On a evening in which the sun glowed iridescent pink,
a first child was to be born to a happy loving couple.
It was supposed to be a celebration.
With jubilation the soon-to-be-father ran across the village, arms aflail and voice shouting melodically, "Come, come see! I had a dream, in which my wife birthed a magical child! A beautiful, magical child! Come! Come and see!"
In the healers' hut, his wife lay, back against a midwife's lap as she grunted and strained. Her ruby irises were squeezed tightly as she sweated thickly, screamed with the anguish of childbirth. Ebony waves clung to her sticky sweaty forehead and shoulders, her regularly beautiful complexion beaten red and flustered. "Push, push. The baby's coming, push." The midwife chanted not-so reassuringly, the ravenette woman trying to do as she was told. It was her first child, and of course it would be the hardest, but she knew it would be worth it in the end. If her husband's dreams were true, than not only would she be blessed with a pretty little boy or girl, but a magical one, too.
Meanwhile, outside the healers' hut, the small population of the little village compacted into a swarm that eagerly awaited the child's birth. Snippets of conversation and gossip fluttered from excited, weary mouths - A magical child, how exciting! No, don't believe that old coot, he's gone mad. I'm sure the baby will be born healthy and wonderful, not matter if it's a magician or not! - and the eager soon-to-be-father grinned from ear to ear.
When the child was born, they'd hold a celebration! There'd be drinking and dancing, and pleasant conversation. For a poor, uncharted village such as this, a magical baby would most certainly be something to celebrate!
Suddenly, all the chatter of the village residents ceased, and a tiny wail was heard. The child was born! Without waiting for the midwife, the father dashed inside the little hut, gushing with ecstasy and excitement.
There, in his lovely wife's arms, lay a child, small and squirming. It had a surprisingly large amount of hair for such a little thing, ebony tresses daring to reach his shoulders. The baby was, obviously, a he. Tiny eyes an even more startling ruby than the woman's bled salty tears, and a purple, plump face was scrunched up to the point where it resembled that of a prune. The mother clutched him to her breast lovingly, smiling down at him.
"A name?" The midwife asked quietly, titling her head towards the new mother.
The mother smiled sweetly, and kissed the little boy's forehead. "Judal... He's my little Judal..."
The midwife nodded, agreeing that it was, indeed, a fine name.
The father, however, stood to the side, face flushed from refraining from asking what he had been most curious about. Finally he could no longer hold it in. "Does he posses magic?"
Looks of stubborn frustration flickered on the faces of the women - How do you expect us to know that? - before, just as quickly, the flickered off, replaced by a look of shock and fear directed at the door to the healers' hut.
"He does, indeed. Already the Rukh are drawn to him like moths to the flame - such a powerful, mighty being, even at birth."
The voice was low and silky, and belonged to one of many masked men that had somehow come into the village undetected and now stood behind the panicked father who instinctively fled to his wife's side, leaning over his new son in a protective manner. There were now questions asked, no 'Who are you?' or 'How did you get in here?' or 'What do you want?' as the room went stone cold still. The air stood metallically still, until one man began to move.
The men of Al Sarmen made no haste in mercilessly slaughtering the new parents and the midwife. As they took the child roughly, he screamed and shrieked even louder than before, sending his loyal Rukh into a chaotic frenzy. Ignoring the flitting and fluttering of the melodic and disgustingly white butterflies, they took the child away from the village that they set fire to upon leaving. The child would never remember any of this, for this is the exact birthday, which no being alive can remember exactly. He would be taken to Al Sarmen, to live under the care of Gyokuen for the rest of his life.
As the left the smoking village, the previously pink sky turned bloody red.
To think, that there would've been a celebration.