Apotheosis : Ashes of the Arcana

It was hours past morning, rain, but the sky was dead, thick sullen gray over Saint Elara's Orphanage, as if the sky were not breathing. The odor clung in the air, damp wood and wet earth, the storm that stormed and passed in darkness.

Inside, the children squirmed, pent-up energy behind walls. the babies tapped worn wooden tables with little fingers, wiggle in little chairs and the bigger children just stared blankly out the grimy windows with their minds probably a thousand miles away during the dry math lesson.

Rumpled haired, slouching, gaunt twelve year old with a stubborn jaw, Rion. He did not even listen to the lecture of Sister Olma. He drew on the edge of his slate with a little bit of chalk, and his fingers trailed the lines.

The vision heroic, fierce shape, stern and disdainful, clutched a smoldering sword, victorious over the convulsed corpse of some giant titan. Rion's double was the hero's face, but he would never so admit it to reveal.

A boom, a thunder of the front gate shook the numbing uniformity of the lesson.

Sister Olma interrupted in midword, her brow creased into a frown as she spun on the noise. The children halted, their faces turned to the door to wide questioning eyes. Saint Elara's was not one place one called, surprise callers less frequently still.

And then, quite unexpectedly, came a knock. Insistent, not tentative, charged with purpose. Sister Olma sighed, then motioned the children to stay where they were.

"Just keep practicing your calculations," she said, her voice taut with something. Her habit creaked as she went behind out of hearing, leaving a room full of muted talk.

Rion leaned against Mira, his fellow orphanage denizen. She was little for her age, but her eyes shone and her even brighter gleaming mind pierced his bluffing. "Perhaps it's some family adopting us," he said with a faint smile and also with an hope that he tried to keep hidden.

Mira laughed. "Or perhaps some trader with wormy carrots.".

Rion smiled, though it faltered at the trace of tension creeping up her shoulders. Mira was no woman to be intimidated, but the knock could reach her.

Sister Olma stood in her tiny, cluttered office facing a man chiseled of steel and shadow. He stands tall, his whole build dressed in a robe of silver and gray that glimmered pale in the candlelight, his eyes were cold.

"You're certain?" Sister Olma asked quietly, her fingers tightening around the wooden cross at her waist.

The man jerked his head into a brusque nod. "He bears the mark in his blood." His deep, full voice stretched each word out. "He is last remaining member of House Evermere, one of few select blessed by the stars."

Sister Olma's scowl deepened. "He's a child, innocent, untrained."

And none the wiser, the visitor continued. "But if he stays, one day sooner or later, he will be hunted by others jealous of his talent, or worse, he will be killed by the draughnir.".

She winced back, her gaze sweeping across the desk to the little photo that rested on it, smiling little Rion, taken on the bench with the other orphans on his first day at Saint Elara's. She brought him in like them, fed him, scolded him, tucked him into bed at night. She never wanted it for him.

"I'm not forcing anything," the man said, as if reading her thoughts. "I'm offering a place at the Academy of Armathane. A safe haven. Training. Purpose." 

Sister Olma hesitated. She have heard that name, how can she not after all that place are first institution in history to accept anyone with talent regardless of where they come from.

"Let me go to him first," she said at last.

Two of the boys had snuck out on an errand, by the woodshed.

Jak and Pell, younger than Rion, had been instructed to go get some firewood. But when Mira went out to check on them, they had vanished, having simply vanished into thin air.

She spotted Rion coming with the well water, his tired arms twisted under the weight of the heavy bucket. "Rion!" she shrieked, her voice pulled in with a sniff of terror. "Jak and Pell are gone! They were just there a minute ago!"

Rion dropped the bucket on the ground with a splat, water dripping over the rim. "Where?"

"By the old goat trail!"

Rion ran for his life along the destroyed path that was the woods behind the orphanage. The trees closed in quick, their twisted branches crossing overhead to shut out what little remained of light. The wind picked up, and it carried the wet sting that tickled the hair on Rion's arm.

And they waited there,

Jak and Pell stood rigidly, in a tiny clearing, not wincing, eyes open, empty.

There were puddles between them, dark, heavy, unnatural. Not mud, not water, but something else. Bubbles speckled the surfaces, alive, shuddering with things that didn't compute. Shreds of bone, teeth, eyes, matted clumps of hair, slivers of broken glass. All huddled together in a quivering, tar-like mess.

Rion choked his breath.

His instincts were all crying out upon him to break and run.

His fists were clenched.

In any case, heroes get through.

He took a step forward.

The air closed over him, pushed against him like cold unnatural hands. The vats of dark balm churned, sensed him. Jak whimpered softly. Pell trembled.

And then—

Rion's right hand flashed in light.

Red flame burst from his hand, curling around his wrist in lashing red and gold. It wasn't little sparks he'd created by mistake before, it was real fire, untamed and smoldering. The hurt pushed him to his knee, his eyes unfocused.

The puddles curled up.

With a blaze of scatty steamy hot metal, they steamed away into black billowing fog and *vanished*, shrinking from fire as if scorched by it.

Jak and Pell hit the ground.

Rion stumbled, holding burned hand, teeth clenched in pain.

The boys gasped in innocence. "Ahh. Rion…?" Jak growled, blind eyes. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Rion struggled to breathe, shaking. "You guys okay?"

They shook their heads dazedly. Alien black smudges disfigured their shirts and arms, splattered ink-like, but they did not realize or care.

Rion helped them up, forcing a grin. "Come on. Let's get back. The Sister'll tan our hides if we're late." 

Back at the orphanage, Sister Olma and the visitor stood beneath the cloudy sky, waiting.

When Rion returned, smut-streaked, scalded, and with three starry-eyed boys in his wake, the visitor's face darkened.

"We were near the woods," Rion cried. "There were these dumb puddles. But I saved 'em out!" He grinned, wiping soot from his face. "I saved the day."

The visitor glanced over at Jak and Pell's streaks of black. Then with a flash of lightning speed, he drew a gun.

It was a black handgun, its finish remaining shiny bright on its darkened receiver. The metal shone with gleaming silver runes, inscribed on the face of the weapon. He was standing holding it pointed, aloft, pointing straight at the crown of Jak's head.

Sister Olma shrieked in horror. "What are you doing?!"

"They are infected," said the man, frankly. "Black Essence possession. It is not smears of dirt, it is anchors. Vessels. It is time to clean them up or the whole orphanage is spoiled."

Rion stepped between him and the children, arms wide. "What are you saying?! They're okay! I've got them back, they're okay!"

"You don't understand," the man declared coldly. "You don't know what you're dealing with."

"No!" Rion roared. "You're not going to harm them!"

Sister Olma remained steadfast at his side. "You're not welcome here with guns drawn. Leave."

The man's gaze focused on the black marks.

Then, incrementally, he allowed the pistol to drop.

"So be it," he growled, jamming the gun into his coat. "You've made your decision."

Later, after a gray day, the visitor just stood among trees and gazed at the orphanage.

He leaned a thumb against the gun on his hip, thoughtfulness on his face.

I can strong-arm it," he breathed. "Strong-arm the kids out. Rescued the boy. Burn the bad stuff before it infects the rest of them."

But he shook his head later.

"No. Let the bad stuff run wild. Let him discover what this power is worth."

His lip curled. Then he was gone between the trees, leaving tattered leaves blowing and a gasping shiver of wind.

This night, the black mist came back.

Thicker.

Hungrier.

It crept against the glass of the windows, bucked at the cellar doors, crept into the wall crevices.

And at the back, kids who slept behind Rion, woke up screaming out in some inaudible sounds.