xoxo
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The steel, serrated blade drags through the dark, grassy plains engulfed in flames that burn sapphire with a black hue, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Above, the midnight sky rejoices, raging with thunder and lightning that lances through the stars. The prophecy brings fulfillment. The fires of the underworld now bind the cursed man.
Chips of his blue armor fall to the ground as he continues a slow stride forward, covered in blood and char. Tired eyes fixating on a tree, he knows he needs to rest but won't allow himself the chance. He needs to find his place of solace, where his mother used to take him when he was a young boy: his one, true home.
It seems so far, and everything aches. His mind, his body, his spirit, his heart. He lost the most important person in his life to the hands of a greedy, narcissistic, megalomaniac tyrant who cared about nothing more than his own needs. He's alone now, forever — on a fruitless journey that will end with more blood on his hands.
He needs to rest, and with the lone tree approaching faster, he decides that he will to alleviate any pain he feels, both physical and emotional. He's deserving and far away from the once village, now desolate wasteland he brought forth after the confrontation with his mother's killer, his father.
Rain begins to pour, but the flames never go out. His grip loosens on the hilt, allowing the sword to fall to the ground and him to his haunches. Tears stream down his cheeks, and he smashes his hands to the ground. And with his entirety shaking, he lets go — screaming in agony, prompting his flames to cease.
Visions of his mother flash before his eyes, as does his father's dismembered, charred corpse. He emits another agonizing scream, bringing forth a circle of flames that forms around him but doesn't burn — his cries echoing through the darkness. He feels something other than joy for the first time, and it's excruciatingly frigid.
Crows swarm the skies, demented creatures slip from their homes and crowd around him, and the circle of flames trails off, forming a symbol underneath him — the Symbol of the Cursed. There's a sharp pain in his chest, prompting his screams to continue as he grabs the chest plate of his armor — using all his strength to tear it off.
The chest plate hits the ground, and he falls onto his side, shifting onto his back. Like a blade cutting through flesh, the same symbol that the flames formed below appears on his chest by degrees. The pain is harrowing, tormenting, to the point where his sense of consciousness fades, yet somehow, he's still somewhat aware.
Appearing in a cloud of smoke, Hell-spawn Maw rises from the depths of hell wrapped in a black cloak with only his glowing white eyes visible, courtesy of the Ruler of the Underworld. To the incapacitated warrior, it's a mirage, but this is far from a trick. This ritual is his initiation, his newfound journey as a cursed one.
"The pain will subside soon." His voice is a mixture of whispering dead souls that echo each word.
"W — what? What's happening to me?" Grunts slip through his lips, trying his best to silence his screams.
"You're one of us now. You have been given a gift."
"That's not — no!"
"You don't have a choice. Your father traded your soul for power and riches, and in return, we let you live, bestowing the power of the underworld within you."
"What does that—?" a sharp scream slips from his lips, interrupting him. There's horror in his eyes as he watches the symbol embedded in his chest burn with sapphire and black flames.
"You are no longer human but a magical being of undeniable power and destruction. You are the perfect vessel now crafted by the demonic flames of hell. You are War, and what you did to your father and his wretched village isn't even a fraction of what you can do."
The pain stops, and the flames dissipate, leaving a permanent mark on his skin. His mind is still in a haze. He attempts to sit up but fails — ceruleans wandering around, unable to focus. Everything is spinning.
"So, I'm doomed to a life I did not want? Am I doomed to be a monster because of my father's negligent decisions?"
"Your father may have killed your mother and sacrificed your soul to obtain some falsified God status, but you were always the chosen one, Fitzgerald Grant; future ruler of the Underworld."
The words don't hit him quite yet, and before he can even process what they mean, the smoke consumes Maw, and when he vanishes, Fitz falls into a deep slumber with only four words echoing within his mind.
We'll meet again soon.
xxx
The sun blossoms on the horizon and brilliant petals extend ever outwards over the verdant plains. Leaves of a shimmering green flutter from the trees; it's like a dream; it's so beautiful. Ceruleans fluttering open slowly, the warrior casts his gaze on his surroundings, feeling the rays of heat warming his skin. It's peaceful.
Maybe last night was a hallucination, a vivid nightmare that he can't seem to shake. Perhaps he was tricked into believing the events, believing that he had nothing and lost everything. But when his hand lands on his chest, it all comes back to him like calm waves crashing upon the blistering sand.
Tears well in his eyes as the thoughts flood his mind. What have I become? What purpose do I have? He has no real answers to his questions, and quite frankly, this entire situation is a rabbit hole he doesn't want to find himself in — not that he has a choice. His best method is avoidance, and he plans to avoid it as much as possible.
Quickly wiping the tears before they fall, he sits up — elbows resting on his knees. Shoulders rising and falling, he heaves a long sigh, combing a hand through his long, disheveled tresses before scratching his patchy, gray beard. He requires a bath and maybe some upkeep to look better than he feels.
After another glance at the sky, the inescapable feeling of peace returns, and he smiles somewhat. He rises to his feet, stretching out his arms, unaware of the man standing behind him leaning against the tree.
"Nice to see you're finally awake." The man speaks.
Startled, Fitz grabs his blade and spins on his heels to face the other — pressing the blade's tip against his throat. The man raises both hands, almost like he's surrendering.
"Who are you? What are you doing here?"
"What am I doing here? I dragged you here." He begins to explain. "You were passed out in the middle of nowhere; I thought I was doing you a favor." Brows knitting, "do you not remember me?"
Silence is his answer.
"The name's Huck. I used to tend to your mother's livestock before she commanded me to let them all go. She didn't want to see them suffer at the hands of your father."
Huck. The name isn't ringing a bell, but the more Fitz examines him, he can see him.
"I'm — I'm sorry." His arm falls to his side, spinning back on his heels to face the open plains. "I did not wish to harm you."
"It's fine." He's a bit more chipper than Fitz is used to being around. "No hard feelings. After what you've been through, I don't blame you."
Turning his head to the left, Huck in his peripheral. "You know what I've been through?"
"You lost your mother to the hands of your father, the cruelest leader these lands have ever seen in recent times. You also lost your father to the hands of, well, your own. Anyone would be on edge if they were in your shoes."
A huff. "But not everyone would approach or help me."
"I couldn't sit back idly watching the darkness consume you. It's much worse at night."
The statement eases Fitz. After his actions, he assumed everyone would see him as a monster. Guess not.
"Thank you." Reverting his attention to the plains, "why were you out in the middle of the night?"
"I do all my hunting at night." Steps in the direction of his cabin, "it's when all the meaty animals come out to play."
Brows knitting, Fitz somewhat turns to focus his attention on the other. "I thought the darkness was much worse at night."
"It is." Retrieving the blue chest plate from his porch, he lifts it over his head, proceeding to Fitz, "but only if you don't know how to wander through it."
He vanishes in a flash of white light, leaving Fitz bewildered for just a moment — reappearing behind him.
"And I'm quite capable of finding my way."
Though his expression is as stern as can be, Fitz's body moves involuntarily.
"Here's your armor." Holding it out to him.
"Thanks." Grasping the chest plate with his free hand, "what—?"
"I repaired it for you. It was in pretty bad shape after your confrontation with your father." Tucking his white shirt into his brown cotton slacks, "and to answer your question, teleportation magic. I think my grandmother passed it down, but I don't know for certain."
"I thought magic was forbidden after the last of the witches were burned at the stake."
A snicker. "Yeah, right. The laws don't apply to anyone outside of the walls. Not only that, but the witches aren't dead. I hear stories about there being one left. A white witch by the name of Mellie."
Something clicks. "Where is she located?"
"On the outskirts in some small town, why?"
"Something happened to me. Maybe she can help me."
"Oh, yeah." Pointing the finger at him, "you are cursed!"
He growls.
"Sorry, sorry. You are cursed." He whispers, "what's that like?"
"I'm to rule the underworld." Dropping his sword, throwing on his armor. "So, you tell me."
Mouth agape. "Holy shit. The chosen one. I've only heard stories about such matters. I didn't think that—"
"Do you always speak this much?"
"Only when someone who incinerated an entire village after the death of his mother appears unscathed." Kneeling, he ties his shoes before grabbing his satchel and tossing it around his body.
"Also, because you need someone to show you that life isn't just full of gray."
Faintly chuckling. "You're weird." Grabbing the hilt of his blade, sheathing it along his back.
"And you're even scarier with your armor on." Brushing past him, he led the way down the slope. "Come on. I know a guy who can get us there."
"Who?" Following behind.
"He's a crazy, white-haired man whose exceptional with a sword, capable of doing some weird shit like you. He can help us get to where you want without causing a war."
Interesting. "Why are we walking?"
"Because where we're going, magic doesn't work."
xxx
Nightfall approaches, and Fitz, alongside Huck, wanders through the darkness of the Wilting Forest with only a lantern to illuminate the barely visible path. There's also a hidden beauty as unnerving as it is, for the dying trees' cores are infused with a glowing, violet hue. The sight is both beautiful and horrific.
Fitz's ceruleans take in the surroundings in wonderment, curious to know what lies within.
"Why do the trees glow?" Glancing over at Huck, who's busy cutting through the weeds blocking the path.
"Some say — that these are the spirits of the dead."
"And what do you say?"
"I think it's the White Claw." Sheathing the knife onto his hip. "I believe it's a spell to negate all magic that enters."
"And you still chose to lead me here?"
"Oh, I'm not afraid." Leading the way down the path, Fitz following — drawing his sword. "The worse that can happen is us getting mauled to death by giant creatures."
Only a hum is heard in response.
"I also have a theory."
"What?"
"That only the cursed can use their power." Fixating his attention on Fitz, who doesn't look too thrilled.
"If matters come to the point of violence, I'll utilize my blade."
"But—"
"My answer is final."
Pouting. "Can you at least test it?"
Silence; only the sound of their footsteps venturing further into the forest. What he did back at the village isn't something he's in control of but something that happened during heightened emotions.
"I can't."
"Oh? Why?"
"This is all very new for me."
Huck places a hand on Fitz's shoulder. "Well, hopefully, the White Witch can help you more than I can."
"I hope so, too." Smiling faintly, "we just have to make out of here—"
Before he can complete his sentence, Huck is pulled away by an unseen force eliciting a high-pitched cry from his lips.
"Huck!"
Drawing his blade, Fitz takes off in the same direction. Effortlessly, he jumps over fallen trees, weaving his way through the forest, avoiding all he can as Huck's cries of help pierce his ears. He's running as fast as he can, and the distance seems to be increasing, but something unexpected happens — a voice echoing loudly in his head.
This way.
This way.
He doesn't quite understand what's happening, but when he glances to the left, he sees a small cloud of smoke, and beyond that, a more transparent path seems to wrap around the entire forest. With a rock approaching, he runs off it, spiraling to the left and landing perfectly on the correct path. He can see Huck from his peripheral, but he's still so far.
Use your power.
Use your power.
The same voice in his head speaks to him. He's confused and questioning many things but can feel his body heating up. With his only mission being to save Huck, it triggers the heightened emotions he felt when he realized he could not save his mother. Huck's blood can't be on his hands, not when his only goal is to help him.
Closing his eyes for only a second, his body becomes consumed with the sapphire and black flames trailing off his armor. He can feel the power surging through him, whispering his name to control, pulling him to the depths of the underworld. And when his eyes open, they're devoured by darkness and a glowing blue ring dead center. The time for games is over.
He propels forward with a loud growl, leaving a fiery blaze in his wake — the distance between him and Huck shortening by the second. Orbs cutting to his blade, the steel ignites, and with all his strength, he launches it in the direction of Huck. Whirring through the air, the edge heats the trajectory before striking through the heart of the unseen force — a wretched ghoul.
Huck's body crashes into a tree, and the ghoul's body tumbles — becoming more visible each time its body hits the ground. Its faint cries fill the silence, and they become louder when Fitz lands beside it. Head craning to get a good look at the creature, Fitz pushes the blade deeper into its heart — watching it struggle as his flames engulf its entirety until there's nothing left.
Retrieving his blade, he sheathes it along his back and rushes over to Huck, who's attempting to pull himself up using a fallen tree.
"Here, let me help you." Extending a hand to Huck, the flames dissipate, and his hues return to normal.
A quiet laugh. "Looks like my theory was right." Taking Fitz's hand into his own and pulling himself up. "You're unaffected by this place."
That's not his concern. "Are you okay?"
"I am now and look," pointing to the right at a small cabin in the distance. "We made it."
"Then let's get going."
xxx
Home of the White Claw. An ominous feeling looms over Fitz and Huck, signifying that they shouldn't be here. But there's no turning back. The cabin is dark and in need of some serious repairs. The windows are boarded up, holes in the roof. Ominous. From their standpoint, there're no signs of life, but Huck knows all too well that the man they're searching for is here.
"Should we knock?" Fitz questions.
"You should." He motions Fitz to move forward, "that guy gives me the creeps."
Grunting slightly. "Fine."
Steps in the direction of the cabin, Fitz walks up the few stairs to the porch — knocking. He receives nothing but silence in return. Turning to face Huck, the look on his face says it all, and he's ready to cut his losses until he hears the door unlocking — returning to his position. When the door opens, he's met by the White Claw himself.
His menacing presence fills the space between them, his naked, perspiring, scarred body as monumental as ever, a testament to his rigid discipline and dedication. He seems indestructible as he stands before Fitz in all his glory with an air of absolute authority. He's not too pleased to be disturbed in the middle of the ongoing orgy behind him.
"You must be the White Claw." Fitz sizes him up, the nudity not surprising, seeing how the people from his village did the same.
"And you're interrupting me." Amber orbs wandering over the warrior, "cursed one."
His rich voice sends a frightening chill down Fitz's spine at the unexpected words.
"How did you—?"
"I can smell you, your essence. It's not pleasing."
He hesitantly glances back at Huck, who waves, reverting his attention to the White Claw.
"To skip the unnecessary, I need your help; we need your help."
A hum. "I don't come cheap, especially for someone like you."
Reaching inside his boot, Fitz retrieves a pouch of gold, tossing it to the other.
"Will that cover it?"
Fingers squeezing the pouch, he hums, moving to the side — allowing Fitz and Huck to enter.
"Let's go, Huck." Entering the home, Huck follows behind with haste.
"Don't mind them. They'll tire soon." White Claw assures, referring to the orgy, closing the door behind them.
"No one ever comes out here and makes it out alive." He joins them in the main room, grabbing his trousers and sliding them on.
"What you're searching for must be important."
"We're in search of the White Witch." Huck informs, "Fitz thinks she may know something about his curse."
It doesn't take long for it to click. "You wish to be free from it?"
Fitz nods.
"What has the curse done to you to make you want to rid yourself of it?" He throws on his black, long-sleeved shirt and studded leather armor with big shoulder plates, belts, straps, and overlapping panels.
"It is the reason my mother is dead." Folding his arms, "my father made a deal with the devil. He exchanged her soul for a life of wealth and power. He killed her, but the demon didn't grant his wish. Not until he sacrificed my soul without my knowledge."
"So, he gambled your lives only to die by your hands?"
"Yes."
"How did you know that?" Huck wonders.
"I can sense it like I can sense you want to join the festivities." Orbs cutting to the orgy, then back to Huck.
"What? No." Stammering. "You must be — damn it." And then silence, followed by hard swallowing.
"Are you able to read minds?" Fitz questions.
"If I choose to, but not for long. My talents are also derivative of magic."
"What are you capable of?"
"What are you capable of?" Grabbing his sword, sheathing it along his back. "Because once a cursed one's abilities manifest, they either die or become consumed by insanity and uncontrollability."
That's a good question. "I don't know. Not yet, at least."
"What do you know?"
"That I'm the chosen one meant to be the next ruler of the Underworld."
That's all he needs. "I'll get you to the witch, but I have to warn you," stepping closer to Fitz. "The creatures outside this forest are much worse than some ghoul."
"I'm up for the challenge."
"We're up for the challenge," Huck adds, wrapping his arms around Fitz and the White Claw's shoulders. The latter removes himself, departing from his home to the front porch.
"Follow me."
And they do, joining him on the porch.
Hues shifting black, White Claw draws a glowing white symbol with his left hand. Once formed, he places his right hand in the center, triggering a portal to develop before them.
"This will get us close enough. We'll have to walk the rest of the way." Claw informs, hues returning to normal.
Huck is the first to enter the portal, too excited to wait. Fitz, on the other hand, walks alongside Claw.
"Thank you for doing this."
"As kind as that is, don't thank me just yet. My job isn't complete until I get you there safely." Entering the portal.
Fitz sighs before entering the portal with one last glance at the cabin, knowing this is only the beginning of his journey.
Next Chapter: The Wicked Witch.