Welcome, everyone, to my new fanfiction about an AU of my own !
It's a Medieval Fantasy AU, written from Alastor's point of view! I hope you enjoy it!
Be warned : the first chapter is dark, very dark, but the whole story isn't like that! So I hope you won't be disappointed after a few chapters ...
My early life was rather... chaotic, I'm afraid. But the word doesn't quite capture the full horror that it was.
You see, I remember very little before the age of 6, which I'm told is normal. However, I do have a few snippets, sensations that come back to me from that period when, as an infant and then a toddler, I was confronted with the violence of this world. One of them, the most frequent, is that of suffocating. I can still feel the familiar pressure of a hand around my tiny neck. Far from being an affectionate, gentle gesture like my mother's caresses, the grip was strong and rough, determined. It crushed my windpipe with disconcerting ease, preventing me from breathing and screaming. More than once, I felt myself slipping away. Nothingness enveloped me in its comforting arms, and silence lulled me to sleep with its soft, mute melody. Nevertheless, I kept coming back to the blinding, noisy life as red and screaming brought me back to harsh reality.
I never discussed this with my mother. I knew she would just smile at me and reassure me that it was just a hallucination. I didn't like it when she lied to me, so I avoided broaching the subject.
My first real memory was of our hovel. It was a windowless, damp-smelling, unlit cellar of a small burnt-out house. My mother had managed to build a small corner where she stored our meagre provisions, using stone walls to separate it from the living area. Against it was our bed, made of makeshift sheets laid on the muddy floor. In the corner leading to the surface, opposite our bedroom, was a tub for carrying water and a stone circle for making a fire to cook our food. A small pot, barely larger than a bowl, was set up with a makeshift support. She'd set it up here so that the smells and smoke could escape through the only possible opening. In one corner, there were toys she'd made for me. This limited our humble possessions.
Despite our precarious situation, my mother never stopped smiling. She was a great beauty in my childish eyes. Her ebony skin reflected the sun's rays as we emerged from our rat's nest, and her frizzy hair formed a kind of halo around her head. Those almond-colored eyes lit up my soul every time I looked into them. Her squashed nose and full lips gave roundness to her face, while her smile radiated from her imperfect teeth, yellowed by neglect.
She was resourceful, full of good will and kind beyond description. Most of the time, she begged in the markets, asking for work to prove her good will, always with a smile on her face. From time to time, she managed to earn a few pennies, and she was smart enough not to spend them foolishly. She counted, even though she'd never been instructed to do so, to make the most of the food that was going home. She never indulged herself, although I know she loved to look at the little handmade dolls we regularly passed by. Her eyes sparkled at these toys, little white women dress with beautiful clothes. She never commented on its, although I could see her gaze on these useless things. Personally, they disgusted me.
From an early age, I learned to fend for myself. Not that my mother didn't take care of me, far from it, but I was an independent soul. I was barely 6 when I took to the streets to rob merchants and landlords in order to support myself and my family. At the time, I didn't even realize I was doing it for that reason. I was just a kid, my mind focused on the fact that I was hungry and had to please Mom. It's today, with my adult mind, that I realize this.
I was often caught and beaten. People would just scream and spit at me, calling me a "child of Hell". I almost died several times, but I always managed to pull through. It wasn't for lack of trying, but I always managed to escape, to slip between the blows and get away. I was sharper and faster than them, despite the fact that I was starving.
I didn't know what I looked like back then. I didn't have any mirrors. The only thing I could observe was the color of my skin, via what I could see on my body. I was black, though not as black as my mother. Lighter, almost as if I'd faded. Although she told me my skin color was sublime, an illuminating dark caramel, I couldn't help finding it odd, strange, humiliating. As if I didn't fit into any of the boxes. In my life, there had only ever been two options: either you were black as the darkest coal, or your skin was a pale beige like limestone. One was from life, the other from minerals. My preference was clearly for the former. However, I was neither. I was an anomaly and, even if I didn't phrase it that way in my mind, I was well aware of the difference.
I tried to ask my mother who my father was, but she never answered. Whenever I broached the subject, she'd quickly divert the conversation by giving me a task to do or asking me about various subjects. I never knew, and I still don't, but I've lost interest. It was never important.
Still, my days were lulled by the routine of stealing, beating and cuddling my mother to comfort me. At the time, when I was 6, she didn't know I was a criminal. She didn't find out until two years later, at the dawn of my 8th birthday, when she saw me in action.
I'd developed my skills well in two years, and now I was a shadow that nobody spotted. I waited patiently in the darkness of the buildings surrounding the market. I watched the comings and goings of passers-by from a distance and, above all, I listened. I'd always had excellent hearing. I could hear the slightest sound flowing around me, like an imperceptible wave on a still lake. I would target my victim when I noticed his inattention, fatigue or illness. That day, I remember this old woman. She was a well-known local shrew who tended to hit children who approached her. Her eyes may have been milky, but her other senses were sharp. No thief would dare attack her. In fact, I was the only one who managed to steal anything from her. In her basket was a magnificent piece of meat she'd had to pay a lot for, the kind she could only afford once in a lifetime. Seeing it immediately made me hungry. I loved meat.
I waited a moment before seeing the opportunity before me. For a second, all attention was diverted. No eyes were on the old woman and her meat. So I dashed forward. Quick as a flash, I slipped like a shadow through the crowd, touching none of the components. Efficiently, I grabbed the leaf-wrapped meat and felt my lips curl in delight. This, however, was short-lived. For, as I fled, my eyes fell on my mother's almond eyes. There she was, kneeling in the dirt, picking up a copper coin that someone had just thrown at her. Her expression of pure surprise suddenly changed to black anger. Her exhausted features tightened into a grimace of fury. Without her even having to raise her voice, speak or whisper, I understood the order she gave me. With shame and a hint of disappointment, I dropped the marvelous piece of meat on the nauseating market floor and fled. My sense of hearing told me what happened next as I fled the scene of my petty theft: my mother had pointed out to the woman that her meat had fallen off. In exchange for this act of kindness and honesty, she had given her a bronze coin. My blood was boiling. It wasn't even enough to buy a crumb of bread.
When she returned to the cellar, I was sitting on our bed, my legs crossed beneath me and my gaze defiant, although deep down I felt ashamed. Not of having committed the theft, no, far from it. But of having been caught. She stared at me for a long moment, the stern face I didn't know her for, and finally sat down in front of me.
"You're not a crimi'al." she affirmed, her hard eyes fixed on me.
"Sh' ain't hu'gry, ma'." I growled back. We both knew it was true. She shook her head negatively.
"My baby." she cut in, causing me to lose consistency immediately. "I don't care about that. It wasn't yours, period."
"But, ma' ..." I tried to reply, but she stopped me.
"If you wa't to eat meat," she retorted. "Then go hu'ting."
"I don't k'ow how to do it..." I moaned, and then her smile reappeared, as powerful and luminous as ever.
"You're smart, my baby," she assured me as she took me in her arms. "You'll figur' it out, I know it."
I can't make up my mind how she would have reacted if she'd known those words would condemn her. I'd like to think that she'd have preferred me to carry on stealing rather than what I was about to do, as that would have been in keeping with her character. However, the truth is that I think it would still have ended tragically. She would never have been able to bear having fathered what she would consider a monster.
At her request, I started hunting in the forest surrounding our village. I really tried, but managing to catch game without anyone teaching you how was almost impossible, especially when you're 8 years old and the only education you've ever had was from your uneducated mother.
For weeks, I stalked rabbits, threw stones at birds, tried to trap a deer or to catch fish, but nothing worked. I just couldn't get my loot. I exhausted myself every day, returning to the cellar empty-handed, my head hung low, while my mother continued to encourage me. Nevertheless, the lack of food was making itself felt. I was literally starving. All the strength I'd expended on the hunt wasn't being rewarded, and my mother wasn't earning enough to feed me properly. I was growing and needed energy. Nothing provided it. I can still remember the pain in your stomach when you haven't eaten for days, the feeling of self-digestion, the sporadic, violent cramps of your stomach demanding its due.
One evening, it was dark and only the moon lit up the muddy streets of my village. I was literally dragging my feet, driven forward by the desire to find my mother. Of course, as usual, I didn't bring anything back, but the thought that I could rest in her arms gave me the strength to keep walking. I don't know if tonight I was destined to die in her embrace, but Hell showed me a way out. As I advanced, I spotted a drunken man lying on the ground. He was sleeping like a log, peaceful and motionless. I stopped as I saw that he was no better off than I was. His rags were like mine, dirty and torn. He was all skin and bones, and his swarthy beige skin contrasted with the muddy ground. He disgusted me to no end. This man, whom I didn't know, had used what little energy he had left to get drunk. Did he also earn money by begging? Did he steal other people's property to survive? I didn't know, and to be honest, I didn't care. The more I looked at him, the more I thought he wasn't so different from a deer. They both breathed. They both slept. They both were covered in flesh.
My mother's voice was telling me that it wasn't right, that it wasn't moral, but I never understood it. To this day, I still don't. Still, the man in front of me was no more important than the rabbit I chased, the bird I hunted, the deer I came after or the fish I envied. He was prey and, much to the chagrin of his colleagues, far too confident of his chances of survival.
I walked over to him and pulled out my knife. I remembered the feeling of death that had seized me as an infant. The neck. Attacking the neck meant death.
He was my first victim. All I brought back to my mother were the pieces of meat I'd clumsily cut from his body. She was delighted when she cooked them, congratulating me on my success. When she asked me what they were, I told her to taste and guess. When she answered turkey, I confirmed. I couldn't lie to her about it, my knowledge being limited.
After that, my hunting became nocturnal, without my mother suspecting for a moment what I was doing. I had told her that I always managed to catch prey at night, when they thought they were safe. I wasn't lying to her, not really. I was twisting the truth. It became one of my greatest specialties.
My crimes went unnoticed. Most of the time, the people I targeted were alone, without family or friends. I concentrated on the destitute. As for the leftovers, they were often devoured by scavengers in the process. Everyone thought the beasts were becoming aggressive, and battles were launched to drive the predators away. The irony of the situation was that they had beaten the beast several times without ever finishing it off.
It was only a few weeks before my mother fell ill. Suddenly, her health deteriorated and she began vomiting in the cellar. She also had diarrhea, and her ebony skin paled visibly. She was losing a lot of weight, even though she wasn't very fat anyway, and ended up in bed. I panicked and didn't understand what was happening. I looked after her as best I could, bringing her water to rehydrate her and, above all, food. Lots and lots of food. Sometimes I didn't even bother to cook the meat, which didn't help her case. I didn't know it at the time. I'd convinced myself that feeding her would save her.
The night my new life began, I was chasing a drunken man. He was staggering out of a brothel. I'd spotted him several days earlier and he was far from my usual criteria. He was a man with a family, known to many in the village. However, he was young, dashing and reckless. I thought his meat must be good enough to feed my mother. He was walking down a dark alley, away from the hustle and bustle of the town, but he didn't seem to want to collapse. I had no time that night. My mother had a high fever and needed to be changed regularly to prevent the cellar from smelling of excrement. So I decided to act. I advanced slowly, my knife in my left hand, and passed behind the man. I was as silent as a shadow but as determined as an army. When we were far enough away that no one could hear him scream, I leapt at his neck. Before he could utter a sound, my blade effectively sliced through his aorta and windpipe. He immediately bled to death and collapsed on the muddy street floor. I stood up as I gently removed my weapon from his neck. I was about to start butchering him when I heard an approving sound coming from behind me.
"Impressive," hissed a deep but muffled voice.
With dread, I turned back to the witness and my terror only increased. The man was huge, much longer than any human I'd encountered before. He was thin and entirely covered by a kind of hooded black robe. No bits of skin were visible, and all I could make out of his face were those luminous light-green eyes. My instincts told me to run, that I'd have a chance to outrun him, but my logical mind had quickly taken over: three meters for me meant two strides for him. I couldn't escape. I had to fight. He seemed to understand my intentions and sneered.
"I wouldn't advise you to think of me as that young man, my boy," he whispered, amused. "I'm far more competent than he is."
"Who ar' you?" I asked, curious. He merely tilted his head.
"He's not your first victim," he observed, startling me. "Although barbaric, your methods are well honed. You have all the makings of a predator."
He seemed to think things over before coming towards me. I was ready to fight, although I knew it would be very difficult to get rid of him. In my proud 8-year-old mind, however, I told myself that it was still possible.
"Yet you have the appearance of a rat," he finally says, leaning slightly towards me. "Even if they're omnivores, they're still harmless."
I frowned and tilted my head.
"Om-ki-vor'?" I questioned. I knew absolutely nothing about this word and, to be perfectly honest, most of the words coming out of his mouth made no sense to my illiterate brain. He just smiled, as if I'd asked the right question.
"Where are your parents, little man?" he asked. I said nothing, gauging him with my eyes. He shrugged.
"I need to talk to them," he explained, as if it were obvious.
"Ma' can't talk," I retorted. He tilted his head.
"And your father?" he contradicted. I remained silent. That was answer enough for him. "Tell me," he continued. "Can you describe the situation you find yourself in?"
I licked my lips as I thought. My 8-year-old mind summed up the situation as follows: this man saw me doing something wrong. I can't eliminate him because he's too big and he knows I'm dangerous. So I have two options: either I try to run away and risk him catching me, or I obey him but make him promise not to tell Mom what I've done. Of course, today with my adult eyes, I see far more solutions to this situation that could have led to multiple consequences, but I was only a child. My thoughts seemed to be reflected in my eyes as those of the man in front of me shone with a gleam of satisfaction.
"Don't tell Ma," I demanded in a firm voice. He smiled.
"All right," he agreed, in a solemn tone.
That's good enough for me. I glanced at my victim before changing my mind. Cutting him up to take a piece back to my mother would only make the situation worse, and I was already far too much in this man's thrall. As I turned away, I saw that the glow in those green irises had increased. So I directed him towards our cellar. He followed me fearlessly through the alleys, as if he knew I'd keep my word. I did, of course.
When we finally arrived, an unpleasant fumet rose from the slum's entrance. I winced and pushed my way into the putrid den. When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I saw my mother, still lying in the sheets, her eyes barely open. I walked towards her, glancing at the man who was bent over so that he could move around our cellar. His hand rested on his nose to block out the stench. He glanced around him before turning his attention back to my mother. He seemed saddened.
"Ma'" I called out, stroking her hair. She turned to me and, with her eternal smile, gazed at me lovingly. I continued, "There's a mist'r who wa'ts to talk to you."
She looked surprised and frowned slightly as I slowly turned her head towards the man. He came closer and knelt down in front of her. My mother blinked as if trying to recognize him. There was a long silence between them as they stared at each other intensely. My mother, despite her obvious lack of strength, tried her best to gauge the man.
"What d'd you wa't ?" she asked, her voice weak and hoarse, bordering on extinct.
"I can give him a better life," he replied simply. "I can take care of him when you've gone. We both know that's coming soon."
I remember the shiver of horror that ran through my body at that moment. I stared at the man, petrified, as dread rose to my throat.
"Don't say that!" I yelled, getting to my feet. "She's fin' ! She must just 'at, that's all!"
He gave me a sympathetic look but remained silent. I felt my mother's hand slowly tug at my rag and concentrated on her. Her face was sad but her smile always present. She was so thin, so pale, and I bit my lip to keep from letting out a sob. She already looked like a corpse.
"My baby." she whispered. "Com'."
I crouched down in front of her and she placed her cold fingers on my cheek. Tears streamed down her cheeks, flooding the hollows caused by her illness. But her smile never faltered.
"You cho'se, my baby," she said. "But you know he's right. You've always be'n smart."
"But Ma'!" I cried. She stroked my cheek to shut me up.
"I don't know who h' is," she confirmed. "But h' cam' to ask me if I was okay. He's not a p'rv'rt, I know that. I trust him. But it's your choice, my baby. I'm go'a die to'ight, I can feel it."
The crying didn't stop at my request. I wanted to show her that she was worrying for nothing, that she was dramatizing the situation, but my subconscious knew otherwise. I wanted to protest, but my voice broke before it left my mouth. I looked away from my mother so as not to show her my helplessness.
"I'm not promising you an easy life," the man suddenly intervenes. "For people like us, it never is."
I quickly looked up at him, incomprehension certainly evident on my features. He simply removed his hood and the balaclava hiding his face. I froze as I realized that he had the same skin color as my mother. It was the first time I'd seen someone other than my family with the same features as us. His face was long, thin and pointed, and those eyes, small and stretched out, stood out enormously on his face.
"But your mother's right," he agreed. "You're intelligent and gifted. I didn't need to argue with you for long to understand that, nor did I need to observe you in detail to realize it. Potential like that doesn't stay on the streets like a scavenger. If you follow me, I'll take you to the capital and educate you. I'll teach you everything there is to know, I'll offer you knowledge you could never acquire by being stuck here. I'll turn you from a rat into a bear."
I was trying to understand what he was telling me. I'd made the connection with what he'd told me earlier, but I could only grasp the surface of what he was saying. I could either stay with my soon-to-be-dead mother and decay in these filthy, unjust streets alone, or I could follow this man who looked like me and could live. Basically, I could either remain prey or become a predator.
The blood began to boil in my ears as I looked at my mother. She hadn't stopped smiling, but those eyes were already losing their sparkle.
"I can't l'ave you alon'," I said. She nodded positively.
"Please," she begged. "If you wa't to go, go 'ow. R'm'mber me with a real smile."
She caressed my cheek again and I moaned as I reached for her hand.
"Ma'" I begged as she looked at the man.
"What's your nam'?" she asked and he smiled at her.
"Zestial," he replied. She nodded.
"Tak' good car' of him," she ordered, and her voice was nonetheless firm, despite her weakness. "Mak' my littl' Alastor a go'd man." She turned her attention back to me as she smiled. "Don't ev'r forg't me, my baby, don't forg't my smil'."
I detailed her to memorize every one of her expressions, her teeth, her eyes, her nose, the joy that transfused through her skin straight to my soul. I placed a final kiss on her forehead. Zestial straightened up and looked around the room, searching for potential business. There was nothing. I'd already burned the toys to heat the cellar. The only thing I had left in this world was ironically dying out. He beckoned me to follow him and, with a last glance at my mother, I left the hovel as, with a look of relief on my face, I could see that she would soon be gone.
When we were outside, I looked at the man putting back on his balaclava and hood.
"What did I agr'e to becom'?" I asked. He turned back to me.
"The King's Assassin," he said, and my only response was a sigh.
No fear, no relief either. It wasn't even my air. I remain convinced that I had literally just expelled my mother's last breath.