The Saga of the Seven Espers: Prologue
Description: Every story has a beginning. It began with a war. It began with a spell. It began with a birth, with a death, with a dream, with a nightmare. Every story has a beginning. This is how this story began.
Disclaimer: All characters are the property of Square-Enix and/or Disney.
A/N: Merry Christmas! I hope everyone enjoys my present for this year. Please do not make fun of my poetry (it's supposed to be a sub-standard, child-like poem) and please read the notes at the end of the last chapter for more information regarding this story.
I suppose I should put in some warnings: mild gore and character death. There you go. Have fun figuring out just what the heck is going on. :)
The Sorcerer
From the writings of King Ansem the Wise, 693 M.T.:
Ancient legend beyond reck'ning
Lost before man's history starts
Knowledge, power, treasures beck'ning
Hidden in the land of hearts
One whose pain and sorrows linger
Questions burning, fiery coals
Let him seek to lay his finger
First upon these seven souls
xXx
1722 M.T.
He woke with a start into absolute darkness. The room pressed in thick around him as he lay in bed, wondering what time it was and what had disturbed his sleep. Questioningly, he turned his head back and forth, looking for answers. The blackness on all sides gave him none. The small fire in his grate had long since burned out, and beyond the drawn curtains of his windows, the moon and stars had disappeared behind a wall of threatening clouds. He sat up in bed and scratched lightly at his head, fingers getting tangled in the knotted strands of his short hair. Then, all at once, his mind, fuzzy with sleep, cleared and the knowledge invaded where previously there had been nothing but ignorance.
The Master was awake and at work.
Suddenly on edge, he gripped the blankets with his large hands and searched the surrounding darkness with wild eyes. He could feel it in the air, that particular tang of magic that set his teeth on edge and made them itch. Before coming to work for a sorcerer, he would have firmly claimed that teeth could not feel such a sensation, but that was just one of the many truths in his life that had changed upon taking this job. Another was that darkness could have weight. As he sat there, listening to his own shallow breathing and feeling his heart thump fearfully against his chest, he could feel the darkness resting heavily on his skin. It almost seemed to be a living thing, moving and shifting, like the heavy breaths of some hidden beast.
Fighting down a rising wave of terror, he reached out to his bedside table and blindly groped about for the candle that he had placed there before retiring earlier that evening. The moment his fingers brushed the cool metal of the holder, he snatched for it, bringing it comfortingly to his chest before sending out his hand for its second search. This time, his fingers found the object of their quest quickly: a small warm stone with a surface so smooth and perfect that it felt like expensive glass. The stone joined the candle in his protective embrace, and a moment later, a small burst of flame appeared in the darkness and took hold of the candle's wick.
Releasing a sigh of relief, he allowed the hand holding the stone to fall limply to his lap and gazed gratefully into the candle's welcome light. The tiny circle of illumination did little to pierce the living darkness, but its feeble shine eased the fear in his heart tremendously. As he took a moment to steady his breathing, he glanced at the small stone in his other hand. Its surface glinted red, reflecting the candle's flame and adding color of its own. In the hands of someone more talented than he, this Fire Materia would undoubtedly be powerful enough to burn a house or torch a small army. All he could do with it was make enough fire to light a candle. Still, he was extremely grateful that his Master had entrusted him with such a thing. Materia were more plentiful than Magicite, but even so the stones were only the stuff of legends to the common folk.
With his heart and breath returning to their normal rhythms, he slowly began to feel the pull of duty upon him. The Master was awake, and as the man's loyal manservant, it fell to him to make sure that the Master had all that he needed at all times. Usually on nights like these, he would make the trek to the Master's study only to be snapped at and sent back to bed, yet he still felt the obligation to check. Sighing tiredly, he placed both candle and stone back on the table and then pushed aside his thick blankets to swing his feet over the edge and onto the cold stone floor. He didn't bother to relight the fire and instead set about pulling on his discarded trousers and a pair of boots. In previous years, he wouldn't have bothered dressing, but now there was another servant in the house, a female, and it wouldn't do to be seen wandering around in his nightshirt anymore.
Once he had finished his preparations, he retrieved the candle from the table, walked across his small bedroom, and pushed open the heavy door to enter the hallway. The darkness moved freely through here as well. While some sorcerers liked to use a small bit of their magic to keep their homes partially lit at night, the Master scorned such practice as a waste of his energy. Thus, his candle's small halo was once again the only guide he had as he traversed the narrow corridors from the servants' quarters to the main part of the manor. Thankfully his feet knew the way well, and they moved forward with only minor hesitation.
By the time he reached the door of the Master's study, he was sweating, not from exertion but from the press of magic that had thickened into an almost impenetrable wall. He could almost see it lingering in the air. There was a shimmer and a crackle to it that made his teeth and fingernails tingle and all the hairs on his body stand on end. His initial fear that had been eased by the candle's glow had returned, and as he stood gazing at the closed door, he could feel it coiling and squirming in his gut. It was the Lord's magic the man was using this evening. He knew because while the Lady's magic brought with it a kind of peace, the Lord's always brought nameless terror. Many years ago, on the first night he had felt it, he had turned tail and fled back to his room to cower beneath the sheets. Now, however, he was used to it, and so he stood there steadily, determined to fulfill his duties.
Carefully, he placed his ear against the wood and listened for any sound that would indicate that the Master was in the middle of spell. Hearing nothing, he pulled back and took a moment to simply breathe. If the Master was not yet chanting, this magic that danced around him must have only been for the preparations. The thought made him shiver. Never in all the years that he had worked for the man had he felt magic so strong, and it was only about to become stronger. A sense of urgency surged up within him; he needed to get back to his own room and the safety of his bed before this spell came to life.
Swallowing his hesitation, he lifted his hand to the door and rapped softly against the wood with his knuckles. When no one answered him immediately, he pressed his cheek against the door and called through the crack.
"Master? It's Peter. Do you need anything?" He paused briefly for a response and, when none came, tried, "Tea, perhaps? Something to warm you, Master?"
Finally, a sound filtered through the crack to his ears, the noise of something shuffling. A moment later, the deep voice of his Master voice spoke to him. "No, Peter, I am fine. Please leave me in peace."
His breath, unconsciously held in his lungs as he waited, released in a short rush. Gratefully, he turned away from the door and quickly walked down the hall back in the direction of his room. He had done his duty as his blood pressed him to do. Now, all he wanted was to return to his bed and hide beneath his blankets until the living darkness dispersed before the insistent rays of the morning sun. Whatever devilry the Master was planning this evening was none of his business. It was not his place to question, only to serve.
Throughout his walk back to his room, only his own candle provided any relief to the all-encompassing darkness, but as he turned the final corner and entered the servants' quarters, a second halo of light greeted him from a few feet away. The face that hovered within this halo turned to regard him, tired and wary.
"Clarabell," he said, surprised. "Why are you out of bed?"
"For the same reason as you, I expect," the woman returned. She frowned heavily and looked about as if searching for something. "What is this foul taste to the air? I do not like it."
"It's the Master," he answered, stepping closer so that they could share their light with each other. "He's working tonight."
Clarabell seemed horrified by the thought. "Working?" she asked. "The Master works at this hour of the night?"
"Yes," he answered easily. "This is when he prefers to work, actually."
Obviously unhappy, the woman pressed her thin lips together in an expression of severe disapproval. "Unacceptable," she hissed to herself. Straightening her spine, she glared in the direction from which he had just come. "I'm going to give him a piece of my mind," she announced and took a step forward.
"No!" he cried instantly and grabbed at her arm. "You mustn't! He will be furious if you interrupt him!"
She spun on her heel and unleashed her indignation upon him. "I worked at the castle for nigh on twenty years, and not once in all that time was I awoken in the middle of the night by such an evil presence as this! Almost twenty years, during which countless sorcerers came and went and the great Master Donald practiced his art daily. For any man, even a sorcerer, to work at such an hour as this and to bring such a dark omen upon his own house, I tell you Peter, it is unacceptable!"
A new fear was assaulting him, but this one had nothing to do with the magic that still hovered about them in the surrounding dark. "Clarabell, please!" he tried to soothe her. "Please listen. Working in the middle of the night is common for a sorcerer. It is the best time to harness the Lord's power. It is a dark power and brings out raw emotions from a man, but it is not an evil power. I imagine the sorcerers who came to visit the King did work at this hour but their spells were smaller than the one the Master is attempting tonight. And Master Donald is famous for using the Lady's power, not the Lord's. The styles of their magic are completely different."
Clarabell narrowed her eyes at him, unconvinced. Sighing, he hung his head and rubbed at his eyes a bit with his free hand. He was so very close to the safety and comfort of his room. He could see the door from where he stood. However, he knew that he could not simply walk away and leave Clarabell be. Unchecked, she would stomp her way over to the Master's study and confront him, and that could result in something horrible happening, especially considering the amount of magic that the man had already called into being. Determined to try yet again to convince the woman before him, he lifted his head and took a preparatory breath.
Before he could speak a word, a muted sound like the noise of a faraway explosion rumbled through the house. A second later, there was a scream that started off human-sounding but soon rose to demonic levels before it trailed off into an uneasy silence. Both servants stood frozen, staring off into the darkness that had in an instant gone from pressing to near-suffocating.
Clarabell moved first, a small shift and a frightened whisper. "Was that common, too, Peter?"
"No," he whispered back, the one word taking effort to utter as if it did not wish to be free of his tongue. His human instincts were screaming at him to run, not just to hide within his room but to run completely away from this house and the power within it. His blood, however, was urging him to move towards the source of those noises. If they meant what he feared, then it was very likely that his Master needed him. Even if he could do nothing, the mere thought of his Master in need was making his soul ache to go to him.
The first step felt like pulling his foot from a deep clinging mud, the very floor seeming to resist his effort to move his leg to a new position. Once he had taken a single step forward, however, the gate to his resolve crashed open, and within seconds, he was running down the hallway as quickly as he could with Clarabell on his heels. The manor was eerily quiet as they ran. Their footsteps did not echo but disappeared into a darkness that seemed to swallow the noise down thirstily. The magic that he had felt before still lingered in the air, but it was quieter than before, almost as if it was watching him from the darkness, waiting. The sensation would have terrified him beyond belief if he were not so focused on getting to the Master as quickly as possible.
The moment he turned the corner to the hall in which lay the Master's study, he ran full-force into a thick fog of what at first glance appeared to be smoke. Instinctively, he threw up one arm and leaned his body forward in order to fight his way through it, but after only a few steps, he paused in wonder. This smoke was like nothing he had ever seen before. It was not thick and heavy with soot like the smoke from a fire, nor was it warm and wet like steam. This smoke had no apparent weight or texture at all. If it were not for his eyes, he never would have known it was there. His eyes could definitely see it, however, as it curled and snaked around him, its color an odd purple-green that his candlelight could not pierce.
"Sweet Goddess, protect us," Clarabell murmured from behind him.
Silently, he added his prayer to hers and then pushed forward again. "Master!" he shouted as he approached the door. "Are you all right? Master!" When he reached it, he banged his fist against the wood and called out again, eyes falling to the crack near the ground. As he had expected, the smoke was coming from within the room, escaping underneath the door.
"Master!" he cried again. This time, he heard noises in answer to his call. Something within the room shuffled, and someone groaned softly. Eagerly, he gripped the handle of the door. The Master was still alive!
"Peter! Don't!" Clarabell shrilled, but he had already pulled. The door swung open. Instantly, he was engulfed by a wave of dark smoke that poured from the room. It stung his eyes and slithered down his throat with a cool, slimy feeling. The candle in his hand sputtered and died, plunging him into complete darkness. For several minutes, he could do nothing but cough and paw at his throat in a desperate attempt to breathe, but eventually he somehow found the strength to take a single step into the room.
"Master?" he called weakly. "Master, are you there?"
The groan answered him again, but this time, he heard another sound. Even as the voice of the sorcerer died away, a second voice was rising, chuckling softly with an evil mirth. It shivered up his spine and made his hair stand on end for a reason that had nothing to do with the magic hovering all about him.
"Master?" he whispered, voice cracking. At the pathetic sound, he cleared his throat roughly and straightened up, determined to be brave. "Master?" he tried again. "Can you hear me? Can you answer me? Master?"
The chuckling stopped, and there was nothing but cold, terrible silence.
"Master Xehanort?"
Something large, heavy, and full of malice rushed him, and the last thing he heard was his own scream as it rose, higher and higher, thinning and twisting into something animalistic and utterly inhuman.