Time of Dreams

To understand how I ran away from home on the Day of the Cataclysm and ultimately inherited the Magic, you must also understand why I did it.

I don't remember much about the early years of my childhood. When I once discussed these memory gaps with Professor Naulis, he said children sometimes forget traumatic times as a defense mechanism. Honestly, I'm not sure I would call that period traumatic; it was more like a restless sleep. I'd wake up and remember fragments of a bad dream, wander aimlessly, fall back into a brief slumber, and forget.

Still, there are certain days I remember clearly. On one such day, my father was so drunk that I hid, as always, in the fireplace. An unusual hiding spot, perhaps, but an effective one. When drunk, my father went to only two places: the pantry, where he devoured the food meant for the coming days, or the bedroom he shared with my mother. There, I would hear her screams while trying to inhale as little soot as possible.

I was good at avoiding him by then. My father was drunk often, and I quickly learned how to stay out of his way. On the occasions I failed, the bruises and broken bones served as harsh but effective teachers. I had never feared fire before – or so I thought, until the day my mother decided to fight back for what seemed like the first time in her life.

She came tumbling down the stairs, sobbing and wailing, followed by my father's thunderous footsteps. The old wooden steps always seemed louder under his weight. They argued for a while before I heard the shattering of glass and a dull thud as something hit the floor.

Apparently, my father had thrown a bottle at her. He missed, but the flying shards had cut her face. She no longer had the strength to resist him after that. He ordered her to light a fire. Normally, my father avoided fire when drunk, and my mother would barricade herself in their bedroom and endure whatever came. But not that day.

Without a word of protest, she filled the fireplace with wood and dry leaves. She either couldn't or wouldn't see me, curled up higher in the chimney flue, wedged between the stones leading to the vent. I didn't dare make a sound; my body was trained to silence in moments like these.

I only started screaming when the flames touched me. But I didn't scream for long; the smoke stole my breath, and soon I couldn't hold on anymore. I fell straight into the burning fire.

I don't remember the pain. I only remember the look on my father's face as he pulled me out and said, "Ah. It's just you."

That was just one of countless days like it. But it wasn't all cruelty and sorrow. Whenever I wasn't helping my father on the farm, I spent my time staring at the sky. I was a dreamy child. I especially loved the night. I counted the stars and tried to find those so-called constellations I'd heard about.

I even gave them my own names. Capricorn became 'The Stone,' Scorpio 'The Hook,' and I'm pretty sure I invented hundreds of constellations depending on my mood.

The western sky often revealed other wonders. Meteor showers were common, and I turned star counting into a game. If I saw three shooting stars, I would make a wish in three words. Usually, they were childish wishes, like, 'I wish bread.'

The day I counted six shooting stars was also the day I first met one of the Thirteen. As I said, I was seven years old then. I hadn't even made my wish when I heard the clatter of hooves on the gravel path leading to our village. I leaned over the small grassy hill and peered down.

A rider had arrived late at night. His steed was larger than any I'd ever seen, its hide gray and mottled. The rider himself was cloaked, his hood drawn so I couldn't see his face. But in the moonlight, he looked like something out of a story. A horror story, as I would soon discover.

Without thinking much of it, I watched the rider approach our farm. My childish mind categorized the unknown into something familiar. He was just another man visiting my mother late at night, as often happened when my father was out drinking with his friends at the tavern, only to return the next morning with a suspicious, dreamy smile.

Then something shifted. My father wasn't away tonight, and the men who visited my mother were always neighbors or travelers passing through the village. Never a rider on a nightmare steed, never so openly visible.

I followed him quietly, my heart racing, unable to look away. As I crept closer, I saw the rider speaking to my father. Their words were muffled, but suddenly I heard my mother crying. She was dragged out of the house, her face red, her hair disheveled. My breath caught. The rider spoke calmly as my father angrily gestured at her.

I stumbled over a loose stone and fell. Both my father and the rider turned toward me. My father squinted.

"What are you doing here?" he shouted, striding toward me with fists clenched. But the rider raised a gloved hand.

"Leave him," he said quietly. "I'll buy him, too."

My father froze, surprise etched on his face.

"How much?" he asked warily.

The rider drew a coin from his cloak and held it up. "One copper coin," he said.

My father shook his head. For a moment, he seemed to hesitate, but then he squared his shoulders and spoke gruffly. "I need him on the farm. At least a silver one."

The rider sighed. "I don't have that much," he said, lifting his head so the moonlight illuminated his face.

It was the face of an old man, yet strangely beautiful and eerily wrong. "But I'll give you two if I can try something on him. I've never had the pleasure with a child before."

My father hesitated. Then he nodded slowly.

"Deal," he said. I wanted to run, but my father grabbed me by the hair and dragged me to the massive horse's hooves. Tears burned my eyes, but I didn't scream. My whole body trembled with fear.

The rider dismounted and knelt before me. His eyes were like holes leading into darkness, and I was sure he could see my racing heart. I thought he might devour me with a single look.

He placed a hand on my chest and murmured words I didn't understand. An icy pain shot through my body, as if something foreign were invading me. The rider watched me with an inscrutable expression before standing.

My father shuffled nervously.

"That's it?" he asked.

The rider nodded. "That's it," he confirmed. "I'll return in three years to observe the results of my experiment."

He tossed the coins to my father, slung my unconscious mother onto his horse, and rode off into the night. I remained on the ground, clutching my chest, trying to make sense of what had just happened. My father, meanwhile, counted the coins with a satisfied expression, pleased with the price he had gotten for my mother – and for my future.

All for the cheap price of two copper coins.

I didn't know then who the man was, but something about him felt wrong, like an open wound that would never heal. Years later, as I wandered the kingdom with the Innocent Thieves, I realized he was one of the Thirteen: the Plague.

That, however, comes later. For now, all you need to know is that I would never have done all that I did if I had simply stayed on the grassy hill that night, counting stars.

Disappointing, isn't it? All my battles, all the legends swirling around me, my rise and my fall, all because of an event I couldn't control and that hardly shaped me at all.

That my mother was gone from then on didn't bother me much. She had been more of a fellow victim than a parent. With her absence, my father spent more time with the young barmaid from the tavern and was consequently in a better mood.

The next two years passed in a dull haze. I avoided the hill as though it were watching me, and the stars seemed suddenly alien. The fireplace, once my safe haven, went unused. The rider faded from my mind like a bad dream – until the world itself brought him back to me.

Still, my young life settled into a new normal, one I could grow used to. I helped on the farm when I had to, ate when there was something to eat, and ultimately accepted that this was the life I'd been given. I wished for nothing and awaited no miracle.

It was peaceful. In a very sad and twisted way.

Then one day, a merchant arrived in our village, bringing with him news of the Cataclysm.