Elar had heard their shouts, their accusations, sharp as daggers: "Witch! Burn her! Her spawn is cursed!" The villagers, consumed by envy for Marina's ethereal beauty and her uncanny ability to heal, had twisted her gifts into something monstrous, branding her a witch and her son a cursed omen. "She steals our crops with her magic!" one villager shrieked, her voice shrill with malice. "She poisons our wells and charms our children!" another cried, her face contorted with hate.
He saw the boy, Macellion, being ostracized, tormented, and branded as a "witch's spawn," forced to endure the cruel taunts and relentless persecution of a community that had turned against him. He saw the other children, once playmates, now hurling stones and spitting curses, their innocence poisoned by the fear and hatred of their parents. "Stay away from us, monster!" they screamed, their faces twisted with malice. "Your mother is a demon, and you're just like her! You're cursed! Cursed!" Even in the dead of winter, when Macellion's frail body shivered with cold, no one offered him warmth or aid, only the sting of their scorn and the weight of their accusations. "Witch's child," they'd whisper, their breath misting in the frigid air, "you'll bring nothing but ruin to us all. You should have died instead of your mother. You're nothing but a stain on this world!" And sometimes, when the hunger gnawed at his belly and the cold seeped into his bones, Macellion would whisper back, "Maybe you're right. Maybe I should have."
He witnessed the boy's desperate struggle for survival, foraging for scraps of food, his small hands trembling as he tried to mend his tattered clothes, his growing resentment, and his first, tentative steps into the dark arts, seeking solace and power in the forbidden knowledge that had condemned his mother. He saw Marina, her spirit broken but her love unwavering, surrendering herself to the lustful desires of the soldiers in exchange for meager medicines to ease her son's suffering. The shame in her eyes, the silent tears that streamed down her face as she returned each night, haunted Elar more than any dark magic ever could. "Macellion, my sweet boy," she'd whisper, her voice raw with anguish, cradling him close. "I am so sorry. I would bear any shame, any pain, if it meant keeping you safe. Please, understand that I do this for you. Forgive me, my love. I wish I could protect you from all this… I wish I could make them see you're just a child." And Macellion, burying his face in her worn dress, would sob, "It's okay, Mama. I understand. Just… just don't cry. Please don't cry."
He saw Macellion, weakened by illness and starvation, finally succumb to death, his small hand reaching out for his mother, his last breath a whispered plea for help that never came. "Mama…" he croaked, his eyes fluttering closed, a single tear tracing a path down his pale cheek. His body, so small and fragile, grew cold in her arms, his spirit fading like a dying ember.
He saw Marina, consumed by grief and despair, her heart shattered beyond repair, perform the forbidden ritual, sacrificing her own life force to resurrect her beloved son through dark magic. "No!" she screamed, her voice a raw, primal sound of agony that echoed through the chamber. "I will not let you go! You are all I have left! I will defy the gods themselves to bring you back! I will trade my soul for yours, if that's what it takes! Please, come back to me, my sweet boy. I can't live without you."
He saw Macellion awaken, his eyes devoid of their former innocence, his heart strangely numb. The dark magic had saved him, but it had twisted his fate, binding him to a purpose he never chose. He felt a chilling disconnect, a disturbing lack of grief for his own death, a terrifying glimpse into the monster he was destined to become. "I… I don't feel anything," he whispered, his voice barely audible, his face a mask of confusion. "Why don't I feel sad? Why don't I miss her? What's wrong with me?" And then, a voice, ancient and cold, echoed in his mind: "You are the balance, the fulcrum between light and darkness. Your purpose is to ensure that neither triumphs, that chaos and order remain in perpetual equilibrium. This is the price of your resurrection, the burden you must bear. You will be the darkness, so that the light may exist."
He saw the abuse Macellion suffered at the hands of the village chief's wife, her unsettling and unnecessary caresses hinting at a predatory desire, her words dripping with false sympathy and veiled threats. "Such a pretty boy," she'd coo, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, her eyes gleaming with a disturbing hunger. "It's a shame your mother was such a wicked woman. But don't worry, I'll take care of you now. Just remember, I know who you really are. A witch's spawn, brought back from the dead by dark magic. If you ever try to leave, or if you ever disobey me, I'll make sure everyone knows. And then… well, let's just say your mother's fate will seem like a blessing compared to what I have in store for you. You'll be begging for death, just like she was." And Macellion, would shrink away from her touch, his heart pounding in his chest, his voice a choked whisper, but the voice in his head would whisper, "Embrace the darkness. Embrace the chaos. It is your destiny. You are meant to suffer."
He saw the betrayal by his only friend, a young boy named Theron, who, for a brief, shining moment, had brought Macellion back from the brink of despair. Theron had offered him friendship, acceptance, and a glimpse of a world where kindness and joy still existed. He had coaxed a smile from Macellion's lips, a warmth into his heart, a flicker of trust in his eyes. He had shown him that there was beauty and goodness in the world, that not everyone was cruel and hateful. But Theron's kindness was a lie, a carefully constructed facade designed to lure Macellion to the outskirts of the village, where he was ambushed by the Church, his powers suppressed, his spirit broken. "I'm sorry, Macellion," Theron whispered, his eyes filled with a mixture of guilt and triumph as the priests dragged Macellion away. "But I had to do it. They promised me money, and a place in the Church. I'm doing this for my family. Please… please try to understand."
Why, Theron? Macellion cried, his voice in his head with betrayal, echoing with the pain of a thousand broken promises.
Why would you show me kindness, only to take it away? Why would you give me hope, only to crush it? Was it all a lie? Was there never any real friendship between us? Why introduce me to peace, to joy, to kindness in this cruel world, only to rip it away? What did I ever do to deserve this?
And the voice in his head would whisper, "Let the hatred consume you. Let it fuel your power. It is your purpose. You are meant to be alone."
He witnessed the slow, agonizing ascent to power, a journey that forged him into the being Elar knew – a being of immense power, unwavering composure, and a smile that could, on rare occasions, melt the coldest heart. After the betrayal from Theron, Macellion was taken by the church, and was tortured, experimented on, and was told to be the church's weapon. Macellion, was a perfect vessel, a being of pure darkness, and he accepted his fate. He endured the pain, the humiliation, the violation, because he believed that he deserved it. He believed that he was a monster, that he was meant to suffer, that he was never meant to be happy. He embraced the darkness, the chaos, the destruction, because that was what he was meant to be. That was the price of his resurrection, the burden he had to bear. The voice in his head grew stronger with each act of cruelty, whispering, "Embrace the pain. Embrace the suffering. It is your destiny. You are the balance. You must become the darkness, so that the light may exist."
He did not wait for a perfect moment to escape. He did not resist the experiments, the tortures. He accepted them, as if they were his due. He allowed them to break him, to twist him, to mold him into the weapon they wanted him to be. He became the darkness they feared, the monster they created. And then, when they were finished, when they had stripped him of his humanity, when they had turned him into a being of pure darkness, he unleashed his power.
He did not plan his escape. He did not plot his revenge. He simply reacted, a primal scream of rage and despair erupting from the depths of his soul. The dark magic surged through him, consuming everything in its path. He burned the church to the ground, killing everyone inside. It was a bloodbath, but Macellion didn't care. He was finally free. He was free from the pain, the torture, the control. He was free to embrace his destiny, to become the darkness he was meant to be. As he stood amidst the burning wreckage, the voice in his head whispered, "This is your purpose. This is your destiny. To be the darkness that others fear, so that they may appreciate the light."
He wandered the land, honing his skills, mastering only dark magic, becoming a force to be reckoned with. He became a mercenary, selling his services to the highest bidder, his heart growing colder with each passing year. He didn't care about good or evil, right or wrong. He only cared about power, about survival. He built walls around his heart, burying his emotions deep within, afraid to feel anything, afraid to be hurt again. He embraced the darkness, the chaos, the destruction, because that was what he was meant to be. That was the price of his resurrection, the burden he had to bear.
He caused chaos and destruction, not because he enjoyed it, but because he had to. The world needed balance, and he was the only one who could provide it. The heavens were threatening to destroy the world because there was too much light, too much order. He had to create chaos, to sow discord, to remind the world that darkness was necessary. He was the villain, the monster, the Harbinger of Death. He was the one who shouldered all the hatred, all the blame, so that others could live in peace. He wanted to be the one who received all the hatreds and blame instead.
And now, with the heavens threatening to destroy the world, with the balance teetering on the brink of collapse, Macellion knew what he had to do. He had to embrace the darkness once more. He had to become the monster they all feared. He had to sacrifice everything, even his own happiness, for the sake of the world.
The visions were overwhelming, raw, and intensely personal. Elar felt the boy's terror as if it were his own, the burning sting of injustice, the crushing weight of loneliness. The magic of the resonance chamber amplified the emotions, flooding his senses with the anguish, the pain, the sheer, unadulterated trauma that had shaped Macellion's early years. He saw the world through Macellion's eyes, felt his heart break with every betrayal, every act of cruelty. He knew, intellectually, that Macellion had done terrible things, that his actions could not be justified solely by his past. But seeing the source of that darkness, understanding the depth of that pain… it shattered him. It felt as if his own heart was being ripped from his chest, torn into a million pieces, and then stomped on. He understood now, with a horrifying clarity, the true extent of Macellion's suffering, the unbearable weight of his burden, the crushing loneliness of his existence.
The students, standing outside the chamber, were not spared. The psychic echo spilled out, washing over them in waves of sorrow and despair, each emotion a physical blow. Diana crumpled to her knees, her hands pressed against her mouth, guttural sobs tearing from her throat as she wailed, "No… oh, no… his mother… how could they do that to her? To him? It's not fair! It's just… not… fair! She just wanted to protect him! Why couldn't they see that? Why couldn't they just leave them alone?!" the weight of being called a monster, the crushing loneliness of being feared and hated for something you couldn't control.
Faen, usually so composed, was openly weeping, his body shaking uncontrollably. "Theron… how could you? He trusted you! You gave him hope, and then you just… took it away! What kind of monster does that? He was just a kid! He didn't deserve any of this! He just wanted a friend!" He realized, with a sickening lurch, that Macellion's darkness wasn't a choice, but a consequence, a shield built to protect himself from further pain.
Gio, stood rigid, his face pale, tears silently streaming down his cheeks, his usual bravado utterly shattered. He clenched his fists, his knuckles white, his voice a choked whisper. "That… that woman… the chief's wife… I want to make them pay. I want to make them all pay for what they did to him! They broke him… they broke him!" He saw, with horrifying clarity, that Macellion's acts of chaos weren't born of malice, but of a desperate need to fulfill a purpose, to shoulder a burden that no one else could understand. "He didn't want to be this way," Gio choked out, his voice thick with tears. "He didn't want to be the bad guy. He just… he just didn't have a choice."
The weight of it all was almost unbearable. The anguish, the pain, the sheer, unadulterated trauma that had shaped Macellion's early years resonated within them, breaking them apart, shattering their preconceived notions, and leaving them reeling in a sea of sorrow and empathy. They had always seen him as a monster, a force of destruction, an enemy of the light. But now, they understood the truth: he was a victim, a prisoner of his own destiny, a being forced to sacrifice his own happiness for the sake of the world. And the realization was more heartbreaking than any of them could have imagined.
Elar, however, felt something more. It wasn't just protectiveness, it was a profound sense of guilt, of responsibility. He had known Macellion, had been close to him, and yet he had never truly understood the depth of his suffering, the weight of his burden. He had seen the darkness, but he had never truly seen the boy beneath, the broken, hurting soul who was forced to sacrifice everything for the sake of a world that hated and feared him. The revelation was a crushing blow, a wound that pierced his very soul.
He stood there, his face pale, his body trembling, his heart aching with a pain he had never known before. He wanted to scream, to rage, to tear the world apart. He wanted to undo everything that had happened to Macellion, to erase his pain, to give him the happiness he deserved. But he knew he couldn't. He couldn't change the past. All he could do was try to make things right in the present, to find Macellion, to save him from himself, to show him that he was loved, that he was worthy, that he was not alone.
A single, glistening tear escaped his carefully guarded composure, sliding slowly down his cheek.
He would find Macellion, no matter the cost. He would bring him back, not to save the world, but to save him. To give him the peace he had never known, the love he had always deserved, the freedom he had been denied for so long.
And maybe, just maybe, to convince him that he didn't have to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, that he didn't have to be the Harbinger of Death, shielding him from the world and his own destructive impulses, so that he could finally, truly, be free.