The air is thick with the scent of burning flesh and sulfur yet for a single fragile moment there is peace as a mother sings to her son. Her voice trembling but unwavering as if the song alone could shield him from the horrors beyond their cell. Her fingers stroke his snow-white hair with a gentleness that defies the damned world around them. Hell stretches endlessly outside their prison, a grotesque panorama of molten rivers and jagged stalactites bleeding like teeth from the cavernous ceiling. Their cell atop Hell's roof is a fused cage of blackened bone and infernal iron. It's a shelter made in a realm designed to devour hope… Yet she sings…
"Hush now… my shadow, my dear little one,
The night is long, but the dark is your home.
Close your eyes, let the spiders spin~
They'll weave you a blanket so soft, so sweet."
The mother knows the lullaby is a lie, There is no softness here.. or no sweetness… there is only the hollow echo of a world that never was. But she sings it anyway. Her voice is a frayed thread of false comfort unraveling in the dark. The lie is all she has left to give so she cradles it like a blade, pressing its hilt into his small hands, praying he never learns the weight of its edge.
She remembers the first time she sang it how her voice had cracked on the promise words had tasted like ash on her tongue. There are no dreams here, only the ceaseless gnawing of the dark. But he had sighed against her his tiny body curling into the hollow of her ribs and for a moment she could almost believe in the fiction. Almost….
A decade later the lullaby is a ritual a wound she reopens each night. His eyes are too bright too knowing watches her as she sings. She wonders if he hears the truth beneath the melody. The Abyss has no lullabies… only distractions... No cradles… only chains… But she stitches the lie into his bones anyway thread by thread because the alternative is silence. And silence is the one thing she cannot bear.
Some nights when the weight of the deception threatens to crush her she imagines tearing the song from her throat and letting the truth spill out. But then his fingers clutch at her sleeve so restless seeking and so she swallows the bitterness down. Let him have this. Let him believe… if only for a little longer… that there is something in this world worth gentleness.
"Mother, tell me about the knights again! Please! I want to be one they're so strong! Like you! mother."
The boy's voice is too bright for the dark, a spark in the endless gullet of the Abyss. Her boy Aamon squirms in her lap restless as a caged thing. His horns are still small, still so soft… graze her palm His eyes glow like twin rubies pried from a dead king's crown and for a moment she lets herself forget… The cell... The chains... The weight of the world above pressing down like a tombstone.
He always wins. She could never deny him. She is the reason he breathes in his cage, And so the mother sits on the bed of their cell. The pain in her eyes is unbearable each time she tells him his favorite story. Something in her bleeds more, so she pulls his head in her lap and plays with his short white curls.
"Listen well my shadow, my little aamon. I'll tell it just as you like… The Knight's Oath, Sir Aldric was brave, but never cruel. Sworn to protect Noctharis, a kingdom of golden fields and just laws."
The lie comes to her lips as easily as a breath. She's never known a just law, only the teeth behind them. She looks at her son, hanging on my every word… his youthful face alight with a devotion she could never deserve. So she cups his chin.
"When a dragon scorched the villages, Aldric rode out. Not for glory… but because the weak burned brighter in the dark…"
"Mother!! Do you think I'll ever see a dragon? A real one? Big enough to swallow the sun?"
Being abruptly cut off the mother pats his smooth horns His fingers dig into her arm. claws pricking skin she wonders if he knows how easily he draws blood already.
"Yes, my shadow. Every dragon meets its hunter. Someday."
She tucks his head beneath her chin as her voice drops like a lullaby or blade. As she continues her story for his sake.
"Aldric found the dragon broken, its wings torn. A darker evil had driven it mad; a sorcerer, starved for thrones. But the knight saw the truth in the beast's pain. He knelt in the ashes and offered it water."
She drew him up in her lap. Aamon settled into the hollow of her form, a small warmth against the pervasive chill of the enchanted cell of the damned… Its magic was a silent pressure, a boundary she could not see or touch but could feel in the stillness of the air.
He loved a story with a happy ending and a faint knowing smile touched her lips. She alone knew he would be the architect of his own.
"Together, my little shadow, they exposed the sorcerer's lies. Not with fire. Not with steel. But with mercy. When the king offered Aldric a crown, he refused. 'Some things,' he said, 'are worth more than a kingdom.'"
Silence. Then….
"…Mother? Is mercy stronger than a sword?"
Her smile was sweet for him, a carefully crafted expression hollowed out by ages of pain and calculation. She had known many dragons in her time. Some were meals she had devoured to grow stronger. Some were leashes of war tools she had wielded until they broke. But all without exception had been monsters. Just as she was… Just as she would teach him not to be.
So she whispered the words as soft as a venomous gift. She smoothed a hand over his hair, her touch as cold as her sorrow.
"Ask me again when the dragon kneels to you."
Eighty years. Eighty years of sulfur and silence. Eighty years of Aamon playing knight with a sword of moss and memory swinging at shadows that never swing back. The cell hasn't changed Hell doesn't bother with time. But she has. Her flesh had withered first peeling back like old parchment revealing the ivory beneath. Then her voice had gone swallowed by the Abyss until all that remained was the hollow cradle of her ribs. The arch of her spine curled protectively toward where he still slept. Yet Aamon talks to her. Every day.
Today, like every day he bares a moss-blade, its edges made sharp from years of making them and slashing at imaginary Goblins from a story he remembers quite fondly. He strikes a pose, chin lifted like the heroes in her stories.
"Look, Mother!! I'm a knight now~ just like Aldric! I'll save a dragon someday! But… but first I'll save you. I want to be able to sleep with you again, Mother. I want to feel your chest as you sing to me, again. I know it's greedy and you say greedy people should die… but I can't help it."
His voice wavers only a little. He's practiced this. He kneels beside the bed or what's left of it is just a nest of rotted cloth and her bones so white they glow in the dark. Gently so gently he lifts her hand from the mattress. The fingers click softly a sound like dice rolling in the void.
A tear falls….
It lands on her hollowed knuckles sizzling for a second before vanishing into the Abyss's thirst.
His voice drops to a whisper as he grips her hand a bit tighter.
"…Mother, I promise you I will get out, I will make a friend, and I will take mercy on a dragon. That is my oath, no knight will break it."
Silence.
Somewhere far beyond the cell a dragon that doesn't exist roars. Aamon squeezes her hand tighter as if he could mend the gaps between her bones.
"I'll be stronger tomorrow,"
he promises, hell just laughs in the walls. The cell trembled around Aamon, its ancient stones groaning as if protesting his defiance. For ninety years these walls had been his entire world a suffocating tomb that even hell seemed to have forgotten. The air smelled of sulfur and despair the same as it had the day his mother's voice had faded forever.
Aamon's horns scraped against the low ceiling as he stood at his full height, his once-small body now grown lean and hardened by decades of imprisonment. He'd tried to break out, nothing had worked. But today, something was different. He knelt beside his mother's remains, his smooth fingers brushing against the smooth curve of her skull.
"Sorry, Mother, I'm so sorry. But I can't stay here anymore."
He whispered his voice was rough as if the words tasted like betrayal but the truth burned hotter he couldn't keep pretending this was living. There were no knights in hell… no dragons to slay or save just endless darkness and the slow erosion of hope. As he rose his muscles coiled with pent-up fury. His eyes still that same ruby red she'd loved fixed on the ceiling where he knew somehow the mortal world waited.
"I'll find a way out, And when I do…"
He vowed to the empty air. The promise hung unfinished, more dangerous for what went unsaid. The cell shuddered again and for the first time in years Aamon thought he felt something to answer not the mocking laughter of hell's screams… but something darker and more hungrier waiting just beyond the veil. Aamon grabbed his mothers skull and brought it to his face. He can still picture her smile on the pale white skull. As he said something that sounded like the last goodbye
"I'm sorry mother, I love you so much. I only wish I could be with you again."
Aamon's voice could barely be called a whisper as he closes his eyes and uses "Reformare" to reshape his mothers bones. As he looks at his creation tears fall. He made a shovel shaped tool out of her bone, just as white as before. Aamon puts the shovel shaped bone to the roof and hits it.. The packed soil and stone screamed as it fractured a sound like glaciers splitting under pressure.
With every blow his mother's bones blackened and crumbled, her final sacrifice burning away in his palms only for him to kneel again and gather more fragments whispering Reformare through his shaking teeth as he forged another shovel from her femur and another from her clavicle.
Then came the sound that would haunt him forever: a crack so vast it split the world in two. The convulsion slammed into Aamon like a fist… hot blood bursting from his ears as the ceiling above him spiderwebbed with glowing fissures. Through the ringing in his skull, he heard it: the distant wail of the mortal winds… the groan of collapsing dimensions and beneath it all his mother's voice not from the bones below but from the Abyss itself whispering one last command:
"Climb…."
The forest was peaceful.
Morning dew clung to the underbrush most of the leaves have fallen creating a thick and crunchy carpet underfoot. The bare branches of the trees lace together like dark threads against a soft, grey sky. The air is cold and carries the clean damp smell of earth and decaying wood. A deep and peaceful silence hangs over everything broken only by the occasional chirp of a winter bird or the rustle of a squirrel in the leaves running from a cubby cat picking its way through the damp soil, paws sinking slightly with each careful step. Its ears twitched once… then twice… before freezing mid-motion. There between the swaying blades of tall grass: movement other than a fleeing squirrel.
The cubby cat dropped low, its under belly fur brushing the earth. Its prey, a grey-furred mouse nibbled obliviously on a fallen seed, it"s whiskers trembling with each bite. The cat's tail lashed once… Twice... Fifteen precise butt wiggles, a ritual older than the trees themselves. Then….
Pounce!…
A flash of fur and a single crunch of tiny bones. The mouse spasmed briefly in its jaws before going still. Victory thrummed through the cat's veins until the earth moved.
kwuh!!
Dirt exploded upward as a clawed hand bursted from the soil fingers clawing at the air. The cat jumped, fluffing up like a raccoon's tail, dropping its prize as it scrambled backward. The mouse landed with a soft thud.
''hiss~''
the cat yelled. The hand was Aamon's pale and clawed. He hauled himself from the dirt. His fingers dug into the earth, the soil itself recoiling from his touch before reluctantly yielding. As he emerged his eyes burned like twin rubies. The glow of them casting jagged shadows across his excited face. The moment his weight left the ground it shuddered. A short sound rose from the wound he'd torn in it a groan of protest, of something alive as if wounded before the soil knit itself back together. The blackened earth weaving over the gap like stitches over flesh It left no trace as if the world itself was desperate to forget he'd ever been buried there at all.
When he stood with his six foot stature, his two obsidian horns curling on his forehead bumped a branch as his bat-like wings stretched out over fourteen feet long. His spiked tail swings back and forth like a puppy. Aamon's ruby eyes meet with the scared cat hissing at him.
"OH MY GOODNESS!! You must be a kitty. My mother said so many things about you all."
Aamon says with excitement a child who grew up in a cell shouldn't have. Aamon drops to the floor to the cat's eye level. The cubby cat is familiar with humans but aamon is not human. aamon is a demon, demons give off the smell of evil no matter their intentions… Yet Aamon still wags his tail in excitement as he asks the cubby cat a question.
"WOW! Look at those ears And I've never seen fur like that. It looks so soft, can I touch it? Oh wait actually! Can we be friends, kitty cat?"
Aamon says with desperation: grabbing a piece of his mothers spine to anchor himself for the cat's answer. One of this suited demon's goals was to make a friend and he doesn't care if it has fur
"hiss~ Squelch…"
with a sickening noise of the cat swatting at the prone demon cutting his eye before dashing away. Aamon pushes himself up to his feet clutching his eye. Aamon's tears fall freely. He's never felt pain like this before but the rejection of the running cat stings more.
Aamon grasps his mothers bones as his tears fall black as charcoal burns the grass around him. By the time he notices the flesh has already netted back together: rebuilding his cut ruby red iris. He looks down at his mother's bones. In genuine innocent shock as his voice comes out to his mother.
"That hurt. Why did it attack? I thought kitty's were nice. Maybe I came on too strong? You know, scared off because kitty was insecure."
Aamon's eyes lock onto the barely twitching mouse. He feels bad for the little creature bleeding out because of someone else's hunger. Aamon puts on a serious face before placing his mother's remains on the soft dirt.
Aamon slowly very slowly inches to the little mouse. Its body was limp and warm when Aamon lifted it, he was almost shocked about holding something so small and alive even if barely.
"Sanescere"
Aamon whispered as glowing white light came out his hand. In seconds the small puncture wounds of tiny fangs heal its flesh knitted and neck straightened. Aamon was beyond impressed as the mouse seemed to twitch back into being conscious.
"Hey little mouse… I saved you from death, since I did that…. Will… you maybe be my friend?"
Aamon says it with a shaky nervous voice. The last animal he asked cut him in his eye, but his words fell on death's door. As the mouse just ran the second it could stand.
"Oh I understand little buddy… be safe."
Aamon sadly picks up his mothers bone's from the floor. Dirt didn't stick to them as if it revolted the very thought.
"Now where do I put you, mother? I can't leave you here and I'd be wrong to put you with the dirt, you shouldn't get dirty…. I got it."
Aamon rasps as he grips his mother's bones tighter with the idea that comes to his head. He silently uses "Reformare", closing his eyes as shadow seems to eat his mother's bones. As they crack and reshape to make his mothers bones into something easier to take around. He makes ten different rings in each finger bared with his mothers embrace.
"Come mother, I have a friend to make and maybe see an elf. Wait, where do I go? Maybe there are people near?"
Sniff…sniff…
"what's that smell mother?"
Aamon smells something he assumes is meat, he's never had meat before so he heads towards it like a moth to the flame. His wings are a bit stiff since he's never been given the offer to use them before. Aamon stretches his bat-like wing; the shadow he makes with the moonlight would be frightening to most folk in this world.
A single, powerful stroke of his wings is what it takes so Aamon can launch himself into the air the gust tore through the skeletal trees of winter. The horizon unfolded like a stolen dream. Snow capped mountains hunched like sleeping giants in the distance, their peaks gnawing at the belly of the sky. Rivers cut through the land like scars, glinting with the last light of the setting sun And beyond it all the castle. Its broken towers speared the clouds, black and jagged against the bleeding twilight.
Aamon's breath caught. It was too vast, too bright, too much… His claws flexed and his wings stuttered. Some ancient buried instinct whispered that wings like his weren't meant for open sky. Before he could dwell on it any longer the wind surged beneath him as the thought shattered like ice. He tipped his head back and laughed. The sound was almost shocking to the man that's never tasted freedom before as the whole world sprawled beneath him, waiting.
"Oh, wow. I can see everything. Look at those mountains like how my mother said they were in her story's."
Aamon speaks out barely audible over his massive flapping wings. His hands were a bit awkward for a second before he just speeded them through the whistling air
"Oh my, is that a castle? It's so small compared to what I thought and it's really far. I should find a small village, that's what everyone does in your story right, mother?."
Aamon followed the thread of smoke, a dark smear against the pale sky. His flight was a wobbly, and eager thing, the unstable flapping of his massive wings carrying him over endless trees until he found its source.
A clearing. A violent scar of stumps and mud carved into the forest's side all leading down to the bank of a deep blue river. A massive pile of freshly chopped logs sat stacked and waiting. The work of the little bull he thought. his excitement exploding at the proof of people… His spiked tail wagged, thumping the air behind him. This is life! This was it. The people. His people. The friends he would finally make.
"Wow this is an actual village…. Maybe one day I'll own my own house in a village like this where I can ride out to save like a true knight."
Aamon whispers to the clouds. He slows his descent, his great shadow falling over the clearing. But as he dropped lower, the initial burst of joy began to curdle into a prickle of confusion as he landed, bringing in his wings, setting them flush against his back as the soft dirt was crushed below Aamon's boots. Aamon notices how empty everything is, it is night so it makes sense
Aamon stills when seeing the same chubby cat from earlier licking its paw. It's missing fur now from Aamon's acidic blood. He brings his hand to his eye, his eye is already healed from the scratch but the phantom pain is still there when his hand meets the healed skin. At this moment Aamon's stomach is filled with butterflies. He's so nervous he might even sweat so Aamon just continues walking into the village he doesn't see anyone at first so he continues down the path looking at the different sized houses with each their own design. When he reaches the middle of the village he sees the first faces other than his mothers. Aamon walks closer quickly and desperately to them shaking in his boots with excitement.
"Hi, I'm Aamon. Does anyone know where I can find a friend?"
Aamon says with a smile on his innocent face as everyone in the center freezes. Aamon is confused till a kid starts crying causing Aamon's smile to drop into confusion. The kids run to their mother as people start yelling
"DEMON!!"
"leave you vile creature"
"KILL HIM!''
one of the kids picks up a jagged rock and throws it at aamon hitting his obsidian horns with a phh… the force breaking the dam to his burning tears.
Aamon's cry doesn't stop them as the men of the village gather around him with pitchforks, knives, wooden sticks, and one has a sword. Aamon looks around like a kicked puppy begging for mercy as the men grab whatever they can to kill this demon. The women stay back to defend the children as the men charge…
Squelch…
The first person takes the shot at aamon. The man with a sword plunges it into his shoulder, ripping tendons, muscles, and bones with a sickening smile. Aamon looks up at the swordsman then down at the sword. It had stopped before his chest plate. Aamon is stunned he's never felt pain like this, it's so painful it's as if time itself had stopped for him. Aamon was unable to move till others started hitting with thick pieces of wood. His tears start flowing faster as he finally starts screaming in pain
"OUCH!! NOO STOP, I NOT HURT YOU. PLEASE! I promise…."
Aamon pleaded to the men. One of the bigger men hit the side of his head with a metal pole making him fall to the floor. Aamon tried to get up as people started kicking, pushing his crying face into the moist soil.
"mmm a demon's tears. It will definitely become a hero after people find out I made a demon cry. I'll mount your head on my fucken outhouse."
The swordsman spit out at the fallen demon as his blade found Aamon's wing slash… a wet, meaty sound as the blade hit deep. Before the pain could fully register for another useless plea, a rusted pitchfork speared through Aamon's cheek, the tines erupting from his mouth in a spray of black blood and shattered teeth shoot out.
"Mmfff—Oouthh! S'th huthh!!"
His scream was garbled, metallic, and useless; the swordsman barely heard him, too busy staring at his own warping sword. The steel writhed in his grip, like a living thing. the edge of the blade bubbling where Aamon's blood had stuck to it.
"You damn demon! You better hope those rings fetch a good pri-"
Aamon moved before he could finish, Not with purpose but with panic. Aamon's hands came up to the swordsman's chest as he lightly pushed just enough to make space. So he thought…. but the man flew.
The swordsman's body smashed through the farmhouse wall in an explosion of splinters and straw, his scream cut short by collapsing timber. Aamon didn't wait to see if he rose and ran.
"Sorry!! I really am, please don't hurt me anymore. I don't want this."
Aamon cried out with coughs of blood. spiked tail lashed out in a blind movement, severing tendons as the remaining men collapsed to the dirt, their legs no longer under them. his boots tearing grooves in the dirt with each step, his blood painting the road behind him in great, sizzling puddles. Somewhere in the ruin of his mouth, his tongue, the hole where the pitchfork had been….. It was already healing…..