I told them I was mad.
They told me madness ends where murder begins.
I am the son of a dollmaker and a schizophrenic. And, while my father kept his wits, he left my life before a memory could form. While my mother was insane, she could hold it together enough through drugs and drinking to raise me in the cutthroat streets of Zaun. She would often tell me of my father, who considered himself quite the artist. His shop was filled with porcelain and wood. Fragile and innocent. My mother would show me pictures of him-a picture. It was the same one every time. That picture forms in my memory right now. I have the same long nose and thin lips as my father. I am a dollmaker like my father. And I will be executed on this cold winter day. Like my father.
Around me, at each of my four corners, guards walk briskly through the yellow fog that covers the streets. I do not know where we are. I only know that it is somewhere on the outskirts of the city, and that the Council of Zaun will have me executed by something called The Harbinger. There are few people who live in this part of the city, but the ones I see wear rags only to cover what is necessary. They eye us as we walk, but their curiosity only reaches as far as their necks turn.
I turn to the guard behind me. He, along with the other three, is wearing a long, frayed cloak that seems to be the same shade as vomit. A hood covers his head, and it comes together in a light tip in the back that bends like a witch's hat. His face is covered in a metal mask, apparently to protect him from any fumes that are left lingering in the chamber they bring me to. In his hands is a thin rifle, which seems to glow a pale blue wherever an opening is present. I smile at him, making sure to show my teeth.
"Hextech seems a bit much for a dollmaker," I say.
He only acknowledges my comment with a slight turn of his head, but he quickly goes back to his steady march. I let out an exaggerated breath. I do not know why they want to kill me. The Council of Zaun has told me that my creations are a monstrosity. That I'm going out of the realm of science. They told me making dolls should not cost the lives of nine women. They told me dolls are made of porcelain. Dolls are made of wood. They do not understand art.
Two days ago, four officers of Zaun found me in my shop on the east corner of the city. I only knew they were officers by their word, as I remember each of them wore different uniforms from different eras, as if the law found its hand at the bottom of a barrel. I screamed, although I do not recall for what.. They pulled my hands out of her stomach. I do not remember if she was alive or dead, but they left her body untouched. They covered my hands in thick, bronze restraints, which trapped my fingers in small cages, as if each one deserved a prison. Blood was still thick on my hands, and the webbing between my fingers slipped uncomfortably, skin gliding on skin. I'm mad, I said. This is my art. They did not agree. They said madness does not permit murder.
Today I have a different escort, though. My escort stops and I am now in front of a large door somewhere in the far corner of Zaun. Zaun is a strange city, indeed, and it only attracts the strangest of minds. But ours is a town of progress, and, whatever path that progress has in store, there is always a price to be paid. Zaun is a town of debt. I am now paying mine.
The doors are etched with runes of some kind, and, although I cannot read them, they speak to me. The symbols seemed to slip off of the stone and carve themselves slowly into the base of my skull, right where my spine connects. My back straightens instinctively, although I am not uncomfortable. Instead, the sensation soothes, and I only remember that I am preparing to die because of the restraints on my hands and the men at my corners. We stand there as the runes begin to etch. Doom, it says. Doom. Doom. Doom. Doom. Doom.
The guards begin to shift their feet. I stay still. One guard makes a signal I do not understand, but another receives it and approaches the door. They open the vault, and it rumbles for only a few seconds until a small slit-enough for a single man to squeeze through-is revealed. The guards look to each other, and one begins to unlock my shackles. They fall to the floor, free at last, and I rub the flakes of dried blood off of my hands. They float to the floor like the petals of a flower, and look up to see the guards have taken their step behind me. One nudges me harshly with the butt of his rifle, but he does not need to. Curiosity ravishes my heart.
Istvaan.
I hear the name like a whisper right below my right ear, and it feels as if ice is sliding down my spine. My smile grows, although I feel cold sweat begin to bead on my forehead. I have heard this name before. I have heard it in passing. I have heard of great madness in the magic he sought. I have heard of unspeakable power, and also of unspeakable fear. Those two seem to introduce themselves as a pair.
I take a step forward, my heart beating a deep rhythm against my eardrums. It is a relief to not hear the chains rattle with each step, and, while I am aware I am not free, I feel it. I am free to explore, if only forward. I am free to itch the question at the base of my neck. I am free to die at my own pace. I make it to the door, and I press my chest through to the inner chamber. As soon as my hand makes it past the crack, the door rumbles shut. I am alone.
Except for the eyes.
They are far away now. I can see them, two emeralds that seem so distant. I can not tell the size of this chamber, but my steps send a hollow echo as my crude sandals clap against the stone floor. As my eyes adjust, dim lights paint the room jade. Underneath my steps is a path. The eyes are at the end. The voice returns.
Are you afraid?
It is mocking, but I only smile. My jaw is rapid, however, and I tighten my lips to keep my teeth from rattling. I make my way forward, and my legs wobble with each step. This place fascinates me. Flickering in the green light, I can see the etchings of madmen from years past. I make my way to the wall, squinting in the low light to try and read the markings. My right hand reaches to touch it, and I feel the sharp edge of the stone and the crude pattern cut on it. Doom.
Istvaan?
My head whips to the glowing eyes. It is a question this time, and I don't know the answer. I do not know my identity. I do not think I've ever had one. Since the funding of my work ended, and since I took things into my own hands, I have felt like an empty vessel. A clay pot, cracking along the surface. Only my offspring could keep me glued. Nine women failed to carry my work. My future. I am broken.
A subtle wisp of green forms below the jade eyes like a breath. It is translucent, and it stretches its way through the air like a worm. To me, it is the lure of an anglerfish. I cannot resist it, and so I begin to step back on the path. I can see an outline now. A tall, scrawny figure with long, stick-like arms and an oval head is standing behind those jade eyes. The torso of the figure is covered by a crude, loose cloth that is torn and frayed along the bottom. Its hands are large. One is open, revealing five long claws. The other is closed tightly around a scythe.
The wisp is closer now, and I continue to step towards it. It stops, just inches away from my lips, and I begin to salivate. I do not know why, as the rest of my senses seem numb. Taste and touch dominate me, and I lean forward. I am delicate. I do not want to hurt it. I only want a taste. My lips touch the wisp, and I feel it crawl through my mouth, filling my nostrils, throat, and ears. It throbs, but not outwards, like a heart. The sensation throbs inward, and I begin to feel my heartbeat slow. I collapse to my knees, folding backwards in my own weakness. My muscles feel like they are tensing up but cannot hold my weight. The only thing keeping my head upright is the green wisp, which attaches me to the scrawny figure like a string. A blinding, orange light flashes, and I close my eyes. Somewhere in the distance, I hear the cawing of a crow.
I am the Harbinger. Are you afraid?
I open my eyes. I am now in a field of grain, and, ten or so meters in front of me, a path is cleared to the silhouette of the thin figure. Behind the figure is a blazing orange sun, which seems close enough to reach out and touch.. It fills the tender, pink sky with its heat, and it licks it with flickering flames off of its surface, splashing waves of heat across my face. I have never seen a sky so clear to me in my life. I am not in Zaun. I do not know where I am. I do not know when I am. My eyes are parched, but I cannot blink. I can feel tears begin to stream down my face, and, when I try to look away, the green wisp, still seeping into my mouth, jerks my head to face forward.
"Father?"
It is the voice of a child, and it comes from somewhere in the thick crops. My head bends slightly, and my eyes wander to find the source. I study the crops more closely only to realize they are thin skeletons that seem to be hanging by invisible strings like marionettes. They rock gently with the force of the pulsating heat, and the noise their bones make as they clack together reminds me of wind chimes. I study them vertically, starting at their dangling feet, and, when I reach the top, I notice none of them have a skull. They are headless, already reaped for the harvest.
I hear the rattling of bones as a small boy breaks the wall of crops and enters the clearing. When he sees me, he stops and tilts his head, letting the tight, blonde curls rustle with the motion. His skin is a porcelain white, even in the rich shade of orange that paints my surroundings, and his eyes are a deep ocean blue. I recognize this little boy. It is my doll. It is my child. I smile.
"Can you protect me from Fiddlesticks, Father?"
He approaches me, and I can feel my throat clench in an unwelcomed sob, but, as the wisp chokes me, my sob turns into a cough. I try to raise my dangling arm to meet my child, but I am too weak now to lift my own weight, and I only accomplish sliding it across the ground. I realize now that the floor below me is wet, thick, and warm. The familiar texture of blood slides through my fingers as I drag them back and forth. The boy stops with a splash, his gaze fixed behind me. His head follows as a single crow lands between him and me. Another crow lands on the skeleton next to him. And another lands on my shoulder.
My eyes meet the sideways glance of the crow, and I can see its retinas tighten. The joy of seeing my child begins to twist into bile, but it only sits and burns the back of my throat, unable to move past the foreign wisp that invades my body. There are crows all around us now, some picking at the bones for scraps, and others ruffling their own feathers. I can see fear in my child's eyes, and I want to help, but, as I try to wave the crows away, I am overcome with exhaustion. I cannot help him, and I see this realized in my son's expression. In a moment of panic, my child tries to flee, but, almost as if on cue, the crows swarm him. I can only watch in horror as the murder of crows envelope him and pieces of flesh fly in the flurry. Only seconds pass before the crows scatter. What was once a child is now a huddled skeleton. He is dead.
In my peripherals, the figure moves.
Its movements are erratic, as if my vision cannot perceive its true motion. It's stick-like legs send splashes of blood as it moves from the center of the clearing towards me, and, as it comes closer, the green wisp connecting us grows thicker and more opaque. I can feel my skin begin to sag around my arms, and my cheeks begin to hollow as my face stretches down. The figure is only a few feet away from me, and I can see the details of its face. Its arms and legs are wood, like the dolls of my late father, and its head is covered in linen. The cloth around its mouth begins to tear, ripping into my ears as it opens fully.
"You're not Istvaan," it says. I feel cool liquid begin to drain down my ears.
It grips the scythe with both hands. I watch it raise its tool into the air, and the sun licks the surface of the blade in a brief glimpse of beauty. I smile at the sight. It is all I feel I can do. My children are dead. My work will never be finished. But I will smile at the end. I hear the flapping of wings, and a crow lands on my shoulder. Both the crow and I are looking at the scythe, which seems so far away, so high in the sky. The figure opens its mouth one last time, twisting it into a malevolent grin.
"Are you afraid?"
"Yes," I choke out through a smile. "I am very afraid."