For every 'and they lived happily ever after' dot dot dot, there's a darker tale that goes untold. A story that, perhaps, were it not for the foreboding ellipsis and their haunting omission of events, might have stayed that way. After all, who cares to read a story where the giant kills Jack, the Beast remains a monster, and Snow White dies waiting for her kiss? Well, this story isn't all *so* dramatic. It may not be a story worth telling at all. But it happened. It's *happening.* And if the story meets its end as the plan predicts, the beanstalk will not be a pillar of perseverance and strength, but a wilted tombstone. The Beast will growl and snap in barbaric fashion forever as the last petal falls. And the fairest princess will be lost to time, waiting for a savior who was never fated to come. Dot. Dot. Dot. This story began with a boy - as half of them tend to - a son of a witch and a poor crofter who found his demise on the horn of a bull before his boy could spew his first name-day cry. Lysander Case he was called. His father's father's father's name, so young Lysander had managed to learn before his mother fell ill and he was sold off into the slave trade. He was eight. Bright, strapping, confused but hardy, Lysander first found 'employment', he chose to call it, in the kitchens and houses of lords and ladies, seeing to stables, chamber pots, every dirty duty no man, woman or child in their right mind would willingly endure. Lysander embraced them all in stride. He took pride in his slavery; it was all he had. The beatings done out of spite, malice, dominance, and pure boredom saw not a tear from young Case's eye. No, not Lysander. He would not mourn his lot. The boy had magic. The boy had an able body. The boy had an agile mind eager to absorb every knowledge available. The boy had hope of a future absent stool and sorrow. Who knew the future was an early bird? Ironic. Lysander found himself sold once again when his master found the young slave ensnared in his mistress' arms upon his maturation. He was twelve. Sprouting a generous mane of obsidian curls, the barest tufts of stubble upon his squaring jaw, and strands of sinewy boy muscle molding into the chiseled marble physique of manhood, Lysander settled well into the leather armor of the king's guard. Sword in hand, magic in mind, the young man now sought new purpose in the form of earning a commanding post. Never again would he be whipped or covered in the filth of those who thought themselves to be his betters. It was with great practice, natural skill, and dedication with blade and fist that Lysander saw himself slowly, but certainly, lifting up through the guard. From foot soldier to horseman, up through night watch and eventually to his majesty's private detail, Lysander found comfort in his ascent and status. At one point he even pondered how his life could become better - he had women, wine, stability, notoriety, and a place. He belonged. And Lysander lived happily ever after... Right? That would be a good place to stop. While our 'hero' is still a hero. While the underdog is no longer a mutt. While the story overcame obstacles and is now full of rainbows and sunshine. Yeah... Wrong story, Cinderella. At the pinnacle of supposed happiness he found while in the king's guard, little did Lysander know his story had yet to even begin. No, the true beginning lay with a flash of magic, a self-serving sorcerer, and the boy who, still, just wanted to belong. War raged in a neighboring kingdom - if a peasant squabble could be called a 'war.' He was nineteen. Lysander, now a young, determined commander, was sent off with a regiment of his finest underlings to quell the dispute, with the assurances they would return to the kingdom in three days time. The treble trip became a week, and a week became two. Captured, beaten, strung up for a sacrifice and to be tortured in the square until death, Lysander's true purpose began to shine when the final glimmer of hope and honor had faded. The first of his mens' throats had been slit before him, out of sheer dominance and pure enjoyment. The reminders of the boy, who refused to cry when his face was thrust into dung, who held his tongue when sharp leather snapped across his back for the same sadistic purposes, surfaced. The catalyst. Lysander's eyes, ebon, starless orbs, burst into flaming rage. The magic, his birthright, that which he had toyed over years and years but had never perfected, erupted full force. A wave of unadulterated power emanated from each tired, bruised and bloody limb, engulfing the square and stunned townsfolk in a silver light that stung and crippled as fire from the sun. The last the young warrior beheld before the silver hue dimmed in his eyes and he willed himself to the dark embrace of unconsciousness, was a scene of submission. A plain of death. When Lysander woke he was in the care of a man, a sorcerer himself, nearly a month after the incident that saw the town of barbaric villagers reduced to ash, only the young Case surviving. The elder sorcerer spared the tale to his own kingdom where it spread like wildfire, soon reaching the ears of Lysander's king who mourned and erected a tribute in the gallant young man's honor. Upon tale of the news, Lysander's heart sunk. His future shattered. There was no going back. Nothing to go back to. Where Lysander once belonged, needless bloodshed and false glory mounted in his place. Under the tutelage of the elder sorcerer, his savior and protecter, Lysander changed his purpose in life to one of learning. He honed the magic that coursed through his veins, he studied all and every tome the elder sorcerer had to offer him. He became an erudite scholar, a skilled alchemist, and a not too terrible of a painter - if he did said so himself. After a time, Lysander started to belong. He grew to love and revere the older man as the father he never knew, even as the elder sorcerer regaled him nightly with stories of the child he left behind in a kingdom far beyond reach, with her mother. A princess, he had said, with the eyes of a happy summer sky, the face of a spring kitten, long locks of pure gold, and a laugh so seldom heard when it did erupt the angels sang. The way the man spoke of his daughter, the princess whose magic the elder sorcerer not-so-secretly yearned to wield, left Lysander jealous to say the least. The young Case wondered, were his own father alive, or were this beloved sorceress nonexistent, would the elder sorcerer praise Lysander in such a way? He could only imagine... The truth, some say, will set you free. In this story's case, it destroys you. Lysander did not know the intentions of his lord and respected master. The elder sorcerer, for years, had been in the business of stealing powers from his kinsmen. Death was the easiest way. Kill first, drain their powers, become more powerful. It was pretty simple, really. Magicians, enchanters, sorceresses, wizards and witches - any with power were subject to this villain's literal power-hungry appetite. What Lysander didn't know, the secret that would eventually break and harden his once good heart, he was a victim. It wasn't by accident the elder sorcerer stumbled upon the young commander in his time of need, oh no. He had kept a close eye on the young sorcerer who used his magic to spare his fellow soldiers and perform amusing parlor tricks. So much potential in so willing and unencumbered a package. The young man had no family, no place, no ties beyond the guard. Were the elder sorcerer to raise this boy and share with him every knowledge he himself possessed, could he, perhaps, double his power in one kill? No more of this low-level power stealing for a small sip of enchantment, but a hearty dose of true sorcerer's magic. Yes. Hopeful, powerful, at peace with himself... 'Loved.' He was twenty-four. Lysander discovered the betrayal two days before he was to turn five and twenty. It was cold, as December 24th usually was. Snow fell and stuck to every surface it could find and Lysander laughed as he followed his teacher up to the top of a mountain peak where they performed rituals when it was warmer. Lysander remembered he had shaken flakes from his curly mane and asked why they were up there so late in the year when the ritual offering room in their castle down below was not only warm but had suited their purposes fine thus far. The elder sorcerer hadn't answered. Lysander didn't ask again. He only followed. Then he waited. Torches were lit with a glance of his tutor's amber eyes and the carvings dug into the stone in the center of the round arena began to glow when the men and their power approached. Something wasn't right. Lysander *knew* something was not right. He could feel it. When the elder man bid his ward closer to the center of the circle, Lysander should have stayed where he was. When the older man's aged lips tilted into a crooked, sad smile, one Lysander had seen a thousand times as a sign of faux praise and affection, only when he had muddled a spell or disappointed his teacher, he should have backed away. When he stepped closer and his savior's hand moved behind his back, unbeknownst to Lysander, concealing a jagged sacrificial dagger with which to finally complete the experiment he had so long prepared for, Lysander should have... In an instant he was a boy of eight again, bright, strapping, confused but hardy. The slave. It didn't take Lysander long to realize and piece together what he was to the man, what his purpose always had been. The fight that ensued could've lasted hours or only minutes, Lysander didn't know. All he did know was his world was blurring as was his vision amidst his angry tears. 'You used me!' Lysander had screamed. 'Yes.' His beloved guardian had confirmed. The elder sorcerer unraveled the plan as though it were an ingenious plot, one Lysander should be proud to be a pivotal point of. Lysander had far succeeded the man's expectations and was now becoming too powerful that he threatened the elder sorcerer's existence and status in the magical world. His time of magic needed to come to an end. It was decided. 'You were my father...' was all Lysander could whimper whilst he dropped to his knees where his heart had long since fallen. 'No, I am your master. I am your redeemer! You are no child of mine. You are the vessel containing my rightful power. Now I shall reclaim it!' The elder sorcerer produced the dagger, lifting the shining blade above his head as ancient prose fell from his lips to commence the sacrifice. How the blade at Lysander's side ended up burrowed deep within his 'redeemer's' gut, Lysander couldn't quite recall. Or how he had managed to recite the rest of the words the elder sorcerer failed to, after he fell to the mountaintop and washed the stone with his ungrateful blood, while Lysander choked on bitter sobs and bawled out the words he never imagined he would be using at all, least of all on his patriarch. Lysander did, however, vividly recollect the agonizing torrent of intense voltage upon the utterance of the final syllable, and the omniscient force of untapped knowledge and energy made known to him in the bittersweet exchange. It was done. And so, his story began in blood and theft, in the betrayal of a father and the rise of a son. At his feet that winter day lay the last traces of the slave and the soldier, the boy and the broken heart. When Lysander Case left his sacrifice for the biting chill and unforgiving snow to consume, he abandoned himself with it. All he knew, all that he was, all that he had become remained in shambles at a dead man's side. A companion, and a promise to his tutor that he would carry on in his stead, and he would see his pain be repaid in full. There was a certain magically inclined princess who ought be paid a visit... Soon. From the desolate mountaintop, his power doubled, Lysander lived as only he could now - by wandering the lands, stealing and killing for the magic of others. At some point, though none he could mark, he became oblivion. Where a man's soul is said to reside, a dormant hourglass sat in its place. He could not die. Yet, he was not living. Not entirely. What joys please the mortal flesh sate Case for a time, but love and honor, those traits he once strove for so steadfastly, held no comprehension to him now. His late tutor once told him magic, all magic, had a price. Was this his? Lysander Case knew power so great it rivaled even that of many gods, several of which he had killed for their added gifts to his arsenal. He was nigh unstoppable. But at what cost? In pure love and sorrow, the young sorcerer had unwittingly cursed himself to an absent existence. Lysander would not know death, nor would he truly know life until another freely bequeathed their magic to him in an act of honest adoration. A selfless gift of affection denied him by he Lysander held most dear. Until such time as one can appreciate a monster for his claws, a killer for his vengeance, and a sorcerer for his darkness, the young Case must kill and steal to survive his self-imposed incarceration. Again, a slave. -----//----- “There is an old illusion. It is called good and evil.” I praise catastrophe, arc truth, beautify sin, and weave illusion. I am a dealer of deception, an observer of contradiction, and a sorcerer of souls. Let me steal your secrets...
