The Dawn of Malice

The Fool

The rays of sunlight escaped from gray clouds as they dawdled their way across the azure sky.

The birds chirped their melancholic melodies in the sepia-toned afternoon. The rain clouds that had wet the pastures were now dissipating. Puddles littered the cobble streets and the gutters of Liliosa. The scent of the lilies on the hills wafted down toward the city. People were once again walking around the city, busy with their chores.

Despite the chilly weather, the main plaza teemed with urban residents. Laughter and taunts echoed from its heart. On the ledge of the pristine marble fountain, a solitary figure precariously balanced. This was an exuberant jester, accompanied by a large, crimson sphere. A gleaming porcelain mask concealed his visage, while unruly brown locks peeked out from under his cap, jingling bells with every stride.

He was dressed in long and loose varicolored-sleeved shirt and trousers. And he was juggling three green apples as he hopped and skipped. Tied to his neck was a bright blue bow, which glistened with the reflection of the sun.

The fool stopped his juggling and gathered the apples in both hands. And in one swift motion, the fool jumped from the fountain’s ledge to the ball. He balanced on one foot atop the ball – which also balanced on the ledge – and began to juggle the three green apples once more.

“Hurrah!” The audience cheered in unison.

“You moron! You’ll fall!” A burly man with a gruff voice shouted.

“You keep quiet! You’re bothering the fool.” An old man shouted back as he leaned into his cane.

“Get off from there! The roads are crowded!” A city guard began shouting as he walked up to the fountain but was blocked by the growing crowd.

Children began laughing and pointing at the strange sight. Some people cringed at every movement of the fool’s foot, frightened that the young lad would slip on the wet fountain ledge. A huge crowd had begun to form now and the roads to the plaza were crowded. The city guard wasn’t wrong; the clown had begun to bother a few coachmen. The roads had begun to congest with passersby.

He ignored the city guard. He was a street performer, and the law of street performers was to never give in. He continued his humorous act while balancing on the precariously placed ball. Alternating between his right and left foot, he juggled the three green apples with adept hands. The crowd cheered even louder and grew even more entranced at the young man’s antics.

As the crowd flocked to the plaza, a luxurious carriage came into view. The white embellished carriage stopped as the crowd blocked the road. Its coachman had begun to shout and scold the passersby. They heeded him with no concern. In fact, they looked at him with disinterest. Meanwhile, peeking from the window of the carriage was a beautiful young woman with emerald, green eyes. Her blond hair seemed to reflect the sun’s beauty.

The coachman’s rough voice began getting louder, which caught the fool’s attention. He turned to look at the source of the noise. His eyes focused on the carriage, and he caught sight of the woman’s beauty. He looked astonished. He immediately stopped his tricks. And the apples in his hands fell onto the ground and the fountain. He stood atop the ball and gazed upon the beauty that was before him. The crowd around him grew silent; curiosity had taken over them as they waited for his continued performance.

“Don’t be fooled by this monster!”

A slurred voice echoed from the crowd. A silence followed as the people ignored him. But this did not deter the drunk man.

“A Laresian half-blooded bastard pretends to be one of us, while his bloodline destroys our continent?” The drunkard spat. And suddenly, as if to shatter the silence, his wine bottle flew. The oblivious fool got struck on his left temple, the bottle shattering the left side of the porcelain mask. He wasn’t prepared for the sudden blow to his head and dropped to the ground with an audible ‘thud’.

The crowd gasped as the young man suddenly dropped. The crowd grew dead silent as the clown lay on the cold, wet, ground.

The woman in the carriage was startled by the sound and turned her head toward the fountain. She could see the young man from her raised carriage. He was lying on the ground unmoving. A few unbearable seconds of silence later, the fool suddenly twitched. He raised his head to reveal half his face. The cap and bells had slipped off along with his brown wig, revealing long black strands of hair that seemed to glimmer crimson as sunlight touched them. Luckily, the crowd was too occupied with the drunkard fleeing the scene tripping and falling as the previous city guard tried in vain to catch him.

The woman could see blood dripping down the side of his face. And as he raised his head, their eyes met. He had crimson eyes that seemed mournful – eyes that bore witness to the cruelty of the world. But as he raised his head, his mournful eyes became surprised and quickly turned to shame.

Averting his gaze, the fool grabbed his wig which he then replaced on his head. But, in that short moment when their eyes met, a feeling of nostalgia jolted through her.

“I know you!” She shouted.

The carriage door slammed open as the woman jumped from inside. She wore a red dress, and a white scarf was wrapped around her neck. She stood right out of the carriage staring at the young man. The crowd before her parted, making way for her to see the still-lying young man. As she stood there, the young man hastily got on his hands and knees. He looked from side to side then covered his face with his left hand. She knew at that moment that the fool was about to run.

Thinking quickly the woman raised her skirt to run toward the disheveled young man. The crowd surrounding the plaza looked at the woman, eyes filled with curiosity. No one noticed that the young man had collected himself.

The fool grabbed his red ball and ran, leaving behind his apples. The porcelain mask was hanging by a thread but was able to hide some of his face. His wig sat on his head at a skewed angle but managed to hide his hair. With his left hand, he did his best to conceal the other half of his face.

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I’ve never met you before.” He shouted as he disappeared around the street corner. The rest of the crowd followed him with their gaze.

“But…” The woman slowed down, her right arm reaching forward. She could do nothing else but stare after him.

“I’m sure I know you…”

Later in the day as the late afternoon’s light was quickly fading, the young man from the plaza climbed up the hill toward Mourning Crows Glade. The shattered mask he had worn cradled in his arm. He’d lost his red ball in his mad dash to escape the plaza. He had feared that someone had seen his face or hair.

“It will take a long while before I can buy a new one.” He contemplated to himself, staring at the broken mask in his hands.

His face was laden with exhaustion. The blood on the side of his face had dried, leaving a maroon streak. And a small bulge had begun growing on his left temple. He looked as if he was beaten with a cudgel. The left side of his body ached from his fall from the fountain. But he still trudged onward, silently climbing up the hill. He sighed heavily feeling the exhaustion of the day overwhelm him.

Halfway up the sloping hill, his gaze caught the majestic oak that crowned its summit. The ancient oak, a sentinel of the realm, soared above the sprawling city, its branches reaching out like benevolent arms. For centuries, it had stood untouched by the bustling denizens, a haven of tranquility and solitude. But to the young man, it was a sanctuary from the tumultuous world below, a refuge where he could find respite from his troubles.

Known as Caerus, his lineage could be traced back to the esteemed Commander Thomas, his father. Yet, the commander had passed away ten years ago, and his mother, Linda, had followed soon after, leaving Caerus orphaned at the tender age of eight. The city of Liliosa, once his home, now treated him with suspicion and fear, his crimson eyes and raven-black hair marking him as a descendant of the feared Laresians. These physical attributes, though inherent, branded him a pariah, a label that stung deeply.

The city folk seemed to have forgotten the valor of his father and the kindness of his mother, reducing them to mere whispers in the wind. With no familial shield to guard him, Caerus was subjected to scorn and alienation and pushed to the fringes of society. He was a silent observer, watching as other children reveled in play, while he remained cloaked in solitude.

At last, Caerus reached the base of the venerable oak, his hands tracing the rough texture of its bark. As his eyes closed, a sense of relief washed over him, lifting the burdens that weighed on his heart. This ritual was his solace, an escape from the torments that plagued his existence. In his darkest days he would ascend the hill, ignoring the arduous journey to bask in the memories of his parents, their love a beacon that illuminated his darkest moments.

Caerus let out a wistful sigh, turning to gaze upon the city below. No matter the estrangement he faced, his affection for his birthplace remained steadfast. With weariness settling in his bones and forehead throbbing with a dull ache, he leaned against the oak’s sturdy trunk, and watched as the sun dipped beyond the western horizon, painting the sky with hues of gold and rose.

The realm harbored a world of intrigue, masked faces concealing secrets untold. A world that eluded Caerus, leaving him perpetually adrift. Yet, his deepest yearning was to belong, to be a part of the society that shunned him. He yearned for companionship, to stand among friends, no longer an outsider. In his heart, he harbored the dream of normalcy, though he knew it was a fragile hope.

Sliding down the oak’s ancient bark, Caerus felt his back graze against its rugged surface. Seated beneath the sheltering canopy, tears coursed down his cheeks. Loneliness had become his constant companion, a shadow that clung to him, unrelenting. In this sanctuary, he could be himself, free to shed his tears in solitude, his emotions hidden from the world beyond. Then a thought struck him, he was no longer alone.

“Elaine,” Caerus whispered overwhelmed with happiness.

“Uncle Marseille must be overjoyed.” Leaning deeper into the oak, Caerus thought of Marseille, his father’s old friend. “The tavern must be over its capacity. Maybe Uncle Marseille will need an extra hand.” Caerus thought out loud. He did not think of the money he would receive. It was enough for him to see Elaine, even if from afar.

“This oak must be glad too.” He felt the roots of the tree with his right hand. “You used to watch us play around your trunk now and then.” Caerus smiled remembering the days of their reckless frolicking. They met each other under this tree tucked away from the cold glare of the city’s people. Here, in this sanctuary, they could play with neither worry nor fear.

“I’m grateful to you.” Caerus thought and patted the tree’s root.

The ancient oak had taken root within his heart, a living testament to his first brush with love’s delicate bloom. He leaned into the oak’s rugged trunk, inhaling its earthy scent, his gaze fixed upon the leaves that danced in the breeze. Those leaves, suspended in a perpetual waltz, mirrored his sense of stagnation. Like them, he yearned to move forward, yet remained trapped in place.

“It must have been tough on her all these years.” He whispered as he closed his eyes. “After a few days of losing Aunt Phoebe, she was separated from Uncle Marseille,” Caerus said sighing.

Memories of the fight came flooding into Caerus’s thoughts. A lowly soldier, Marseille was never distinguished as a rightful man for Phoebe, the daughter of Duke Reginald Barclay of Caernarfon. After Phoebe’s passing, Elaine’s grandparents fought with Marseille for Elaine’s custody. They believed Elaine would be happier with a rich family than an ex-soldier turned tavern keeper. Elaine had accidentally eavesdropped on their conversation and was frightened. Hearing all this and being fragile after Phoebe’s death, Elaine had run away.

It was under those circumstances that their paths converged – a bittersweet encounter etched into the fabric of their lives. As the early evening breeze caressed his skin, Caerus was pulled from his reverie, his thoughts drifting to the events of the plaza. The day had dawned like any other, only to unfurl an unexpected revelation.

“I was never the one to speak to her first though. I was too much of a coward to even speak! Even though she went out of her way to speak to me, I still ran.” Caerus admitted with a sigh, his introspection deepening. “She reached out to me, yet I faltered, too afraid to grasp what was offered.”

With a wistful exhale, Caerus acknowledged the sense of contentment that had settled within him. Elaine, a distant star he yearned to touch, was both a beacon of hope and an enigma he could not unravel. “Elaine returned, and that’s what truly matters,” he whispered to the wind, a serene smile gracing his features as sleep’s gentle embrace enveloped him.