Like ripples in a pond, the Light slowly permeated the shapeless well of Darkness, gradually reaching out to corners that may as well not be there. The undefined, existential borders of shadow gently came into focus as suddenly a great explosion of Light shattered the formerly unrelenting Dark; bringing reality in to sharp focus.

*****

Sputtering through the towel, dripping heavily with stale water, Ash attempted to slap the towel away from his guppying mouth, tangling his arms further in the heavy wool blankets. Breathing in a spray of water, Ash gasped and choked. Petite hands reached out to grip the edges of the towel and slowly, torturously lifted it away. As the towel was pulled from his eyes, Ash was drawn to a familiar view. The soft glow of the weathered wood gave off homely warmth that reflected from his black eyes. The heavy wool curtains smelled of his mother’s venison stew, a favorite of his, from the night before mingled with the musk of a hard day’s sweat rolling off his father’s lean back muscles. Faintly in the background, tones of smoke from the life-giving fire of the winter furnace rolled across the back of his tongue. The intimate sight, sounds, smells began to pull on the strings to his memories when a new character materialized. The brisk, refreshing scent the winter morning gave pushed the aged memories from his mind and settled the image of the shimmering plains coated with fresh frost, sparkling away as if stars had rained down the night previous.

Still lying in his bed, he felt gooseflesh rise up on the skin of his lightly tanned arms in feverish anticipation of the new day. He ran his hand through the soft black mane that sat upon his head pondering the day to come. Suddenly he snapped upright as he remembered what had just occurred. His line of sight trailed downward settling on a pair of dainty footprints distinct against the light coating of stagnant dust lazily coating the floor. The obvious trail led to two plump little feet still soft with baby fat not yet hardened from years of hard farm work. Above these feet was a powder blue dress worn by time and hundreds of washings. Small strings of white hung limply from the fraying line of lace purchased with tough earned money from last year’s harvest. Sitting above a low collar was a face plump, already smudge with grime even through it was yet early in the morning. Upon this head sat a nest of brunette hair like a dark cloud with a few ray of sunshine blond stabbing through. Her dark hair contrasted heavily with the shock blue eyes of a resident of the north. Below these eyes, a usually cute nose and mouth were scrunched up into an amalgam of a frown, a purse, and sitting atop a mischievous little smirk.

“Morpheus’s balls, Lilia,” Ash roared and a small squeal escaped those pink lips before they slammed back together.

“Now you’ve d-didded it,” stuttered Lilia, as tended to happen when she became emotional. “Mummy was already f-f-furious at you for waking so late. Now you’re c-cursing. If I telled her you would get spank-ded.” She shot him a glare, daring him to protest.

“Done, you’re six years old already. Learn to speak proper,” mumbled Ash as he ground the sleep out his eyes.

Lilia’s response was to stick her strawberry red tongue at her brother, four years her senior. “Properly.”

Working up to his own piercing glare, the anger of being woken so violently ebbed away and a slow clarity clawed its way up his still drowsy mind. A sluggish realization, come to surface, reminded him that curses were strictly forbidden in his house. Especially curses about gods and especially curses about Morpheus, the most powerful and feared of all Zhepheria’s Gods, the ruler of MengJing, land of dreams.

“Please don’t tell mother, I implore you,” pleaded Ash.

“I don’t know what that means,” Lilia said cocking her head to one side. With her large child-eyes, it reminded Ash of the baby owl he had saved a few years ago. It had been a cute little thing, more fluff than real feathers. It had broken a wing learning to fly and had landed in their field. Ash had found the poor thing and taken it home and hidden it away in his bedroom. He had to be careful because the walls were made of thin bamboo slats and sounds penetrated easily. He had splinted and bound its wing and fed it from his own sometimes meager meals. He had been discovered by Lilia a few days later and was forced under unwavering glare to allow Lilia to play with the little bird. After slowly nurturing the young thing back to health, he kept it safe as it attempted again to fly. Lilia would shriek with delight as it took off and break into sobs when eventually it fell, but soon recover after feeding and playing with the miniature.  And as each day passed in satisfying redundancy, the time when the precious little bird of prey would fly seemed to drift toward the indefinite. But finally, one day it flew.

*****

It flew and did not fall, did not land. It flew until it was a minute speck against the sky and finally winked out of sight. The sudden loss of an existence that had been so dear to his heart shocked him.  He had never owned a pet before. Never experienced such a profound lost. In the eight short years of his life, he had yet to experience death outside of the deer his father brought back from the hunt. Lilia shamelessly shed tears over the vanished creature. However, he was a man and could not be seen revealing such weakness. The most he could do was sit in his room at night wallowing in the loss and longing. Fighting the sleep and tired eyes that would return him to the thick, palatable Darkness where nothing could reach him, not even memories.

 Swimming against the exhaustion that threatened to rip him away, Ash fixed the image of his departed friend in his mind, holding on with a mental death grip. He could feel smooth soft down still covering the insides of the mottled copper wings. Squeezing his eyes shut, he could see the ruddy brown, sleek body speckled with white, the deep yellow eyes that glistened in the low light. Smell the fresh grass that always peppered the owl’s body after hard landing. The straw stuck out at strange angles making the creature seem like a living pincushion. Even with a heavy heart, a small chuckle escape Ash’s lips at the thought of this sight. He could even hear the soft hoot, hoot that it would make when feeling overly peppy. No, wait just a tick, he had really heard it.

His bright eyes had snapped open, hope like beams of light flitting around the room until they settle upon the familiar sight of his friend dancing anxiously on the sill of his window.

“You’re back!” exclaimed Ash, as loudly as he could while still keeping his voice below a whisper. “You are back, yes?” The owl cocked his head querulously at Ash and peered through the open window. “And you wish to return. Return to whatever paradise you have found.” It made a sound between a mew and a hoot, full of longing mixed with solemn regret. “It’s okay,” whispered Ash, “Go.” It hopped in a little circle, Ash’s favorite trick. Ash forced a smile through the wound in his heart. He would send off his precious friend with all the happiness he could muster in his small, round face which abruptly turned into a little “o” as he watched. Instead of flying away, it merely faded from view like the last vestiges of smoke from a dying fire. Much too tired to work through his confusion, Ash climbed into his soft hay mattress mumbling, “Go back to your home, the place you belong. May you be as happy as I am here.”

*****

Here was a patchwork cabin that had slowly grown in the past years like moss on a rolling rock. Patches of sod as the roof lent more than a touch of realism to the metaphor. It had started out as a small log and pitch cabin sitting isolated in dense woods. Shadows of trees and bushes created a murky blanket smothering the house in eternal dusk.  The only Light that intersected the Darkness was reflecting off yellow primal eyes, the Darkness hiding any indication of to whom or what those eyes belonged.

Escaping the war, Ash’s mother and father had stumbled upon the discreet little abode a few short months before Ash was born. With little time remaining before the arrival of their first son Ash’s mother and father had little choice but to settle down. Dense woods had surrounded the little cabin, encroaching closer year after year, but in the months after Ash’s birth, his father tamed the woods with strength of arm and keenness of blade. Now, the woods were much more sparsely populated. Instead of a dark, distrustful, glowering green now the woods glowed with life. In the early morning, if one looks closely, one could to glimpse a shaft of sun lighting across the back of a buck, setting it ablaze with a burning golden majesty. Dust motes dodged between beams of light frolicking atop the invisible hills and currents of wind and breath.

“Fae of the air,” his father used to whisper to him, as though if spoken more loudly, the illusion would have been broken. “They’re birthed of joy and happiness and little one’s dreams.”

He wasn’t much older now but he still carried fond memories of times more innocent. Ash enjoyed passing his fondest memories to his sister. Sitting on the hardwood floor, worn smooth by the pattering of quickly growing feet, Lilia played out, in what was once the communal bedroom, stories Ash had recited from memory. Carved wooden figurines clacked together enacting glorious battles or romantic meetings of Princes and Ladies. Ash had started carving when he first learned of his sister’s imminent arrival. His first attempts were misshapen masses bearing less than no resemblance to the characters Ash pictured in his mind. Some of the statuettes still bore dark stain where a slip of a knife carved less wood and more flesh. But for some reason unbeknownst to him Lilia like these the best and the jagged edges had been polished smooth by her bare hand. Once a deep sliver had broken off and embedded itself deep in Lilia plump little finger. When Ash decided to burn these figures and recreate them, Lilia’s vociferous screams reverberated across the walls for hours until he was forced under threat of deafness to return her precious toys.

Ash and Lilia slept in their own room and their parents in another. Their room was easily spacious enough for two, but Ash’s father obstinately refused to separate the room into two, no matter how much Lilia demanded that “a Lady must have her privacy.”

“A Lady should not have a need to hide things from her family,” her father always shot back. However, he later confided to Ash that “it’s easier to just stick on an addition then tear down a wall and join two in its place. And later, you’ll be old enough to help me.” Then he would chuckle at his own wit. Ash would always laugh along but never understood why it was easier to lie than just tell the simple truth. The space the old cabin took up in the middle of the house became his mother kitchen and attached to that was his father’s den and workshop. Both were permeated with the smell of the strange leaves that his father enjoyed smoking. His mother abhorred it.

“An old and barbaric ritual. A throwback to the old days,” his mother always claimed, but Ash’s father would not give it up for the life of him. Ash and Lilia were never allowed in those rooms when his father was smoking.

“It gives children horrible nightmares,” Ash’s father claimed. It would not bother him, Ash stubbornly thought. He never dreamed good or bad.

Now that he had awakened, Ash breathed deep of the perfume of baking biscuits and frying sausage. Those sausage drippings would soon be made into thick hearty gravy and used to smother the biscuits. A “working man’s breakfast” his father always said. Whether he had chores that day or not his mother’s cooking always set him to drooling lakes in his mouth.

“A mother’s cooking could win wars. In fact, I believe that has actually occurred a few times in the past,” his father would sometimes say. Ash’s mother just smiled and shook her head whenever her husband said this, but Ash always noticed that his father’s portion would always be larger than normal. The only serious fight he had ever remembered his parents having was over the placement of his mother’s kitchen. She argued that a kitchen must be placed in the center of the home forcing the family to congregate for meals at least twice a day. Ash’s father contended that the chimney would be too difficult to make in the center of their home. Alas he could do naught but give in under Ash’s mother’s withering gaze. No one won an argument against his mother, for very long that is. Thankfully, the forest had revealed not only the gentler wildlife but also gave way to a wide, shallow, gentle rolling river. So Ash’s father built a small raft of logs and floated down that river to a town a ways down to trade for some sheets of metal that he could use to make a usable chimney.

Ash’s family lived very comfortably, or at least he thought, but in the few short trips that he had made with his father to town he had witnessed a new race of people. Rich people. Ash’s family was what his father called “self-sufficient”. Everything they needed they made or gathered, and with the fertile soil and clean air, they always had more than enough. His father would bring the excess to town to sell for little pieces of metal made of gold and silver with pictures stamped in them. This money they had little need of and so they had little of it. Not these rich people. They carried some in large bags in the carriages they rode and more in smaller bags called purses. Ash once had been given one of these coins, or so they were called. The piece he had was called a wun, it was made of nickel. It shone brightly in the sun and he like to look at the embossing of Morpheus. It was about the size of his thumb, and it was the biggest coin there was but somehow worth the least. Strange. Next was a quo made of copper, a nem made of silver, and finally a tuor made of gold. Each was sufficiently smaller than the last but somehow worth more. Ten times more exactly, he had been told. He father had explained once that these metals were increasingly rare and so worth more. These rich people had many tuor.

 Like the brightly colored birds that flitted overhead when he went exploring in the woods, these rich people came flying into town on brightly color carriages wearing even more brightly colored clothes. And the way these people would strut around town with their noses up in the air like the kingfishers that nested around his house lent even more credibility to the comparison. Even someone like Ash could plainly see that some of these clothes were awfully uncomfortable. So it was strange that these rich people would be so particular about them. They shied away from any speck of dust, quite difficult seeing how the streets were made of dirt. Apparently in the great cities of the North and East the streets were vast and winding and were paved with stone. Ash could hardly guess the work or people need to complete such a job even in their small town. Nevertheless, his mother and his father came from the North and East respectively and both credited this statement as true; therefore, it must be.

What a wonder a true city would be! Ash tried to imagine the great stone walkway: towering building made of brick and mortar, shops and shopkeepers so plentiful that they stumbled upon each of trying to hock their wares. People wearing charming clothes, every color of the rainbow and some in between, poured out nem and tuor from their pockets, wealth and goods in abundance for everyone. And, with everyone being so well-off, there were no disputes, no illness, no sadness in general. The city must be a wondrous place.

*****

Ash’s eyes snapped into focus, gravy dripping from the fork halfway to his waiting mouth. He could feel the dampness of his hair from a recent wash. His newly starched clothes scratched at his skin. From the corner of his eye, he could see the crackling fire of the open wood stove in the corner. His little sister sat at his side slurping away at thick warm milk freshly drawn from their cow. His morning chore, but he had no memory of completing it. Moreover, he was sitting at the kitchen table eating his breakfast with zero recollection of how he had made it there. Across the dark oaken table his father and mother watched with bemused expressions.

“Sleepless-walking again?” he father asked. His mother turned her head to cough which sounded a lot like a laugh, and Ash could feel her face starting to flush. Seeing Lilia roll her round eyes at him did not help in the least. “Sleepless-walking” was their family’s little joke about Ash’s lost time. Ash would fall so deep into a daydream that his body would carry on living his life as his mind wandered. This was a source of constant embarrassment for Ash. His condition had never put Ash in any danger but that did not assail Ash’s worries about his strange condition. No one else suffered from anything like it in his family. Because of this, Ash was convinced he was broken in some way. He had never voiced his opinions to his mother or father, but somehow they knew. Ash could see the worry in their eyes when they look at him after one of his “episodes” even as they chuckled and joked. He felt guilty for causing such angst, but for all he did nothing seem to fix his problem. His attempted solution had ranged from the ludicrous to downright torturous. He had tried tying strings around his ankles so that he would easily trip if he did not walk carefully. He had tried carrying around a bell, constantly focusing on the sound. He had even tried putting tacks in the heels of his shoes that would poke painfully at his feet. No of these methods had worked. The instant he was completely distracted by something thought-provoking, it was like the world fell away isolating him in his mind. Nothing existed outside the fantastical reverie that encompassed his thoughts. These occurrences eventually became less frightening and more frustrating to Ash who did not appreciate such a loss of control. Today he would especially not stand for such happenings. He was traveling into town with his father and could not, would not act such a fool in front of so many.

Immediately after breakfast his father hitched Vespera to their wagon in preparation for their trip. Vespera was coated in mottled gray with streaks of burning orange and red that ran through her mane and tail and a single white spot in the middle of her forehead reminiscent of the solitary first start of the night, as was her namesake. Yet, her color was not her most noticeable feature. Vespera was the most massive creature Ash had ever seen, even larger than the brown and black bears that roamed seemingly at random through their forest. Ten years old encroaching on eleven, Ash still barely came up to her chest. More surprising still, was the seemingly endless power stored in her towering figure. Even the immense horses that hauled cargo to and from town, who almost matched Vespera in size, could do naught when compared to her speed and stamina. A realization Ash came to when his father fetched the midwife from town for the birth of his little sister.

Lilia had been born weeks earlier than expected. His father had rushed off for town the moment his mother was sure it was time. He had left just as the sun was on the rise and had returned as the moon had begun to peak in the sky. It was half a day’s ride to town, but Vespera had double the distance in less time. As she came careening back home, the midwife’s hair billowing out behind like a fiery red cloud, Vespera was taking great heaving breathes, sides slick with sweet. After she had slid to a stop at the front door and after Ash’s father half supported half dragged the midwife inside, Ash took Vespera into the barn and wiped her down, replaced her hay, and even fed her an apple he had nicked from the kitchen. The first time Lilia ever met the great beast, she shown not a sign of fear but tottered around gleefully between the pillar-like legs, each hoof larger than her head. Vespera did not startle, hardly even flinched, even when Lilia came to a crashing halt against her front leg. As Lilia began to bawl, the mare bent her sizable head down and licked Lilia once very gently against her forehead. Lilia’s cries abruptly stopped as a small “o” formed in to middle of her face. Vespera dark saucer eyes stared into Lilia’s who stared, unblinking, back, a single tuft of hair standing upright above her forehead. A sight so endearing, a stone man would have shattered in their presence. Even nowadays, Vespera still treated both Lilia and Ash as if they were her foals. She twisted around and nuzzled Ash’s neck as he got ready to climb aboard the tall wagon.

Ash’s father climbed into the large bench seat of the wagon. His broad arms easily hoisted Ash next to him.

“Father, I am ten years of age,” Ash gave his father what he believed was a stern look. “I’m capable of getting off and on the wagon by myself.”

His father just chuckled and said, “As you say young man.”

“You boys be safe. This house needs its men.” His mother came out with their lunches slung over her shoulder. After planting a kiss on each of them including Vespera she glanced up at them. “Vale’s returning today and I plan to welcome him with a feast, so don’t dare be late.”

Ash and his father grinned at each other. Not a chance. When his mother said feast she meant it. Vale was a manservant they had picked up when Ash was still small. He was an old friend from his parents past, or so they said. He was a bit younger than Ash’s mother and father but walked with the weary gait of an old man. Ash liked him well enough, he supposed. But Vale was usually more gone than not to bring his father harvest out to the surrounding villages. Ash always liked listen to his stories of traveling and always look forward to his return empty of goods but full of news and stories.

Then they were off together with rising sun. Ash both dreaded and relished these regular trips to town. Now that he was of age, whenever Ash went into town he had to have a half days’ worth of lessons before he could enjoy himself.

“A man must learn of the world before he can witness it,” was his father’s repetitive explanation. Ash understood that with the birth of Lilia, his mother could not afford the time to school him every day. Alas, that did not make him despise his scraggily old tutor any less. Nonetheless, his father was always highly adamant about his lessons.

“He is a very well-versed man. He traveled long and far before settling here and knows much of the courts of men and genteel circles.”

“But father,” Ash whined. Ash hardly ever whined and he knew that it grated his father’s nerves. Yet, in this situation, he had to voice his opinions. “Raven-head’s voice bleeds drowsiness. Then he hits me with a switch when I inevitably fall asleep.”

“Master Skraven, boy. And anyway, young men shouldn’t be showered with gold and sweets for not paying attention to their lessons. What kinds of men would they become then?” Ash’s father gave him a look that stifled Ash’s next comment in the back of his throat.

As Vespera pulled Ash and his father along, familiar landmarks whistling past, Ash thought back on the lessons that mister Skraven had taught him over the years. He had learned much from the wizened old man, his view of the world much expanded, his knowledge of history and strategy deepened and strengthened. If only the ancient scholar had a little more passion. Ash, resigning himself to his fate, settled into the familiar ride. He began to drift back to the days of sitting curled in his mother’s lap, listening to her stories of the gods and heroes. “History lessons” she called them.

“The values and morals that make boys into men may be passed down from generation to generation, but originally they were taught to men by the gods.” She shot a look at Ash’s father before he could voice his concerns about her teaching methods.

Ash’s favorite of his mother’s stories was always of the creation of the world by Morpheus, creator, destroyer, god of dream and nightmares. His eyes shone when he heard the tell-tale lowering of his mother’s voice that accompanied this ages old tale.

*****

“Before time itself existed, there was only Him in the Chaos. Eons of loneliness ate away at him until in frustration He tore Chaos asunder and brought forth Light. But alas, with Light came the Darkness for even the greatest of the gods could not escape the duality of all things. For a time he was content with His creations, but the Darkness became more and more bold, attempting to consume the Light. So He planted himself firmly upon the border of Light and Dark, in His billowing great cloak shimmering with colors seen and not, a great sword, made tangible by will alone, in hand. Constantly Morpheus battled to defend the Light and fend off the encroaching Darkness. Soon He was weary and could no longer carry on the fight so He cut into His flesh and mixed His blood with a fragment of Light and so was born Aether, Goddess of Light. However, in His carelessness a few droplets of blood fell on Darkness and from them came forth Erebus, God of Shadows. Disgusted by this mistake, Morpheus’s first thought was rectification. Shocked and confused at seeing His father in such indignatious anger simply over his accidental birth, Erebus ran off into the Darkness. Chasing off after him, Morpheus ran rampant through the Darkness for millennia before returning in failure to the Light. For you see, the Darkness knew its own. Where ever Erebus stepped the Darkness blanketed him keeping him hidden from Morpheus’s gaze. Upon His return Morpheus witnessed his daughter in all he glory. There she stood upon the boundary of the light in brilliant polished silver cuirass atop her glowing white dress, flail of Light hanging from her tightly clenched fist. Together, they pushed back the Darkness. Father and Daughter, an indomitable force, dancing mercilessly through the darkness forcing it back with every step. Yet with all the power they held Morpheus never forgot of Erebus. Though his talent paled in comparison to Aether power, Morpheus had seen a devious gleam in Erebus’s eyes. Morpheus knew that unless Erebus was dead he would never stop scheming on how to take his revenge. And he was correct. Hiding in the Darkness for ages, all Erebus did was plan his vengeance. He knew the best way to strike at his Father’s heart. His precious sister.

“Erebus waited until a great battle had passed, when Aether would be least wary and most weary. Cloaking himself in insubstantiality, Erebus snuck into the Light and raped his sister. Morpheus fell into a rage when he discovered what had happened, but by then Erebus had already disappeared into the Darkness once more. Morpheus vowed to save his grandchildren from the corruption, to prevent them from falling to the Darkness. Soon after, Aether gave birth to five sons: Hyperion, Terrum, Eridanos, and Gerra. Each Morpheus took under his wing and imparted on each and ideal he valued. He taught Gerra courage and he became the God of Fire. Eridanos learned judgment and ruled over water.  Terrum learn stoicism, Hyperion independence, thus they became Gods of Earth and Air. Yet when it came time to teach them of compassion, of the Light each refused, claiming that their belief was of the utmost and need naught else. And for a while all was well, but inexorably each of Aether’s five sons fell in their own way. Terrum’s stoicism became apathy, uncaring, unfeeling. Gerra became obsessed with testing his bravery, eventually reveling in violence. Hyperion claiming independence without responsibility became prone to flights of fancy reveling delighting in physical pleasure. Finally, Eridanos’s judgment metamorphosed into vengeance. Each became frustrated with the constant berating’s they receive for their indolence, viciousness, and so on. Together they devised a plan to escape to the Darkness.

“When Erebus came upon them, stumbling through the Darkness, he had to smile. He plan had come along beautifully. Still, it yet to come to fruition. For the next few millennia all was quiet on the front. However, Morpheus was not fooled. He could taste the unchecked tension on his palate. He stood resolutely between Light and Dark. Aether retreated further into the light shedding her scuffed armor concentrating on the calling of Creation. Finally the day of the great confrontation began.  Great powers thundered and clashed across the plains of existence. Slipping through the mass confrontation Erebus stole his way into the Light. A dagger, forged of the blackest depths of the Darkness, clutched in his hands, Erebus crept up to Morpheus, all the powers and magics in creation flashing past his head, and speared his father deep in his upper back. The dagger melted in Erebus’s Hand slithering its way deeper into the wound. The Darkness gorged itself upon Morpheus magics, driving itself deeper and deeper into his body and spirit. Before it could infect his soul, Morpheus drew shut his mental barriers. However, holding back the darkness took almost the full force of his will. Finally, Erebus brought out his trump. From the darkness Erebus’s nephews exploded from the Darkness. Spears and blades gleaming angrily, they dove toward their grandfather, vicious smiles on their faces. All it took was one glance at their faces to send Morpheus into a blind rage. How could he have failed once again! In his anger he tore away his shields to reach all of his magics. Burning anger sent magic thundering through his veins, but even as he flung his traitorous family back into the depths, the Darkness buried itself deeper into his core. When Morpheus finally brought his defenses back to bear, there was naught but a spark left of him not infected by the Dark. Erebus could not help but grin seeing his father brought so low by his own begotten son. Slowly he stepped forward to place the finishing touches on his macabre masterpiece. However, Erebus had made on mistake, one misstep, he did not realize how much Morpheus would throw away to save the Light. Morpheus’s mental defenses fell once again as he reached out toward his magic. With all the power he could muster augmented by an undeniable will, Morpheus tore Erebus from existence itself.

“The Darkness that had been festering inside Erebus burst outward, tear him asunder. The Dark had used Erebus, now it tossed him away as it flowed over Morpheus clawing into every orifice as it dragged him back toward the Dark. In one last Act of defiance Morpheus reached out and Linked his power with that of Aether’s. Now Aether was all that stood between the Light and the Dark. Yet, her powers amplified by the link with her father, Aether stood readily against the Dark, the last vestige of hope for seeing the sun rise for another dawn. She repelled attack after attack of the Dark, of her infected children. The Link benefitted Morpheus as well. Even though he could not return to the light, the Dark could not control him as it had Erebus. Instead, Morpheus began to hunt down his seed to exert his control over the Dark. Eventually, Morpheus brought his grandchildren under rein, relieving some of the burden from Aether. Alas, she had become weary; her armor lay broken by her side. Taking up her father’s blade, still tingling with original magic of Creation, she sundered the border of Light and Dark, planting the sword firmly between the two. A flash of the edge and a few droplets of blood fell onto the flat of the blade. From these droplets of blood sprang new creatures, the first humans. Aether knew that the Link between her and her father would make the creatures susceptible to both the Light and Dark. This is why we dream. When we awake, we walk on the side of the light, but asleep we traverse the Shadows of the Dark. Aether had decided that here upon this plane is where the final conflict would take place. Whosoever won over this world would have the advantage in the final battle.

“Slowly over the eons Aether played with Making, the powers of creation, coloring our world in the shades we see today. Even now she sits in the Light watching our world. Across our mortal plane sits Morpheus with his grandchildren, chained, laying at his feet. The whole of creation held in bated breath waiting for the end to this grand Prelude.”

Ash smile through shining eyes at his mother who gazed lovingly back. His small child like hands reached out for her face.

“Ashling Maccon, if you are not going to pay attention, do NOT lead me on with your fake note taking!”

Ash snapped back into reality. His eyes reeled from the sudden change in perspective, scrabbling for a point of focus. His eyes settled on a piece of paper lying in front of him. There was illegible scrawl running rampant across the page haphazard even in the direction as it traced up, down, left, right. He thought he could make out a letter here or there, but the rest was illegible even to him. From his peripherals information poured into Ash’s brain. He was sitting in the parlor-turned-school room in Mister Skraven’s home in town. The walls were immaculately polished cherry, speaking for its owner’s obsession with detail. The plush carpeting Ash always felt guilty for walking on, curled around his toes. The rest of the room was bare except for the bar that doubled as Ash’s desk and a well maintained antique leather chair. Books and maps were lain out haphazardly atop the bar along the course of the lesson.

At the familiar sight, Ash flooded with relief. The Last thing he remembered was riding with his father on the way to town. He risked a quick glance out the single window of the parlor. The sun had almost reached midday, his mind swum from the information. He had almost lost half a day this time. His condition was definitely becoming worse. As he glanced back at Mister Skraven’s face, his eye scowling over his monocle, Ash forced his worries out of his mind. He has more pressing matters to deal with.

“Sir,” Ash began, “I promise you this was unintentional. I swear I did not mean this.” Ash stumbled over his words as his anxiety stabbed at him again. He splayed his hands distressingly towards the chicken scratch filling the pages before him. His emotions must have shown plainly on his face because Skraven’s expression softened as he looked at Ash.

“I understand that I am difficult to relate to in my old age, and that I am not as young or interesting as I used to be.”

“Sir, it’s nothing of the sort, I assure you,” Ash started, but Skraven cut him off.

“However, I still do have a few tricks up my sleeve.” He smirked. Placing his hand above a nearby lantern the light seemed to pool around his outstretched palm until, suddenly, his entire arm burst into flames. Ash leapt from his seat, frantically searching for a source of water to extinguish the flames before they immolated his schoolteacher.

The sight of Mister Skraven still standing there smirking, his hand seemingly still immolating, brought Ash to a dead halt. Upon closer inspection, Ash realized that his ancient teacher was, in fact, not burning to death, not in unbearable pain, not even wincing. Rather the only part of him that seemed to be affected was the wisps of smoke coming from his smoldering cuffs.

“You’re a Magus,” Ash whispered breathlessly.

“Was, my dear boy, was.” Mister Skraven’s voice spoke in muted hushed tones as if he had forgotten Ash was in the room.

His face had frozen in a fragile, tortured smile, only the corner of his mouth trembling just so. Then with a shake of his head as if to wake from a reverie, he beamed a gloriously fraudulent grin at Ash. With a wave of his hand the flames disappeared from Skraven’s hand. And Mister Skraven settled gingerly into his chair.

“I was a Magus. ‘Was’ being the key word, my boy. I’m not so young anymore if you haven’t noticed, but I have yet to forget everything in my old age.” He gave Ash a dramatic wink as he chattered on.

“I’m sorry sir I don’t understand.”

“What do you know of the GuangHei War?” Skraven’s one eyebrow rose over his monocle as he asked this question.

Ash started again. “But that was over half a century ago! If you participated in the Magi War, then you must be incredibly-.” Ash’s lips slammed shut cutting off his rude comment midsentence.  

“Old. Yes, I am much older you can imagine.” Mister Skraven look wilted now his eyes haunted. Ash thought if he stared long enough he could see the old man’s nightmare living in his eyes. “It is common knowledge that certain Magi age slower than most.” Ash avoided his gaze.  “What do you know of the Magi War?” He studied Ash’s reaction closely.

“Well, sir.” Ash could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. “The GuangHei War, well actually magic in general is a rather banned topic in our house.”

“Ah, well that’s understandable. After the GuangHei War, especially for those who were directly affected by it, the topic of magic became shunned. However, it is my belief that we should face the past instead of avoid it. Understanding history is the only way to make sure not to make the same mistakes in the future.”

“So does that mean you’ll tell me of it?”

“You do realize when you are interested in a topic the intelligence shines from your eyes. First time I have seen such a thing.” Mister Skraven gave Ash a soft smile and Ash’s face burn that much hotter. “Bring me a scotch will you Ash?” Mister Skraven asked. Ash poured him three fingers of scotch and brought the strong drink back to the old man. Skraven took a long sip and nestled even deeper into the soft-backed leather chair with a small sigh. He closed his eyes, “Tell me what you have heard, young man.”

“Well, the GuangHei War was fought between Magi, the Som-Via against the rest.” Ash buried deep into his mind searching for any relevant information he could find, snatches of conversations overheard, bits of literature, old ballads, and so on. Then Mister Skraven’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Give me an accurate description of the different categories of Magi.”

“Yes, sir. Well there’s one class of Magi for each of the major elements: fire, earth, wind, and water. Each is named, Ignus, Terruah, Aerea, and Aquitain respectively.  Then there are the Som-Via, Magi of Dreams.”

Skraven’s eyes snapped open stabbing into Ash’s own, before he settled back into his chair once again. “Tell me more.”

“I am embarrassed to admit, sir, but my knowledge is fairly limited.” Ash looked around the room shamefacedly.

Skraven smiled gently back. “Never be ashamed to admit your lack of understanding. Only cowards hide their ignorance.” Popping open an eye he said, “Tell me what you know of the process of magic.”

Ash had heard this spoken of before. “Life was gifted to us by Aether, Goddess of Light, to fend off the darkness. Each one of us has a piece of her powers inside of us, but a certain few have a special channel in their minds that allows them to bring forth this power, they are who we call magi.”

“True, it is the spark of creation in every one of us that power this magic. Yet, because of the Link between Aether and Morpheus, magi are much more susceptible to the darkness than others. That is their greatest weakness and the cause of the GuangHei war.”

“I thought the Som-Via started the Magi War?”

“Not entirely, to understand the principles forces that triggered the GuangHei War you first need to understand the functions of each level within the Magi hierarchy.” For the first time since these lessons began, Ash leaned into his studies, resting his elbows on his knees. Acting as if he were close enough, he could absorb all this information through the pores in skin. Like a drowning man wants air, he hungered for the information that been barred from him his entire life.

Seeing Ash’s eagerness, Skraven continued, “At the bottom are stone wizards and hedge witches. Many of these people have little magic power and are difficult to distinguish from common folk. Most have just enough talent that they use it to augment the skills they had gained through hard work. Above them are sorcerers and spellswords, the equivalent of scholars and knights. Magi in this category are quite varied, ranging from simple scribes and foot soldiers to high-level Arcanists and Blademasters. The next level are the court Magi. These court Magi hold some of the most powerful defensive spell known. Their purpose is to prevent the ruling aristocracy from being influenced by outside sources for magic was created to aid man, not rule over him. Finally, atop them resides the Council made up of the head of the oldest Magi families, most who are also nobles and have a hand in the government. Now what is important about the Council, besides the fact that they rule over the Magi, is that every decade they elect a Grandmaster. It is necessary to understand his purpose if you wish to comprehend the events that led up to Magi War. The Grandmaster does not act as a functionary of the Council. The sole reason for the Grandmasters existence is to watch over the bond between the plane of the Gods and our reality. They protect this Link from the darkness that constantly threatens this it.”

Ash leaned father forward still, balancing precariously on the edge of his seat, his senses devouring every scrap of information that came his way.

“Now the Som-Via, have another name by which they are known. Do you know what this title is?”

A quick jerk of Ash’s head to the left begged Mister Skraven to continue.

“The Som-Via are known as Those That Walk with Dreams. In fact the title Som-Via originate from the translation of this calling in one of the old language, Somnium Viator. They were the Magi of dreams and because of this; their connection to the Shadow World is stronger than any other class of Magi.

“…their greatest weakness, their greatest strength,” Master Skraven recited so quietly Ash had to strain to hear.

“I don’t understand. Didn’t the Grandmaster start the GuangHei War?”

Skraven sighed. “Many blame him but those of us that participated in the GuangHei War know the truth. The Grandmaster at that time was one of the Som-Via. And he was infected by the Darkness. No one knows how; some even speculate that Erebus, himself, returned to trick the Grandmaster into giving himself to the Darkness, but as I said no one knows the truth. Through him the Infection trickled down until every Som-Via was infected, controlled, by the Darkness. These were the events that led to the downfall of the Som-Via and the rise of the GuangHei War.”

A sharp rap on the front door brought Ash out of his trance-like state. The door opened to reveal his father’s frantic face.

“Master Skraven, thank Aether you’re here. Have you seen Ashling? I’ve searched all over town and cannot find him any-.” Ash’s father paused in mid-sentence as his eye fell on Ash still sitting on the stool in the parlor and relief washed over his face. Almost instantly it was replaced by a look of absolute mirth. “Now here is a sight I never thought I would live long enough to witness, my son actually volunteering to sit through a whole day of lessons.” A whole day. Ash stepped down from the barstool and stumbled. It must have been; his legs felt like lead, thighs burning as blood rush back to starved muscles.

“I apologize, Father. I must have lost track of time. I should have been more wary.”

His father laughed loud, “Boy, you never have to apologize for learning. Never.” His father’s large hand gripped Ash’s shoulder to steady him. “However, we must leave. Remember Vale’s returning today and your mother is preparing a feast.”

Ash could already feel the saliva pooling in his mouth in anticipation of tonight. His mother meant feast when she said it. Ash could just imagine the platters covered with seared duck and soft lamb, bowls of dried dates covered in caramelized sugars, mountainous cloud-like mashed potatoes and much more. There was venison, mutton, and rabbit stew; meat pies and baked sweets, all piled up on the brightly woven banquet cloth his mother picked out for every occasion. They would stay up all hours of the night until one by one they fell asleep at the table and had to be carried up to their respective rooms…

*****

Next Chapter: A Sudden Awakening