The blood ran like a ruby stream down the middle of the cobblestone street. It seemed that the battles for the city had been particularly violent that day. Alone and frightened, a little boy who appeared to be starving looked out upon the grisly lane with eyes shrouded in darkness. Eyes that could only be seen in the dark, and in the darkness of the store, the yellow-hued eyes peered out to the road from beneath a plain, black silk cloth mask through the grimy windowpane belonging to the closed tailor shop. The boy, whose name was simply and enigmatically "Erik", had been abandoned by his mother long ago on the doorsteps of the owners of the simple shop. They didn't question his strange appearance or listen to their misgivings as they were never granted the gift if a child of their own.
They had taught him as best they could on how to survive, knowing that the long, ongoing war would someday reach their city, but it almost made no difference, all because no mater what they hoped, the war reached the city when he was still very young. When news of the conquering hordes of the enemy reached the large, fortified city, many evacuated the city for the country. Those people were mostly compromised of women, children, the elderly, and the very nobility that ran the city. Some of the nobles elected to stay, but there were, as there always is, more than a few cowards, from all classes, not just the aristocracy, while most men stayed with the city's defenses out of their own personal sense of duty to their beloved city and land. Little Erik did not want to go; he was afraid of the new settings and the possible ridicule he could have faced for his very face. So, when his adoptive mother left, he hid, and when the man he called father left for the battlefront and never came back, he took to scrounging the off-limits cupboards. It had only been three days, and every day there were battles—battles that were never won.
A warrior of the enemy came riding down the brick and stone alley, hooves clopping against the cobblestones, occasionally splashing through a random puddle or the gleaming crimson stream. Razor sharp, night-trained eyes spotted a gleam in the grimy windows. He reigned in his steed, bringing the canter to a sudden halt.
"What is that?" Whispered the young soldier from the region called Dar, an enemy of the city. "Who or what could have eyes like the Darke, of whom I serve with utmost loyalty? I have not heard of any Darke residing around these parts before or recently. Perhaps it is the missing high prince for whom we have been fighting and searching for, in whose name and for whose sake one of the main reasons this war was started in the first place? Could it truly be him?"
Dismounting from his dappled gray warhorse, he lands with just a slight tap on the stones, the sound made by his heeled, black leather boots that are polished to a mirror finish and unsullied by mud or grime. His steps broke the eerie silence of the alley, making the ubiquitous rats scurry to their burrows once again. The gray horse let out a soft neigh and nodded his head slightly. The aging gelding, that despite its many years of service was still full of strength and vitality, has seen many strange things since he was chosen for service to the ruling Darke and the military. Many of those years had been spent in search of the missing prince, the firstborn of the royal family—who themselves are of the aristocracy, a branch of the Darke that tend to be born ugly and grow beautiful as they mature more often than the common Darke. That is, they usually do, for every now and then, but very uncommonly, there is one that never outgrows that stage of ugliness that most Darke go through.
Inside the shop, the little Darke, for that was what he really was—not a human as he was always thought to be, let out a small gasp as he observed the strangely dressed, armored, and decorated man swung off the mighty horse and started towards the door to the dusty store. Scared, he started backing away from the window towards the back room with its multitude of wonderful hiding spaces. He hurried even faster as the footfalls neared, and finally broke into a full run when the door handle started to twitch. My god, the Darke child named Erik thought to himself nervously as tears started to form in his hidden eyes. Did I remember to lock the door the last time I went out?
Meanwhile, the trained horseman had reached the oak door. Let's see if the portal is locked, the dark figure mused. He reached towards the simple brass instrument and grabbed the handle. Surprisingly, he found it unlocked and unbarred. Stepping inside, he surveyed the interior front room, the place that was, before the war had driven most people away, had been the actual showroom and where money was exchanged for the services and goods provided. There was very little of anything that could possibly interest the foreign fighter. On the available counters were piles of cloth of all colors and patterns, and hanging on racks were cloaks, dresses, suits, and other clothing, all covered with a thin layer of graying dust. Not much dust, true, but just enough to have dulled the bright cloth and fashions.
Little Erik was absolutely terrified. He remembered nothing of his birth mother, and only a faint image of the woman who abandoned him on those doorsteps where he was found by the older couple. He didn't even know of his origins, his country of origin, his species—for he did not look human, his lineage, of his surname. All he knew was that, somehow, he aged much more slowly that other children around him. This was the secret to the Darke and their power. They had more time before maturity to learn of the nature of the world and other such knowledge that humanity cannot concern itself to learn with their short life spans and learning spans. Once grown, they are invulnerable to disease or serious injury. They are then, for the most part, immortal. The boot steps echo hollowly against the wooden floorboards and the empty walls. And, against all odds, the dark warrior found the quaking and crying child.
"What's beneath the mask?" He asked in his sweetest voice.
The child's eyes swept back and forth in search of an escape route and found none. Finally, in a tiny, unsure voice, he pleaded, "Nothing but my face, sir. Please don't kill me!"
"How old are you, might I ask," the dark robed man inquired.
"I… I am not sure, sir," Erik replied hesitantly. "Around twelve to fourteen. I know I look only like and eight year old or even younger. I've always been smaller and looked younger than that of my peers, though the doctors all used to say—before they left—that I am not done growing…"
"Ah, it is true! A real Darke!" Exclaimed the menacing figure.
"Aren't they the enemy?" Little Erik asked with the innocence of a sequestered child.
"They are your sires, my child," he reminds the young Darke. "Lift your shirt up, little one."
"Why?"
"I want to make sure of something."
Obediently, little Erik did so, and there, before his very eyes, was the symbol, invisible to most mortal eyes and then only to those few mortals gifted with the talent to see faxi, or the magical alphabet of the Darke. Not a tattoo, per se, but a kind of identification mark, mainly used by the nobility in case of situations such as what had happened over fifteen years ago. The warrior, realizing that this was indeed the high prince, fell to his knees and reverently bowed his head.
"My liege," he declared. Erik was thoroughly puzzled. "Would you come home to your true home with me?"
Erik simply nodded.