A/N: Written for the Bringing Back the Past contest at Romanticide. The contest was to write a story about Malchior and Rorek set in the past, and it's set to end at the end of January bows as everyone applauds her procrastination There are only two OCs in this story that are going to have any importance whatsoever, they are Artor (Rorek's young cousin, made by me), and Kyrie (a witch/mage, made by Zoicytes-Shadow). The current rating is because I have something planned for later chapters (who knows, it may never happen though). A brief note, the world this takes place in is, more or less, ancient Azarath.
Disclaimer: I don't own Malchior, Rorek, Azarath, or anything else in Teen Titans (much too large a list to put down) - they're property of Warner Bros/DC Comics. Kyrie is property of Zoicytes-Shadow, used with permission. Artor is mine.
In the weeks following the overthrow of House Metrion, much of the knowledge and history accumulated throughout the ages has been permanently destroyed as the forces of Azarath suddenly seized control of the Capital and slaughtered the aristocracy. Before long I predict that the Archmages and all that they stand for will be destroyed in the name of Azarath. Myself and a small group of my fellows have fled in hopes of survival. The Azar spares no one. In the brief respites that come as we rest after shifting dimensions, I have taken it upon myself, Artor of Nole, to document the life of my cousin, Rorek of Nole, more often called Rorek Dragonsbane...
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The Capital City was bustling with activity as traders hurried about and children played while avoiding being crushed under the massive hooves of some farm horse come to market. Entertainers staked out street corners, nobles in shoddy disguises scurried around to buy and sell on the black market, and common thieves sized up the entire mass of humanity while their fingers flickered in and out of sight. Above everything else rose the palace – the center of the Empire and seat of House Metrion. Even in the weak pre-dawn light the building shown a blinding white.
In the strata between the common folk and the House of Metrion's sprawling complex lay the upper class dwellings of various nobles and useless officials who formed a painful but necessary system of bureaucracy. Within this sphere of paper shuffling was the Mage's Quarter, a square mile or so set a fair distance from anything of great import that was given to the practitioners of magic. At the founding of the city, the area had been past the outskirts of town, but as the town inched out and the Quarter inched in, it was now closer to the center of the city than even the palace. The original concept had been that if anything exploded, a plague was released, or some foolish apprentice woke an army of the dead, that the place would be neck deep in enough magic to take care of the situation before anyone else had to care.
One of the smaller residencies here was the two story residency of Rorek of Nole. It sat a few blocks from the central plaza looking like a deranged mesh between a mud-brick hut and a Gothic cathedral complete with gargoyles randomly flapping their wings and yawning.
Rorek himself stood on the white marble-floored courtyard of his roof talking animatedly into a hovering sphere of magic. Long white hair head been pulled back into a ponytail so he could utilize bright blue eyes to bore into a face only he could see in the sphere.
Not far off a young boy played in a pile of multicolored grains of sand. The spitting image of Rorek, the child had the same white hair and blue eyes that were a trademark of the family; excepting perhaps that his hair had been kept short and spiky. Following the waves of his hand, the sand soared about to form patterns that meant something to him, but to no one else.
Sitting a few feet from the child was a small congregation of the houses' guardian gargoyles, gambling using a worn deck of cards over small quartz chips.
"Ya ninny, ya jus' punched a griev'n 'ole lin it," one gargoyle screeched at another, whose claw could be seen stabbed through one of the cards.
"Wuz a acciden, didn' mean ta ya granite bastard!"
Another gargoyle cuffed both of them on the back of their rocky heads. "Both o' ya shut yer traps. Tha young masta's sitt'n right there," it pointed a malformed talon at the boy. "Member wha happened las' time we wuz talkin' round Artor? Clarence los' his wings – now he's begin' on tha streets!"
With a loud crash a pair of oak gates slammed open. The circle of gargoyles huddled in fear before glancing over to see what the commotion was. Much to their delight it was not the impending doom of Rorek towering over them, but a tall man with a warm hearted grin adorning his face.
"Uncle Mal!" Artor screamed as he bounded up to the man and tackled his chest, the colorful sand abandoned. Staggering backwards a few steps, Malchior threw out a hand to stop himself from backing into a wall. By this time Artor had scampered up to balance on top of Malchior's head of short purple hair. Reaching into the folds of his rich silk shirt with his free hand, Malchior produced a small bag of expensive sugar candies with a flourish.
Predictably, Artor leaped off his perch to seize the candy before running off with it. Malchior ambled over to Rorek, who was hurriedly excusing himself from his conversation with the sphere. Without a second thought, Malchior reached out and crushed the sphere.
"I believe you understand that you've just cut off my father mid-sentence," Rorek scowled.
Malchior grinned, his dark blue near-purple eyes glinting with an aura of carefree mischief. "Whatever it was, it can't have been so important to have kept you from speaking to your oldest friend."
Rorek ignored the implied question and scowled. "What do you want?"
"I want to summon a dragon."
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"The last years in the Age of Zinthos is marked by the last year in which a dragon was seen." Malchior looked up from his notes. "What is the first year of Zinthos based off of, what was the last year, and who was the last dragon?"
Rorek glared at a spot on the ceiling while brushing his short white hair out of his eyes. "The first year, is based off of what scholars have determined to be the first year in which humans walked the Void. The last year, 11,000, is based off of the recorded date when the dragoness Caspar set her mark on the family of Metrion and then flew into the Void." Letting his chair return to all four legs with a solid thump, Rorek shook his hair out of his eyes again before looking straight at his companion. "What I'd give to have that kind of freedom – the ability to just walk away from everything when I tired of it."
Malchior glanced back at his notes. "We know next to nothing about the dragons though. They existed before the first humans, and doubtless will still be out there when we're gone. No text from or about the Age of Zinthos fails to mention them, but precious few actually say anything of import about them. 'Winged creatures of power and majesty' is about as descriptive as the records get."
A dreamy look crossed Rorek's face. "The details don't matter, it's the idea behind the thing. Beholden to nothing, to no one... no responsibility, just life..." Suddenly snapping back to reality he continued, "and aren't they finding massive murals and entire libraries with information about the earliest days of Zinthos, along with dragons, in the ruins under the old temple of Scath?"
"Yes, I think they are. Funny, the old priests were right, from fire comes all..." Malchior scoffed.
"And all returns to fire," Rorek finished the saying that had once been engraved above the temple gates. "The temple came from fire, and look what happened to it..."
"Happened to what," a female voice interrupted. A young woman with black hair that stopped just above her shoulders emerged from behind a bookcase. "I heard there was a study grou- are you alright?" she shifted mid sentence and started at Rorek. "Do you have a fever?"
Rorek's entire face was growing redder by the moment
"No, I think some idiot downstairs must be playing with fire," Malchior announced, slipping his fingers under the table to point at the stones, which immediately began to heat up. "Actually, Kyrie, we were just about to leave, but if you want, we can stay for another hour before lights out."
Descending to the open area of the floor where the two young men were set up, Kyrie started to sweat. Intending to accept the offer, she changed her mind, "Ah, no thank you, bit too hot around here for my liking," she declared, smiling.
The small group let out a chuckle before Rorek fainted, presumably because of the heat.
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"Absolutely not," Rorek stated flatly.
"But-"
"No," the white-haired mage interrupted. "It's too risky, a summoning of that magnitude. What if we called upon a dragon that wished humanity ill, what then? A dragon cannot be matched, not even by all the Archmages!"
Brushing aside Rorek's warnings, Malchior pressed on, "Exactly! Imagine the knowledge speaking with a dragon might bring! Imagine the prestige and influence; imagine the power one might gain. With such at our disposal, the two of us might unseat House Metrion and bring about a new era!"
Rorek's once neutral mood could now only be described as ice. "You speak of treachery, be glad that I count you among my friends – it would benefit you to keep in mind my mentor is the Hand of Justice in the Capital. If you are here only to speak of such evils, I must ask you to leave."
Taken by surprise, Malchior blinked as a stunned look crossed his face. He had neither imagined that his old friend would so quickly reject his plans, nor had he expected such a hostile reaction. "Can't you, Rorek, of all people, see my vision?"
"I can see your vision quite clearly, and it disgusts me. You have spoken against those I am sworn to. I ask you to leave my house immediately." Rorek's face betrayed no emotion, but his voice spoke of loathing, seeming to convey that he thought of his old friend as less than a bug to be crushed underfoot.
Malchior took a step back in shock. "Rorek! You would send me from your presence, after all that we have been through, simply for wishing change in the archaic system of 'government'?"
"If you wished to rise in the system under which our fathers, their fathers, unto hundreds of generations, have accepted, I would help – you need only ask. Instead you come to me with fantasies of smashing that which I hold dear, asking me to forswear myself! Get out of my house, and do not return," Rorek's words rose to a near yell by the end of his short speech.
Unbelieving, Malchior turned and stalked out of the courtyard. As he left, a gargoyle made a rude claw gesture accompanied by several gravelly-sounding noises.
Rorek turned as well. About to mimic Malchior's gait to the other end of the courtyard, he came face to face with a hovering Artor.
"Why did Uncle Mal leave? I didn't get to say thank you," the boy protested, waving the empty bag of sweets in the air.
"Malchior had matters to attend to," hesitating a second, Rorek bent down, pulling Artor along with him in the invisible grasp of magic. Staring the child in the eye he continued, "Malchior has done some very bad things. If you play with him, speak with him, or anything else with him, keep in mind that it will drag our family's name through the same muck that he wallows in. Understand?"
As stunned as Malchior himself had been, Artor stared wide-eyed at his cousin. "But... but..."
Rorek reached out and placed his hand firmly on Artor's shoulder. "Understand?"
"Yes Rorek," the boy said, staring at the dirt as he moved his toe back and forth on the stone pavement.
"Good." Rorek stood. "I simply hope he makes this easy on all of us."
I'm sure everyone who reads fan fics knows what I'm about to beg for... reviews!