The sky was dark where the boy walked, the clouds aggressively blocking all rays of hope the sun may have provided. The wind blew fast and strong, it tugging at his short hair as he shivered along the side of the trail. It was cold, oh so cold. But there was no turning back now. In the distance, across the mountains, the tip of a castle could be seen, its magnificence naturally dragging him towards it. But he could not return there. He was not welcome there. Or at least… not anymore.
Crowds passed by the miserable boy in dozens, whispering gossip to each other. Speculating. His red hoodie, tattered and dirty, was draped over his entire body, covering all but one thing. His right arm was slipped under the hoodie's opening, the rest of his body huddled inside of the ragged cloth. It showed no sign of difference, no sign of anything out of the ordinary. But he could feel it. Voices in his head taunted him continuously, nearly driving him mad. He couldn't take their complaints anymore. They were telling him to leave, leave his family behind. So he complied. After all, they were the only friends he had left.
"You're a freak Marco." they would scream, over and over again in his brain. He begged them to stop, but they refused, it getting worse by the day. His arm had started to feel strange lately. Around the same time as the voices had began their torture. The boy had not slept in weeks. Rocking back in forth in bed, pressing his hands against his temples. "Make them stop. Make them stop." But help never came.
So he left. The plan had been formulating for days, weeks, probably months on end. All he had needed was a sign, a sign he wasn't overreacting. And he listened. People screamed from the balcony, begging for him to come back and talk with them. We still love you. It'll not be the same without you. Please, don't go. Lies. All lies. That night, as Marco strode out the gates of the castle into the forest, a smile stretched across his face. He didn't need them anyway.
Seven long nights he waited, waited for more guidance. With no home, no friends, and nothing left for comfort… his voices were all he had left. Had he gone mad? Was this a joke? Or simply just a bad dream? Any answer would have been better and possibly more believable than the truth. It would take days to realise, but Marco finally found it. This was reality. And there was no turning back now.
Day by day, week by week, the tingling in his arm became more frequent. The memories of his old life faded, slowly drifting away into the abyss. There was no need for any of them now anyway. All that mattered now was the present. The voices became more frequent as well, now becoming more aware of the world surrounding their host. They grow up so fast. Every day they would have small conversations, them increasing in length as the days stretched into weeks. With his new friends' help, the boy built himself a shelter, a small treehouse in a nearby forest. It sure wasn't a castle, but it beats sleeping on rocks. For the first time since he had left, Marco finally felt at home again.
It wasn't long before they started to send out search parties. Every night after dusk. The shine of the wands through the underbrush caught his attention each time, memories flooding back into his emptied brain before quickly receding. Every day his desire to return grew, but so did his relationship with his parasites. It seemed to be quite… symbiotic. The princess would call out to him, yanking at his broken heart. But even if he could, he would not return. He didn't want her to see him like this.
The arm had evolved. It was part of him now. As the teens weeped in their dwellings, alone once again….evil had thrived. Growing inside its host. Growing stronger by the day. Waiting for the perfect day to strike. As the rulers of Mewnie lay peacefully asleep in their beds, a new evil was brewing just off the coast of their pure kingdom. War was coming… and sooner than you think.