Remembrance
”Death, is only the beginning.”
Many lives lived and lost, the man long since stopped counting. A multitude of cultures crossed his eyes, some lost in his lifetime, some mere footnotes in history books, and others continue to thrive to this day. There are, of course, other lives he wishes to forget – because death beneath another’s boot is perhaps more frightening than one might imagine. Some he considers even worse than the quick blips of insecthood because at least they’d been brief and the deaths without pain.
Only the most recent of lives before this one circle the edges of his conscious mind, plaguing him with a newfound fear: the fear of permanent death.
In that time the man had lived as a god amongst his people alongside others. They’d been nothing more than powerful mages when compared to the culture of Fiore, but in a world lacking in such talents they seemed otherworldly in the eyes of its denizens. Granted titles, riches, and luxurious temples in their name many of their egos inflated to grand extremes and it was with a bemused smile he watched them all turn to dark practices with their bloated bravado. He observed as the slightly benevolent people started not only making demands, but increasing them. When they requested the occasional sacrifice or someone’s life when they besmirched or spat upon the gods’ names…he laughed. Their antics intrigued him little more than a show to watch in tedium, passing away his free time as the lone god watched the lot as a zoologist studies animals in their natural habitats. Nothing he hadn’t done before, so he felt no need to participate as the man worked on things in the background.
Besides, his little tricks were hardly limited to the normal people that populated their society, many of his little “practical jokes” aimed at his “godly” brethren and sisters.
It was his little way of reminding them they weren’t infallible. They often shrugged things off, but he knew in the back of their minds they’d sweat at the little provocations alluding to this fact. Even if some people might later claim he did this in some vain attempt to keep them in check he held separate reasons.
He enjoyed watching them worry.
People so worried about their power when moments prior they’d stripped a man of every worldly belonging and then his life – often in a public manner to remind the rest of the masses their standing. They were the ones worthy of being worshipped, and woe be he or she who forgot this fact! And yet they always, without fail, lacked a response when he so innocently drew blood or reminded them of their overall mortality. Sometimes the Trickster God merely whispered to them, asking simplistic questions.
”What will you be doing in twenty years?”
“What will you look like in thirty years?”
“Will you be loved in forty years?”
The idea that things change scared them in such an entertaining way. Their hostility towards the denizens often heightened for a spell after his little stints, like some pathetic reassurance of their power and superiority. So enraptured with his little game the man failed to pay attention to the other one who hadn’t fallen to the parasitic effects of the ego. She had been forced to endure the people’s suffering time and time again, seeing their hatred through their very souls for these gods. After all only those who curried favor from them lived almost equally luxurious lives and were placed in power. Many of the citizens cowered in their homes, fearing when they might next be wrenched from their bed and brought before this tyrannical circle of power. And when they were finally killed for whatever reason as ordained by these people, their soul would pass before her’s and she would “judge” their life. All the wrong-doings of these people came before her, wept from the souls of those powerless and begging for some form of divine intervention.
The goddess chose to finally answer these pleas.
The rebellion came without warning and far too suddenly for his tastes. She’d accumulated power in the wishes of the deceased, able to overpower them one-by-one until the rest realized too late her intentions. Watching everything as he often did, the man merely smiled as he knew what would come next and welcomed it for one small reason: he’d become bored with this life. It wasn’t until the final few seconds of her spell he realized the truer intention, and with haste intervened. Not to completely negate the spell, but merely to change it, to alter it to his whims and further his personal wishes. The fact that everyone else came dragged along for the ride mattered little so long as he could continue to live in another lifetime. That tiny bit of carelessness nearly cost the man the rest of the lifetimes he felt owed to him. He both begrudgingly respected her and feared her for it.
”Remembering is always disorienting, yet pleasing after.”
By the age of five Faeral remembered who he truly was. It’d be years before the child could match the man (and sometimes woman) he’d been in other times past, but all that precious knowledge was there. All those experiences others would spend building up for naught in the end. He was the smuggest toddler in all his classes before recalling that such outstanding behavior wouldn’t go unnoticed. Instead he turned himself into a child not unlike those around him even if just a little quieter than the average runt.
This life would start out slow however, he noted quickly. Development of this race not only took some time, but he’d need to someday deal with a rather overbearing and controlling father – who held high expectations for his son. Early on the child grasped the disdain this man held for his wife, the woman who’d granted Faeral chance at a new life. She enjoyed the occult, something looked down upon by the man and his colleagues of higher society. If anything the boy thought it adorable for this woman to be into such things, amused when she spoke of the ceremony she held to ensure she gave birth to a healthy and wonderful child such as himself. Whether or not this lead to the old soul being born into this family or not, he opted to respect this woman for the possibility and that she apparently must’ve chosen him out of all the other souls floating out there. Besides even if the ceremony held no bearings whatsoever, this woman still gave birth to him and he saw it as an act worthy of respect if nothing else. So when children at school mocked him for his weird mother he did what any proper son should do: he got revenge in her name. Sure some children he outright punched without a further thought, but others he went through more clever means to avoid being yelled at by the older man too much. Cheat sheets appeared in backpacks and in desks, notes belittling teachers or crude writings and drawings of their friends might crop up that blossomed into beautiful bouts of chaos. Mauling precious objects also became a classic, things framed against whoever incurred his wrath at the time. People believed one so well when they generally behaved well, the boy becoming a bit of a socialite as he grew up.
At the age of ten he started plotting against his father.
He despised the man. Faeral had been fine with the man having his mistresses on the side, hardly caring because he quite obviously didn’t care about his wife and she appeared perfectly happy in her oblivious bliss. As far as he was concerned he didn’t have to go so far as to kill her however, the image of him standing over her body with the bloodied letter opener forever ingrained. Some bum who’d been hanging out on the streets around one of his father’s businesses took the blame, others easily fooled or bought off that the man never saw a hint of suspicion. And it angered him to levels he’d never expected. In all those years Faeral genuinely came to love his odd mother, the woman who’d been so happy to give birth to him. He honestly couldn’t recall anyone else being so over-joyed about it and so ready to dive into dark magic over someone else’s life in such an innocent manner. Gods knows how many fools in-love he’d played looking to revive their dead lovers.
It’d been his introduction to his grandmother that possibly drew the man who dared title himself “Father” that drove the final nail in the coffin filled with her crimes. Through that old woman Faeral learned of the forced marriage, the “stupid rich boy” thinking he could defile her daughter in foolish youth and get away without repercussions. One did not sleep with a dark mage’s daughter and think they could get away without paying some sort of price. As he learned music from the elderly woman in secret she eventually allowed him the honor of learning a form of her magic. Sound had always been her ally, one she’d been able to trust her life in time and time again without fail. As age overcame her however the woman’s abilities slipped here and there, her former power nothing but a fond memory as she taught Faeral power over and through instruments. It would prove a wonderful ally for some of the abilities he’d kept through each incarnation, the man eventually molding other forms for these powerful instruments in her possession and intertwining his original magic with them.
With a heavy heart and a blank, unreadable face he watched as legal mages and Rune Knights stormed the elderly woman’s household. Unlike his mother, Faeral never saw his grandmother’s body, merely her house going up in flames as she’d predicted in their final lesson. The instruments were his to hide and do with as he pleased, waving off any suggestion of leaving or hiding. For the second time the man that stood beside the young teen had caused another, unforgivable death as he stood there grinning triumphantly.
Someday he’d love to see that smile wiped off, dreamed of it.
It was the first true goal he’d tasted in a good while, perhaps a few lifetimes even. Such a gift those two women granted him, only one of them doing so knowingly. He’d smiled upon realizing it even, admiring that old crone all the more as he became her tool of revenge against that cruel bastard. ’A businessman’s son I shall be.’ Like a good, proper heir the boy learned about trade and economics, doing almost everything to his father’s likings – well, aside for refusing to acknowledge the man’s mistress’ existence (he didn’t care if legally she was his wife, she was just the horse he occasionally chose to ride as far as he cared). All she was good for, in his mind, was distracting the woman and occasionally practicing mind games on when he deigned to accept her presence in the house.
Besides the old man didn’t exactly enjoy his choice in friends. He’d been ticked when he brought that white-haired child in one day as a young boy who became his servant in name only. The man had been absolutely and wonderfully livid however when Erika invited herself in one day. Thwarting the man’s ploys to try and off her had become quite the hobby for his son these past few years, able to divert the attempts towards people he may or may not miss all based on Faeral’s whims at the time.
”Two can play at that game.”
”Death, is only the beginning.”
Many lives lived and lost, the man long since stopped counting. A multitude of cultures crossed his eyes, some lost in his lifetime, some mere footnotes in history books, and others continue to thrive to this day. There are, of course, other lives he wishes to forget – because death beneath another’s boot is perhaps more frightening than one might imagine. Some he considers even worse than the quick blips of insecthood because at least they’d been brief and the deaths without pain.
Only the most recent of lives before this one circle the edges of his conscious mind, plaguing him with a newfound fear: the fear of permanent death.
In that time the man had lived as a god amongst his people alongside others. They’d been nothing more than powerful mages when compared to the culture of Fiore, but in a world lacking in such talents they seemed otherworldly in the eyes of its denizens. Granted titles, riches, and luxurious temples in their name many of their egos inflated to grand extremes and it was with a bemused smile he watched them all turn to dark practices with their bloated bravado. He observed as the slightly benevolent people started not only making demands, but increasing them. When they requested the occasional sacrifice or someone’s life when they besmirched or spat upon the gods’ names…he laughed. Their antics intrigued him little more than a show to watch in tedium, passing away his free time as the lone god watched the lot as a zoologist studies animals in their natural habitats. Nothing he hadn’t done before, so he felt no need to participate as the man worked on things in the background.
Besides, his little tricks were hardly limited to the normal people that populated their society, many of his little “practical jokes” aimed at his “godly” brethren and sisters.
It was his little way of reminding them they weren’t infallible. They often shrugged things off, but he knew in the back of their minds they’d sweat at the little provocations alluding to this fact. Even if some people might later claim he did this in some vain attempt to keep them in check he held separate reasons.
He enjoyed watching them worry.
People so worried about their power when moments prior they’d stripped a man of every worldly belonging and then his life – often in a public manner to remind the rest of the masses their standing. They were the ones worthy of being worshipped, and woe be he or she who forgot this fact! And yet they always, without fail, lacked a response when he so innocently drew blood or reminded them of their overall mortality. Sometimes the Trickster God merely whispered to them, asking simplistic questions.
”What will you be doing in twenty years?”
“What will you look like in thirty years?”
“Will you be loved in forty years?”
The idea that things change scared them in such an entertaining way. Their hostility towards the denizens often heightened for a spell after his little stints, like some pathetic reassurance of their power and superiority. So enraptured with his little game the man failed to pay attention to the other one who hadn’t fallen to the parasitic effects of the ego. She had been forced to endure the people’s suffering time and time again, seeing their hatred through their very souls for these gods. After all only those who curried favor from them lived almost equally luxurious lives and were placed in power. Many of the citizens cowered in their homes, fearing when they might next be wrenched from their bed and brought before this tyrannical circle of power. And when they were finally killed for whatever reason as ordained by these people, their soul would pass before her’s and she would “judge” their life. All the wrong-doings of these people came before her, wept from the souls of those powerless and begging for some form of divine intervention.
The goddess chose to finally answer these pleas.
The rebellion came without warning and far too suddenly for his tastes. She’d accumulated power in the wishes of the deceased, able to overpower them one-by-one until the rest realized too late her intentions. Watching everything as he often did, the man merely smiled as he knew what would come next and welcomed it for one small reason: he’d become bored with this life. It wasn’t until the final few seconds of her spell he realized the truer intention, and with haste intervened. Not to completely negate the spell, but merely to change it, to alter it to his whims and further his personal wishes. The fact that everyone else came dragged along for the ride mattered little so long as he could continue to live in another lifetime. That tiny bit of carelessness nearly cost the man the rest of the lifetimes he felt owed to him. He both begrudgingly respected her and feared her for it.
”Remembering is always disorienting, yet pleasing after.”
By the age of five Faeral remembered who he truly was. It’d be years before the child could match the man (and sometimes woman) he’d been in other times past, but all that precious knowledge was there. All those experiences others would spend building up for naught in the end. He was the smuggest toddler in all his classes before recalling that such outstanding behavior wouldn’t go unnoticed. Instead he turned himself into a child not unlike those around him even if just a little quieter than the average runt.
This life would start out slow however, he noted quickly. Development of this race not only took some time, but he’d need to someday deal with a rather overbearing and controlling father – who held high expectations for his son. Early on the child grasped the disdain this man held for his wife, the woman who’d granted Faeral chance at a new life. She enjoyed the occult, something looked down upon by the man and his colleagues of higher society. If anything the boy thought it adorable for this woman to be into such things, amused when she spoke of the ceremony she held to ensure she gave birth to a healthy and wonderful child such as himself. Whether or not this lead to the old soul being born into this family or not, he opted to respect this woman for the possibility and that she apparently must’ve chosen him out of all the other souls floating out there. Besides even if the ceremony held no bearings whatsoever, this woman still gave birth to him and he saw it as an act worthy of respect if nothing else. So when children at school mocked him for his weird mother he did what any proper son should do: he got revenge in her name. Sure some children he outright punched without a further thought, but others he went through more clever means to avoid being yelled at by the older man too much. Cheat sheets appeared in backpacks and in desks, notes belittling teachers or crude writings and drawings of their friends might crop up that blossomed into beautiful bouts of chaos. Mauling precious objects also became a classic, things framed against whoever incurred his wrath at the time. People believed one so well when they generally behaved well, the boy becoming a bit of a socialite as he grew up.
At the age of ten he started plotting against his father.
He despised the man. Faeral had been fine with the man having his mistresses on the side, hardly caring because he quite obviously didn’t care about his wife and she appeared perfectly happy in her oblivious bliss. As far as he was concerned he didn’t have to go so far as to kill her however, the image of him standing over her body with the bloodied letter opener forever ingrained. Some bum who’d been hanging out on the streets around one of his father’s businesses took the blame, others easily fooled or bought off that the man never saw a hint of suspicion. And it angered him to levels he’d never expected. In all those years Faeral genuinely came to love his odd mother, the woman who’d been so happy to give birth to him. He honestly couldn’t recall anyone else being so over-joyed about it and so ready to dive into dark magic over someone else’s life in such an innocent manner. Gods knows how many fools in-love he’d played looking to revive their dead lovers.
It’d been his introduction to his grandmother that possibly drew the man who dared title himself “Father” that drove the final nail in the coffin filled with her crimes. Through that old woman Faeral learned of the forced marriage, the “stupid rich boy” thinking he could defile her daughter in foolish youth and get away without repercussions. One did not sleep with a dark mage’s daughter and think they could get away without paying some sort of price. As he learned music from the elderly woman in secret she eventually allowed him the honor of learning a form of her magic. Sound had always been her ally, one she’d been able to trust her life in time and time again without fail. As age overcame her however the woman’s abilities slipped here and there, her former power nothing but a fond memory as she taught Faeral power over and through instruments. It would prove a wonderful ally for some of the abilities he’d kept through each incarnation, the man eventually molding other forms for these powerful instruments in her possession and intertwining his original magic with them.
With a heavy heart and a blank, unreadable face he watched as legal mages and Rune Knights stormed the elderly woman’s household. Unlike his mother, Faeral never saw his grandmother’s body, merely her house going up in flames as she’d predicted in their final lesson. The instruments were his to hide and do with as he pleased, waving off any suggestion of leaving or hiding. For the second time the man that stood beside the young teen had caused another, unforgivable death as he stood there grinning triumphantly.
Someday he’d love to see that smile wiped off, dreamed of it.
It was the first true goal he’d tasted in a good while, perhaps a few lifetimes even. Such a gift those two women granted him, only one of them doing so knowingly. He’d smiled upon realizing it even, admiring that old crone all the more as he became her tool of revenge against that cruel bastard. ’A businessman’s son I shall be.’ Like a good, proper heir the boy learned about trade and economics, doing almost everything to his father’s likings – well, aside for refusing to acknowledge the man’s mistress’ existence (he didn’t care if legally she was his wife, she was just the horse he occasionally chose to ride as far as he cared). All she was good for, in his mind, was distracting the woman and occasionally practicing mind games on when he deigned to accept her presence in the house.
Besides the old man didn’t exactly enjoy his choice in friends. He’d been ticked when he brought that white-haired child in one day as a young boy who became his servant in name only. The man had been absolutely and wonderfully livid however when Erika invited herself in one day. Thwarting the man’s ploys to try and off her had become quite the hobby for his son these past few years, able to divert the attempts towards people he may or may not miss all based on Faeral’s whims at the time.
”Two can play at that game.”
