Chapter Text
“Come, we don't have all night.”
The little boy trailing behind the elderly woman was doing his best to follow her trail, but being so small and weak made it hard for him to keep up. Even though he could see through the night as if it was the middle of the day he kept tripping over vines and stones as the two of them made their way up the mountain. The waxing moon above was watching them with its one exposed eye, no step was left unseen. On top of the mountain stood a temple as old as time itself, covered in cracks and holes, so unstable that it could crumble any second. And yet it was the center of the tribe, as it has been for thousands of years.
In the middle of it stood a great fountain. On its top the figure of a woman, carved out of the stone from this mountain. In her hands a bowl, filled with rainwater. When the full moon hits its peak on the firmament its reflection fills the bowl, making it look as if the woman was holding the moon itself.
Around the fountain stood a handful of adults, dressed in silky white fabric. They have been watching the boy climbing up the mountain, never letting him out of their sight, like the moon did even before they were able to see him and his escort.
“Finally. It's time.”
The boy was scared. No one told him what would happen now, or even where they were going as the woman pulled him out of his family's tent. He screamed for his mother and his father, but none of them moved a muscle. If he did not know better he would have said they were just as scared as him.
“Come closer.”
One of the adults, a man with dark hair and long claws, was holding out his hand to the young boy. There was no emotion in his face and neither in his eyes. They were cold like the late winter's air even though they had the color of the sun itself.
Still too scared to move the boy just stood there, staring at the man and his bright eyes. For a few seconds no one moved until the man suddenly grabbed his arm and dragged him towards the fountain. The boy began to scream and struggle, trying to fight the far stronger hand off his arm. A mistake, for the next moment that very hand hit his face, so hard that he was sent flying to the ground.
“Behave yourself!”
The man's voice was ringing in the boys twitching cat-like ears. He hit his head on the ground, blood flowing down from his temple and dripping to the ground. Finally, one of the other adults stepped in front of him, shielding the boy from the other man.
“Cut it out Na'jab. He's just a boy.”
The woman and the man were staring each other down for a moment until he finally stepped back, turning away with a sound resembling a hiss and returned to his place in the circle. Fighting to keep his head up the little boy struggled onto his feet with the help of the woman that rushed out to help him. Her long golden hair tickled on his ears as she leaned over him, laying a hand on his shoulder to guide him to where the man wanted him to be. He was still not understanding what was going on but it had to be some kind of rite. From the day he started to understand their words they were telling him he was destined for greatness. To be a shining beacon for the rest of the clan as he fulfills his destiny. Whatever destiny that was supposed to be he never understood either.
As he finally arrived right in front of the fountain the woman let her hand slip from his shoulder and stepped back to her place in the circle around it. She completed it directly behind him so that he was now fully surrounded by the adults. There was no way out. Even if there was, he was still feeling dizzy from the fall and therefor was far from being able to run.
Soon chanting began to surround him. His ears turned back and forth, trying to catch up every bit of the melody but it was coming from everywhere. A frightening sound, filled with a sweetness of voices aligning beneath the moonlight. He did not understand what they were saying, nor did he know the song. But it started to dig itself into his head, through his ears and into his brain. His headache got stronger the moment it penetrated his defenses and brought him down to his knees. His whole body started to burn up like flames, creeping up his limbs and under his clothes, burning everything on their path. His cries aligned with the melody engulfing him, a horrible mixture, a sound that would make even the bravest warrior turn on his heels and run. But he had to stay. His legs wouldn't move and his eyes wouldn't open. The fire burning on his skin was paralyzing him, cutting off his breath to a point where he felt like he would faint any second. He wished for it, with all of his heart. But something strange to his body kept him awake. No matter how much he prayed and begged, nobody would listen. This night none of their gods were hearing his pleads.
When he awoke he was laying in his bed. Everything was still the same as it was yesterday. The warm tent, the soft blankets filling his little spot in a corner he called his bed, the smoldering embers beneath the pot in which his mother cooked their meals, the soft light of the moon that illuminated their little piece of privacy. The only thing that was different was that his arms and legs were still burning. Hissing a little he pulled the blanket off his body and stared at his limbs. Bright markings in the shape of crescents were spreading across the outer sides of every of them, from foot to hip and hand to shoulder. Carefully he stroked over the still irritated parts of his skin, making sure what he was seeing was real. To his disbelief it was. These markings were burned into his skin. It was no paint and no illusion.
“You're awake.”
As the boy looked up he spotted his mother entering the tent. She looked tired, like she always did. Her messy brown her was barely holding together in that bun on the back of her head and she looked thinner than usual. He had asked her countless times if she was not feeling well but every time she reassured him “It's nothing.”. He wished he could believe her but what he was seeing was telling him otherwise. Still, he was still a kid so he could not do anything. Especially not when his father was ignoring the whole situation in general. If he even was at home at all and not out on a hunt or on one of their so-called holy missions. Whatever they were for every time the boy asked he did not get an answer.
“Come, the priestess is waiting for you.”
He never understood why no one ever talked to him. Not even his own mother granted him more than a handful of words. And neither did the other kids. They mostly ignored him and turned around when he passed by, just like most of the adults did too. The only people who were interacting with him were the priests. With his five years and without any friends or someone to talk to he felt lonely and secluded. Nobody ever hugged him or held him in his arms. It sounds cruel but that was the way of their clan. At least that is what the priestess told him every time he started to ask questions.
“You're late.”
Hearing the priestess's voice made the little boy freeze in place. It was fear that was spreading through his limbs, a fear that was born out of bad experience. If he could choose he would decide to live as far away from that woman as possible. But it was not his choice to make. In fact, he never got a choice. Nobody ever asked for his opinion. He has always been expected to do as he was told. And if he did not want to they would force him.
“You know what happens if you're late again.”
He did, clear as water. Pain and suffering. That is what she would do to him. With no remorse and no pity. And all he could do was endure. Nobody would come to his rescue or help him. He would be lucky if the healers would heal his wounds afterwards. They were the only reason he was not yet fully covered in scars.
“Good. Now stop wasting time.”
Finally he looked up to her. Her cold blue eyes were digging themself into his head, deeper than the headache did last night. Without another word she disappeared into the little garden behind her, the sign for him to follow her as quickly as possible. That is how his night would go every time. Standing up, following her around and listening to her orders until the hunger and thirst got the better of him and she'd send him home to his mother where he would eat, drink and then sleep, just to start the night anew.
If he was lucky the priestess would actually use some of their time to teach him the moon's blessing, as she called it. A magic passed down from the ancients who were said to have danced with the moon for days until she was filled with so much joy that she gave them a slither of her power. The texts never specified how many people joined in that dance but it was widely believed to be a group of eleven. And since then every ten generations a child would be born with a natural connection to the goddess, giving it an incredible amount of potential for this most unique magic. The child of Menphina, and that child was him. Hearing the stories about their ancestors he always believed he was something special. But he had to learn painfully that it was the opposite. He was abnormal. They feared him, some even wanted to remove him from the clan. Permanently. As scary and cruel as the priestess was, she was one of the few people who kept him alive. That was the one and only reason for him to stay. And, of course, the fact that he would not survive a day out alone in the mountains.
The magic she taught him was old. And even though she was the most skilled user of their generation, the boy always managed to surpass her. Maybe that was part of the reason she treated him the way she did, but it was the one thing he could be proud of. Healing and cleansing, those were the powers bestowed upon him by the moon. Be it with water or energy, there was no wound too severe for him to heal. He learned to cure illnesses with the herbs they carefully grew in her garden and how to protect himself and others. But like the moon these powers grew and shrunk and showed themselves with two faces. The most powerful skills he acquired were those of destruction. The priestess called it cleansing, but that is not how he would describe it as he kept growing and developing his own mind. This so-called cleansing light was able to do more than that. It could burn, just as good as fire. The difference was that it could not only do so from the outside, but from the inside as well.
The boy's abilities grew with his body, soon surpassing his master with ease. A fact the clan's leader did not take kindly to. More than once he ordered the boy to come to him, testing him and his abilities. Obviously, the boy never won. How was a little boy supposed to win against an adult of his stature? And how was a mage supposed to fight against a sword? All he could do was shield himself and hope his attacker would stop at some point. But he never did. Relentlessly he would beat the boy into the ground until the priestess would come rushing in, saving him from his death. This went on for years on end, him being dragged out of his bed, beaten bloody only to get beaten again by his savior the next day. For in her eyes it would be an easy task to take their leader down. With his cleansing power he should be able to burn the other’s mind with a simple look. And yet the boy did not want to. There was something deep inside of him that told him it would not be right to use his abilities like this. He knew they were meant to protect from harm and pain, not to infuse it. So he stood silent, ears pressed against his head in fear of another beating as the priestess screamed at him. He was not sure of her intentions, if she was truly worried for his life or simply furious he was not doing what he was told. Either way, she protected him. And that was everything for him. The reason why he would not dare to ask. Next to the fact that he did not dare to speak at all. For when he did he would either get another beating or would be ignored by whomever he tried to speak to. The only one who would ever listen to him was his mother. And yet she grew weaker witch each passing week. He was seven by the time she suddenly stopped eating. Scared for her life the boy reached out to his father but he would not even look at him. Or his mother. Soon enough she was even too weak to stand and even sooner she did not open her eyes again. By that time she was nothing more than skin and bone. Without even needing to alert anybody they came in and took her away. Nobody ever told him where she was buried or if she was buried at all. His father came home only once after her death. He soon chose another woman and started another family, ignoring the one he left behind. If he even ever recognized the boy as his own. From this day on the boy was completely alone. His mother, who was the last bit of light left in his life, was no more. Even though she never had taken him into her arms or even smiled at him, he missed her. The food the other priestesses brought him never tasted like hers and his sleep was never sound again.
By the age of eight he had learned everything he possibly could from the priestess. A fact the clan’s leader saw as an open threat to his position. For days on end he had sought out the young boy and pushed him around, bet him up until he could not walk anymore. And if he dared to he would simply kick him back down. Even the priestess seemed unable to provide help. The clan’s leader did not listen to her anymore.
With time the boy learned to avoid the man as best as he could. He got better and better at sneaking through the settlement and how to hide his tracks. He became invisible not only to the man’s eyes but to the other’s too. And with this newfound confidence he made his first steps out of his clans settlement. At first he dared only to go across the hill and explore the woods further up the mountain. But when he realized that nobody was coming to search for him the boy ventured further. Downhill to where he could gaze across the rocky valley, across the endless mountains which started to deck their bodies in white. Winter was not far away, the cold wind biting at his nose made it clear. Somewhere to his left he could see the hunters of his clan searching the woods for tonight’s meal. Unlike him they had found their place in society. They were accepted and cherished, sometimes celebrated as heroes. The boy wondered how it would feel to be one of them. How his life would have been if he had been born different. Without this curse. Because what else could it be than a hex from someone who wanted to bring harm to his family. Without it his mother would still be alive. And without it his father would still be around. Without him there would have been no suffering.
Before he knew tears started to run down his cheeks. Puzzled he wiped them away and stared at the wet stain on the back of his hand. He had never cried before, not since he was old enough to understand that crying would but bring him a beating. He had grown cold and empty and yet it seemed like something had remained deep within.
“Hey, are you okay?”
The voice coming out of nowhere startled him so much he almost fell off the cliff. In absolute panic he jumped a few steps back, getting as much space between him and whoever had found him as possible.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to scare you.”
She was younger than him but already almost as tall. Her dark hair laid on her chest in a single braid, long bangs falling into her even darker eyes. The boy stared at her in complete disbelief, wondering how in all god’s names she was able to sneak up to him. That never happened before. He should have heard or smelled her coming the moment she came withing 20m of his presence. And yet here she was, staring at him with big eyes, her hands fumbling around with her long linen dress.
“Who are you?” the boy finally broke the silence, body frozen in place.
The girl’s body language changed the moment she heard him talk. It seemed to cheer her up, seen by the light rushing into her face as she hopped a few steps closer. Not too close because, despite her age, she knew getting too close would scare him away again.
“My name is Monha. What is yours?”
His name. What was his name? He couldn’t remember the last time someone asked him for it. Or the last time someone used it. They never cared for it, only ever using “boy” to address him. He tried to think, to remember, to dig up some moment where he last heard his name. And finally, after what felt like an eternity, the faint memory of his mother’s voice came through.
“Ma’lo.”
It wasn’t. In fact, it was Ma’to. Ma for his mother’s name, to for being the second son. But he could not remember. And so, from this day on, it was Ma’lo.