It has been almost a decade since the battle of Malistaire and the villain's subsequent fall. Fear has taken root throughout the Spiral concerning the existence of Necromancers as many feel that another terror would rise among them. As a result, three major prison towers have been constructed in order to detain anyone is born into the necromancer class. There, they remain under bondage until the end of their days.
This story does not follow the Wizard101 canon story line. In this alternative universe, instead of choosing their schools, wizards are born into their school. Their magic school manifests at around the ages of 12-15, and they are then usually given the appropriate training. Those that are manifested as necromancers are taken to one of three prison towers to be contained. While it is to be noted that while common opinion agrees on the vility of necromancers, there are many who do not share this opinion.
It ran dark and pooling over the table, soaking the white tablecloth and spilling onto the carpet. A woman let out a small curse as she hastily tried to pull the assortment of documents that littered the dining table out of the harm's way.
"Oh, I am terribly sorry about that" the woman apologized "It seems that my hand just had a slight spasm. It must be the weather; it is rather freezing in here, is it not?" With that, she dropped to the floor to collect the shattered pieces of a porcelain teapot.
Rough, calloused hands gripped her shoulders and the woman gave a startled yelp, dropping the porcelain pieces she had hastily collected. She tilted her head upward, her blue eyes meeting the stormy grey eyes of the lone guest she entertained in her parlor.
"Ms. Hayes, you're shaking." The man plainly stated.
Ms. Hayes glanced briefly at the sturdy hands that held her shoulders before her expression hardened. Her voice, although shaky, bore the same steel as her expression.
"Of course I am." A simple answer for a simple statement. She shrugged the man's hands off her shoulders as she rose to her feet, the remains of the teapot forgotten. "Now if you would excuse me, Mr. Tildon, I will put another pot on the range."
Mr. Tildon let his head rest back on the plush back of the armchair as he watched his hostess duck into the small kitchen of her apartment. Moonlight filtered through the lace curtains of the complex, its cool light battling with the warm glow of a kerosene lamp in the corner. To the side, a piano guarded an array of books. Mr. Tildon could make out several of the titles. History books, music books. Books on philosophy, nature, homemaking. All the books a respectable Marleybonian family would have. Rising from the armchair, the man paced towards the bookshelf, intent on getting a better look.
And then something else caught his eye.
To the left of the piano, scattering over the green toile wallpaper was an assortment of picture frames. Mr. Tildon immediately changed his course, gravitating towards the frames instead.
He moved a hand to meet the glass, brushing the still images delicately, as though he was afraid they would shatter. Captured in sepia was a woman. A young woman with a wedding veil, her long hair tied up in a simple bun, her hands wound around a stocky man with a one hundred volt smile.
The corners of Mr. Tildon's mouth lifted as he tapped the next frame.
The same woman, but this time nestling a bundle composed of blankets and a rosy cheeked infant, looking up at the stocky man with an expression that could only be described as adoration.
Tap.
A family portrait. The stocky man sat alongside the woman. Their hands interlaced, his large, blocky fingers almost comically contrasting with her slender ones. A small girl dressed in frills and lace stood at the base of the couple's feet, wearing the foulest scowl on her face.
Tap.
The family of thee is joined by a fourth member, another rosy-cheeked sleeping bundle.
Tap.
A little boy, wearing the most deadpan of expressions as his mother presses a kiss to his chubby toddler cheeks.
Tap.
Mr. Tildon frowned. The space where his finger should have met a frame instead met a plot of blank wall. Normally, he would have concluded that the family had simply made a conscious decision to stop exhibiting pictures. But on the gap where a frame should have resided was an unsightly tear on the wall. As though someone had torn the frame and nail from its former resting spot, and couldn't be bothered to purchase new wallpaper to patch the damage.
Curious. He thought, as he tapped four spaces down onto an occupied space.
A bust of a teenage boy. Despite his lack of expression, his eyes seemed to bare through the glass of the frame. Eyes that shone with turmoil, confusion, and something else that Mr. Tildon couldn't quite put a finger on. He inhaled slowly as he further examined the sepia image, taking note of the long fringe that fell between the boy's eyes.
Faintly aware of the presence of footsteps, Mr. Tildon broke his gaze from the frame and turned to face his hostess. Despite not being able to quite make out her expression, he became very much aware that he had been caught snooping in another person's house. His cheeks flushed red as he straightened himself to offer his apologies.
"I am very sorry, Ms. Hayes, but I couldn't help – "
"That's him." A soft voice.
"I'm sorry, what?"
Ms. Hayes crossed her arms as she slowly paced over to the frames. "He's the one you're here for. My son, Aaron."
At the revelation, Mr. Tildon reached out to touch the frame a second time, a question on his lips.
"How old? "
"Fourteen."
He gave a small hum at the answer. Mr. Tildon shifted, examining the strong features of the boy another time, brows knotting in confusion as though he was trying very hard to process something. "He can't be a necromancer, can he? He doesn't fit the textbook example of one. His demeanor is far too serene, far too lacking of… of…"
Of the bloodlust. Of the maniacal sneer. Of the diabolical look of a madman. The words were left unspoken, but they hung between the two inhabitants of the parlor like an unseen weight.
A defeated sigh. Her voice cracked as she spoke tired syllables. "There is no mistaking it. He presented two days ago as a necromancer. I could see the light go out in his eyes, hear his moans as he speaks of the tortured ghosts who have died. I could…" She trailed off, eyes suddenly fixating firmly on the wallpaper. Her bottom lip quivered, but she bit it in attempt to collect herself. She swallowed before opening a new line of discussion."What happens now?"
Mr. Tildon looked down at the woman and exhaled loudly. "Well, we have two options. One, we wait until his magical presence grows strong enough for the government hounds to detect and we watch as your son gets dragged off to one of the necromancer prison towers. Either that or we let one of the Marleybonian gangs detect his presence first and have them trade his freedom for a hefty sum of gold."
His first suggestion was met with a steely glare. He chose to ignore it and continued on.
"Two, we place him on suppressants." Mr. Tildon dug into his coat pocket and produced a small vial of a silvery liquid. "This is the safest option. But there are rather unsavory side effects. And his well-being will forever be bound to the drug."
"And the third option?" Ms. Hayes bit down on her lip harder.
"There is no third option."
Her steely illusion was broken as a single tear rolled down, passing over hollowed cheeks. Ms. Hayes released a shaky breath as she struggled to find her voice. "Then the unsavory side effects you speak of," she choked. "What are they?"
Mr. Tildon almost considered spilling out the full contents of the list, but stopped as a thought came to him. "Why not let me explain to the boy himself?"
Ms. Hayes nodded, not trusting herself to speak and then proceeded to lead her guest through the parlor and up a small flight of stairs. Mr. Tildon followed her closely as she led him down a narrow hallway.
Then halfway down the hallway, it hit him. A presence. An aura. He didn't even need to arrive at the destination to realize what it was.
Suddenly Ms. Hayes stopped, and merely gestured at a white wooden door in an unspoken invitation. Inhaling slowly, Mr. Tildon extended a hand forward, grabbed the metal handle and twisted.
Almost immediately, the aura hit him with full blast. It was unmistakable now, the nature of the person that occupied that room. A heavy, almost choking atmosphere slowly oozed from the room drowning Mr. Tildon in the somber weight of sorrow, of death.
And there, in the center of the sparely furnished room was the boy himself. Propped up by numerous overstuffed pillows and wrapped in enough blankets to suffocate him. And Mr. Tildon could see from the beam of light that fell from the door left ajar, those eyes.
Brilliant blue eyes. The same eyes that had pierced through the glass of the picture frame. The eyes that had spoken so many words.
Turning around, the man attempted to search for the hostess, but saw that she was gone. Taking that as an indication of approval, Mr. Tildon began to make his way to the boy. Immediately, the small figure pressed against the wall of the tiny bedroom like a scared animal, his breathing heavy and marked with panic."
"Hello Aaron, my name is Isaac Tildon." No change in the reaction. Mr. Tildon continued. "You do not know me, but it is best if you don't. All you need to know is that I am here to help you."
Aaron's eyes flickered to the light of the open door, then up at the strange intruder's face.
Taking another step, Mr. Tildon advanced. "Do you understand why I am here?"
Still pressed tightly against the wall, Aaron shook his head carefully, and then dropped his terrified gaze to the stranger's hand, tracking it as it disappeared into his coat pocket and remerged with a glass vial filled with an unfamiliar substance.
"Do you know what this is?" asked the man, presenting the vial to Aaron.
Aaron simply responded by shaking his head again.
"Mana suppression hormones," the man continued. "The human body naturally produces this substance at controlled levels in order to limit the amount of mana the body makes and stores. At low levels, the substance prevents the human body from overloading on mana and eating away at the body's energy. But at high levels..." Mr. Tildon tilted the vial thoughtfully. "… It will completely suppress the magic capability of the user, making their magical energy completely undetectable." He rattled off. "There is a good chance of lowered vitality while in use and with prolonged usage —" He broke off to glance at Aaron who seemed to have forgotten how to breathe "— will completely and utterly destroy the user's capability to ever use magic."
At the last statement, Mr. Tildon had expected the boy to scream, to wail. To vocally bemoan the loss of something he had just discovered, but needed so dearly. Just like every other child Mr. Tildon had presented the exact same option to.
But instead he was met with the same steely eyes as his mother had given him when she was backed into a corner. Easing off the wall, the boy's response was firm and simple.
"And what if I refuse?"
"If you refuse," Mr. Tildon crossed his arms, "your necromantic magic will permeate into the surroundings. Soon enough your presence will be felt within a five mile radius. You will be discovered and you will be taken away from everything you know, do you understand?" Mr. Tildon drilled his glare into the boy's steely blue. "People are terrified of wizards like you. Terrified of what they have done, terrified of what they can do. More than one necromancer has tried to destroy to Spiral before. Do you really think that anyone will be willing to take a chance with you?"
There was a small choked sound. Then a shaky breath.
"And if I accept?"
His voice came out softer this time. "If you accept, only myself and your mother know that you are necromancer. That would be a secret you will keep from the world. You will be safe from the prying hands of anyone trying to steal you away. You will become a regular non-wizard human being, but you will be safe."
Mr. Tildon looked up from his lecture to find Aaron immobile, staring with blank hollow eyes, like he wanted to cry, but had run out of tears long ago.
Aaron pushed a slender hand out of the protective shell of blankets and held it outward, palm facing up. It did not tremble.
"Give it to me."