72,385 years ago...  

Beginning of Story

Nothing good ever happens when Father wears that expression. Wicked cruelty sings around the edges of his eyes, a symphony building with each approaching step. Dark, twisted, and cruel. Pain is coming. Or an ending sense of helplessness. Nothing good. Nothing good ever comes from that expression on Father's face.

It takes everything in Ilorain to remain seated, to remain still as Father approaches. He tries not to fidget, tries to act small and compliant. He's been getting better at that, the acting. It's only taken him eight years to convince his mind to call Jaerren Mi'antiae Father.

Eight years in which Ilorain has tried to suppress the beautiful voice in his head, the voice of a woman speaking to him. He doesn't know who the woman is, only that she's kind and loving. She tells him stories, but sometimes fragments are left out. As if she's a voice from a memory, someone he's heard.

Ilorain wishes he could hear her more often. That she would tell him something new. Her voice is the only thing that keeps him sane sometimes.

Father kneels in front of Ilorain, patting his leg, the wicked edge gleaming in his dark brown eyes. "Today we are going to have some fun," Father says, that lilt entering his voice. Ilorain doesn't think today is going to be fun. Not at all.

He forces a smile onto his face regardless. It's taken him eight years of beatings to know how to pretend to be excited for the things Jaerren Mi'antiae wants him to do.

Father ruffles Ilorain's auburn hair, rising to his feet again. He turns to leave the room, gesturing at Ilorain to follow. Reluctantly, Ilorain slides from the bed and saunters after Father with a confidence he feels nowhere in his body. Acting. He just needs to keep acting.

One of these days it will feel real.

He can hope.

Hope is all he has left at this point.

The hallways are dimly lit as they make their way through their winding curves, down three flights of stairs, past the many quarters where Ilorain's uncles and aunts live. Courtiers mill about, dressed in lavish clothes with jewels and glitter ornamenting them, lighting them up like stars. Ilorain marveled at their appearances for the first several years of his life, no he's come to hate their extravagance.

The walls of the palace aren't much different, gems of different shapes and sizes embedded into the thick stone, glowing with the turquoise light from the stained glass windows. Pillars give the palace and airy, open feel, but Ilorain still feels trapped. He knows this is supposed to be his home, but it's never felt like it.

Something feels missing. He doesn't belong here.

And it's not just because he has little elfin ears.

Father tells him and everyone that asks that his mother was an elf who died in childbirth. A beautiful woman with dark brown hair, long pointy ears, and silver eyes. Ilorain doesn't know exactly what about the story always rang false to him.

Well, one thing stands out. The fact that he knows his mother is still alive. Father doesn't know that Ilorain knows who the woman is inside the room he visits at least once a day when he leaves Ilorain outside the door.

Ilorain's little elfin ears can pick up the sounds, can hear the screaming from inside the room. The whimpering... the pleading...

He tries to shut out the sounds, but he never quite succeeds. They haunt him every night in his dreams, sometimes even when he's awake. There's nothing he can do about he voices. His only comfort is the voice of the woman, telling him stories... She may or may not be a memory. He still hasn't figured that out.

But besides the sounds, Ilorain's sense of smell tells him that there are people in that room that are related to him. Their scents are strong... stronger than the scent he gets off Father or his uncles and aunts. The blood within the people in the room is much stronger, much closer to Ilorain.

He knows one of them is his mother.

But he doesn't know what she looks like, what she sounds like....

Except for the screaming. One of the voices coming from the room is hers. Which one, he doesn't know.

They reach the landing of the first floor, walking deeper into the palace than most people are permitted. A feeling of dread snakes up Ilorain's spine, but he manages to keep his outward appearance composed. A mask, he wears a mask to keep Father from knowing what he's really thinking, really feeling. It's the only way he manages to survive. If he pretends to enjoy the things Father makes him do, he suffers less. Father gives him more freedoms when it looks like he's having fun.

They pass several doors, doors that look far too familiar.

Father takes him down this particular hallway, on the south side of the palace, far from courtiers and commoners, at least once a day.

What fun is Father planning?

The door comes into view. The door Ilorain has memorized. The image has practically been ingrained on his mind. It's plane, a simple white door with a few engraved details. A vine twirling over the top half, a branch reaching over the bottom. A golden door knob that won't turn no matter how many times it's twisted. Hinges that are unbreakable, no matter how many times they are crashed against. Not even when a shoulder is dislocated.

Ilorain swallows down the lump in his throat. He doesn't want to go into the room. He prays to the stars -- if they will listen -- that that isn't Father idea of fun today. As much as he's tried to break down that door, tried to get his mother out, he's merely a child. He can't help her, no matter how much he wants to.

And he wants to so much.

Father just walks past the door, not even glancing at it. Relief floods through Ilorain. They aren't going in. And Father isn't going in either.

There isn't any screaming coming from inside either. Only soft, crying noises.

Ilorain's eyes try to attach themselves to the door as Father continues leading him down the hall.

He's never been this far down.

They reach another staircase, one Ilorain didn't know was located here. He never bothered to explore this area when Father brings him down here. It hasn't occurred for him to. The screams distract him too much. He's left paralyzed in front of the door, helplessly trying to figure out a way to break in.

There are fewer torches lit on their descend, shrouding the steps in an eerie light that Ilorain doesn't like at all. He suppresses his urge to shiver.

Brave. He's being brave.

And confident.

Brave, confident boys don't shiver because of the dark.

Father removes one of the torches when they reach the landing. The floor is completely shrouded in darkness, and Ilorain, despite himself, inches the faintest bit closer to Father to be close to the light.

He's never been fond of the dark. The dark contains all the monsters. The dark strips him of control.

It's a battle to suppress the rising images, to keep himself calm.

At least on the outside.

Internally, he's allowed to freak out. As long as the expression never reaches outward.

Father keeps walking, not paying any attention to Ilorain or his proximity. He strides ahead with purpose, that wicked gleam made so much worse by the reflection of torch light in them.

Demonic. That's the only way Ilorain can accurately describe Jaerren Mi'antiae.

It only takes them a few minutes to reach their destination. Father stops in front of a large, black door. He knocks twice fast, then once, then three times fast again. The door swings open, a man dressed in nothing but a pair of loose, yellow trousers standing there with a grin.

"Jaerren, you've finally made it," the man says. He smells familiar... an uncle.

Father leans casually against the doorway, gesturing his head at Ilorain. "Thought it was time to initiate the kid."

The man's slate grey eyes travel up and down Ilorain with assessment before he returns his gaze to Father. "He isn't a bit young still?" He asks, arching a pale brow.

Father's smirk is slow and dangerous. "Never," he says, pushing the an out of the way to enter the room. He gestures over his shoulder for Ilorain to follow.

The man shrugs as Ilorain passes him. "He's your son," he says simply before disappearing into the crowd.

No, I'm not, Ilorain thinks with a startling amount of denial.

Jaerren Mi'antiae has succeeded in getting Ilorain to call him Father, but that is all he's done. Ilorain will never consider him his father.

His father is still out there somewhere. His father doesn't know of his existence. His father isn't even aware that his mother is being held captive in a room and made to scream every single day.

Ilorain knows this with a clarity that is reserved for few things. The woman's voice tells him stories about his father. Tells him to find his father.

Jaerren Mi'antiae may have traces of Ilorain's blood, may smell a bit like him, but he doesn't smell like his father. There isn't nearly enough of Jaerren in Ilorain.

But those are thoughts for another time. For now, Ilorain has to focus on playing his part, on putting on his act.

As far as anyone's concerned, he is Jaerren's son.

That is the part he has to play if he wants to survive.

If he wants the pain to stop.

Father grabs Ilorain by the shoulder and hauls him further into the large, opulent room. It's as large as the throne room, except crowded with more pillars and small alcoves. The room is filled with people scantily clad, standing much too close to each other.

In the far back, at the center, there is a raised dais with a familiar figure seated on the throne. King Normandiar, grandfather, is seated there with a woman who is wearing a chain around her waist that holds up a skirt of completely sheer fabric and nothing else. Grandfather is wearing the same loose pants as the man who answered the door, the color a more vibrant red. His hands are roaming the woman, who has her head tipped back, feeling her between her legs as she makes moaning sounds.

Around the room, in a circular shape, there are other men seated on benches or comfortable pillows, each with their own woman dressed in similar attire, on their laps, or knelt down in front of them. Some men are still wearing their loose pants, others have gotten rid of the thin pieces of clothing. The women either look eager to be touched, or to touch, or about as thrilled to be there as Ilorain is.

Ilorain suppressed the panicked feeling rising inside him. Fun. Father said something about fun.

They have very different definitions of fun.

Father weaves them through couples standing about, dancing provocatively, or merely moving to one of the pillars or alcoves. No one seems expressly shy or modest. Ilorain didn't expect them too.

It's not the first time he's seen a scene like this. It is the first time he's experienced it quite on this scale...

As long as he doesn't have to be tied to a chair this time, unable to move, unable to keep them from playing with his ears, he will be fine.

It's going to be fine.

A wild, furious energy pumps through him, urging him to run. His skin crawls, but he can't react. He's Jaerren Mi'antiae's son. He's good at acting.

None of this is affecting him. He's totally fine.

The scents around him nearly overwhelm him. The smell of arousal -- both sated and unsated -- fear, disgust, adoration, love, hate, and everything in between. Ilorain is also aware of the many scents in the room similar to his own. The majority of people here are related to him in one way or anything.

Father pulls him to the open seats to Grandfather's right.

"Jaerren, you've finally deemed to honor us with your presence," Grandfather says, his hand very firmly between the woman's legs, his arm moving very quickly. The woman's back is arched, her eyes closed, sounds pouring out of her mouth.

The sounds are coming from all around the room. Groans, moans, sounds of pleasure mingled with pain. Pain of the helpless variety.

Father turns a dark grin on Grandfather. "I assure you, today's entertainment will more than make up for it."

Grandfather arches a brow. "Oh?" The woman writhes in his lap.

Another woman, one with pale blond hair, walks up to Father , bowing respectfully. Father motions for her to kneel, still looking at Grandfather. "Just wait for it. I promise you won't be disappointed."

"You are making quite a promise there."

"I'm good for it."

Ilorain sits there, trying to ignore the sights and sounds around him. At least no one is touching him. He can make it through this night as long as he is left alone. His posture is straight, confident, a bit bored. His expression is a mask of calm, indifference.

He can do this. Pretend like this is fun. He's fine. Everything is fine.

Several minutes pass in which Ilorain is studiously not paying attention to what the woman is doing to Father beside him. But there is no where else to look, nowhere there isn't someone being touched provocatively. Except the center of the room.

There is a large area in the middle that is completely clear of people and chairs and pillows. A floral pattern is drawn on the marble floor, four small squares placed equal distance from each other with a little chain link. Ilorain busies himself with studying this area, wondering why it's open and what those chain links are for.

He doesn't have to wonder for long.

His attention is pulled from the center of the room when the doors slam open. The crowd parts in a wave as two guards drag in a woman between the them. Ilorain's eyes go to the commotion. The woman has long, loose copper hair that is matted with sweat against her skin. She's kicking and struggling against the guards, trying everything in her power to pull free. Unlike the other women in the room, she's dressed in more clothes. A loose grey top, and a short orange skirt. The guards are unaffected by her struggles as they roughly push her into the room.

Her movements are frantic, angry, wild.

Determined.

"The entertainment has arrived," Father says, his eyes landing on the woman. He looks over at Ilorain, patting his head. "Enjoy the show, son."

Ilorain's brows furrow, but he doesn't say anything. Instead, he merely nods. "I will Father," he says, like a good, obedient little son.

Something inside him is twisting. But why?

His eyes go back to the woman. The guards slam her into the floor. She tries clawing at them, and actually succeeds in drawing blood. But the guards ignore it and her. Like she's a ghost, a nuisance they pay no attention too. She's yelling at them, demanding to be let go. Her voice becomes more and more clear as the sounds from the room start disappearing, as Ilorain's senses focus in on the woman.

No, it's impossible.

The guards manifest shackles around her wrists, shackles that they link to the chain links on the floor.

That voice sounds familiar. So, so familiar. A scent drifts over to Ilorain...

No... that can't be right. It's impossible. His senses are confused.

The guards manifest shackles around her ankles. They link those to the remaining chain links on the floor, spreading her arms and legs wide.

There is a promise of death in the woman's hazel eyes. She spits at the guards, and they respond by kicking her in the side. She swallows a muffled scream, never once ceasing her struggling against the shackles binding her to the floor.

Every eye in the room is now focused on her. Wicked delight in the eyes of the men, pity in the eyes of the women. They are all just too glad that they aren't the one tied to the center of the room.

Ilorain's mind isn't capable of comprehending several things.

His senses are confused.

The more he hears her voice, the more he focuses on her, the greater the feeling of dread inside him becomes.

No...

No...

The denial is a hopeless sound in his mind. He's frozen, incapable of much else than stare.

He hears that voice every day, in his dreams, in the moments he needs strength. It's the woman's voice that talks to him.

It's also one of the voices he hears from the room where his mother is being kept. One of the voices that is always screaming, or crying, or whimpering, or saying things in anger...

The scent. Her scent is so strong.

The anger, the pain, the humiliation, the fiery resolve...

He scents himself on her, so much more pronounced than the scent he gets from all his other relatives in this room.

No.

Ilorain's eyes are wide as he takes in the image of the woman, memorizes every detail.

Father starts laughing beside him, taking in Ilorain's reaction.

No.

It can't be happening. This isn't real. It's not happening.

This is not how Ilorain is seeing his mother for the first time.

That woman can't be his mother.

The denial spikes even greater when the man in the yellow trousers walks up to her with a hot poker in his hand, a sick, malicious, smirk on his lips.

No, no, no.

He kneels down in front of her, and fear sparks in her eyes and her scent.

Ilorain feels two hands on either side of his face, keeping him from turning his head away. A woman has come up behind him. He tries to shake of her hold, but her hands slip to his ears.

Instincts take over, and Ilorain becomes a cat incapable of moving, of doing anything but leaning into the touch.

Forced to watch.

Forced to watch as the man gets rid of his mother's clothes.

Forced to watch as the man uses that poker to make her scream.

Forced to watch as the man takes off his own pants and uses his body to make her scream.

Forced to watch as another man joins him, cutting off her screams by keeping her mouth busy.

He can't do anything, can barely think as the woman behind him fondles his ears.

He's trapped, forced to watch as every single male in the room takes their turn torturing and raping his mother. Completely powerless to stop it.

Something goes cold in Ilorain. A quiet, deadly determination.

He's not strong enough to do anything now. He's not strong enough to fight off the woman forcing him to watch his mother get hurt. He's not strong enough to kill Father or Grandfather, or any of the other pieces of scum in this room.

Not yet.

But he will be.

He will make them pay.

All of them.

He will make them beg for mercy. He will make them scream. He will hurt them. He will end them.

And he will laugh at them as they plead.

The more she screams, the more blood they spill, the more pain they cause, the stronger his determination becomes.

Father wants to make him a monster.

Then fine. Ilorain will become a monster.