The Finding of Fhlynn
By A true father.
Chapter One - Death and a true family?
Death... A strange thing, or nothing - For that matter. But what is it? An endless abyss of black, the unseen, the unknown. Silence. Or some would think... For when is something, truly 'nothing'? Shouldn't the being of nothingness, create something? A deep philosophy, one that would be remembered, throughout the future of this, rather odd, book.
For, this is a tale, a true tale, of the life of one very particular character, which would contain many deaths, many deaths indeed. For when one wishes for something, it is refused to him - And when one needs something, yet does not wish for it, it is placed unto his soul, as a dire burden.
A viper in red.
Fhlynn, as his common name would be spoken, Fl-in - A crude, bastard-name at that... For Fhlynn was no trueborn son of his father, "trueborn" here meaning for his father to have been wedded to his mother - A strangeness, but something that is expected of any person, be they Religious or no - For social matters shall overcome those who abstain, rightly so, from such a damnable, and trivial act of false hospitalities and pleasantries. Fhlynn, what we named that young, jet-black haired boy, when we found him scrawling in a back-alley, with a dog and a blue-blood's cane at him. His eyes, at the time were blood-shocked, nigh all the whites of those tender, weak, eyes had disappeared, replaced by a flood of hatred, the pupils were of a bright, pitched-blue color, as blue as the blue blood that had refused to stop beating him across the legs with his cane, yet, over the years - Even now - his eye color grew lighter, as though forgetting the blue-blooded noble's actions, and the actions of many others, and as of yet they are of an icy-blue spec, a shade of the coldest of blue's, like frost. Not the frost that your mothers tell you of, this was the color of true frost, a blue-tinted color, one that could burn through a man's own eyes, just like frostbite does to a man's fingers - The true burn. Not the burn that your mothers tell you of, but the burn of frost... The pain that seeps in, slowly, edging towards you're inevitable pain - You just want to sleep, sleep forever, and be done with it, but this burn does not let you... Just as the same, Fhlynn's eyes truly could burn through another man's own eyes, and perhaps his soul, and mind, the sheer cold, the dread, the hatred that lurked in those eyes... His face was the face of a happy-man, as would be a of a jest, or a weakened fool, but it possessed fine attributes, attributes one would expect more in a little praised lord-ling, not a beaten, bleeding rag of a body, strewn on the floor. Yet is was blackened in certain areas, and bruised where it did not bleed, we knew only to blame the blue blood - He stood above the body, he held the cane, he owned the dog. Thinking naught of anything, we, me and my brothers, my -true- brothers, by right and not by blood, ran forth against the blue blood and his damnable hound; And in an ecstasy of fumbling, screams, blood, the blue-blood was downed, by three of the seven, seven including me - Then me and the other three gone to grab the boy, now seemingly dead, but we would not dare to leave his body for the dog; It was now, that it started raining, heavily, a sudden omen perhaps? Most likely not, why would the Gods answer us now, if they haven't done so for the past thirty-eight years of my damned life? The blood of the boy had began to wash away, and his clothing drenched.
It had been ten, long and anxious, minutes before we could finally reach sight of my home, well.. House. Home, is the place you walk into, and are greeted and loved and cared for, with a rack to hook your fine leather coat, and an area for you to pile your shoes. Home is where you may enter, and find that your sons, all of them, had been playing some crude game that you might take part in... Home, home. But this was but a house. Without a rack, there wasn’t any greetings, no love nor care. No leather coat. No pile of shoes. No sons. This was only a house. A cursed house, with no roof, and no front door. A house I would rather die, than note down in this journal of mine, but of course - I'd sooner meet the false gods, than I would want to. And so, I shall: Imagine a dark room, one with no roof, puddles everywhere and wood, rotted by old age, maggots on the very ground you sleep and rogue spiders found in their on small hobbles in the walls, which would be easily flooded. Imagine your grand homes, burnt to a crisp in an accident, where now only the souls of your loved ones lived. Imagine this: That every night you wept yourself to sleep was more common that every day you woke up drenched by the rain, that every mouthful of food you eat could mean your death, and every drink of water could cause your friends to become fanatics, thirsty fanatics at that, whom wish for your blood on the ground. This. This is what a house is.
We lay the boy down upon the floor, for there was nowhere else to put him, flipped him, for his back to face upwards, we removed his shirt and one of the brothers, of mine, stepped closer, staring in shock, a deep sense of fear was upon his face. 'What?', I finally broke my silence, which had been kept for days - Speaking felt good. Letting my deep voice, that sounded older than it should - Might I curse the gods for that, fill the air was strange, though. He replied softly, slowly yet firmly and with anger, 'Look upon his right shoulder-blade damn it! Can't you see Haran?! Closer, look closer!' - And thus, I obliged, and looked to his right shoulder blade - At first, I saw nothing under all the bruising, but then - A shape, of dark crimson, it was painted into his skin, like a tattoo, of a snake - One of the estranged creatures of the east, they were rare to be found in the Western known-lands... I was confused, what had this to do with anything - It was merely a tattoo of sorts, so I asked, 'And? The boy has a marking, what of it!?' - Perhaps I spoke with anger, perhaps not - But my brother's face showed a sudden loss of confidence, and the others of my kin wondered, I heard people muttering things, things I'd much prefer to simply ignore. After a moment of brief awkwardness, he spoke to me... 'You've forgotten the sigils of the houses! This boy is a Vanders! But the mark is crimson... He's ---', I cut him off:
'A bastard.'
