Disenchanted

History

"Golems... are creatures born from magic," Youngjo began. It seemed like the logical place to start. Believing in magic was the most difficult part for humans, especially those who had no experience with it. Once they believed in the existence of magic, anything else seemed possible.

"Your aunt was a witch. I know that may be hard to believe, but if you look around, she made no effort to hide the evidence. Obviously. She left us here." He tried to hide the bitterness in his tone, then scolded himself for doing so. Mirae was dead. He didn't have to watch his tone anymore.

"Golems are made from the Earth, from... dirt, clay, mud, leaves and things from the swamps. We're sort of like swamp creatures in that way I guess. We were brought to life by her spells, each a little different than the last. She was an artist. Mirae painted portraits of us and used those to mold us into her idea of a perfect companion. That's why we look the way we do."

Not all of them had natural hair colors, which is why he made mention of how they got their appearances. Mirae chose everything about them, from their facial features to their hair and eye colors.

"She was a bit indecisive and grew bored easily," Gunhak chimed in with a bit of annoyance in his voice. "That's why she made so many of us."

"She created me first," Youngjo explained, taking control of the narrative once again. "I was her only companion for awhile. She taught me languages and social manners so she could take me out with her, show me off. For a witch, making a perfect golem is a sign of great power. Mirae was admired among her peers because of us.

"I always believed that was why she made Seoho. To show that she could do it again, could make another perfect golem."

He looked out of the shattered window beside him for a moment, at the yard outside that was now unkempt and overgrown. To have been asleep so long... No. Not asleep. Dead.

"The thing about golems is that they are eternally bound to the witch that created them. Mirae told us that we could feel any pain that she feels, and that when she died, so would we. There was a time that I thought she was kind. But as she became more powerful, as she made more of us... she turned sour."

"Sour is an understatement," Dongju muttered under his breath.

"She became downright cruel," Hwanwoong frowned.

"It was harder on the youngest of us," Youngjo admitted. "The more of us she made, the more she... mistreated us. We were her slaves. We cooked, we cleaned, whatever she asked of us. And when she was angry, we were her punching bags. And the more dark magic she meddled with, the angrier she became."

The bad memories came rushing back almost immediately after they woke up. The things they endured within that house, behind those walls, would never be washed clean, not until it was burned to the ground.

"Wait, just wait," the girl finally piped up, putting up two little hands to stop Youngjo from continuing with his story. "You're telling me that you guys are like my aunt's personal voodoo dolls?"

"No. It's not the same. We're men, not dolls. If we were dolls, she could have made us do whatever she wanted us to do without retaliation or hesitation. While we obeyed her most of the time... she didn't always get her way. Sometimes we fought back."

Hwanwoong shifted uncomfortably and was glad that no one noticed. He knew about Mirae and her demise more than any of them. If his brothers knew the secret he was now holding inside, he wondered if they would shun him.

"This is insane," the girl shook her head, bringing a hand up to her flushed cheek. "This can't be real. I must be dreaming."

"It isn't a dream," Youngjo told her. He picked up a piece of broken glass still sitting on the sill under the window, then held it up so that she could see it clearly. "I'll show you." He grabbed the glass tightly, then dragged its sharp edge across his open palm.