The Owner of the World

Prologue

"Death is sneaky. Once it has slipped its way past your defenses and gained hold of you, when it is grasping your shirt and tugging you toward oblivion, life becomes fleeting. Men are changed, many for the worse. Stories are told and futures lost. A person's life, particularly how it was forfeit and how they treated such a thing, becomes a story. Some are untold, some are boring, but sometimes, rarely, Death finds a gem. That is his gift to humanity. He bestows upon us men who dare the inevitable, but who can accept it. He gives us stories. He makes men into gods." –The First Owner of the World

A note,

                I've always feared shadows, with their looming and their casting of imaginary dangers. It's hard to stalk a man when shadows are roaming freely. They make me paranoid. Always looking behind my back, staring at merchants being chased away by the night, jumping at the footsteps of boys who would rather not be at home. No, I don't like the night. If you worry for your life, can easily see the possibility of a blade slipping through your skin, watch the day. The day only gives you a false sense of security. The day brings crowds, places where I can so easily go unnoticed. The man who stood but a few yards away from me, with a boy by his side and a purse full of gold, had no hope, had he felt the need for some, of noticing me. He would see me, but he wouldn't perceive the threat until it was far too late, because of my friend the day.

                I leaned my back against the nearest wall, crossed my legs, and watched the man. For all of his wiry bones and feminine features, he was going to fetch me a great sum, this man.  I wouldn't even have to kill the boy, only a single drop to stain my ever darkening soul. I liked the man, he made me content. He moved forward, as did I, and we were on our way. Twisting through winding streets, we played our game. Well, my game. Pausing and leaving at the right moments, disconcerting him all the while calming him. I would consider this skill of mine a gift, if the truth was to be told. It isn't told, but for your sake, let's pretend that it is. A truth, my dear reader: the man went fast.  His death wasn't pointless though. The speed of his death wasn't wasted. It was crucial for this story, this truth, which I am going to tell you. No, he wasn't the story, but he gave me the boy. 

                It was ungrateful, really. The way the man acted, the nerve of him, when he was given the chance to leave the world with any amount of honor and bravery.

                "Don't kill me," He had begged, his voice a whining tremor of sound. "Take the boy! Whatever I have done to wrong you, the boy can take my stead!"

                The man didn't know the rules. He didn't accept death; instead he traded it with the boy. So, out of both necessity and spite, I killed him and I took his boy. His life and an apprentice in equilibrium of his cowardice. I was cheated, the trade was absolutely horrible, but I didn't know that. I thanked the man and dragged the boy away from his only home. Bringing the boy was no mean feat, mind you. Whilst hiding in an alley I decided that there was no such thing as justice or fairness, the scratches on my face and the bite marks traveling up my arm attested to that. But, as the man of my word that I am, I pulled him through deserted streets and braved the horror that is children.

               He only quieted once he had been put into a small holding cell and had a pike poking around his head. My master was not pleased. You see, my master never knew my father. He was never taught of how the universe must be equaled, he didn't understand my need to steal the boy. In his rage, he ordered me to do that which I would most undoubtedly hate; he forced me to train the boy and, to my great displeasure, kept my pay.