Chapter Text
Before Nergal's army of assassins and morphs crossed their swords with those of the lords of Lycia. Before the Dragon's Gate was opened and two of it's denizens were allowed to roam free amounst the continent of Elibe. Years before these events, in the deserts of Nabata. That is where our story begins. . .
A red-headed boy ran across the sand, casting a glance over his shoulder every now and then to see if he was being followed. A desert hawk wheeled in the sky above him, casting it's quick-moving shadow upon the warming desert. It was early in the morning, just early enough for the sun to cast it's stifling rays onto the chilly world. The sand shifted suddenly under the boy's feet, and, with a skillful, light-footed move, the sand slide moved on without capturing the redhead. He looked over his shoulder again, this time with a slight grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. He jumped over slight rise, then lay flat on the ground, pulling at his sand-colored cloak and raising the hood so that it covered him completely. From an outside view, he was all but invisible, and from his new hiding spot, the boy could see a group of children approaching the rise that now concealed him. They were pointing down at the pile of sand he had made in his hurry, and their hushed voices carried down wind to the now silent boy.
"You don't think. . . That he's under. . ." began a green-haired girl nervously.
"No Phaedra, he's not that dedicated to hiding."
The boy made a mental note of this valuable information, they thought he wouldn't hide in the sand?
"More importantly," cut in one of the boys, "Time's almost up. We'll have to head back to the village soon, and we can't go back as winners unless we find him."
The watcher nodded to himself, those were the rules that their teachers had outlined. Every week, at the end of the children of the village's battle training, a competition was held. Each child over ten and under sixteen was given a sword with an entirely blunt edge and the group of them was divided into two camps; a blue unit, and a red unit. The game was simple, whichever team that wiped out the other, won. A player was called 'vanquished' after the opponent who found them got the other into a vulnerable position (like a training blade held against them) was the victor of the individual skirmish. So far, the hiders team had all 'perished' and he was the lone survivor, tasked with somehow wiping out the whole of the opposition by himself. A surrender was probably in order, but that was not an option for him. He either won outright, or lost outright. There was not middle ground. At least not for him. Not with how he had been raised. The boy smiled, not daring to move least he lose his hiding spot. He watched as a gust of wind played with the sand-colored cloaks the sun-tanned children wore over their brown, tan, and on a rare instance, grey clothing. Although he was far from the oldest in the group, no one had found him, and his stealth was nearing legendary amongst his peers.
"He's got to be here somewhere, spread out!" Rasht, the oldest on the opposing team and the clear leader pointed the opposite direction of where he hid. The hidden boy's eyes scanned the numbers of the enemy left as they vacated their meeting place.
Seven.
Seven older kids against the one younger. He shrugged, then stealthily moved to follow who he knew to be the one of the weakest, he had never had such odds against him, but who ever gave in to odds? He waited for the group to fan out, what a mistake that was for them. He moved after Vry, a boy who was the weakest amongst them, and followed him from a distance, using the dune next to his target as a shield. It was higher than Vry, perfect grounds for a silent attack. The unknowing target paused for a moment, gaging the time by the sun. It was perfect. The redhead's hand went to one of the blunt edged daggers at his side, then, as if reconsidering, pulled out a lighter, but also blunt edged, throwing knife. He reversed the grip in his hand, now holding the dull edge between his fingers. He hesitated, then, with pinpoint accuracy, threw the nerfed weapon through the air. It found it's mark, right over the heart of the older boy. It bounced off and landed in the sand, leaving nothing but a bad bruise behind.
"Hey!"
The thrower slid down the sandy ridge, retrieved his weapon, and smiled at his older opponent, "And then there were six. Sorry you taught me that Vry?" he asked with a bit of a taunt in his voice.
Vry shook his head, ignoring the question. He was frustrated that the younger boy had managed to not only learn the skill, but become better than the teacher in a short time, "Not going to surrender, huh? Typical for you."
The redheaded boy shook his head, "Never."
Vry smirked, "Well, there's no way you manage to take out all of the rest before they get you. It's statistically impossible. Good luck Curse."
The boy shrugged off the insult, them moved after his next target. He was well used to being called Curse, or Penumbra Brat. Such insults where simply something he lived with now. After the his family and friends, the Penumbra Clan, were wiped out, with him the sole survivor, he'd been shuffled from clan to clan. Not of the superstitious desert clans wanted to harbor what they saw as an ill omen, none but the Sospei, who saw a lost boy as a lost boy. Sure, his treatment wasn't the best, but it was better then the treatment he'd received from. . . No, he'd be better forgetting about him. He was inches from his next target when. . .
BOOM!
The loud sound crashed against his ears, and he turned in time to see a red flare rising over the far off camp they had referred to as the village. Vry and his companion rushed to the top of the nearest drift of sand, the game forgotten in their haste. They were soon joined by the rest of the group, and they surveyed the scene unfurling before them. Smoke rose from their home, and a swarm of invaders could be seen engaged in a furious battle with the denizens of the surrounding area.
"What curs," the spiteful words hurled themselves from one of the young fighters' mouth, "Attacking the village under guise of asking for help. What cowardice."
"They must want their curse back, now that he's actually a credit to us," said Eyad, an archer, referring to the clan that had last harbored the redhead.
All eyes turned to the boy in question. He glared back.
"W-What do we do now?" stuttered Phaedra, a green-haired girl rather proficient with healing staves.
Rasht scowled, "We provide reinforcements, red flares mean all to battle. We are expected to help," he turned to face the group, sizing them up, "Sveor, Vry, and Ailda, you flank the east. Wait for weapons to be raided, then strike. Gadric, Willa, and Teion. . ." He continued to give orders, and the boy waited to be assigned to a group. Rasht gave orders to most of the kids, then faced the few remaining without orders, "Evander, Phaedra, Eyad, and. . ." his gaze settled on the redhead, "You," his voice was far from friendly, "This better not be your fault, Penumbra brat. Don't make us regret pulling you out of the banishment your last clan was so eager to place you in."
The boy stood firm under Rasht's sharp gaze, trying to ignore the ill-concealed whispers of the group around him.
"Was he really banished from the Penumbra Clan?"
"Course it is silly, look at his shoulder."
"You mean that's the mark of the Penumbra Clan?"
"Is it true he's cursed?"
"Is that why they left him?"
"We should have left him in that dune last sun cycle."
He rubbed his shoulder, tracing over the brand that'd been there his while life. It was an involuntary motion, and he was reminded of one hard fact. No matter what level of mastery he rose to, every bad happening was always blamed on him, "What are my orders?" he asked Rasht, hoping that maybe, just maybe, a flawless performance would change their minds.
"You go with them of course," he pointed to the group he had just outlined, then changed to speaking to the group at large, "Your job is to raid our own weapons supply, quietly if you can. No drawing suspicion. After you have your hands on enough, you bring them to the groups waiting by the walls, understood?"
They nodded, some nervously, some with confidence.
"Then go."
The group scampered over the sand, their lifetime of training to survive the harsh desert making them undetectable to the untrained eye. The boy made it a priority to keep track of his teammates, strength was in numbers, and as much as he preferred working alone, he had no wish to lose that strength. They approached the edge of camp without being detected, the odd sounds of battle reaching their ears. Battle cries, steel on steel and sometimes. . . The children blocked out the surrounding noises, and Eyad pointed soundlessly at the weapons hut, the only permanent structure on sight besides the wall around their home.
"Evander and this one," here Eyad gestured at the redhead, "will cover for us. Phaedra, you're with me, grab as much as you can."
Phaedra gulped, then nodded, "At your word. . ." she crouched down, her face white with fear, and waited to sprint for the hut.
Evander hefted his ax, waiting for the signal, and the redhead copied him, drawing two daggers. The stupidity of holding off grown adults with nothing but blunt-edged weaponry suddenly seemed less like an adventure, and more like a nightmare.
"Ready?" came Eyad's voice, a slight tremble in it now that the moment drew near. They watched the fighters in the ring of tents whirl and strike like a deadly dance.
"As I'll ever be," said Evander.
"I'm ready," said the boy.
Phaedra was too scared to speak, so the Penumbra child moved closer, "Don't worry," he said, "I'm be behind you, I'll keep you safe."
The girl's eyes widened, "Promise?"
He nodded once, "Promise."
Eyad tried to give a brave smile, though it seemed like more of a grimace, than clipped his bow to his back, it would be more of a hinder that anything in the close quarters, "Okay then. . . GO!"
The four charged out of their hiding spot, the healer and archer heading the party while the remaining two covered them, their blunt edged weapons a sorry match for the deadly sharp blades of their opponents. Did they really stand a chance in this battle?
The sound of shouts, steel clashing, and magic spells where ignored by the two boys covering the healer and the archer. The redhead dodged a stray arrow, then ducked under the sinister gleam of his opponent's sword. His blunted twin daggers were currently being used to block the strikes of the myrmidon.
"You. . ." the myrmidon's eyes opened a bit wider at the sight of his antagonist, "It's the Curse!" he shouted, "The Sospei Clan has harbored the Curse! They've brought the wrath of the Fang on us!"
The boy felt a wave of panic at mention of the Fang, but used the man's shouting to land a hit to the back of the man's knee, causing him a temporary lapse of stability, then brought one of his weapons to meet the man's head, so he slid to the ground, senseless.
The enemy's unit suddenly attacked with an unknown vigor, and the defenders began to struggling under this newfound strength. Shouts of 'End the Curse!' and, 'Break the Curse!' became the rallying cry of the enemy.
"Here!"
Phaedra tossed two slightly curved twin daggers to the boy, who caught them and discarded his blunt ones immediately. The healer than ran for the cover of the temporary wall surrounding the nomadic town, carrying the weapons she had taken and slipping slightly in the deep sand not yet packed down by foot traffic. The boy followed, hoping to ensure her safety, but a solder attempted to stop him, soon falling to the sand, never to rise again. He scanned to area, searching for the green-haired healer,
"Phaedra, wait!" he dodged an axe, then a blade, something caught onto his cloak, and he hurriedly undid the catch. He didn't realize that no one engaged him as he ran through the fray, so focused was he on protecting Phaedra. The only one in the clan who actually showed him true kindness beyond what was a gift of something required to live, like food or a meager shelter. She alone had offered friendship, and he had accepted it as one stranded in a crowd of hate would. He did not intend for her to suffer harm of any type in this battle. An axe swung out of nowhere, and the boy felt a stab of pain in his arm as he just missed being hit full on by the ponderous weapon.
"You can't dodge forever Curse!" cried the axe wielder as he swung at the boy again and again.
The object of his strikes obviously didn't intend to dodge forever, and instead changed the grip on his twin daggers, twirling them in his hands. The boy then launched into the air, swinging his daggers across the large man's body as he landed on the ground. He then sidestepped the man as he fell to the sand with a thump. Another enemy moved to fight him, and another, then yet another, and he dispatched them all, earning himself a few more minor injuries in the process. Now panting heavily, and ignoring the feeling of numbness spreading from his injury the axe had induced, the boy moved to vault over the wall as his commander had instructed. He willed himself to go faster.
Just a bit farther. . .
"Help!" a scared girl's voice cried out behind him.
He whirled around, and the world swayed as his numbed senses struggled to catch up with the sudden movement. There, pushed into a corner, and surrounded by three large enemy units, was a certain green-haired healer.
Pheadra.
He ran towards the girl, who was now attempting to fight off the three brigands with white magic. He could just make out the light of a Shine spell as he ran to reach her. Something was wrong, very wrong. His legs where moving in slow motion, and black edged his vision. One of his legs gave out, and he hit the ground, struggling to regain his footing. He collapsed, his shoulder throbbing uncomfortably. Poison. The axe had been poisoned. The boy fought the black ringing his vision, but lost, the sounds of the battle raging around him mercifully silenced.