tearing through the armour exploding the knight's heart. Blood crackled and flowed from the ducts of the helmet falling to his knees. The red parasite hauled by mana from his corpse flew into the sphere.
Meanwhile, inside the empire, the emperor sat with his back erect to the highback chair. "What is the meaning of this?! You told me the enemy forces had no strength left to muster!"
The Scribe Fusheng stood by his side with a wicked smile and glowing gold eyes that had slit pupils. Adorned in a black and yellow rob he turned away allowing his cascading raven hair to drape down his back. "This is an old friend, I will handle it." Vanishing from the throne room, the emperor exasperatingly sighed.
Outside, Clyde floated in midair. Looking at the empire's gate he stretched his hand out pooling his mana when the Scribe appeared on top of the wall. "Fusheng." Clyde narrowed his eyes.
"My how time has passed you by, Mayberry. It seems you were too irresponsible with your power until the end."
The man looked down at the flickering mana on his hand recounting the time he spent with Dorian. "Not until the end." Making a fist he shot a bolt of lightning.
Fusheng vanished and appeared behind Clyde with a grin.
Turning with a blast of cosmic fire, Fusheng summoned a golden dome around him as a shield before enveloping the attack in gold energy and turning it back on Clyde.
Distorting the attack, Clyde reversed the flow of mana in the cosmic fire, reverting it to a few seconds prior when the universal flame was under his control. With the swipe of his hand a portal vacuumed the fire and opened inside the golden dome blasting Fusheng.
The Scribe cursed feeling his very being shake within the foundations of the universe threatening to burn his soul to a crisp.
Snap.
With the snap of Fusheng's fingers he regenerated and teleported high above Clyde throwing his arms out sending down a blast of flaming sunlight.
Mr. Hermit reached out grabbing the fabric of space pulling it over him like a blanket evading the attack. When the blanket settled, Clyde was nowhere to be found.
Fusheng's grin grew ear to ear as shadows stretched out like monstrous hands and suffused the light of day casting the blinding brilliance into an opaque abyss. The shadows whispered the location of Clyde and with the snap of the wrist, Fusheng slipped between the fabric of reality into a matterless void where Clyde was raising his staff. The Scribe manifesting the spellbook flipped through the illusory pages.
Bang!
The void erupting into a colorful display, a garden of black vegetation arose from the depths of imagination. Fusheng standing under the ebony tree plucked a black apple and took a bite. Blood running down the corners of his mouth, he revealed a bloody teeth grin with chunks of tissue in-between his teeth. The inside of the apple flowed with coursing blood wriggling in pain made up of human organs and tissues.
Clyde grasping his heart felt a sharp pain as if someone had bit into him. Nearly collapsing the magic staff turned into a clock hand and rewound to seconds before. Watching Fusheng summon the dark garden and pluck the apple, he recited an incantation that switched the internals of the apple. With a bite, Fusheng's grin slowly faded.
Looking down he found he was unharmed.
If Clyde did not swap the organs of the apple with my own…
Clyde grinned. "You aren't proficient in healing magic and neither am I. So there is no way for you to save the emperor in time."
Fusheng smirked once more, "you think I am powerless to crush you in a single blow?" Putting his hands together the pages turned autonomously and golden characters manifested from the illusory pages into reality circling around the hands of the Scribe.
Clyde raising the staff pointed at Fusheng, pooling all his mana into the crystal embedded in the top. His skin began to wrinkle, his bones grew brittle; and his facial hair grew thicker, longer, and became white and faded. The light from his eyes began to fade as his condition was weathered by time. "All or nothing." Clyde said internally summoning the ether in the universe affecting the reality around them.
The Scribe grinned ear to ear retaining his vitality and vigor despite sacrificing so much life-force. However, many prisoners inside the emperor's walls began to grow old and die of age, then the innocents began to follow. He was ensuring there would be no chance for Clyde Mayberry, the first Wizard to escape. "Any last words?" Fusheng entertained the old man's heroic sacrifice.
"I've said all I needed to say to the one that matters most." Reflecting on his final moments with Dorian, Clyde flew high into the blank void forcing the curtain of ether to draw revealing reality behind him.
Fusheng, shocked by this act of power despite using everything he had into the attack, frowned, "how do you still have so much strength left to spare?"
"Like I'd tell you." With a smirk he released the pooled sapphire mana unleashing a violent sphere that resembled an illusory storm.
The Scribe cursed under his breath releasing his golden array of power, and with a twilit flash the colour and sound faded from reality blinding both men. The shockwave of this attack rumbled the earth and the life of the fowl of the air. The sphere of parasites Clyde had collected dispersed in a violent explosion scattering across the four corners of the Earth preventing the empire from getting their hands back on them.
The vaporizing damage of the colliding attacks slowly subsided, and left standing in the ruins of war was none other than Fusheng. Missing his face and much of his body's flesh and muscles. With a strained breath the incorporeal spellbook turned the page producing symbols that stuck themselves to the Scribe's wounds beginning to heal him. "Well done, Clyde Mayberry. You really were the first Wizard until the very end."
…
With the forces of the empire mitigated to a mortal extent the war came to end. The allied front managed to reclaim the city of the lost, but the rest resided under the authority of the empire shifting the tides of history permanently.
…
One year later, Dorain Mayberry awoke from his reverie of days passed. Having dreamt of Clyde he felt a wistful smile tug at his lips. A thought crossing his mind he sprung from his bed and grabbed the lantern and ascended the latter to the attic. Walking to the end he rummaged through left behind items that were part of his tacit inheritance. Looking at the desk before the porthole window he opened one drawer after another before suddenly stopping. A faint glow emitting from the bottom, the boy reached down and pulled out a jar. Raising it to eyelevel the golden rays of the sun shone through the circle window illuminating the glow of the yellow parasite trapped within.
The end.
To be continued, "Last call for War: The Lovers"