His back hit the floor with a sickening crunch, but he could feel no pain. Facing up to the sky, all he could focus on were the stars that flickered and danced above him, steadily fading as his body grew unresponsive. Head topped with tar-black hair, a pale, sorrowful face swam in front of Zancrow as he felt his eyes slowly close of their own accord. He wasn't ready to die… This was too early, much, much before his time. He would never be able to talk to Meredy again… To apologise for the things that he had said… Instantly regretting what he had told her, he realised that he could never take it back. Anyone else he really couldn't care about… but…he regretted hurting her with everything that he had. Eyes shut now, his body numb and frigid, his last breath rattled out from between his cold lips, knowing that death would soon claim him as his own. He wondered what Hell would be like. Zancrow was too weak to manage a bitter smile now, and as he reluctantly slipped into the black, he heard that Goddamn demon's voice whisper: 'Forgive me… man whose name I did not know'.
Black wasn't so bad. Zancrow had no idea how long he had been there, or if he was really there at all. Really, he wasn't sure if he was alive or not; certainly he had no body. He was just sort of… existing. He didn't have eyes but he could see all. He didn't have ears but he could hear all. It was sort of peaceful. Zancrow had no idea who he was, where he was, or what he was. There were no memories at all, and anyway, having no memories wasn't a problem in any way.
Becoming oddly curious at this point, he decided to look around himself, forgetting that his body was absent. But yet somehow, he could feel eyes flickering under eyelids. That was strange. Five minutes he could have sworn he could not see or touch… Hang on. Five minutes ago. Time. He could feel time passing. That was different. He sighed, forgetting again that he seemed to have no body, yet he felt air whistle through lungs, the incredibly relief of oxygen rushing into a body. Shocked, he felt himself gasping and choking as his lungs seemed to be making up for lost time. Wait, what? He definitely had lungs now, and eyes, and a mouth, and fingertips that started to twitch now as he fought for the sweet relief of cold air that pierced his insides. More and more sensations bombarded Zancrow as he writhed, trying to escape those who fiercely tried to disturb his peace. The feeling of grass and mud under his fingernails that scraped the dirt, the sound of the birds singing, but to him, sounded like screaming on his eardrums, the cold, hard ground beneath his back, the warmth of the sun on his face, the metallic taste of the winter air, the feel of grass, rustling of trees, smell of earth, sound, smell, touch, taste… Zancrow's eyes snapped open as he could not stand the attack any more. The harsh winter sunlight stung his eyes, and he squinted as he tried to make out the world around him.
It suddenly struck him how green everything was. He attempted to sit up, but his body felt like lead. Lying down on his back, he took in as much as he could, hoping it would jumpstart his memory. For you see, he had forgotten everything about himself – he had no memories that he could instantly recall, no faces that he could remember straight away. He couldn't even remember his own name, let alone anyone else's.
After a moment of resting, he felt pretty strong, and able to explore his situation a little. He pulled his stiff body up, wincing a little. Had he been in a fight or something? He looked down at himself, at the ragged clothes, and decided that this must be the case. Perhaps some idiot had knocked him out in a duel and just left him here. To rot. Lovely. On an island though? An odd choice for a battlefield… At this point, he had merely assumed that he had temporary amnesia, and was not concerned, confident his memories would return with time. Zancrow wondered if he could talk. Worth a shot. His tongue curled slightly awkwardly around the words, but he managed to force out a good curse. Grinning at his success, he angrily let out a good string of curses that anyone would be proud of. His grin stretched wider, and he looked down, pinched, pulled out and examined his tatty clothing. 'Must have been a nasty fight, huh?' He questioned to nobody in particular. His smile grew malevolent at the thought – he could remember, at least, that he had always loved a good brawl. Catching sight of the black, heart-shaped mark on the right-hand side of his chest, he frowned. He could never remember getting a tattoo. Then again, he couldn't remember anything, so he wasn't one to talk. Suddenly, he felt a sharp shock inside of himself, and memories poured into his mind, barely a pause between them.
He saw a tall man looming above him, saying words that Zancrow could not hear, and a face he could not see. Feeling small, he wondered whether this was a childhood memory. Looking around, he could see other people in the memory, and his mind focused intently on each one briefly. They were all definitely older than he was in the memory – they all towered above him… Except one. The memory concentrated on them the hardest, ignoring the tall man, but, he thought it was a girl; her face remained tantalisingly a mystery. For the life of him, Zancrow could not work out who this little one was. Without any kind of warning, the thought flickered and died, and a new one promptly started.
The air to this one was different, more macabre, and the tall man once again leered over him. He, however, felt taller and stronger this time, and certainly more confident. The man offered him a goblet, presumably with liquid inside. Hand oddly shaking, he reached out and grasped the smooth metal in his hot hand and his mind seemed to dwell on the fact that it was so unnaturally, morbidly cold. He raised it to his lips without question, and drank it in a few gulps. It was foul, thick and 'wrong-tasting', but he daren't show his weakness to the man. ('Who the hell is this guy anyway?' Zancrow thought impatiently) This memory too, faded away, and Zancrow was left standing, confused, and more than a little concerned, staring at the mark on his chest. All that he remembered of the man was these small memories, and the fact he felt deep respect for him, and yet terrible hatred at the same time. That was certainly and odd mix of emotions, and as Zancrow's stomach growled, he wondered what on Earthland had been in that cup, and why he couldn't remember. He knew that he could use magic; that he was a wizard living in Fiore, but beyond that, he really knew very little. Other people were really a mystery, and worse than that, he himself was a mystery.
Zancrow was really starting to get painful hunger pangs now, and he knew he had to eat now or suffer the consequences. The hunger grew steadily worse as he was searching hopelessly for food and he was dully aware of how dry his mouth was. His lips felt cracked, sore and dry, tongue lolling around in his mouth like an old piece of sandpaper, scratching uncomfortably against his parched mouth. He must have been lying there for days – the fight had obviously been fierce, and he had amnesia or something freaky like that. He was a little worried about his situation, but not overly concerned. After all, how bad could it be? He knew how to use magic, that's all he needed to survive, really. Oh thank God. There was clear stream up ahead. Zancrow pulled his aching, tired, semi-dead-already body up towards the source of water, stooped down, and scooped relief into his mouth. He didn't care that he was scooping so fast and messily that he was dripping water all down his front, he only cared about the fact that he was so damn thirsty, and the water was cool and fresh, quenching that desire.
Rocking backwards and sitting heavily down when he was finished, he wiped his mouth with an over-exaggerated motion and glanced into the river absent-mindedly. A slim face with sharp teeth and vermillion eyes that seemed to pierce right through him stared back. Zancrow sat stunned, then brought his face closer to the water to get a better look. 'What the hell?' he whispered softly, as he could not believe the sight in front of him. 'That's… me?' He drew even closer to the smooth surface, smiling widely, emphasising his sharp canines. 'Well I'm a handsome devil, I'll give myself that,' he boasted. Zancrow was not the type to ever take something truly seriously, and this situation was no exception. Letting out a horrible laugh that sounded more cruel than any real expression of mirth, he dipped a long, pale finger into the clear pool, causing it to ripple and distort the image that was his face. Something, most likely the horrible voice of reason that lurked in the back of his mind, told him that he certainly wasn't 'normal'. After all, 'normal' humans didn't have sharp fangs, and they certainly did not have bright red eyes with rings in them. Zancrow then began to ponder about whether he was actually human all, and in the state he was in at the moment, he really could not work it out at all. He felt his anger and frustration spike, and as it reached a crescendo, he struck out with his fist at the first thing he could reach. This happened to be a tree, an old gnarled thing with small sprigs of new growth erupted all over its pock-marked and rough surface. When times got tough, all he could do was lash out, and as he let his fist crush into the ancient trunk, scorch marks circling the site of impact, he knew that he was just being stupid. Hitting out like this would solve nothing. He would have to approach this differently, without letting his temper get the better of him. If only he knew how much he had changed! Before all of this, he would have struck out in temper without sparing a single thought for the consequences of his actions. Maiming and injuring others was easily excusable, and burning people's belongings, world, and livelihoods away was completely acceptable in the eyes of Zancrow the God Slayer. He would even enjoy the chaos, standing in the centre of it all like a demon of fire, a god of destruction, screaming his evil laughter to the sky whilst the pathetic mortals scrambled around him, trying desperately to get away. Perhaps this experience had changed his attitude… just a little. Of course he knew none of this; he was still a mystery to even himself. Breathing deeply, massaging the fist that had slammed into the tree, the god of destruction sighed heavily.
Casting his gaze around the forest to distract himself, a flower caught his eye. He wasn't sure what about it grabbed and held his attention so fiercely (And he was not exactly the sensitive kind to notice how pretty a flower was), but there must have been something about the rosy pink blush of the petals, something in the contours of it on the whole – It had an aggressive, spiky aura, reminding Zancrow a little of himself, but enraged him beyond belief. An image of a face brushed at the corners of his memory, so clear, distinct… yet somehow clouded… Try as he might, Zancrow could not fully make out the facial features, but he could remember the hair. A cherry-blossom-pink shock of it that seemed to annoy him every time the image jumped in front of his eyes. But no name leapt into his mind, no spark of recognition, not sudden burst of understanding. However, it was obvious to Zancrow that he loathed this human beyond belief. Awful, terrible, blinding, white-hot hatred coursed through his veins, and he hoped with every fibre of his being that he would meet Pinky again. He wanted to beat him down. With everything that he had. He could not work out why he wanted this so much – It just seemed like the right thing to do, the emotion strong enough to contradict his earlier thoughts of peace. There must be a reason why, and the rage he felt clouded his sense of reasoning. This person, this mage (he had now realised), would fall by his hand. Zancrow swore that he would. He had to get his revenge… Revenge… Yes… That was it… Ugh… His hands clenched his temples as he desperately tried to remember, memories flickering around his mind, just out of reach… He wanted revenge. Not for himself, but for who? A word echoed in his head, deafeningly loud, making him sway with dizziness. 'Master'. He wanted vengeance for his 'master'. Master of what? ...Pinky… threatened to… take down his… Master? Was that it?
Confusion was the only answer that he seemed to arrive at time and time again, at every turn there was a dead end. But the conclusion he had half-toyed with, seemed to be the right one. At any rate, it made sense. If someone had threatened one he felt, well, loyalty to (He shuddered involuntarily at the thought, imagining himself as a puppy, forever at the heel of its master), he would most likely feel a certain degree of rage towards them. And he had been in a fight… Wait! He hadn't lost had he? To Pinky? Not a chance. But it made sense, unfortunately. That's why his clothes were tatty, and why he was confused (He didn't have a sore head though, but he must have had a hefty blow to that area at some point, that made sense). And now, he wanted… revenge? Did Pinky badmouth his master? That would be a sensible course of events.
This 'Pinky' guy and himself were about to fight, or were fighting.
Pinky badmouthed his master.
He did not take this lightly and swore revenge if he hurt his master.
He lost (Shudder).
He woke up, without the majority of his memories, in his current situation.
Satisfied with his reasoning, a smug smile crept over Zancrow's thin face, and his glee was sharply and rudely interrupted by the howling groans that his stomach was making. Grimly, he placed a hand on his warm belly and felt it snarling underneath his touch. The water had quenched his thirst, but done little to fill his stomach with some actual sustenance. He knew how his magic worked, how to fight with it, how to use it, and in order for Zancrow to recover a lot of magical energy, and to feel full, he would have to consume some fire. But finding it was the problem. Where did you find fire in the middle of a remote island? Looking up through the dense tree crowns, Zancrow could see that dusk was fast approaching now, though it was almost impossible to detect in the dank foliage of the island. As the forest truly started to become grasped in the inky claws of the night, faintly and occasionally punctuated with the odd glimmer of a faraway star, Zancrow had finally located a source of food. He'd learnt a long time ago that if he used the remaining dregs of his magic power to raise his own body temperature through the roof, things that he touched would burst into flame, and he would be able to consume the fire to replenish his own magic. Thankfully, he had retained that knowledge – He still remembered everything about his own magic perfectly. He had managed, also, to luck into finding some fruit he believed was edible. It looked okay… Shrugging, he took a huge bite, expecting his mouth to fill with all sorts of repulsive tastes and textures. Surprisingly enough, the fruit was sweet and juicy, making Zancrow's stomach moan loudly. 'Oh, shut up,' he mumbled, only half to himself as he hastily tucked into the rest of the oddly wonderful fruit.
Refraining from eating the flames he had made straightaway, he had decided to leave them to hopefully spread a little further, and to make some more food to consume. Also, he liked his food roasted. Really roasted. As in, 'burnt to cinders' roasted. Grasping the core of the what-looked-to-be-a-sort-of-apple, Zancrow firmly thrust his hand into the fire that was steadily creeping along the tree that he had decided to burn. The apple almost burnt away to nothing right away – the fire was suffocatingly hot – but Zancrow merely stayed still, not recoiling or flinching at the extreme heat, not finding that his fingers were turning black, charred by the fire that licked at his palm. No, he was very comfortable and content letting the fire snake up his arm that was still in the heart of the greedy beast that was the flame, swallowing anything in its path.
The tree smouldered gently as the flames consumed it rapidly; the crown was flickering with an eerie warm glow, scaring any creatures or spirits away with its terrible power. But the Flame God refused to be eaten by the monstrosity. No matter how much the orange flickered at his wrist, his arm, his shoulder, his face; the God of Fire would only smile at the warmth tickling his body. When the beast tried to burn his flesh, he only revelled in the heat the monster had granted him. The beast would be tamed, and the Flame God its master. The God plunged both hands into the beast now, and the tendrils of red curled around his arms in an almost friendly way. The fire was a slave to the Fire God, and would do his bidding. With an odd sound, an inhuman, unearthly sound like a firestorm sweeping over a hapless forest, the Flame God drew in the fire, and the beast went willingly, eager to serve his master. Full now, his deed done, Zancrow patted his stomach in a satisfied manner. He felt triumphant in the fact that he had actually managed to feed himself successfully, and not raze the whole island to the ground in the process.
Despite all of the fire he had consumed, he knew that his magic levels were still very low. He needed somewhere safe to sleep, and as quickly as possible, so he could recover as much energy as he could. Zancrow glanced behind him at the path of destruction he had left in his wake. Two trees were completely burnt, and the crisp grass was no longer crisp nor green, more an ugly shade of torched black… Perhaps he should get as far away from here as possible. The island might be remote, but someone was bound to find this at some point, and he wanted to be long gone by then. He looked up. The stars were bright tonight. Quite nice really. Pretty. 'A shooting star', he said with a touch of irony to his voice, 'Would be really cliché right now. After a couple more seconds staring at the heavens, Zancrow decided that he really needed to get some sleep. He had found a good, strong, sturdy tree to support his weight in minutes, and this one was an evergreen, so it would keep him hidden (He knew he was quite memorable, so it would make sense to keep a low profile. Also, the thought of someone finding him whilst he slept was not a pleasant one).
As he curled up slightly in the heights of the pine, he wondered what he would do next. Get off the island and find Pinky sounded sort of sensible, but he wasn't really sure. Turning over, and turning over his thoughts, he speculated, for about the hundredth time today, who he was. Was he 'good' or 'bad'? Did he have a family, or friends he couldn't even remember? Maybe he was a loner. Probably not, he hated being lonely (Though he would never admit to that), and he quite liked being around others (Again, not that he'd admit to it). His thoughts turned to dreams as his eyelids drooped, his arms went slack and hung at his sides, and he slipped into the world of sleep he craved so much.
I really hoped that you enjoyed reading my first chapter of my first fan fiction! I've always had my suspicions about Zancrow, and I thought that maybe I should write something about that. I've got a few more ideas that I'd like to put in, so more chapters on the way. Thank you very much for reading!