A/N: Hello! For those of you who are just beginning the tale of Midnight Sun, welcome! For those who have already read Broken Toys, welcome back! I hope you all enjoy this, but if you want my honest opinion, read Broken Toys first and get attached to the Midnight Sun guild and also enjoy the company of Fairy Tail before coming here, as this is a background story.

Thank you all for reading, please feel free to leave comments as you see fit!

Beginnings, Kind and Cruel

Yrid, 14 years before the Dollhouse Incident, year X769-

Snow swirled from above, piling against the windowsill as the glass fogged up before large, amazed eyes that reflected the dark sky outside. It hardly ever snowed on the coastal town of Yrid, but on the occasion that it did, all the children were amazed by it. Because they were so close to the equator, the snow never stayed for long, but swept from the nearby mountaintops as it was, for a time it was dry, perfect for playing in.

A young mother watched her son from the doorway, smiling at the way his shifting blue eyes lit up every time the snow on the sill collapsed. He pressed his fingers to the window, and drew a smiling face. Standing up he went to the door and stared wistfully at the handle.

"Wish," Starla Moore chided, "stand away from the door or you'll get knocked over when your father comes home from the guild," the small boy nodded, and Starla gazed at him a bit worriedly. He was six years old as of today and he had yet to speak a word.

He communicated his needs and wants perfectly, he could tie his shoes, he washed the dishes with her, he seemed to have above-average intelligence, but he didn't talk, not a single word. The city physician said that he might be mute, but Starla didn't want to think that her only baby would never have a voice.

"Do you know what today is?" the boy's mother asked with a small half smile.

The brown curly hair tousled on the child's head as he nodded. He turned to the window and drew a crude drawing of a cake with candles in the condensation. He looked to her, seeking praise.

"That's right!" Wish's mother said happily, "Your birthday. When your father comes home we can have dinner and cake, how does that sound?"

Wish smiled and nodded vigorously, the shiny brown curls flipping about. He ran to the door and tripped on his overlong pant leg. He sat up, rubbing his chin, and then stood, struggling to reach the brass knob set into the wood above his head.

His mother laughed.

"No dear, father has to come here, not we go to the guild. I'm sure he's on his way now," she giggled, watching as her cute son pouted and crossed his arms. "We can go visit Shade and Shine tomorrow if you're good."

Wish stared at her with wide eyes and plopped onto the floor, hands folded, sitting up straight and patiently waiting beside the door.

At that moment, the door swung open into the warm fire lit room, snow swirling over the wooden floors as Wish's father entered tiredly, but with a smile and a gift for his son.

"Happy birthday, kid!" His father, Nighter Moore cried, scooping up the little boy and tossing him lightly in the air. Wish held his arms out like a airplane and shrieked with laughter.

"Ooooh… don't drop him!" Starla fretted, watching with worry evident on her face.

"Eh, even if he falls on his head, he could stand to lose a few brain cells… kidding, kidding!" the man cried as his wife growled. Father and son looked extraordinarily alike, tousled brown hair, shifty blue eyes, right down to the mild fear of the woman in front of them reflecting in their eyes.

"Alright," she sighed, "alright."

The pair grinned at each other, and Nighter tossed Wish onto the couch in the living room, the little boy squealing as his father tickled him.

"Here," his father said, handing a package to the boy, "It's for you."

Wish stripped the paper off eagerly, and opened the box inside to reveal a glass orb with a lotus blossom inside. As he watched, the flower closed up and shrank back into a seed before it grew into a flower again, withering and falling apart… the petals zoomed back together and resumed into a seed. The little boy watched fascinated by the flow of time inside the orb.

He held the ball out to his father in wonder.

"It's magic," the man said gently. He stood and waved Wish into the kitchen for cake, but the boy was utterly entranced by the orb. He set it on the table and enjoyed the cake, but his eyes never left the beautiful lotus.

It happened suddenly, and the orb rolled over the corner of the table when Wish's elbow bumped it. Starla cried out in dismay as the orb careened toward the wood. Her poor little boy's heart would be broken for at least a week!

Her alarm was unnecessary, however. Wish threw out his hands and narrowed violet eyes in concentration. The glass ball stopped a foot from the ground.

"What….?" His mother wondered aloud, and she tried reaching for the ball. When her hand came within two inches of it however, her fingers froze as if in suspended animation. "What is this?" she asked.

Wish reached forward and allowed the magic sphere to fall into his hands with a sigh.

"Magic," he said matter-of-factly, and with that, he left his mother gaping in the kitchen and went to play further with his new discovery.

…..

A few hundred miles away, in the slums of Onibus, another boy of about the same age as Wish Moore, though he didn't know his birthday, was much less fortunate. He lay face down in the gutters, wearing nothing but a pair of ragged shorts, his bruised skin exposed to the chill of the night as the sun set. His ribs were easily visible and there was a starved look to more than his body, there was a near-crazed look in his eyes as well.

He heaved himself up onto a cracked bit of pavement and looked sadly at the three jewels in the bottom of the cup he used to beg. Multicolored eyes changed from sorrowful to angry, and the boy resented the bastards who refused to help him. No, not him, he wasn't the one who needed the money. It was all for someone else.

"Spare change?" he asked as a woman passed by. She didn't answer, so he gripped her skirts weakly with one hand. She hissed and kicked him into the street, sending his three jewels scattering. He picked them up off the road and wiped blood off his elbow, glaring at the retreating back of the woman.

"Ass hole," he muttered. It wasn't uncommon for such a young child to use such language. Not here anyways. The boy began his trek home, dutifully avoiding broken glass with his bare feet. She got angry if he hurt himself, though he didn't really understand why.

"I'm home," the boy said softly into the darkness as he pushed aside a leather flap that served as a door to the hovel he lived in. The windows were drawn shut, and a small fire was there, but the pervading damp refused to leave the small wooden building that was formed in a dark back alley.

A figure shifted under a blanket on the couch, the only piece of furniture aside from a small square table and two chairs.

"Aroata?" the hoarse voice of a woman asked into the shadows as the flap swung closed.

"Yeah," the gentle reply came, "But just call me Arrow, everyone else does."

"By 'everyone else' you mean Bora?" The woman sat up against the arm of the couch, unhealthy black hair falling over her face. Aroata came closer and gazed up at his mother. Her high cheekbones and wide eyes were mirrored in his visage, and the taut, tanned skin that seemed ageless was there in both of them. The woman ran her hand through her son's dirty bronze hair and gazed into his ringlet eyes.

"Other people call me Arrow too, like Ari! It's easier then Aroata Mielus!"

"So much like your father…" his mother sighed, "Did you use the money I gave you for your dinner?" she asked. Aroata Jax dropped his gaze and shuffled his feet.

"No…" he murmured.

"What?" his mother could not muster enough energy to be angry, "What happened to it then?"

Aroata dug into his pockets and pulled out a small bottle of cough syrup, handing it her. She smiled, tears in her eyes, for she knew that no medicine could cure her illness. Her poor, thoughtful, lovely little boy, so much like his late father….

"Thank you," she whispered. She placed the bottle down and reached up to her neck, unclasping a chain that held a bronze key. "You see the small box over there?" she pointed out a safe, "Bring it here."

Aroata complied, confused. The woman opened the safe and drew out a long, thin, bronze-crafted container about the length of Aroata's forearm.

"Here is the key, and here is the treasure. Only take the treasure when you cannot survive any longer, and keep it with you always. Now be good and go to bed. I love you, my darling Aroata Mielus Jax."

"I love you too… and just Arrow, Mom. You shouldn't talk more than you need to." Aroata replied brokenly, for even a young one such as himself could see the weakness the disease had wrought in her.

The woman watched as he curled up on a rough, patched blanket on the floor behind the couch and close to the embers she had stoked, arms wrapped around the box she had gifted him with.

With a sad smile, she picked up the bottle of cough medicine, and unscrewed the lid, going to take some for the sake of her child, even if it would only prolong her life by a few days, and thus prolonging her agony.

She tipped her head back to take the medication, but was wracked with a sudden bout of coughing that choked her, cutting off her oxygen. She wheezed for air, but found none, as if the room were full of carbon monoxide. She flopped limply on her side, gasping. Her vision began to fade, and she knew her life was at an end, however desperately she had clung to it for her boy.

"Aroata… Mielus… Jax…. my…. beautiful….baby…" she struggled for breath, and a thousand thoughts, a thousand apologies, raced through her head.

I'm sorry I couldn't give you a better life, I'm sorry I couldn't hold on for you, I'm sorry I have to leave you alone, I'm sorry that you'll be by yourself….

I'm sorry I wasn't good enough to stay by you until you were able to survive on your own.

I'm sorry that because of my weakness you'll probably die here in the slums before you turn seven.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

Her dark eyes fell closed, and the cough syrup leaked over the floor, staining the earth pink. Aroata slept on, oblivious to the tragedy he was going to endure, conquer, forget about, recall, regret, and kill for in years to come.

He slept on without a care in the world, his final night as an innocent boy.

….

Aroata opened his eyes and came around the edge of the couch. His mother lay there, beneath her blanket. She was still asleep, so he took his little cup and left the house to make his daily panhandling rounds, though he had little hope. There were too many beggars and not enough kind people with money to share.

He glanced back and wished his mother a good sleep, telling her that he would be home soon, unaware then, that something was amiss.

…..

The boy returned home, downtrodden, bruised, and starving at twilight. Twilight was said to be the hour of lost souls, the hour the sky turned red with the blood spilled by murder victims and those who died too young.

His mother was in the same position he had left her in this morning.

Approaching her, he tapped her hand tentatively, wishing to tell her that he had not made any money for the day, and that he was sorry, but she was cold.

Cold and pale, just like the dead man he had once found rotting at the end of their alley, his festering flesh dropping maggots.

He pressed his hand against her throat just like his mother had done a long time ago to the sick people that came to their home before his mother had gotten so ill. She had given them medicine and stitched them up, but in the end she couldn't fix herself. He blamed those people for his mothers' disease. He felt for the 'knocking of a heartbeat' against her throat as his mother had once taught him to do, and felt nothing. Just cold flesh.

He tried every which way to seek a pulse, and in desperation he placed a small hand over her mouth.

No breath. He didn't know anyone who didn't breathe.

And then he knew it, and though he had seen the dead, though death was not an uncommon thing here in the dark half of Onibus, it was different when it was close, different when death stared at you from inside a loved one.

From inside your only loved one.

His thoughts were slow to catch up with his mouth; he was screaming before he fully comprehended it.

She

Was

Dead.