Fall of a Hero: Hearts Without Foundation (a Fantasy Adventure)

The Spark

The messenger serf, Nuntius, panicked and tried explaining himself that no one had told him until a few minutes ago. The parents, though, could care less and laughed, renaming Vulgaris as Fetoven Vas, which means fate's favorite, since the two ate out of the same pie tin.

Vulgaris, however, was destroyed and horrified and shut out everyone. He refused to eat and drink. He couldn't sleep. Angry at himself and the world, he got out of bed one night and tried to make peace with himself with a stroll through the forest.

He and the other serfs lived in the thousands on a wild and fertile land. The place was wide enough to get lost, but not quite big enough to take days to travel across. Around the the edge was a massive wall of shred metal-an immensely expensive project of Lord Mundus. Cornered in by this was the rimming of a huge forest rumored to be the thin veil between moving instantly from there to any place on Alicubi. But those were just rumors of the serfs. Their culture is founded upon such things.

During this time of his walk, the forest was drenched in pitch darkness with a little leakage of moonlight. Everything was tainted with a blue shade. A delicate breeze blew past him. Vulgaris momentarily froze. He had felt something in it. Trying to be brave and ignore sensitivity, he walked on.

The forest was still again. Vulgaris was dragging his feet making a considerable ruckus, when suddenly he heard a sound, and he fell into a patch of bushes. The evening hawks squawked and batted their wings up from a thrashing noise.

The boy gasped and looked up. Something breathed before him, someone...Faintly outlined by the moon's silver lining was a figure so amazing and so awful, Vulgaris's soul shuddered. He clasped at the earth for the sensation of touch.

In a ghastly haze, Vulgaris saw dirty feet. His eyes tepidly followed them all the way up the body. Strong narrow and bone legs, up the rigid torso, all the way to the...

Vulgaris cried out.

His dead brother was standing before him.

"I-I'm sorry for you," the person said softly. Vulgaris gazed up in fear and then in deep sorrow, trembling. His blood ran cold and fell from his face. In a hot sweat, he bit his lip and shuffled back against a tree. He covered his eyes--you wouldn't dare to look at such an thing in the face.

"You d-died Dicta. You d-dead," he stammered, "You are his ghost-t."

"I'm not a ghost." The tall boy reached out his hand, tan and identical. Mesmerized, the eleven-year-old hesitantly took it. Lodged in the wrist was a thin metal clip that slightly glinted upon contact. Vulgaris's fingers slipped and touched the metal piece as he was risen to his feet. The person scowled and ripped away his hand.

"But I'm not your brother either," the kid said.

"Then...what are you?" the child asked. The figure came into a stream of moonlight, revealing himself to be more and more like Maledicta. Vulgaris shivered.

"I am but a voice," the entity answered, "My name is Serpo."

Vulgaris blinked and scanned the boy. He looked exactly like Maledicta with the straight dark brown hair and thin, sinewy build. But what Vulgaris also knew was that Maledicta's body had been burned. Even so, here he stood once again, strong and living. Breathing.

"What is your name?" Serpo asked, against the dull mass of nightbug chirping.

Boldly, the boy strode to the slender being.

"I'm Vulgaris, but due to the dishonor of my parents, I am now cursed to as a wretched name as Fetoven...my parents comical joke and a device as to shame my own dead brother."

He neared close to the apparition, fearless. He wasn't afraid of death or dying anymore. The essence of his life had all meaning sucked out of it. Hollow.

"Fetoven..." Serpo murmured, but Fetoven did not back down.

"Names mean nothing to me," he said, "They have no meaning...not anymore."

Then, Serpo did the strangest of things. He cocked his head and picked a wildflower. He drew it near to him and began picking away the petals. "Ah, but 'a rose by any other name would be just as sweet'," his eyes flicked at Fetoven, "wouldn't it?"

Fetoven didn't understand. He didn't care.

"Why did you come for me?" he asked.

Serpo fidgeted, tossing the bald flower aside, and stepped on the overgrown path. With his toe, he drew a box in the dust

and drew lines inside it. "Because I wanted to say I was sorry," he whispered.

Fetoven slide up behind him and touched Serpo's arm. The boy jumped as Fetoven ran his fingers across the skin feeling for it to be real and alive. The skin was dry, but warm.

"For being dead?" he mumbled, running his fingers along the lanky arm. He glanced back up.

The Serpo was stood erect, towering over Fetoven. He glared at the kid dead on with those lizard green eyes. They were much more potent than Fetoven had remembered them. Where they even green?

Once Serpo had the boy's eyes and attention, he sighed. "For your ill fortune..." Serpo fought for words bitterly for a second and drew a sharp breath.

"Fetoven," he said in a hush, "Mundus murdered your brother."

The boy blinked a couple of times. He swayed. What? What? His face tried to strengthen away the hurt, and he shut his eyes. There was no way Mundus could have murdered Maledicta.

His mind began flashing back to all the times they had spent together, and their silly games. He thought of how Maledicta promised to get them both in the Junior Games together and how he would snatch a sweet roll from the baker, just for him. He thought of how he had this humorously sinister laugh he had, and how he claimed he learned it from one of the forest howlers. He thought of all the tricks Maledicta thought up and his little schemes of escape.

But most of all, he thought of how he was dead.

Fetoven cried and cried. The forest echoed his devastation, and shrieking animals erupted from their hiding places. Serpo's eyes widened, and he grabbed him and clasped the boy's mouth shut. He begged him to shut up and be quiet.

Both Maledicta and Vulgaris died.

As Fetoven Vas had been born, so was a new life and a new story. After that night, I would never be the same, for I was Fate's Favorite.

Maledicta's death ignited more misfortune than I was aware of at the time. I tried living on and ignoring it with daily petty tasks. After all, how I could ever know that this night I was technically murdered too? How was I supposed to guess that such a small spark would quickly catch into a raging inferno?