Hello again, everyone! It's been a little while since I've put another chapter up, so I thought I'd get writing! This chapter ended up being so long that I've had to split it into two parts! So enjoy part one of Zancrow's past story! And once again, thank you each and every one of you!


The world around him was green, and somehow, Zancrow knew that he was dreaming. He was lying on refreshingly cool grass in some shade, grass so green he couldn't ever remember seeing something so vibrant in his life. He sat up, bolt upright, wondering if this was one of those 'lucid dreams' he'd heard about. He glared at his hands, looked away, then looked back at them. They still looked as normal as ever. Zancrow blinked and flexed his fingers cautiously. It seemed so terrifyingly real here. Like a perfect utopia. Every now and then a small light like a firefly would drift lazily by him, and he followed their progress with wide eyes. But despite the beauty here he was beginning to get quite worried, looking around at the lush trees with fear and beginning to catastrophize. What if he never woke up? Ever? He could be trapped inside his own mind for the rest of his life! Is this all a dream?! Or was this really real?! Gripping the sides of head – trying to squeeze the horrible thoughts out of his mind – he leant forwards, trying to reason to himself. This place was heavenly. There was nothing wrong here. This was only a dream and people dream all the time. People would get sick if they didn't. He would wake up very soon, he just had to wait.

Vaguely reassured, he tapped his foot on the ground impatiently, deciding that he would explore until his brain told him it was time to rise and shine. This was his dream, wasn't it? Pulling himself to his feet, he began a slow amble around his dream world. Taking in the thick, healthy grass beneath his bare feet, the huge girth of the trees around him, the rich diversity of plant life and the abundance of colourful insects, Zancrow thought that really, his imagination had done quite a good job with the scenery at least. But apart from the fact that everything seemed so perfect and bright, his dream was disappointingly normal. There were no mythical beasts in the sky or strange plants or extraordinary creatures unknown to man to discover. There were no wars raging between ancient clans or damsels in distress or even any monsters to slay. Basically, there was nothing here that Zancrow would actually like to dream about, and so he was wondering why on earth land his mind would make up a world so elaborate without going to some kind of lengths to put in something that he would enjoy.

As he was silently chiding his own mind on not creating something a little more action-packed, quickening his pace without quite knowing why, the trees thinned to reveal a shining ocean to his left. The sunlight above played on its rhythmic waves, making reflections bounce in every direction and causing the whole body of water to glitter like a huge, rippling gemstone. Zancrow barely paid it any attention, but enjoyed the calming sound that only lapping waves could bring. He broke into a jog now, not exactly knowing what he was running from, until he glanced behind him. With horror, he saw that he was being followed by someone. From here he could see that a mop of jet-black hair topped the stranger's head and his clothes were an odd mix of a knee length black tunic and black boots, with a swath of white cloth wrapped around his front and trailing behind him. A large pendant glittered at his throat – Zancrow could see it glimmering in the sunlight. Ordinarily, he would consider confronting such a stranger, but this was a dream, and Zancrow was not thinking clearly. Looking over his shoulder with fearful eyes, he snapped his head forward again and broke into a sprint. He daren't look around just in case the stranger too, had started to run, deciding to pursue him further. Unable to stand anymore suspense, Zancrow chanced another glimpse just to put himself at ease. The creep was right behind him! His glowing red eyes stared furiously into Zancrow's, his orbs glittering ominously in his head, then suddenly, there was nothing.


Zancrow awoke very slowly, feeling groggier and weaker than one should after a decent night's sleep. Sitting up slowly, he remembered that he had been dreaming before he had woken up. Shaking his head, he tried to remember what it was about. It had been quite disturbing, but that was all he could recall. Mind oddly blank, he looked around his room warily, as if he half-expected his nightmare to pounce on him then and there. The bed he was lying in was small, just about big enough for him, and was covered in all sorts of odd, mismatched blankets, all of which were ragged and filthy, as if they had been gathered from the streets. Quickly throwing these off and standing up, now fully awake and alert, he cast his eye around the walls, noting the fact that there was a severe lack of any personality in here. The walls were completely bare, only covered in a coat of dark red paint, now stained with age, and they looked as if they had never been cleaned. The only piece of furniture in this room was the rickety, old bed and the cream carpet beneath his feet was no longer cream, covered in a multitude of stains and littered with all sort of rubbish. The ragged curtains were drawn firmly shut, casting a dingy shadow over the squalor before him. Whoever lived here was decidedly filthy and most likely poor – this place didn't look like it had been cleaned in a decade. Wading through the trash, he made his way towards the bedroom door, reaching for the doorknob (which seemed quite high up…) and walked out onto the landing. Here, the mess was no better – if anything, it was even more grungy. The landing was short but wide, covered in a shabby brown carpet that led to a set of cream, wooden stairs.

The house had the air of a rather expensive home that had been sorely neglected. The carpets were plush and thick but were an eyesore because of the little attention that had been paid to them; the room he had woken up in was graciously large, if dirty; and the doors were of a solid, good quality wood that was sadly no longer shining as they would have been when they were new. Looking around, Zancrow saw that a simple but huge mirror dominated the wall to the left of the door he had just exited. Stepping out cautiously into the middle of the landing (he heard a huge creak when his did so and feared that the floor would collapse), he positioned himself in front of the cracked mirror. The first thing he noticed was the state of his clothes – they were very plain and in serious need of a wash; a thin beige tunic hung precariously on his thin shoulders, held up by an old black belt and a pair of baggy white trousers. His hands and bare feet were distinctly grubby and his hair was shoulder length and tangled. Leaning in closer, pressing his hands onto the surface of the mirror, he examined his eyes. They were still bright red, but lacked those distinct rings. Standing back and taking in this image, he then noticed something that was arguably the most important factor of all. He was tiny. A child. He couldn't have been older than about eight. But this was a dream, and of course Zancrow just took this in his stride without question. He stood on his toes and used the edge of his shirt to wipe away the marks his hands had made, and as he did so, his stomach gave a hearty gurgle, reminding him of the fact that he had not yet eaten. Perhaps there would be something tasty lurking around here somewhere… though it was unlikely. Flinging open cupboards in the bedroom and scrabbling energetically under the bed, Zancrow searched in every nook and cranny for even the tiniest morsel of food, but there was none to be found. Despite his initial disappoint, Zancrow refused to give up for a while yet; he bent down on his knees and sifted through the trash on the floor, looking fruitlessly for something that may have been forgotten. After an intense ten minute search, Zancrow was defeated. There was really nothing here. Finally exhausted from his frantic efforts, he sank down onto the moth-eaten carpet and pondered what to do next. He supposed that he'd have to go outside and find something since there seemed to be nothing whatsoever in here.

Stepping out onto the landing once again, hearing it creak worryingly loudly underneath, Zancrow leant forwards and narrowed his eyes, squinting down the flight of stairs. It was pitch-black, despite it being early morning. Zancrow decided that he wouldn't take any chances – a stairway as dark as that certainly did not bode well; who knew what kind of horrors lurked down there? Shaking his head and retreating back into the bedroom, Zancrow turned to the window and swept back the curtains. Weak sunlight streamed through the grungy windows, illuminating the whole room, causing dazzling sparkles to dance across the walls as the light hit the various packets and wrappers. Blinking against the sudden burst of light, Zancrow shielded his face with a small hand and peered down curiously at the world beneath him. A pleasantly cobbled street sprawled out below, worn smooth and shiny from years of use, with other small houses lining the street opposite. They were all made of random, mismatched stone and looked quite old and crooked, but well looked after. Zancrow supposed that this must be the sort of town where they took the phrase 'If it ain't broke, don't fix it' to an extreme. Peeling his eyes away from this sight, he saw that his house faced directly onto a small turning off this main street – a dingy footpath that rapidly receded into darkness the further he tried to look down it. Zancrow shivered. That would be one place he wouldn't be exploring. Flicking his eyes back over to the road, he saw that people were beginning to gather; in the space of a few minutes the street had gone from being empty to somewhat noisy. Children darted around the legs of disapproving adults – laughing and brandishing sticks to play-fight with. Adults swarmed around the small stalls further along the road, hastily throwing fresh fruit and fish into their baskets before the thicket of people could grow any larger. An old man led his equally aged horse through the middle of the path, the old mare pulling a wooden cart laboriously. Some of the naughtier and more daring children nudged each other, grinning, taking turns to try and leap into the cart and take a quick ride before they were yelled at and chased off by the owner. Zancrow leant on the palm of his hand happily, enjoying the scenes before him, watching the adults rushing hither and thither like ants, trying to finish their business; the children chortling as they saw the faces of their friends as they were pursued all the way down the street; the gratified mare shaking her head as she was fed a fat carrot…

Suddenly there was a loud shout. Zancrow head snapped to the right in the direction of the yell. Two men were stood in highly aggressive poses, taking turns to snarl insults at each other, their faces contorted in anger. From what he could hear, all they were arguing about was who would get the last piece of haddock. What was perhaps most disturbing was the fact that no one was even bothering to break up this pointless fight, simply weaving around the scene, focused entirely on buying fish or apples or whatever they needed, and wading through the crowds. Zancrow wondered why someone wasn't trying to stop this argument – they'd start throwing punches any second now if someone didn't do anything about it! But all he could do was just sit there, watching the verbal abuse escalate until, finally, one man struck the other. Had he been in his normal body, Zancrow could have torn them apart in an instant, getting involved himself and wiping the floor with them before they knew what had hit them. But he wasn't in his strong, wizard body; he was just an eight year old kid and there was nothing he could do about it. Resigned to simply waiting to see how this would all end, Zancrow sighed. He liked fighting – he really did – but not when it was simply because of petty anger. It just seemed a waste of energy to work yourself up for no reason – that energy would be better put to use doing something that really counted, like getting stronger, or even taking revenge. Eventually the fight dissipated (very quickly Zancrow noted – as if this happened quite regularly), and the men went foolishly back to their business, each sporting minor injuries. Zancrow shook his head disbelievingly. If you're going to fight, he thought amusedly, at least do it properly.

Looking back at the rest of the street with the incident fresh in his mind, he began to notice that the town wasn't quite as perfect as he had first assumed. The boys that Zancrow had seen playing with their sticks were now trying to hit the old horse, causing her to rear up and tip the cart full of produce everywhere. They laughed and dashed off to leave its sorry owner to comfort his mare and lament the fact that he would probably not eat well for the rest of the month. Across the street, a mother tugged at her son's ear, screaming into it furiously, telling him off for ruining the poor old man's only hope of earning any money. The boy burst into tears, but that only made his mother pull harder. Tearing his eyes away from this unpleasant scene, Zancrow looked to the right again at the market stalls. They were as crowded as ever, multiple fights breaking out between young and old, men and women. Zancrow couldn't really believe what he was seeing. Surely a town couldn't function if this sort of violence broke out constantly? Maybe he was just in a rough area… Perhaps it would be nicer elsewhere. At any rate, judging by the size of those crowds, he wouldn't be able to buy his food at the market stalls any time soon. Perhaps he should go past them and head down to what looked like the high street.

Reluctant to exit the house through the front door (he was not going down those creepy stairs in a thousand years), he shunted open the window with a small grunt and gently eased himself out onto the windowsill. A couple of scrambles later, he was on top of the roof which was made of rough slate, affording him quite a lot of grip. He looked down. No one had even noticed that he was up here, but that was hardly surprising – the crowds below had more important things to concentrate on. Stepping over the crest of the roof, he sat down and shimmied down the steep side, stopping once he reached the edge. Now he was on the leeward side of the roof which faced away from the street he had been watching. On this side there were more houses, packed together in a random sort of way, one house facing him diagonally on, another with its short end towards him. There seemed to be no sort of designated pattern – the houses must have all been built at different times as the town got bigger. Nearby each house stood an old, wrought-iron street light, which would glow with an eerie orange quality when night came. Here, it was utterly devoid of people. All of the townspeople must be out at this time buying food and supplies, Zancrow guessed. Well, more like wrestling it from each other's hands. He had no wish to get caught up in the mess behind him, so Zancrow decided to try and find his way to the high street through these backstreets. Still on the edge of the roof, he thought that might be able to jump from one corner to the corner of the next house if he put some power into it. Backing up slowly, he carefully calculated where and when he should jump – and with a burst of courage – dashed towards the edge of the roof. When he had reached the very end of the corner, he leapt with every bit of his strength, arms stretched out to hopefully grab the edge…

Whumpf. None too delicately, Zancrow had reached the next house. One hand hung on for dear life onto the very edge of the roof, the other was clamped tightly around the drainpipe, leaving him dangling somewhat awkwardly, his feet trying to find some sort of foothold. All in all, he was quite stuck. Zancrow sighed. He should have thought about this first. With a fair bit of trepidation, he let go of the drainpipe and quickly joined his other hand in hanging on to the roof edge. Swinging to his left, he clasped his legs around the slick pipe and heaved himself onto the roof with some difficulty. Finally: he was one house closer to the high street. Pulling himself to his feet, he revelled in his success for a while until he realised something fairly important that, in hindsight, he should have considered. How was he going to get down once he reached the high street? Zancrow felt the triumphant smile slide off his face. He couldn't jump down from this height, he'd break his legs! Nor could he clamber down any of the drainpipes – they were simply too slippery! He tried sliding down backwards onto a windowsill and seeing if he could jump down that way, but it was just too narrow and still too high. For the second time in about five minutes, he was left with very few options. Should he wait for someone to come and get him down or should he just jump? He was definitely not going to let one of these horrible townspeople see him trapped like this – no doubt they'd just make a mockery of him. No, he'd gotten himself into this situation and he'd get himself out of it.

Doing a quick scan of the area to see if there was something helpful nearby, Zancrow saw that some of the buildings had little extensions attached to them that had much lower roofs than the main houses. This was his chance! There was a house with one of these extensions just two leaps away, and Zancrow knew this was possibly the only way down, so he thought he'd take the risk. The next two jumps were not nearly as challenging as the first, and so he cleared them with relative ease. A quick hop later and he was on top of the of the small extension. Then it was just one more bound and he was on the floor, a slight quake travelling up his legs as he landed. Zancrow didn't think he'd ever been so relieved to have his own two feet planted firmly on the ground, and he gave a shaky laugh as he thought that that adventure may not have been his best idea.

Still in the backstreets, he stuck close to the houses, hiding in the shadows that they made in the sunlight. This seemed to be the right way – he could hear the shouts from the market stalls on his left, the houses in the way muffling the sound slightly. If he had this worked out correctly, if the street he had been watching was on his left, then the high street would be straight ahead. He wouldn't be able to miss it because he was sure that it cut right across the path he was following at the present moment. He sped up, suddenly hungry at the thought of all the food that would be there, just for the taking. He hadn't any money, but he was too starving to care. Surely they wouldn't miss the odd little morsel?

As he jogged along, Zancrow noticed that the houses on either side of him appeared to get older and older the closer he got to the high street. But that, of course, would make sense – the high street of the village would likely be the oldest part, the other houses would have been built around it as the population got larger. Look! There was even a thatched cottage over there. Very prone to being easily distracted, Zancrow began to inspect all of the homes around him, knocking on stone walls and walking on gardens. With a complete disregard for manners, he even peeped through a few of the windows – one of them had unfortunately been left wide open, and Zancrow stuck his head right inside to have a good neb at someone else's house.

He had just begun to bend down and scrutinise the flowers of the next house's garden, when it suddenly came to his attention that he remembered quite a few of its features. Here on his right were those pink peonies; and here! Here was that old stone path with the crack in it that always made you jump about a foot in the air if you forgot it was there. Standing back to look at the house as a whole for the first time, he realised that he knew this old, stone home. He knew all of its contours, all of its rooms, all of its, well, everything. This was his and his mum's home! Of course! His mum would help him out in a heart-beat, why hadn't he come here first? Stepping over those peonies that he had always hated so much, he approached the front door cheerfully, wondering why he had woken up in that musty old house in the first place when he could be here.

Without knocking, he shouldered open the heavy door, turning and closing it gently behind him. Turning back around, he found himself in a small, relatively empty hallway, which was painted in a tasteful mixture of white and red. Zancrow looked down. There was a small carpet here for people to wipe their feet on. He hastily did so, the sharp bristles digging painfully into his soles. When he had wiped all the muck and grime away, he stepped forwards and pushed open the pristine, stark white hallway door and stepped into the lounge. The inside of his home matched the outside perfectly. It was warm and cosy looking in here, a dark red rug was spread out over a shiny, walnut wood floor with a matching wine red sofa sitting near the window on his right. A bookcase stood to the left of the sofa, stacked with all kinds of books, ranging from novels to books detailing all kinds of sciences. A large, open, brick fireplace dominated the opposite end of the room, and it held the sooty embers that were the remains of a fire that had been crackling merrily only a few hours ago. Zancrow went right ahead and flumped down onto the sofa, shouting as he did so,

'I'm home!'

There was no answer. Zancrow wasn't worried, after all, everyone was out at the minute at the market buying whatever they needed. He was then forcibly reminded of the huge crowds that had been swarming around the stalls and the fights that had broken out there. He shuddered. He hoped his mum wasn't hurt. Twisting nervously in his seat, he decided to go to the kitchen to get something to eat to take his mind off these troubling thoughts. He knew where the kitchen was, of course; just through the door next to the fireplace. Exhaustedly pulling himself to his feet (why, oh why had he not eaten sooner?), he made his way slowly towards the kitchen door, pushing it open.

He perked up as soon as he got in there – the sumptuous smells of perhaps a hundred different delicious foods hit his nostrils as soon as he walked in. Or so it felt that way. In reality, the kitchen was fairly well stocked, there was a bread bin on the counter giving off some nice scents and jar of some brightly coloured marmalade near to it, and Zancrow could spy some biscuits nearby that looked rather tasty. He supposed that there must be a pantry or some kind of food storage nearby, but it was the bread that had taken his fancy – he loved bread. Opening the bread bin, he quickly snatched out a promising looking roll and crammed it in, the whole lot. It was rather difficult to chew and was awfully dry, but he enjoyed it all the same. Still munching, he filled a glass full of water from the tap and poured it into his mouth to make it a little easier to get down. It helped a little, and just as he reached out to turn on the tap again to fill up his glass again, he heard a high-pitched yell from behind him. Zancrow started and almost choked on his mouthful, swinging around to look at the source of noise. It was his mother, standing in the doorway to the kitchen, a shocked and horrified look on her face. She was tall and slim, with thin, almond-shaped, azure eyes and shining black hair that hung in loose curls around her face. The long black dress she wore complimented her figure very well and a basket full of food was hanging from her arm. At one point, she could have been considered extremely beautiful, with her voluptuous figure and bright eyes, but now she looked dishevelled and unsightly; her hair was straggly and knotted, her eyes had a wild quality to them, and wrinkles were beginning to form around her once full face.

Zancrow smiled – oblivious for just a second to his mother's anguish in the delight of seeing her – and swallowed, opening his mouth to greet her.

'Get out!' she shrieked.

'Get out of my house!'

Zancrow froze. This was not the response he had been expecting. What was going on? He looked around himself fearfully, looking for a way to step back from the situation but found none. He was backed right into a corner of the kitchen, completely trapped. He didn't know what to do, all he could do was wait for his mother to make a move. Unflinchingly, she picked up the jar of marmalade and moved towards him cautiously, obviously as scared of Zancrow as he was of her. As any cornered animal would, Zancrow blindly attacked. All he intended to do was knock the jar out of her hand and run, but she jerked it far out of reach before he could even get close. But it had created the opening that he needed. Zancrow charged past her and into the lounge, where he heard the jar sail over his head and smash into the opposite wall. The sight of the gunk oozing sickeningly down the wall and shards of glass strewn everywhere made the mess look like some kind of battleground. But Zancrow dashed past that, heart thumping loudly in his chest, a nauseous feeling building in his throat that had nothing to do with fear…

'Lucifer!' his mother screeched, as his blonde head whipped around the doorway. 'Lucifer!'


It was a full five minutes before Zancrow finally stopped running. Bent double, panting, he came to a stop in the middle of an alleyway where he knew he'd be safe. Letting out a huge sigh, he slumped against the wall and slid onto the floor. That's right. He wasn't allowed back. His mother had hated him from the moment he had been born. And all because of his red eyes. She believed him to be the spawn of some kind of devil – there was no way that any child of hers could have eyes like a demon's. And he supposed it wasn't just his eyes either – it was his fire that had finally caused his mother to drive him out of the house. Glumly, Zancrow put out his palm and summoned a small flame that crackled right in the centre. It felt warm in his hand and made flickering light dance on the dank stone walls of the alley. He let it shudder and sway for a little while, watching it – slightly mesmerised – and thinking deeply. This town was one of the last, tucked away settlements in Fiore that still loathed magic. In a sense, it was rather backward – they still tried to get along without magic unlike the rest of the country, refusing to use the 'foul, black curse' to make their lives easier. And this hatred was all because of one wizard, the Black Mage Zeref. They simply couldn't forget what he had done all those years ago. Using his dark magic, he had created thousands of demons and plunged their world into chaos. Supposedly, this old tale was the reason that magic was still hated here, even today, but it seemed ridiculous. If they just opened their eyes they could see how helpful magic truly was; Zancrow had heard stories of wizards who could make any plant grow, could summon rain whenever they wanted and could do hard labour in ten minutes that would take four horses a whole day! But what could his fire magic do? All it could do was burn things, what use was that? He thought miserably that this was all Zeref's fault. If he hadn't given wizards such a bad name then maybe he could have been happy here, whatever his magic was. Zancrow supposed that he was probably dead now – the tales were all about an ancient time hundreds of years ago. It didn't stop him from hating Zeref though; it felt good to focus all his anger on one person. It was all Zeref's fault. It was his fault that he was sitting here in an alleyway. It was his fault he had horrible clothes, and it was his fault he was hungry. It was all – his – fault.

After a little while of sulking in the alleyway about Zeref and his horrible town, Zancrow knew that he couldn't stay here forever, it was quite cold and he couldn't use his Flame Magic for much longer as he could feel that familiar air pressure that meant rain was coming. Still grumbling, he hugged his arms around himself for some kind of warmth and trudged back to the house he had woken up in. He could remember the way quite well, but in his panic he had run to an unfamiliar part of town. He paused and looked left and right. He had looped around the high street and ended up at the house he had woken up in, having come from the opposite direction he had left. Perfect. Now, to get inside… Still in the backstreet, he attempted to jump up the drainpipe (but it was too slippery), he tried jumping up from the ground floor windowsill to the top floor's (but it was too high) and he tried pushing open the back door (but it was locked tight). At a complete loss as to how to get back inside, Zancrow thought that he could always try and climb back the way that he had come – by climbing back up that extension and jumping from house to house. But he was reluctant to go through all that again. There had to be another way up, surely he'd dealt with this problem hundreds of times before?

Hands on his hips, his scarlet eyes roved over every part of the building, searching for something, anything, that might help him climb back up. Perhaps there was a window open somewhere? Aha! Right there, up on the top floor, there was one such window open just a crack and Zancrow could see that a small length of rope was dangling out, bobbing slightly in the breeze. Unfortunately, he must have forgotten to let down the rope so that he could get back inside. But how was he going to get the rope down so that he could reach it? Kneeling down on the floor, he scooped up a load of pebbles and odd bits of stone. If this didn't work, nothing would. Standing back up, he hurled all the rocks one by one at the rope in the hopes of knocking it down. After perhaps five or six throws, one stone finally succeeded in catching the rope on its edge, causing it to unfurl and drop down far enough that Zancrow could reach it if he stretched his arms. He did so hastily, eager to get back inside where it was warm and safe.

It was rather a difficult climb, but it was far easier than if he had chosen go by the other route. When he reached the top, he clutched the rope with one hand and pulled the window open wider with the other. He clambered inside, finding himself in the bathroom of this house. It was a little less grungy than the rest of the house, surprisingly. The white walls still looked fairly bright, the bath was not spotless, but rather clean and the shower curtains looked freshly washed. It even smelt okay in here. Well, hygiene was important. Wrapping the rope around his arms to make a neat bundle, Zancrow saw that the other end of the cord had been tied tightly around the base of the cream toilet with tight knots. Placing the bundle on the window for next time he wanted to go out, Zancrow checked the knots to make sure that they were nice and sturdy so that there would be no accidents. A few adjustments here and there and he was sure that nothing would happen the next time he climbed down. Before he left the bathroom, he slammed the window firmly shut for good measure, then opened the door and walked out onto the landing.

Lost for just a second, he realised that the bathroom was thankfully right next to the bedroom. Already feeling at home here, he pushed open the bedroom door, stomped through the rubbish and collapsed on his bed. Strangely, he didn't feel very sad or sorry for himself at all. He'd accepted a long time ago that he wasn't wanted here and there was no point worrying about that which you cannot change, right? The thing he was most upset and angry about, in all honesty, was the fact that he had barely eaten anything today, and that he would have to try even harder to get some food tomorrow. Even though he had to live like this, he was very lucky really; he could have no house at all, which would be even harder. When the previous owner of this house had moved away a few months ago, Zancrow had been fortunate enough to find a way into the top floor just as the man left, desperate for at least one night of shelter. Like his mother, the rest of the town knew him to be a wizard and believed him to be a devil too, and constantly tried to drive him out. After he had decided to live there, of course the house could not be sold – no one would dare live in the house in which the demon of their town supposedly haunted. He was no demon (he told himself often) but there was no denying that he was a wizard. He must be the only one here, surely the rest of the wizarding community kept well away, aware of this town's magic hating ways. However, he knew why he alone had ended up here in the first place. It was his father's fault. Zancrow had never met him in his life, and he was damn sure why. Zancrow knew for a fact that magic ran in families, and his mother was no more a wizard than that scruffy little stray dog down the road. It didn't take a genius to work out what had happened. His father had obviously been a wizard and had tried to settle down in this town, unaware of how unwelcome he was. As soon as he'd found out how much his kind were hated here he must have gotten cold feet and left his mother as quickly as possible, leaving her with a magical baby to raise by herself. It made Zancrow angry. He was angry at his father for leaving him here, he was angry at his mother for not looking after him, he was angry at his town for hating him, and most of all, he was angry at Zeref for the life he'd made this wizard lead.

One day, one day, he'd leave this wretched place and go to somewhere where he'd actually get some respect for being a wizard. No one would stare at him and his red eyes, they'd all be in awe of his magic. Zancrow wanted to see the rest of his country, the places that loved magic and used it every day. That sounded like the kind of world he wanted to live in. But for now, even he knew that he was far too young to manage such a long journey – this town was in the middle of nowhere! He wondered what wizards did as jobs. Obviously there would be wizards that helped people with ordinary things like ploughing crops and building things, but surely there would be much more… exciting things for wizards to do like… like… slaying monsters! And dispelling ancient curses, and fighting other powerful mages, and beating bad guys! He was sure that a wizard's life was bound to be action-packed and full of adventure, and Zancrow could hardly wait to finally escape this town and go on a journey. Filled with these happy thoughts, he spent the rest of the day trying to read a book he'd found a while ago in the streets. He couldn't read very well, but knew enough to just about get the gist what was happening. The story kept him occupied for a good while until nightfall, when he climbed into his musty-smelling bed and fell asleep, dreaming of wizards and monsters and adventure.


It was almost as if no time at all had passed from the moment he had lain down his head to the moment he had woken up again. The dream was different; it was a new morning in the town. Zancrow threw the blankets off his makeshift bed and carefully stepped towards the window that looked over the street, crouching down to hide the hide the bottom half of his face. Just like the other day the town was bustling, full of noise and laughter, still the occasional fight breaking out here and there. Knowing better this time, Zancrow drew back and headed for the bathroom. The rope was still there, and he threw it out of the window and into the backstreet, shimmying down it somewhat ungracefully. Jumping the last couple of feet onto the floor, he wondered how he was going to hide the rope. It would be too much for people's human curiosity to stand to not climb up and have a look inside his house. He had nothing of real worth to steal, but he certainly didn't want anyone looking around his belongings. He supposed that he could just throw it back up and leave a pile of rocks nearby so that he could knock it down again. Hastily, he constructed a small pile of debris under the windowsill so that nobody could see it, then (with a great deal of effort) he lobbed the cord straight upwards, where it landed, quite nicely, inside the window.

Satisfied with the fact that no one could possibly reach it, no matter how tall they were, Zancrow decided that today would be the day where he would go to the high street at last. He would be forced to steal this time to get food – he had no money, no food in his house and no one who would support him. Serves them right really, it's not like he doesn't exist. He had to eat. It was almost as if he was talking himself into stealing. He didn't like the thought of taking what wasn't his, but at the present moment, he was feeling too bitter to care. He had just passed his mother's house, and he glanced at it briefly with a sinking feeling in his stomach. The bright lights shining in the windows and the rich scents of food wafting from it stiffened his resolve. He carried on towards the high street, a vengeful glint in his eye. He would take what the town owed him.

It took perhaps a few seconds for the townsfolk to realise that the demon they feared was walking their high street. Maybe it was hungry? Not for food, certainly, surely it wanted to devour the human beings that it walked amongst! It was walking in such a purposeful way that all of the townspeople skirted out of its way, pulling their family and friends closer for safety. They couldn't anger the thing, or else it may curse their town more than it already had done, so they just had to let it go where it wanted and take what it wanted. Fearful and angry eyes followed Zancrow everywhere he went, and even though it was tragic, Zancrow couldn't help but stifle a laugh. He was an eight year old kid – what the hell was he going to do to them? But he couldn't deny that this fear surrounding him was useful, he could probably take whatever he wanted without worry. People wouldn't dare to come any closer than ten feet, obviously they believed all this demon rubbish. The bakery soon came into view; it was here Zancrow had chosen to plunder. Pushing the door open, anxious gazes watching him, he wandered in, ogling in wonder at all the different kinds of bread laid out all over the shop. Before he could reach any of them, the owner of the shop, the head baker, stomped out from the kitchen behind the counter. The moment he saw that Zancrow was inside his shop he froze, then promptly turned on his heel and trudged back inside the kitchen. Zancrow wasn't complaining; he stuffed his pockets full of all sorts of good food – twisted rolls, small granary loaves, bagels and lots of little crackers. Heavily laden with his prize, he scuttled out of the door and headed straight for a refuge – the alleyways that only he knew so well.

Faintly remembering the complex layout, he went in the direction of what he thought would be the deepest part, somewhere where he definitely wouldn't be disturbed. Here, he sat heavily down on the stone floor with a grunt, debating with himself about what he should do with the bread he had taken. It would do no good to put it on the ground, it would get filthy… Huh? In the wall of the alley, a brick had been removed and in its place, there was a large wad of some dark-blue fabric stuffed in there. Zancrow pulled at it roughly. It was a blanket, thick, soft and velvety, with tassels all along the edges. Had someone left this here for him? Had someone been watching him come here? Eagerly, he laid it on the cold, stone floor, placing his bread in little neat piles on top of it, then sat down on it. It was warm and comfortable, far better than resting on the bare path. Zancrow felt a rush of gratitude to whoever had left this here for him, he was sure that this wasn't an accident. He stood up and rummaged in the gap to see if there was anything else. There was! Carefully, he pulled out a flask, with something sloshing around inside of it. Zancrow opened it, finding fresh, clean water inside. He's never been so happy in his life. It wasn't the fact that he had water, or somewhere nice to rest, it was more the fact that someone had taken it upon themselves to help him; no one had ever done that before.

He leant forward and scooped up some wooden debris, setting light to it so that he would have some light and warmth to eat by. Cheerfully, he made a start on his bread, wondering which of the townspeople had decided to donate such a comfortable blanket. He had to stay here every time he stole food – the people would get angry and scared when he did so, and often attempted to drive him out of his house afterwards. It was safer to be in the alleyway, even if it was in the open. After all, he knew these winding paths better than anyone, so if he was chased, he could lose them easily. Refusing to think about this anymore, he continued eating, enjoying the heat of the flames and the comfort of the blanket. After he had gotten about half-way through his makeshift meal, he heard an odd noise. Zancrow cocked his head to one side, listening. It sounded like a light 'clack', like a single footstep. His heart suddenly starting beating very fast, whilst he sat stock still, on high alert. This hadn't been a trap, had it? They hadn't already found him, had they? If the whole town came after him now, he'd have no chance of escape. Another 'clack'. Another. Another. Another. He stood up slowly, flames starting to crackle around his fists. There was someone coming towards him, the footsteps were getting louder and louder. His heart was fit to burst, it was beating so quickly. As the footsteps got closer, he could feel a strange pressure in the air. It seemed to paint a picture of the mysterious figure heading towards him. It was a wizard who was coming towards him, and a powerful one at that. Zancrow relaxed ever so slightly. A wizard was far less likely to be a threat – perhaps it was his father! Still wary, Zancrow couldn't help but feel a small glimmer of happiness, lowering his guard drastically. Eventually, an old man came into view. His white beard was massively long, reaching all the way down to his waist, and his hair was not too far behind in length. He wore a black eye patch over his right eye and the eye that was uncovered was staring at him, with what Zancrow thought was a rather calculating look. Zancrow felt a little disappointed; this weird old man was far too old to be his father. But all the same, he was a wizard, what was he doing here?

The old man came even closer, until he stood right over Zancrow. He was incredibly tall, and Zancrow quailed slightly under his gaze, but he was determined to sound confident. Looking up and into this man's eye, he asked of him,

'Who are you?'

His voice shook slightly, and the man stayed silent for what seemed to be an eternity. Eventually, he seemed to make up his mind to answer. He stepped back, breaking their eye contact for just a moment, then spoke.

'My name,' he said softly, 'is Hades.'


Thank you for reading, hope that you enjoyed this chapter! I've had this tale in my head for a quite a long time now, and it feels really great to have it all written down. Part two to come soon!