Prologue 2: The Tale Of Mangrad And Svajone
Try as you might, you could not recall a time before you saw these things that no other could. What you do dimly recall is that no one took exception to it at first. Or that you even knew your talent to be strange at all.
Always had there been these little motes of light that could be seen on some days, if you squinted just right. At night they were much easier to spot then in the days, but it was not all that hard to keep track of them even in the mid-day sun once you had noticed them. Sometimes it was only a few of them. Sometimes the night seemed alight as the brightest day with their glow. Never did you get an answer from your father when you asked about these lights, and soon you thought it was just one of those things for which you were too young at barely five winters and would be told another time. But whenever you then asked if you could look for them when you were older, to walk into the forest and see where they all came from, then your father always acted strange and became quite adamant you drop the matter and speak to no others of it.
However, you were a child back then, not like you are now at more then twice that age. Back then you made it a game to chase after these lights whenever you had the time. At first, many of the other children, both younger and older, joined in on your game, even though their parents always seemed worried to see their offspring in your presence. But then the arguments started. Some of the older children began to claim that the motes of light did things they didn't do. That they saw them move in places where they weren't and in numbers that you had seen not in the brightest nights before.
So you called them out on their lies. In return, they were yelling. Then came the beatings. And then they shoved you in the mud and gave you a few good kicks just for approaching before running away and laughing. This, for some reason, was fine for their parents. Of the entire village, beside your own father, there was only a single person who never mocked you. A girl a year younger than you named Kveta, born with a lame arm and a rather unsightly patch of blotchy red skin covering her left cheek.
She too was often made fun off and while she could do little to help you, at least she spoke to you and never joined in. Yet her father was a man of much different temper than his daughter. The warnings from your own father were quiet clear, that you were to always avoid the man, especially when he came from the small tavern of the village or when you heard loud things from his families hut. You didn't quite understand why that was, until the day that you saw Kveta with an eye swollen shut and her red cheek looking almost as purple as a plum. Her father had taken exception to her being seen with you and indeed, it had been so loud in their hut the night before that half the village had heard the commotion, though no one had understand a word in all the yelling.
After that, you kept to yourself most of the time. The other children knew that they would not get in trouble for doing things to you that would make their parents mighty cross under any other circumstances, and if you dared to defend yourself, they would claim that you had done strange and vile things to them or babbled madness at them. Likewise you dared no longer to speak about what you saw, for the mockery and abuse would always be worse when you did. Worse yet, even the adults sometimes said mean things if you spoke about the lights in their presence, murmuring things and making weird movements with their hands at you that you didn't understand.
The other two who were always nice to you were your uncle and aunt, Mangrad and Svajone. They were the parents of your mother and lived just a short march away in a different village, though how they were part of your family was always one of those topics that made your father upset. You had never known your mother and it seem to you back then that he still grieved over her death. Likewise, your aunt and uncle too seemed to hate that particular topic, shooing you away at the first opportunity whenever it came up. Afterwards, they would talk in hushed whispers with a cold and anger directed at each other that you never saw any when else from them.
Their visits ware always nice, though, for your aunt Svajone loved to tell you every story you could ever ask for, seemingly determined to make up for your own father's inability to speak more then five sentences without lulling you to sleep. Meanwhile your uncle Mangrad would play dice with your father and drink whatever wine or booze was in season, the two content to spent some time with each other while your aunt fussed over you. They came twice in spring, twice in summer and twice in fall, staying at home only in winter except for that one year with the harsh winter, where Mangrad was among those who came with oxen carts to buy more firewood from your village.
One year though, they came only once in spring and there was no sign of them coming in summer either. Your father had told you that aunt Svajone had come down with a fever and thus could not make the trip. In fall then, they came again, though. At first your were very happy when you saw them approach your hut, but somehow your uncle looked as if he had aged ten winters, and your aunt had a strangely distant look on her features. You all came together as you always did, though no one spoke at first. After a bit, you began to fidget, which was when for the first time aunt Svajone looked at you, gave you one of her warm smiles and then turned back to look at her husband.
Something was odd with her and even though the gesture had banished your nervousness you said nothing and calmly waited for the two men to speak. At long last, your father broke the silence as he moved a cup of plum brandy to uncle Mangrad before pouring another for himself. "I'm sorry for your loss."
The older man just shook his head, taking a sip of the alcohol without bothering to wait for the usual niceties being exchanged. "She was old. So am I. One of us had to be the first." Wooden cups were clinked together in the pause that followed, then drained and immediately refilled. "Still. It's strange to be all alone in my hut now. No sons. No daughters. No wife. No one to keep me company left."
Your aunt looked sadly upon her husband at these words, gently stroking his arm as he spoke and before you thought about it, you just blurted out what was on the tip of your tongue. "But why are you alone? Is aunt Svajone staying with us and not coming back with you?" Only then did you notice something. Not a single word had your aunt spoken so far. No plate, fork and knife had been set out for her. No cup filled even though she always drank the first one with your father and uncle.
Before your mistake could properly sink in, your cheek began to sting. First the right one, then the left, for the floor of the hut was rough and you were falling down quiet quickly. You felt almost asleep in that moment, but the hot and hateful voice of your uncle still easily pierced the haze. "Don't you dare mock me, demon spawn. You took my daughter, but you won't get my wife." Something wet fell on your cheek, and then you knew no more.
It was the last time that you had seen your uncle Mangrad up close. He would still come to your village occasionally and have a drink with your father, but never again in your home, and never again were you allowed to get even close to him. Now he had joined those who pretended that you did not even exist, and in some moments, you wondered if that would have not been better for all around you. The only one who still smiled at you, however sorrowful it was, was your aunt Svajone. She still followed her husband around, never speaking a single word or being acknowledged by anyone around her.
With the years she grew stranger and stranger. Her body twisted and warped, her head bloating while her body shrunk. Skin turned pudgy and white, almost sloughing off the bone in some places. But still she smiled at you whenever you saw each other. It was still your aunt, no matter how much she fell apart. Only you could still see her and you wisely kept that to yourself. Not even your father and your only friend Kveta were allowed to know, for they too might have left you if you told them.
Nothing was meant to last forever, though, and in this summer, the signs were there. Last you have seen your uncle in spring, barely able to walk after having made the march from his home and looking pale and sickly. You can't say that aunt Svajone looks any better or worse then usual, for there is not all that much left of her too look. Just a withered old skull floating silently behind Mangrad, oblivious to most things around her. Even when she spots you, there is just a tiny glimmer of recognition on those empty sockets before her flesh-less face turns away again to stare into the nothingness.
That night your father stays in the tavern so long that you are fast asleep before he returns, even though you try to stay awake to ask about your uncle. Or at least you think so at first before you find his sleep-stead undisturbed in the morning. So you go to the tavern, trying to find out where he might be, and learn that your uncle passed away last night. Between the journey and some heavy drinking, he dozed off and could not be stirred again, your father holding a vigil over him ever since for all too see and his wife Svajone doing the same, but you the only one knowing about hers.
From there one things move quickly. It is improper to leave a dead body laying around and being of the family of the dead man, it is part of your duty to see him cared for. Hastily a pyre is erected on the cleared hill outside the village that is reserved for these occasions and while you walk from door to door to announce your uncle's death and ask for a small donation to his funeral. Before long, as modest pile of wood and herbs and other minor offerings have been assembled on the hill.
You are more then a bit nervous when you take up the spot at the head of the pyre, sending one of the men dropping off the last of the wood to have the body brought. As kin it is your duty to lead the vigil at the pyre, but most others present look upon you as if you are one of the things to keep away from it. Only Kveta seems worried for you instead of about you, having come along to help when you knocked at her family's door. With he father out in the woods today, he can hardly object to her being near you and you are more then grateful to have at least one friendly face nearby.
By the time the procession comes towards the hill, the sun only barely hangs above the trees anymore. It took time to arrange everything and in the rush of the moment, you never even noticed how long. The shadows lengthen, the trees casting them out like tendrils grasping for the hill while the first wisps of fog gather on the patches of moss between the stems. At first the torches carried by the small group bringing the body of Mangrad seem like a mere affection, but with each slow step towards the pyre, the light around them dims and by the time they reach it, it would be hard to see without the flickering flames.
It is with great relief that you silently nod to your approaching father, taking a step aside to leave the place of honor to him. No words are exchanged right now, for it would be improper to do so before the pyre has claimed your dead uncle. Four men drag him onto the wood, he himself wrapped in rough-spun cloth from head to toe while the pyres topmost layer is made of moss and flowers carefully laid out there by the villages midwife. With a twinge of sadness you watch the skull of aunt Svajone float aimlessly around the pyre, not even the slightest spark in her eyes hinting that she recognizes you. You know not if you should hope for them to be reunited or for both of them to find their rest in oblivion.
No great ceremony is made, no words said at all. A torch is passed to your father while the four torchbearers from the procession take places around the wood and once your father lowers his, they all do likewise and the pyre is set alight. Hesitant at first, for much of the wood is fresh and it was a moist few days, but once the moss catches, the flames rise eagerly towards the sky. Soon you all have to lower your gaze, the heat and brightness of the flames hurting your eyes, but no one speaks and no one moves, as it is proper.
But while you stand there, you see something that you never glimpsed before and as no one else reacts to it, you immediately realize that there will be no point in telling them about it. As if drawn by the smoke of the fire, something comes crawling from the shadows. Not from the nooks and crannies in between the rough patches of grass on the hill, not from some hidden crevice in the dirt, no, but from the edge of the shadow itself as if they were rats slipping out from under a sheet of cloth.
They are black and purple and the color of a festering wound, their bodies twisted and misshapen like a centipede that a bird had chewed on a few times and then dropped again. Tiny flaps of leather like skin flapped around them as if wanting to be wings, but the twisted broken things can do barely more then twitch roughly into one direction. Nearly you gasp as one seems to lunge towards the pyre and with only a great effort you wrench down the sound that nearly escaped your throat. Yet the thing suddenly stops, the spasms growing both fainter and more violent at the same time, stopping it a good bit away from the fire.
Though this one stops, others come. First a handful, then dozens, filing every bit of space between the mourners and the pyre itself with their writhing bodies. A few times they brush over your feet or along your ankles, your eyes clearly telling you that you should have felt their touch, but not even the faintest feeling stirs on your skin. It is easy to see the dirty looks the villagers give you as you stand there and silently fidget, but you do not yell. You do not cry. You will not give them the satisfaction of embarrassing yourself yet again. Not give them another reason to scorn you. And so you stand still as could as you can, teeth wrenched shut as the hordes of worms sieging uncle Mangrad's funeral pyre squirm and twitch all around you.
Yet the damage is already done. It takes a good while longer until only wood and bones are left to burn, the ceremony over, and when it is, many people take their time to glare at you for reasons you can't imagine. Some even whisper things and make these strange hand signs at you again, even though you did nothing but stand there. Even the worms have taken their leave, most slinking back into the shadows when they could not reach the pyre with a only a few still trying to enter the flames for whatever alien reason their minds might have.
Pleadingly you look upon aunt Svajone's skull, still floating above the pyre and staring down on it with empty gaze. She is gone, that you know. She is dead for a long while now and ever since she died you could see how she became lesser and lesser in whatever state she is right now. And yet it hurts to see her like this, your heart yearning for one of her stories instead of the silent scorn. For one of her smiles instead of the frowns and hasty steps away from you. So you stand there, mourning a loss that others already felt years ago, staring into the small flames while they burn down to embers and leave the small hill in the twilight of a nigh moonless night.
It is the voice of your father that tears you back to the here and now, and with a start you realize that everyone has already gone, except for him, you, and Kveta who looks worriedly at you. "There's a few people I have to talk to at the tavern. You should go home, Jaromir. Get some sleep." For a moment he looks undecided, but after a quick nod to Kveta he just turns around and leaves. And thus it is just the two of you, looking at each other over the embers, the only other company the motes of lite drifting through the woods around you.
What will you do now?
[ ] [Kveta] Send her away too. You want to be alone.
[ ] [Kveta] Let her stay / accompany you.
[ ] [Action] Go home as your father suggested. Some rest would definitely help you.
[ ] [Action] There is no point to all of this. The whole village hates you for some reason, so you might as well run away and spare them the pain of your presence.
[ ] [Action] Stay here. You don't want to see any of the villagers right now and you would rather make sure that no other strange thing comes for your aunt and uncle tonight.
[ ] [Action] Follow your father and try to find out what people want to talk with him about.
[ ] [Action] Write-In
AN: Well, I do hope this turned out as expected for you. Lots of interesting facets of the world are out in plain sight for you while others have to study years for their first glimpse upon them, but on the other hand, you have to deal with seeing these things all day and being a social outcast.
