8/Backstory

Chapter 6.1: A Parting Gift

Poor Venancia, they said, shaking their heads as they passed the house where the woman was confined to her bed, her husband refusing entry to even his closest friends.

Their three children were also barred from consoling their ill mother in her own home, forced to stay at a relative's house, deprived of her care, yet free from the strictness of their father.

"Poor Venancia," the gossips of Orchone whispered amongst each other. "Such a beautiful son too, her eldest, he'll make the community proud when he comes of age."

"But the middle child," came the indefatigable returning whispers, "a bad seed, that one! Why, I wouldn't stray near him for the life of me, even though his mother, bless her heart, does love him as the rest..."

"And the baby!" their conversation flowed on, "his hair! Silvery-white, you know he'll make us proud as well, he'll grow up to join his biggest brother for the Light!"

"For the Light, indeed! Hurrah!" They went on their way, steering the banter to more trivial matters.

Inside the house, Venancia herself breathed softly, asleep on the queen-sized bed. Her husband sat nearby with a phial of salve at his side, looking worriedly at his wife.

The boy with wavy black hair cackled as he flicked ink from the quill in his hand, which blackened the cherrywood walls and the white hair of his youngest brother, who sat atop his aunt’s suitcase, sucking his thumb.

“Lucast,” came the voice of the middle brother, who sported short, straight black hair, “I don’t think you should do that…”

“You’re right, Evon.” The boy turned and grinned. “Black is such an ugly color, don’t you think? It would look better on ‘’you’’.” And he splashed the entire contents of the ink dish on Evon, who spluttered and fell over as his older brother resumed cackling.

“What’s the commotion, eh?” The door opened, and a rather heavyset woman barged into the room, her eyes locking disapprovingly onto Evon, whose clothes now matched perfectly with his hair.

“Oh, Auntie Vylia!” Lucast’s taunting expression immediately adopted a honeyed look. “Evon was splattering ink on Saldo, and I told him to stop, and he threw the ink at me but I cast a Reflect spell so it splashed on him…”

"Reflect spell, hmm? Well, you always were talented, Lucast," Vylia glowed at her oldest nephew, then swept down and swept the now pepper-haired and thumb-sucking Saldo into her arms. "Come, we need to have your father Syphon this ink out of Saldo's hair, so beautiful it is..." Vylia walked out of the room, affectionately fingering the 3-year old's locks. Lucast followed, smirking.

Left alone, Evon sighed and proceeded to Syphon the ink away from his own clothes. He was the only child in Orchone who could perform the spell. After only managing to remove the ink from his hair and skin, he gave up and walked outside in his blackened clothes. He was never as good at it as his father anyway.

Not that his father cared about him at all anyway. Ever since the Knights of Alexander passed through the town, all of his father’s affections had been reserved for Lucast and Lucast alone. The Knights had deemed him “strong in the light” and foretold his future talents as a Paladin.

They also cautioned his parents to “preserve” Lucast from the “trappings of the Darkness”. Evon was only seven at that time, but he was smart enough to understand the insinuating glances everyone in the room threw him when the warning was given.

Now, as always, Evon had been cast away in disdain while his relatives, who were all too taken by the Knights’ exciting prophesy, were fussing over Lucast and Saldo.

Evon was shaken out of his pensive mood as he noticed his aunt knock on the door across the street, which his father answered. His eyes widened as they made conversation, and he followed Vylia down the street to the town well, where Evon’s two brothers most likely waited to be “cleansed” from the ink spectacle.

Evon jumped with a start. He had a chance to see his mother again, for the first time in nearly a month. He ran over towards the door, and by a mix of good fortune and his father’s carelessness found it unlocked. Evon pushed the door open with a creak and made his way inside to the bed where his mother lay, almost completely covered in sheets and blankets. Only her face was visible.

Her face… Evon shuddered. The immaculate smoothness that Evon remembered no longer remained. Venancia’s skin was flayed and dry; her cheeks bore ugly, jagged protrusions of skin, and her left eye had sunk deep within the swollen reaches of her flesh.

“Mother…. Mother….. what happened to you?” Evon’s voice rose slowly, an impending scream.

Venancia turned to her son and managed a lopsided smile. “Evon…. my son…. How did you get in? I woke up to the noise of your father leaving… I doubt he would do well to see you here… but enough about him. How are you? How is Saldo?”

“What happened to you?” Evon repeated.

She looked away. “Evon, I have not long to live. This is the reason I have been confined away from you, away from your brothers, away from all I love save one man.”

She turned back towards Evon, and the image of her unsightly visage washed over him again, a returning wave of sorrow, pity, and helplessness.

“I’m sick, Evon. The devastation you see to my face… it has spread to my entire body. I don’t have much time left before the illness claims me.”

“Why is father keeping you locked up, then?” Evon cried out in rage. “And why can’t he Cure you? Why can’t he use his White Magic?!?”

Venancia’s face once again turned to the opposite wall. “The malady is incurable, Evon. Though even the most powerful White Magic can rescue the fallen from death’s precipice, it cannot delay my passing. It is good your father chose to shelter the town from me. I fear the sickness is also contagious.”

“Oh, mother….” Tears burned in Evon’s eyes. How could something like this happen? Why?

“Look at me.” Venancia removed her right arm from under the concealing sheets. Like her face, her arm and hand were covered in flaking scars. On her wrist, though, hung a loose-fitting armlet of pure, translucent crystal, an object of beauty in stark contrast to the blisters that surrounded it.

“I want you to have it.” She smiled, and withdrew her left arm, attempting to unhook the clasp on the armlet. The jagged calluses, though, prevented her from managing this. She, too began to tear up. “I’m sorry, Evon…”

Wordlessly, Evon reached out and brushed his hand against his mother’s arm. He unhooked the crystal bracelet and fitted it on his own right arm.

Venancia’s eyes widened in surprise. “Evon…! You could catch this disease from me! Why would you…”

Evon smiled at her. Then, he clasped his mother’s hand in his own. “And leave you feeling sad? I want to make you happy before you go. Goodbye, mother.”

Venancia clenched her son’s unblemished hand tightly, and smiled. “Goodbye, Evon. Now get going, before your father sees you here. And….”

But Evon grasped her hand even tigher, and the bangle flashed in the dying light of the dimly lit bedroom. He quickly made for the door and left, Venancia’s crystal armlet casting rainbows on her own face. Then the door closed, and she was alone in the darkness of her own suffering.

Evon returned to his aunt’s house before his father came back from Syphoning Saldo’s hair. He never saw his mother again. A week later, Venancia died, and her body was laid to rest, enshrouded in a white veil to hide the destruction to her skin. Only her husband and second child knew the truth of her death, and only the latter would brood on it for years to come, the crystal band a testament to the pureness and beauty that had once been hers.

Evon twisted the bracelet around his right wrist. It was a perfect cylindrical shell, wrought of translucent crystal. He would keep it, forever, to remember his mother, but what if someone saw it? His father surely would notice it and recognize it as belonging to his wife. Lucast would take it. Aunt Vylia would want it to go along with her atrocious mascara and gaudy, oversized beads.

In a paranoia, these thoughts entered his head, and Evon resolved to hide it, hide the precious thing away from everyone else, everyone else who hated him. But he still couldn't throw it in some drawer, its radiance doomed to shine in darkness. Evon put on a long blue robe which came up almost to the base of his fingers, which obscured the ring of crystal nicely. No one paid him much attention anyway; why would an eccentric change in clothing spark any more notice?

And, in fact, it didn't. The residents of Orchone were too caught up with the other members of the Mailao family, who had moved on with dignity after the death of Venanica. Mr. Mailao had finally secured a job helping the Divine Knights prepare for trips and managing their residence in one of the largest mansions in the town.

Saldo was still a toddler but was showing a particular knack for art, and as he painted ladies oohed and aahed over his shiny silver hair, which seemed to garner more attention than the actual colors on the canvas.

Lucast was the rising star. Following after his father's profession, he tagged along as an apprentice of the Knights of Alexander during their visits between neighboring towns. He even was allowed to travel with them to a monastery to the northwest, which was inhabited by a colony of monks. The meeting didn't seem to go well, though, which was fine, since Lucast didn't much care for the cold weather. Upon returning home, he began training further, intent on becoming a Knight. First, though, he decided to dye his hair white in order to discern himself more clearly from his younger brother.

Evon had who had grown more and more distant from his family ever since the death of his mother. People stayed away from the scraggly little boy with the jet-black hair, cold demeanor, and worst of all, no sense of manners whatsoever, dearie me. Gossips at weekly market days pointed at him fearfully and whispered not-so-secretly, perhaps his mother died due to stress from such a child, one bad apple spoils the whole bunch, no?

His disgust at being singled out soon melted away when he realized that he didn't care much for other people's company, anyway; the only person Evon regularly spoke to was Saldo, who was too young and perhaps too kind to latch onto such prejudices. Socialization aside, he spent most of his time with books, learning, especially about magic. Syphon was an easy enough spell, but he wanted more, he wanted to expand his mind...

He flipped to a page in a book containing a large list of spells, found a spell he might like to try, cast the book off, and headed into a nearby grove of trees with a small pond. The tome landed face up on the floor on the same page, which was entitled "Stone". Outside, Evon chanted the words, vainly hoping for something to happen, channeling the earth...

Surprisingly, he was able to conjure a small rock from the ground and fling it into the air, which promptly fell and hit him on the head. The pain on Evon's temple was nothing compared to the sheer joy of finally, finally being able to master a form, no matter how small, of elemental Black Magic. Soon pebbles alongside the pond were being raised and thrown by the dozens.

Evon wasn't satisfied with merely making dust levitate. He needed a target, something on which he could practice his ensorclements. Bugs were perfect, and for the next several years the arthropod and arachnid populations around Orchorne shuddered in fear as the boy with the blue robe stalked their grounds.

Spires of earth erupted from the ground and broke apart termite mounds.

Gusts of wind blew ladybugs off their most delicate of perches.

Water seeped in through anthills, flooding carefully constructed labyrinths.

Fire burned away at once-perfect hexagonal cavities as honeybees took flight.

Chilling ice rendered silk webs beautiful for a split-second before shattering.

And though it took him a year and many long nights under raging thunderstorms, Evon finally got the hand of electricity, and no insect was safe from tiny yet lethal zaps of lightning.

Evon was contemplating how to destroy several cocoons hanging lazily from a branch. He was taller now, though he hadn't filled out much, still as thin as an oak staff. A voice came out of the forest: "What are you doing?"

It was Saldo, now twelve, his silver hair radiant as ever. The question was asked innocently, without any trace of mistrust or judgment.

"I'm, um... watching the birds." Evon looked around nervously, but no one else was there. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be painting or something?"

"Hey, lay off. I don't enjoy fifty-year-old ladies fawning over my hair half as much as they themselves do." Saldo replied.

Evon grinned. "I guess not. Auntie Vylia says she can't wait for the day that she can sell your artwork for profit."

"I'll give it up before any of the money goes to more jewelery for dear Auntie. Here, I wanted to show you something. I wasn't sure how anyone else in the village would react to it, but watch." Saldo took a dagger out of his pocket, and Evon stepped back instinctively.

"What? I'm not going to cut you with it or anything." The younger brother looked perplexed. "Just watch." He held the smallsword flat in his palm and concentrated on it very intently. It shivered of its own volition momentarily, and then lifted itself up and hovered in midair, sharp end pointing downward.

"Look! LOOK! This is the first time it's been in the air for more than two seconds!" Saldo exclaimed happily. "It's still floating! Maybe I can make it move-"

"Move!" Evon shouted, for the dagger had shuddered again and dropped downwards towards Saldo's still outstretched palm. Evon shoved his brother's hand aside, only to have his own ring finger scarred by the falling steel. He yelped and jumped backwards as the dagger landed softly in the grass.

"Sorry! Sorry!" Saldo quickly picked up the stained sword and moved toward his brother. "I was stupid, I should have paid more attention-"

"Stop fussing over me." Evon grumbled, wiping his finger on the grass. "It's nothing."

"What's all the commotion, now?" Lucast emerged from the direction of the town. He was taller than both of them, and yet his face seemed somewhat weary... almost gray, Saldo and Evon noticed.

Lucast saw Evon's cut and smirked. "Trying to wave a sword, Evon? You might do better with the plastic kind they make for eight-year-olds." Lucast himself was twenty and had his own knightsword clipped to his belt.

"Shut up." Evon growled, as Lucast moved towards him. "No, no, let me see when my little brother cut himself with something he shouldn't play with..." He grabbed Evon's right hand.

"Let go!" Evon shrieked, his voice shrill and weak as Lucast inspected his hand. "I'm just going to Cure it. Shut up yourself and hold still." Lucast sent a thin spiral of light around Evon's finger, which ceased to bleed. "What's this, now?" The eldest brother had noticed a gleam under the absurdly long sleeve of Evon's navy robe.

"Lucast, stop bothering him," Saldo insisted. "You don't need to barge into other people's business-"

"Says who?" Lucast retorted. "Who knows what Evon is doing out here, I would assume he's plotting something shady. Let me see what this is... hey, I didn't know you dabbled in jewelery-"

"DON'T TOUCH ME!!!" Evon hissed, his eyes suddenly glowing a vivid yellow. Lucast withdrew his hand hastily as small tendrils of flame emitted from Evon's pale hand.

"Black Magic!!?!" Lucast announced, more intrigued than scared. "Hmm, so that's what you've been doing! Here, I thought you were just moping around... well, whatever. I'm just glad I showed up before more needless blood was spilled." Saying these last words laughingly, Lucast trekked back to town.

Saldo turned back to Evon. "Um.... want to see my trick again?" Evon said nothing. ''Yes... yes, I would like to see a knife hover.... hover and dive straight into a certain someone's heart...''

"Evon?" Saldo looked apprehensive. His brother looked at him, and tried for a smile, but his long black hair and sour mood ruined the attempt. "Sure... here, watch this, too." He called up several stones, which began to levitate next to Saldo's dagger.

A few months had passed, and the first seasonal flakes of snow had begun to drift silently over Orchone. The Mailao house had once again become a place of secrecy, a new victim bedridden to the sole queen-sized bed within. Inside, Mr. Mailao and a respected physician from Labradia talked in quiet, serious tones, assuming quite wrongly that their conversation was theirs and theirs alone. The man lying on the bed had unkempt white hair and was breathing heavily, but not asleep. Outside, a teenager four years younger crouched in the bushes, listening intently.

"This is exactly what happened ten years ago, with my wife," the older man inside said uncomfortably. The doctor paused and glanced over at the seemingly sleeping form on the bed. "It is," he replied shortly. "Wasting disease. He'll be gone... within the month." It was said with such finality that the other man groaned and put his head in his hands. "This can't be happening... again."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Mailao. But... it's actually almost to be expected. Your son is afflicted with the same sickness as your wife was. My tests and work with Labradian families with similar situations show that this is a genetic disease."

"Genetic? As in...?"

"Passed between the afflicted and their children. Not contagious, not even with close contact. It is not the ties of friendship but the ties of family through which this malady flows and slowly chokes the life out of all who touches. The survival rate is... nil." The doctor spoke in the same crisp, almost nonchalant tone.

At the door, Evon tensed at the professional's words. ''This is.. what happened to mother...''

"You mean to say that all of my children are destined to die like this?!" Mr. Mailao asked in a weak tone.

"...Perhaps not all. Your eldest is already condemned. But the other two... according to my research, the rate at which the disease passes on between parent, in which case would be your wife, and child, one of your two sons, is about 75%. There is hope, but its light is slim."

"Its light... this cannot be." The father looked hopelessly at his son. "Lucast.. his future was so bright... he would be a Paladin... yet even the White Magics in which he trained could not save him from this illness..."

And then he uttered the words, words spoken so carelessly, so emotionally, and so destructive in a parent's selective grief:

"Dammit! I wish it were Evon instead! Why my firstborn? Why not... him?"

Next to him, Lucast stirred ever so slightly in his bed, having just given witness to his sentencing and turning pale with fear.

And outside, Evon slumped down onto the ground, ears ringing with the spiteful tones just spoken, his own heart turning black with hate.

"You stay here." Mr. Mailao spoke in a very short and tense voice to Evon. It was a week later, and literally the entire town except for Lucast was assembled on the path leading east to the river. "All of Orchone is going to Amevitai to pray for Lucast. His soul needs divine intervention, but it does not need your presence at the shrine."

Evon pondered his father's words. Why would he want to go anyway? "Fine. Go. I don't care."

"You should," his father hissed, but paid no attention. He turned, and the hundreds of people in front of him parted, letting him lead the way to the river. Among them, Saldo waved timidly at his brother, who returned the gesture feebly, his pale face showing no emotion. The entire town then began the pilgrimage to pray for the poor man racked with sickness in the Mailao house, to pray to Alexander that he would not suffer the same fate.

And as they receded from view, Evon turned back towards the town proper, eyes gleaming with malevolence. Trying to calm himself, he took a short walk down to the familiar pond on the outskirts of the city. Across it may the small burial site where his mother's tomb lay.

Though even the most powerful White Magic can rescue the fallen from death’s precipice, it cannot delay my passing.

He sat down at the water's edge. No pilgrimage to a temple of Light is going to restore Lucast...

A butterfly settled on his arm. He shuddered involuntarily as its wings oscillated back and forth, back and forth, opening and closing lightly in the calm afternoon wind.

Your eldest is already condemned.

Evon looked at the butterfly. It was perched on his blue robe, just above his left hand. ''Such a pale hand... so... gaunt... sickly, even...''

It was sickly. He felt sick not just emotionally, but physically tired, moreso than usual.

It is not the ties of friendship but the ties of family through which this malady flows...

''I wish it were Evon instead! Why my firstborn? Why not... him?''

And in rage, he leapt up, and the butterfly took flight, orange wings desperately seeking a new, peaceful place to rest, but Evon pointed at it, and it froze over completely, landing in the pond, rising ever so delicately to the water's surface, and floating away towards the opposite bank where Venancia lay silent in her tomb.

He watched it sail away, and then marched slowly back to town. The sun was setting.

In the Mailao house, the dying light cast shadowy caricatures over all objects in the master bedroom. Lucast stirred feebly as the door opened with a very soft creak. "F-Father?"

"No." The voice was icy.

The figure drew itself closer to Lucast, who could barely turn his neck to see who it was. Long, blue robes, gloves over both hands, and black, straight hair. "y-you... what are you doing here? Where's dad?"

"He led all of Orchone to pray for you at the river shrine," Evon responded. "They won't return until early next morning."

"...Oh. I... must have faith, then." Lucast's physical appearance and weak tone of voice belied his assertion. The skin on his face was knobbled and was etiolating into a dull gray. His arms were blistered and thin, fingers disgustingly bloated.

"You don't have any hope. You're going to die, so the doctor ordered," Evon said, in an even more detached voice than the man who had given the fatal diagnosis.

"...You... heard then?" Lucast grimaced. "Then I suppose it's all true." He looked down at his weakened body, and then up at his brother, who was standing at the end of the bed, eyes partially hidden by his hair.

"And..." Lucast almost sneered. "You'll be next." Evon's eyes widened. "....What? How the hell do you know? You're the one crippled in bed!"

"Just look at yourself, Evon." Lucast spat back. "E-Exactly the same paleness I embodied three months ago. You heard the doctor. It runs in the family. It won't be long after I go that you'll be in my place, and probably Saldo after that."

"You don't deserve to die the same way mother did," Evon hissed.

Lucast leered at him. "It isn't as if I have any c-choice in the matter, is it? Seventy-five percent. Withered. Gone."

"I'm not going to succumb to it," Evan retorted, unknowingly touching his own face where he could feel his skin beginning to dry and decay. "I have... magic... greater than yours!"

"You fool." Lucast whispered back at him. "Magic is not child's play. Even the great Alexandrian Devouts cannot redeem me. You cannot stay the hand of fate!"

"Watch me." Evon spat. "Oh wait, you're not going to be around for much longer to see me, hmm? Hehe.... hehehehe!"

"You're a monster," Lucast could barely speak the words. "Jeering at my state, the same fate which mother fell victim to!"

"I told you. You're not going to die as she did. She deserved the world, a funeral fit for the heavens, a requiem whose notes would reach the stars. But you..." Evon's eyes began to glisten, not with tears, but with poisonous loathing, and both of his outstretched hands glowed with fire.

Lucast recoiled horribly in his bed. "You c-can't... you wouldn't..." The entire room was illuminated in the flames from Evon's eyes and hands.

"Burn, insect."

When the citizens of Orchone returned from the river Amevitai in the early pre-dawn hours of the next chilly December day, they found a third of their town ablaze. After water had been drawn from the pond and nearly all the flames were quenched, they begin to sift through the rubble. Saldo ran through the surrounding woods, around blackened oak and charred ash. ''Evon must have been in the woods when the fire started. He could have rescued Lucast.... er,... probably not...''

"Evon? Evon? Evon, where are you?" he yelled, but nothing answered his call.

''Evon must have been around the pond, practicing his magic or something. Probably working with wind or water, or playing with fi-''

He stopped short. Fire. And he sank down to his knees, for he did not want to believe it, but his keen mind had already deduced the most logical explanation, and he looked back at the smoldering remains of his house, embers glowing a vivid scarlet, and wept.

Mr. Mailao found the body of his oldest son exactly where he had last left him. He had prayed he would not have to bury his son at this age, and he had been granted his wish: the searing heat had reduced Lucast to ashes. His were the only remains the people of Orchone found after the tragedy of the fire.

And many miles away to the west, Evon ran, his long blue cloak flailing in the frigid wind, running away from his hometown, to Labradia, where someone could help him, help him reverse his fate, away, away from the sunrise. All he had left was the Black Magic which he had taught to himself, his sole method of protection, his only skill, and his salvation.