The weight of the "Ethelios" felt strangely comforting in Elar's hands. Its leather cover, worn smooth with age, was the last tangible link to Macellion, a man who had been both his tormentor and the object of his deepest, most complicated affections. The villagers, once united in their hatred, now stood fractured, their faces mirroring Elar's own internal conflict. They had learned the truth – Macellion, the bringer of chaos, had also shielded them from the true horrors lurking beyond their borders. Their savior was also their destroyer.
Elar's heart ached with a familiar hollowness. He knew he had to do something, anything, to break this cycle of despair and to honor the memory of those who fell.
"We mourn," Elar began, his voice hoarse from days of anguish. The villagers gathered in the square, their eyes fixed on him, searching for guidance. "We mourn for the lives lost, for the innocence stolen. But we cannot let Macellion's darkness consume us. He may have brought chaos, but he also left us with knowledge, with the 'Ethelios.'" He held up the book, its gilded edges catching the fading sunlight. "This book, given to me by Macellion himself, is said to ward off evil. It is a chance, a sliver of hope, to rebuild what we have lost, to create a society worthy of those we have mourned."
The decision was met with a mixture of hope and trepidation. Some villagers, hardened by the years of hardship, were wary of any change, clinging to the familiar routines of survival. Others, younger and more idealistic, saw in Elar's words a promise of a brighter future.
The first few months were a blur of backbreaking labor. Elar, fueled by a desperate need for redemption, worked tirelessly alongside the villagers, clearing rubble, planting crops, and rebuilding homes. He poured over the "Ethelios" every night, deciphering its ancient text, learning the secrets of warding and protection. The book was more than just a shield against evil; it was a guide to building a just and equitable society, a society where everyone had a voice, where compassion and understanding reigned supreme.
But the shadow of Macellion loomed large, not as a threat, but as an absence that echoed in Elar's thoughts and actions. He found himself constantly battling his inner demons, the memory of Macellion's sharp wit and unsettling charm echoing in his mind. More disturbingly, Macellion's principles – the ruthless pragmatism that had been drilled into him since childhood – would surface at the most inappropriate moments.
One day, a dispute arose between two farmers over water rights. Elar, attempting to mediate, found himself about to say, "Life is a game of resources; the strong take what they need." The words were on the tip of his tongue, Macellion's voice echoing in his head. He stopped himself just in time, horrified.
Old Man Tiber, one of the farmers, glared at him. "Well, Elar? What's your judgment? Are you going to let Baruk hoard all the water?"
Elar swallowed hard. That wasn't the way now. He had to actively fight against those ingrained beliefs. He cleared his throat and said, with forced gentleness, "Let's find a solution that benefits everyone. Perhaps we can ration the water fairly, or find a new source." He cursed inwardly. Macellion would have taken the water for himself.
Later, a young woman named Mara, who had lost her family in the chaos, approached him hesitantly. "You seem troubled, Elar," she said softly. "Is rebuilding…is it harder than you thought?"
Elar sighed. "It's just…sometimes, I hear his voice in my head. I almost said something…awful today. Something he would have said." He looked out at the rebuilt homes, the struggling crops. "I don't know if I'm strong enough to do this."
Mara looked at him with surprising strength. "You are. You're not him. You're choosing a different path."
The longing for Macellion was a constant ache. He missed the intellectual sparring, the dark humor, even the casual cruelty. He missed the feeling of being seen, truly seen, by someone who understood the darkest corners of his soul. He knew it was twisted, unhealthy, but he couldn't help it. He closed his eyes, a vivid image flashing in his mind: Macellion's face, an impossible blend of ethereal beauty and predatory sharpness. The high cheekbones, the piercing eyes that seemed to see through everything, the way his lips would curve into a knowing smile. He longed to see him again, to bask in the unsettling allure of his presence, even if just for a moment.
And then there was the silence. Since Macellion's disappearance, the outside world had been eerily quiet. No news, no rumors, no whispers of his signature brand of chaos. The world, it seemed, was finally at peace, free from Macellion's games. Elar should have been relieved. The villagers were relieved. But Elar felt a strange pang of…emptiness.
He found himself scanning every foreign merchant who passed through, listening intently to travelers' tales, hoping for a single mention, a fleeting anecdote, anything that hinted at Macellion's whereabouts. He even started frequenting the seediest taverns, hoping to overhear whispers of the "Harbinger of Death."
One night, a drunken bard sang a bawdy song about a silver-tongued rogue who had swindled a king out of his crown jewels. Elar leaned forward, his heart pounding. "Did you see him?" he asked, grabbing the bard's arm. "Did you see this rogue?"
The bard shrugged. "Just a story, friend. But they say he had eyes that could charm the scales off a dragon."
Elar released him, disappointed. It could have been anyone.
He knew Macellion was a master of disguise, capable of blending into any crowd, assuming any persona. The fact that there were no confirmed stories was, in itself, unsettling. Was he truly gone? Or had he simply become so adept at hiding that even Elar, who knew him better than anyone, couldn't detect his presence?
One evening, as Elar sat alone in his study, poring over the "Ethelios," a chilling thought struck him. The world was safer, yes, but was Macellion safe? He knew his former master was powerful, resourceful, but also reckless, prone to taking unnecessary risks. What if he had finally pushed his luck too far? The thought sent a shiver down his spine, a cold dread that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with…loss. He imagined Macellion, wounded and alone, with no one to turn to. The image was unbearable.
He closed the book, the image of Macellion's face burned into his mind. He knew, deep down, that he would never truly be free of him. Macellion was a part of him, a dark stain on his soul, but also a source of endless fascination, a puzzle he could never quite solve. But he also knew that he couldn't let that yearning consume him. He had a responsibility to the villagers, to the memory of those who had died. He had to keep fighting, keep building, keep striving for a better future, even if it meant never knowing what had become of the man he once followed.
He rose from his chair, his eyes filled with a newfound determination. The echo of the "Ethelios" resonated within him, a beacon of hope in the encroaching darkness, but also a bittersweet reminder of the man who had shown him the light, however twisted it may have been. He would not let Macellion's absence define him. He would rebuild this utopia, not in Macellion's image, but in the image of hope, resilience, and love. And maybe, just maybe, one day a traveler would arrive with a story, a rumor, a whisper of a name that would bring both joy and sorrow to his heart, a name that he both longed to hear and dreaded in equal measure.
...
Sixteen years had passed since Macellion's disappearance. Elar, now thirty-seven, stood as the undisputed leader of the utopia he had painstakingly built from the ashes of Macellion's chaos. Time had etched lines of wisdom and weariness onto his face, but his eyes still held a spark of the fire that Macellion had ignited within him so long ago. He had grown into his role, his bearing now regal, his presence commanding. The villagers, once wary and fractured, now looked to him with unwavering trust, their faces reflecting the peace and prosperity he had brought to their lives.
He ruled with a firm but compassionate hand, guided by the principles of justice and equality that he had gleaned from the "Ethelios." The society he had created was a testament to his dedication, a beacon of hope in a world still shrouded in darkness. Yet, beneath the surface of his success, Elar wrestled with a persistent internal struggle, a battle fought in the silent chambers of his heart.
The absence of Macellion was a constant ache, a void that no amount of achievement could fill. The world had moved on, rebuilding and forgetting the chaos that Macellion had wrought. But Elar could not forget. Macellion was etched into his very being, a part of him that could never be erased. It was more than just loyalty; it was a deep, unacknowledged longing, a yearning for a connection that transcended master and disciple.
The weight of his title, "Macellion's right hand," also bore heavily on him. It was a constant reminder of his past, of the darkness he had once embraced, and of the intimacy he had shared with Macellion in those dark times. He knew that many still whispered about his connection to the vanished master, questioning his motives, wondering if he was truly reformed.
One day, a visiting dignitary, Lord Pirante, couldn't resist probing. "Elar," he said, his voice laced with curiosity, "the world remembers Macellion. Tell me, what was he really like?"
Elar paused, his gaze drifting to the horizon. "Macellion was… incandescent. He burned brighter than anyone I've ever known. He saw the world in shades others couldn't perceive, and he wasn't afraid to paint it with his own fire."
Pirante raised an eyebrow. "Fire that nearly consumed us all. Some say you were his puppet, Elar. That you're only ruling because he allowed it."
Elar's eyes flashed, a hint of the old darkness flickering within. "I rule because the people trust me. My past is my own. Macellion is gone, and I am building a new future. But I will not deny that he shaped me, that he… awakened something within me."
Later, Elar found himself reflecting on the encounter, the words echoing in his mind. Awakened something within me. It was a dangerous admission, even to himself.
And then there were the questions, the endless questions about Macellion. Where had he gone? Was he still alive? Would he ever return? Elar had no answers, only the gnawing uncertainty that haunted his waking hours.
Hidden deep within his home, in a chamber known only to him, lay the truth of his enduring obsession. The room was a sanctuary, a place where he could shed the weight of his responsibilities and confront the ghosts of his past. It was filled with portraits of Macellion, each one a testament to Elar's unwavering belief – and his unspoken desire.
But these were no ordinary portraits. They were faceless, each depicting Macellion's posture, his stance, the way he held himself. Elar had long forgotten Macellion's voice, the sound of his laughter, the timbre of his commands. His face, too, had faded from memory, a blurred image that danced just beyond his grasp. But he remembered the way Macellion carried himself, the subtle nuances of his movements, the way he commanded attention without uttering a word, the way his eyes seemed to linger on Elar just a moment too long.
He would stand before these portraits for hours, studying each detail, trying to recapture the essence of the man who had shaped his life. He remembered the way Macellion would tilt his head when he was amused, the way his fingers would drum against a table when he was impatient, the way his eyes would glint with a mixture of intelligence and malice – and the way his lips would curve into a smile that promised both pleasure and pain.
Each portrait was labeled with a single word, a fleeting memory, a moment in time that had resonated with Elar. "Power," read one, depicting Macellion standing atop a conquered fortress, his silhouette outlined against a blood-red sky. "Wit," read another, capturing Macellion's sardonic smile as he outmaneuvered a rival in a game of political intrigue. "Cruelty," read a third, a stark reminder of the darkness that had once consumed them both – and the thrill that had accompanied it.
Elar would often whisper to these portraits, calling out to the vanished master in the silence of his hidden chamber. "Master," he would say, his voice barely audible, laced with a vulnerability he dared not show to anyone else, "where are you? Do you ever think of me? Do you remember…us?"
He remembered one particular moment, a fleeting memory labeled "Trust."
Macellion had turned to him, his eyes uncharacteristically soft, and said, "Elar, you are the only one I can truly rely on."
The words had been a rare display of vulnerability, a glimpse into the heart of the man who had always seemed so invincible. But now, Elar wondered if there had been something more in that gaze, a silent acknowledgment of a connection that went beyond mere loyalty.
There was never an answer, only the echo of his own voice in the empty room. But Elar persisted, clinging to the hope that one day, Macellion would return, that one day, he would see his master's face again, feel his presence, and understand the true nature of their bond.
He knew it was a foolish dream, a dangerous obsession. He knew that Macellion was likely gone, lost to the ravages of time or consumed by his own darkness. But he couldn't let go. Macellion was a part of him, a wound that would never heal, a desire that would never be quenched.
He would continue to rule, to lead, to build a better world. But he would never forget Macellion. He would carry his memory with him, a burden and a blessing, a constant reminder of the man who had been both his savior and his… his everything. And in the silence of his hidden chamber, surrounded by the faceless portraits, he would continue to whisper, "Master," hoping against hope that one day, his voice would be heard, and that Macellion would finally understand the depth of his devotion.