The fog was thick, and the world spun endlessly. It was searing hot. The tunnel walls were illuminated by evenly spaced lights, which stretched forward without end.
Running. Pain. Begging. The torment of his flesh replacing all thought.
He was chased by the echoing sound of snapping fingers, which promised more pain. His legs failed. His face smacked the dirty floor. His stalker took advantage of his misstep to inflict more agony.
There was a voice in the confusion. It was weak with pain and desperation. It was his.
"Please don't… No don't… No…"
Not only pain, but also humiliation. It did not matter; his want to survive outweighed everything else.
"I don't want to die! No, no!"
"I'm not giving you a choice." Hissed his stalker. It was deep, vengeful, without mercy. "Now burn in Hell!"
His scream rang loud off the tunnel walls, into oblivion. But, slowly it faded, as did the promise of his death, the tunnel, and the pain. The rumble of thunder replaced his voice, accompanying the roar of pounding rain. Water droplets bombarded him. There was only darkness, occasionally illuminated by the flash of lightning.
Where was he? Who was he? Why was he unable to move?
His mind moved like the storm. He could not focus on a single question longer than a few seconds. Still, it persisted.
Where had the tunnel gone? Was the stalker chasing him nearby?
He wanted to get out of the rain, but couldn't summon the energy to do so. He had a hard time staying conscious. He closed his eyes, and the night closed around him.
The sound of voices roused him, but he could not respond. There stood a shadowed figure over him, shining a lantern in his face. He could not comprehend the person or the light, but the flames inside the glass stirred a fear within him. He did not have the energy to run, or even move. Half-conscious and terrified, he was trapped.
He denoted the sensation of a gentle hand shaking his shoulder. Through squinted lashes, he watched as the figure removed a thick jacket and covered him, shielding him from the rain. It was a woman.
"Doctor, I've found a boy here!" she cried out. Her voice was thick with a drawling accent of some kind.
Who was she? He was too weary to ask. Soon, he lost the fight against the encroaching darkness and fell back into unconsciousness.
He awoke again to the pattering of droplets bouncing off the canvas draped over his head. The weight of thick blankets engulfed him up to his chin, and similar bedding pressed against his back. There was an array of smells. Flowery incense was the most overpowering, but subtle hints of earthy perfume seemed to reside right under his nose, most likely from the bedding. It comforted him.
'Open your eyes,' He ordered himself.
His vision was ill defined and dim, but slowly it began to clear. He was lying in a large tent of some kind. He observed that it made a rectangle, and that the two opposite sides were completely different from each other, as if divided by an invisible wall. The side he found himself in was decorated with dry herbs and silk tapestries of varying shades of purple. A cedar trunk full of decorated dresses was propped open next to his small bed. Overhead, there hung bells, coins, feathers, and other metal decorations, which swayed slightly with the tent's movement in the wind.
The far side was a simple green, and the canvas walls were decorated with strange, circular symbols and notes. A second trunk, which was closed and seemingly newer, sat next to a rolled up bed mat. In the middle ground between the two sides was a small table, which was near the floor, lined with pillows, serving as chairs.
Where the hell was he?
The sound of approaching voices caught his attention. He wasn't sure what possessed him to close his eyes and pretend he was asleep, but he did. Perhaps, he was not ready to face anyone. He was still so confused. His very identity eluded him.
"Doctor Trovius, I really hope you know what you're doing if your theory is correct," said a familiar voice. It belonged to the woman, who found him in the rain and covered him with her jacket.
"This has literally been my life for thirty years, Shelta. I know I'm right," responded a man's voice. Unlike the woman, his accent was bare. Each word he spoke was precise and defined. However, his meaning carried excitement. He was almost giddy. "The alchemic tests I've done so far match mine and Rodger's research notes, and I'm sure of it. He's a Homunculus!"
What exactly was a homunculus? With tightening eyes, he wondered… Were they talking about him?
"First thing tomorrow I'm calling Rodger, and…"
"Really Trovius! That's what you are concerned about… bragging to your friend?" said the woman named Shelta. Footfall approached the tent from outside, and he heard the sound of ruffling fabric as others entered the small space. Her voice dropped to a whisper, then. "I'm more concerned about this boy."
"I'm concerned, as well," insisted Trovius, quietly. "But I would like to get all of my facts straight. I have done a thorough examination, and he seems fine, but he certainly is not human. Once he wakes up, I will ask him everything to fill in the blanks. For now, I need to talk to Rodger. He is an expert in this subject, and I need his council."
'Examination?' What the hell did this Dr. Trovius do to him while he slept?
His body tensed. Despite the many questions he had, he felt staying to have them answered was dangerous. The very moment Shelta and the doctor were to leave, he had to get away.
"I just wish I understood," Trovius pondered. "To create a homunculus… Then just dump him in the woods? The boy's creator must have gotten separated from him, somehow."
"There's still much we don't know," Shelta whispered. "Whoever made him must still be nearby."
"They couldn't have gone far in this weather. The moment the rain clears, I'll go out looking for anything else we missed," Trovius promised.
"Dr. Trovius," said a man outside the tent, who had the same accent as Shelta. "We found something strange where we found the boy."
"The boy's creator?" Trovius asked.
"No, it looks like a transmutation circle of some kind," The man answered.
There was a moment's pause, before the sound of shuffling paper broke the silence.
"I'll be back in a moment, Shelta," The doctor promised, as he hurried out of the tent and into the rain.
The minutes ticked on, but Shelta did not leave like the others. She swished about the tent, unaware of his disquiet. He sensed the approach of her solid presence. Soon, she was within arm's reach, searching through the trunk by his bed. His body tensed.
'Come on, just leave,' the nameless boy growled in his mind.
His breathing hitched in his throat when he felt a gentle hand rest on his shoulder through the blankets.
"Are you okay, dear?" her voice was soft.
He didn't answer. He kept his eyes fastened shut. Then, he heard her snicker.
"You're far too tense to be asleep," she explained further.
Realizing he had been caught, he opened his eyes. He came face-to-face with Shelta, who was smiling down at him. He saw that she was mostly covered by a flowing, purple dress, and peach blouse; garments old, yet beautiful and well cared for. That same description fit her, as well. She had a slightly crooked smile and a long nose, which looked as though it had been broken more than once. Her skin was a dark tan, and wrinkled from the sun. Her raven black hair was streaked with gray and wrapped with a yellow scarf. Her comforting, brown-eyed stare helped the tension in his shoulders to relax.
"My name is Shelta Black. You are among my clan, the Lovel Locke people, and you are safe," she greeted, warmly.
He stared back at her, not knowing exactly what to say. He had no memory of a clan of his own—or, even what a clan was, for that matter. And, he most certainly doubted just how benign her people's intentions were, especially considering her earlier conversation with Trovius. He remained silent.
"What's wrong, dear? Can't you speak?" One of her thick eyebrows raised in confusion. She lifted a hand to move one of the long, dark strands of hair from his eyes. The bangles on her wrists jingled from the motion. He immediately sank away from her touch, and she retracted.
"I can talk," He finally answered, which startled him a bit. It had been the first time he heard his voice outside his own head. It was a neutral tone. A bit more feminine than what he expected of a male, but with a slight rasp to it. Despite her accent, which put him on edge, he liked Shelta's voice better.
"Very good. That makes it easier," she said. Then, came the question he dreaded the most, "What's your name?"
He grimaced a bit while considering, before eventually deciding to settle on answering honestly, "I don't have one."
Feeling vulnerable lying down, he struggled to sit up. Shelta rested a hand on his upper back, as if ready to catch him should he fall back down. He was annoyed by the gesture.
"Do you mean you don't remember? Did you get hurt?" she asked, now sounding very concerned.
"I…don't think so. I…" trying desperately to remember, he gripped his head in one of his hands. That's when he noticed the half gloves he wore, covering pallid skin from his knuckles, and stopping just under his elbows. He moved the blanketing to observe his rather thin body, toned with small but well-defined muscle. He was dressed (if you could call it that) in an all-black, skintight sleeveless half shirt, that formed around his neck. Short pants lined with loose black cloth covered from under his naval to his upper thighs. Half stockings covered bare feet, exposing his toes and heels.
He realized that this was the first he had ever seen himself. He wondered just what the purpose of the mostly exposed wardrobe served. His entire person was an intense contrast to Shelta's leathery caramel skin, and he became self-conscious.
Had he been hurt? Was that why he couldn't remember anything, but-
His head perked, and he turned. Looking passed Shelta, on the table near the entrance to his right, a light-filled glass globe scorched against the canvas wall—a simple lantern, nothing more. As it flickered, he recalled flashing lights surrounding him. And with them, brought agony.
The concentrated glow transported him against his will. He found himself in the tunnel again. He felt the ache of running muscles, and that pain… That endless, skin-searing pain, as though he were being engulfed by the sun.
"Just a lantern," he reminded himself through gritted teeth. Still, adrenaline charted his veins, for every time he blinked, the stalker chased. The stalker wanted him dead, but he could not die. "Just a lantern… Just a lantern."
But, it was not just a lantern on the table; it was a vessel containing evil, which was-
"Please don't! I don't want to die!"
"I'm not giving you a choice. Now burn in Hell!"
Gasping, he backed away from the flame, crashing into the travel trunk next to his bed. He had to get away.
"Honey, what's wrong!?" Shelta asked desperately, holding his shoulders in her hands.
"Fire! I don't want to die! It burns! No more, please!" he shielded his body with his hands.
"You're not going to die! You're safe here!" Shelta insisted.
She tried to get the boy to focus on her, but he continued to call out in fear of fire. Then, it clicked in her mind.
She ran to the table, lifted the glass from the lantern, and blew out the flame. The anxiety was extinguished along with the light, and the tent darkened considerably. Shelta turned back to the shuttering boy, whose eyes were wide and his face aghast. She came to kneel down by his side.
"Dear, tell me what's wrong, and I'll help you," she rubbed his back in gentle, soothing circles.
He slowly glanced up at Shelta. When he reclaimed his place in his mind, humiliation replaced the fear. To have acted in such a way in front of someone… Flustered, he tried to wriggle out of her grasp.
"I'm fine," He snapped, a bit harsher then intended.
"How about you lay back down," She tried to recline him back towards her bed.
"No, I'm fine," He said, not entirely convinced he was.
Shelta continued to offer help; water, food, and even calming talk. He was suspicious of everything she said and did. Why was she being so nice? They didn't even know each other.
He remembered his plan to escape before that Doctor Trovius came back. It occurred to him he had literally no place to go. This woman, Shelta was the only person he had ever seen. It wouldn't exactly be easy to run out into the rain and expect to find something.
If he did have an opportunity to leave, it passed as the tent's fabric door was pushed open and an older man in a raincoat entered quickly. He wasn't dark-skinned like Shelta, but wasn't as pale as himself. His hairline was receding a tad, and he decided the man was about the same age as Shelta, though possibly a bit younger.
The man halted fast in his tracks, when they made eye contact with each other. Something told the nameless boy that this was Doctor Trovius.
In an instant, the man's blank, almost dumbfounded look was replaced with one of smiling wonder.
"Bless my soul, he's awake," he whispered, mostly to himself. He dropped his many books to the ground and stumbled on his knees to the two on the floor. "So nice to meet you, truly! I'm Doctor Trovius Welling, at your service!" He grasped the stunned boy's hand, and shook it over-zealously. Shelta shot the man a look, which he ignored. "Please, dear boy, tell me who I'm speaking to... I want to know everything!"
The boy suppressed the urge to sigh, as well as his regrets of missing the opportunity to run. Doctor Trovius' eccentric nature unnerved him, to the point of speechlessness.
"He doesn't remember his name or anything else besides-" Shelta began, glancing at the darkened lantern on the table, and then back to the boy. When they met eyes, he hung his head in embarrassment. "His time here." She finished, carefully.
"Wait…you don't even remember the alchemist that created you?" Trovius asked, seeming as equally confused as he was curious.
That peaked the boy's interest. "What's an alchemist?"
Doctor Trovius' smile turned inward, his brown eyes focused, as the astute scientist in him prepared to share his precious wisdom.
"Why, it's a scientist that studies the art of alchemy. And, of course, alchemy is the study of deconstructing and reconstructing matter, which is exactly how you came to be." Doctor Trovius became giddy again, "I'll show you this art."
With that, he pulled out a sheet of paper and a piece of chalk. On the paper Trovius drew a strange circle, and then proceeded to break the chalk in two, before placing both pieces in the center of the array. Trovius placed his hands on the pattern, and a lively blue light engulfed the paper and chalk. When the light dimmed, the chalk had been mended. The nameless boy stared at the chalk, eyes wide with amazement.
Doctor Trovius took pride in the boy's wonder, but assumed a humble demeanor and cleared his throat. He continued, "This was an example of reconstructing an item. I had all the pieces, so I could make it whole again. But you, my dear boy, are a Homunculus. An absolute miracle of alchemic science once thought to be impossible."
Doctor Trovius pat the boy's shoulder eagerly, to which he responded with a grimace. The boy—the homunculus—was not so keen on having a stranger touch him as if he were some sort of shiny new toy. But, the stranger's new concept moved his curiosity in a way that he allowed it.
"Homunculus… How do you know I'm one of these things?" the boy asked.
"Well, as I have just demonstrated, I am an alchemist as well, and I have been studying your kind for many, many years. I noticed a few subtle hints. Here, I'll show you!" Trovius said with a smile, jumping up quickly, before going to retrieve his notes. Though, he frowned as he glanced around the tent, and realized how very dim it was. "Just a moment," he stated, before going through his bag and pulling out a box of matches. As he went to strike one to life, Shelta took his hand.
"Trovius!" She gave a brief shake of her head that promised of an explanation later. The Homunculus boy was not sure how to feel towards her compassion. Both gratitude and anger seemed misplaced in the moment.
"…Very well. As it is with alchemy, there are multiple solutions to a problem," He said optimistically, pulling from his bag a small lantern-like device, and clicked it on. It gave off an odd hum before illuminating the tent, somehow without fire. Trovius left it on the table, mumbling an, "ah, the miracle of electricity," Before retrieving a few books, and then returning to the bedside of the Homunculus boy. Upon thumbing through a few pages, Doctor Trovius placed a particularly dense leather-bond tome in the boy's confused hands.
"Here we are, take a look!" Doctor Trovius offered. Though, the doctor did not give the boy a chance to look through the book at his leisure. He made quick to turn to a few choice pages on his behalf. "This was the first and most obvious thing that tipped me off." Trovius snickered and pointed to a strange red symbol. It was some kind of a winged serpent forming a circle, seemingly about to eat its own tail. Within the gap of the circle were a triangular shape and three smaller triangles on the sides.
The boy was about to question Trovius about the emblems meaning, when he realized that the doctor was suddenly in his personal space yet again. His bed covers were thrust back, exposing his legs. The boy fretted, simultaneously covering himself with his hands and scooting away from the strangers' eyes. Doctor Trovius seemed oblivious to the boy's discomfort, and replied simply. "It's quite alright, I'm a Doctor, after all! Well, go on! Have a look!"
The boy gave a sigh that contained equal parts apprehension and annoyance. Finally, he looked down. Low and behold, there was the exact same serpent symbol on the upper part of his outer left thigh. He tried rubbing it off, but found it to be permanently tattooed on his leg.
"It's an ancient alchemic symbol meaning eternity. It's the Ouroboros." Trovius explained, before the boy could ask. "Also the alchemic nodes on your back, which help circulate the energy from your core through your body."
He soon spotted what Trovius meant. A red circle was resting on the surface of his pale shoulder. It was connected by a matching colored line running diagonally towards his spine. He reached his hand to his back, trying to feel what he couldn't see. The texture of the red nodes and lines differed ever so slightly from his skin. Oddly, the lines continued from his bare shoulders, and passed through his tight shirt, as if somehow it were sewn into that, as well. From what he felt, two circular nodes sat behind his upper shoulders, which were connected by a final one resting on his mid spine, forming an upside-down triangle.
"What do you mean 'my core'? What are they circulating energy for?" he asked, while attempting to feel the symbols on his back, trying to figure out how they could be connected to both his skin and his clothes. Trovius nodded before going to retrieve something else from his bag.
"Your regeneration ability," he answered simply. He returned to the bedside with a small, cedar box, which contained a few tools. Trovius pulled out a small scalpel. "Let me see your hand, and I'll show you. Trust me boy, it'll only hurt for a moment."
Of course, the site of the scalpel and the threat of pain made the Homunculus boy flinch away. Though his curiosity got the better of him, and he slowly surrendered his left hand to the Doctor. Trovius carefully opened a small cut on one of his exposed fingers, just above his gloves. It stung a bit, but the ache of the cut was forsaken when bright, red electricity ran over the wound, mending it to nothing within seconds.
Staring at his hand in shock, the confused boy slowly raised his head to meet the very excited eyes of Doctor Trovius. "You are a Homunculus, a perfect artificially created human, but with the many flaws of humanity fixed! However, if you have no memories, then that leads me to believe you are a newborn. And, that would explain the light, of course..." He trailed off, leaving the confusing sentence hanging.
"The light he's referring to is how we found you," Shelta explained. "Last night, there was a bright light from outside the camp, and we followed it to find you."
"It must have been the transmutation which brought you to life!" Trovius exclaimed, going back to his notes for a reference.
Trovius switched back and forth between raving about the wonder of transmutation to studying the boy, who tried to shake the doctor off whenever his clammy hands touched the markings on his back, or the serpent symbol on his leg.
The boy decided he really did not like Doctor Trovius' fascination with him. At least Shelta treated him like a normal person, and not like some lab experiment waiting to be dissected.
"Trovius," Shelta stated, grabbing both their attention. "If someone has just made him, then where are they now?"
"That is a good question. We could not find anyone else around the circle. To create something such as a Homunculus, something great would have to be given in return…" He paused when he saw the boys' confused face. "Equivalent exchange," he added, as if that was supposed to explain everything. "There is a chance… All of their being could have been taken." There was a hint of remorse in his tone.
What did that mean? Was the person who made him dead? Should he feel sad for the loss of a life he had never known?
"Clever enough to make a Homunculus, but not clever enough to know the simple laws of equivalent exchange?" Shelta wondered. "Isn't that Lesson One in any and all alchemy?"
"Very true. That's why it makes no sense, you see. There is still much to learn. But first, our dear friend is new to this world, so he shall need a name, and until such a time when an alchemist comes to claim him, I think we should give him one," Trovius said with a smile.
'Claim him?' the boy thought, bitterly. Was he some sort of property that could be exchanged, or sold, or regarded as useless and disposed of? If he had merely been dumped in the woods, then his creator must have thought so. If that was the case, he was not sure he would be willing to leave with the alchemist in question, even if that individual came back to 'claim him' as Trovius implied.
The boy's hostility quickly returned to less abstract concepts, such as the present, and Trovius' offensive wording of the situation. Did the doctor assume some sort of right to him?
'You should get out of here,' he reminded himself again.
"Perhaps he should name himself," Shelta said.
That surprised the boy. He wondered if she somehow sensed his obvious discomfort that Trovius—the man far too busy drooling over a newly acquired homunculus—failed to notice. He began to ponder the suggestion, before realizing the only names he knew were Trovius and Shelta. Neither of which he cared for.
Shelta turned to her travel chest, digging through the dresses. She retrieved a worn mirror. "Maybe seeing your face will spark an idea," she said.
Holding it up to his face, an array of emotions ran through the boy's mind. Staring back at him was a pair of strange, purple, cat-like eyes on a youthful face. If he could put an age to what he saw, he would guess seventeen. Smooth features and a mess of very long, sectioned black hair with a hint of green that fell past his waist in unified strands. Over thinly arched eyebrows, he saw a black bandana with a red upside down triangle shape on it. He reached to pull the bandana down, and was surprised to find the same red triangle on his forehead. It was much like the red marks on his back.
The boy decided he did not like his face, though he could not quite comprehend why. It was disappointing to behold—as if he had been competing in a race, only to fall short of the finish. Critiques came easier than flattery, and he compared himself to Doctor Trovius and Shelta, realizing that he was much more attractive than both of them combined. Still, an empty feeling throbbed in his chest, realizing it was not enough. Perfection lorded over him, judging. He turned the mirror downward on the sheets.
On the matter at hand, even with his new face, a name did not come to mind. Trovius began to rattle some off, mostly meaning alchemic symbols, and all of which the boy hated.
He wondered what Shelta thought seeing his face would do. Perhaps she was not fully convinced he was a newborn. After all, what newborn had an unexplained fear of fire, and a torturous memory to go along with it? Even still, his face sparked no memories or even the echo of a name. He gave a shrug of indifference, hoping he would not have to settle for anything too terrible.
"What about Cyrus?" Shelta offered, "it's an old name, meaning: one who is young, but has great aspirations."
He meditated on it for a moment, kind of liking how it sounded. Cyrus. It did have a nice ring to it.
"I like that one," the boy agreed.
"Very good!" Trovius cheered. "It is good to meet you, and welcome to the world Cyrus!"