To Save A World

Hello, everyone! Thank you for taking the time to read this story.

This is my first ever post on any kind of story sharing platform - I have had tons of ideas but never had the will and courage to actually flesh out one and put it forth. Needless to say, this is a big step for me. Also needless to say, this story is far from perfect in all aspects - in fact, I'm pretty sure it's shit.

But it's the beginning of my story, and I'm proud of it. And for once, I'm going to grab the courage to begin something grand. Also, if I don't post it now, I'll probably lose my nerve and never post it - ever.

So please tell me what you guys think, and thank you again!

***

The brisk steps of a desperate man echoed across the brightly lit corridors buried deep down in the hearts of the White Palace. A swish of heavy robes and he was turning a path, the location of his destination worn into his memories from years and years of use. He took note of the blank, almost oppressive perfect whiteness of the wall, highlighted by the glare of hundreds of wizard lights shining like miniature suns perpetually hung up dead center from the corridor's roof, equidistant from each other. Placed with care by the wise ancients so that every one walking underneath their glare would receive constant, equal near-blindness.

Among all of the ancient magic-wrought buildings of Var Syndal - each one of them something incredible in its own - the Heart of the White Palace remains as the most complete and breathtaking display of ancient magical architecture. The Heart is a wide, subterranean labyrinth of magic wrought corridors, the very stone of them infused with magic so strong and so complex that it remains impervious to all kinds of physical and magical damages even after a thousand years of its creation. The expansive tunnels suffered no cave in, no ruin, even while the earth around it shifted and broke and cracked. And the sheer

size

. It has been said that the maze of corridors below is twice as wide the small city far above it at its farthest points, and just about as tall as the head of the palace in its

recorded

depth. Thousands of years had passed after the ancients had made the city, yet none have been able to completely map the twisting veins of the Heart.

It has been proudly proclaimed throughout the City that mountains will be worn down by the wind, but not one chip nor crack will be found in any part of the Palace.

But the man payed little attention to these marvels. After all, he has spent close to a hundred years studying those same magics himself, and he has not even came close to perfecting a copy of the impervious wall, nor the ever-burning wizard lights. Today he came here for one thing specifically, something infinitely more important. And something that might already be too late.

The man wiped his bald head with a handkerchief that he conjured from thin air as he breathed deep - the only remaining object that can be found in his own little pocket of magical reality. He had started to sweat a little from all this ordeal,

and from the nerves

, he admitted to himself. - but now the walking was over.

He looked at the section of wall in front of him, no different from the rest of the naked long corridors as far as the eye could see. Only a select few of the highest ranked and oldest residents of the Palace knew of the existence of the precious room within, so aside from it serving his purpose perfectly, the old Talent was also relatively sure that no one would discover him by accident.

The door was otherwise only marked by an incredibly complex magical ward whose only purpose is to be visible to those who specifically sought out the room. The magical doors still needed a minimal push of mental energy to materialize, so the chances of some random mage accidentally ending up in this particular section of wall and project just the right amount of magic to open the door is astronomically low. It was surprisingly secure.

His body probably wouldn't be discovered in years.

He wistfully nodded at the ward - it was one of his better works of warding - and touched it. The door opened in welcoming silence. Inside was a familiar featureless room, an extension of the walls outside. Inside was just more of the white, an extension of the functional monotony of the Heart itself. Mighty as the ancient mages were, and wise in their magic, but he surmised they were as imaginative as rocks.

The man walked into the physically featureless room, the door behind him silently closing and becoming one with the wall again, and the moment he stepped into the threshold he felt his skin

buzz

. The very air within the room was suffused with limitless energy, and that energy found the old man, digging in his bones and electrifying his nerves. He felt an almost orgasmic bliss that he knew came from being pumped full of magical energy beyond human limits - the fact that he still lives instead of being mere molecules of ash is one of the impossible wonders of the room. It was all in contrast to the heavy silence within the room.

Va'sardika. The Room of Power. That was what they secretly called it, despite it being not being on the maps. The place was far too dangerous to place on official records.

The man sighed heavily as he settled to sit in the middle of the bare room. His feelings were complex. He felt the giddy elation of too much power, enhanced by the sense of the fulfillment of a purpose. He felt afraid - for the future, for himself, for what he was about to do. He felt sickened by weight of the things the he has done. The things that he has seen.

And by the great Power, the things that he has seen.

He reigned himself only by sheer will of his mind that has weathered many long years.

He shook his head, and stilled, the serene smile on his face belying the turmoil of his emotions.

Ultimately, it is desperation that pushed his actions. The Talents has become arrogant, and stubborn - fully convinced that nothing could topple the foundations of power that they have erected in the structure of this world. They were not exactly drunk with power, but it was all they see, all they could care about. They perceived this world from the reference point of the the powers that they wield, by the powers that run it. In the most basic sense, magic was all they had. It was all they relied on.

True, they

had

ruled for millennia. They

were

unrivaled in individual power and might. They

had

raised up kingdoms from dust, slain ancient enemies and brought relative peace to the World. Nothing in this world

could

potentially threaten it, with them as vanguards. Nothing in

this world

.

The man shivered. Enough, he has dallied enough. He retrieved the thin blade strapped to his thigh in a deft motion, and clenched it in his right hand. Both arms he rested resolutely on both knees as he crossed them.

So this is it

.

Before all this - before the visions, the urgent pleas for action, the rejection and humiliation - the old Talent has often wondered what thoughts pass by a dying man's mind. He did not know if it was the same for all, but for him, at least, there was peace. This is the best course of action he can take in this moment. He has lived a full and meaningful life, except for the past half-century or so of the agony of fearful expectations and unheeded warnings of what is to come. These will end now. He is passing on the torch.

And quite a long pass it is.

* * *

Aaron opened his eyes and saw blinding light.

Huh

, he thought,

that was strange

. He hurriedly clenched them shut, but it was like a searchlight was being shone right in front of his face. His head moved from side to side, futilely moving away from the torturous light. He bought his hands to his face in an attempt to cover it, only something felt strange. His arms felt heavy, his joints felt like rusty gears grinding together.

Abruptly, he became aware of a ringing noise in his ear, like the a bomb exploded inside his head and he is just now hearing the aftermaths.

What the hell?

Then came the disorientation - the boy wasn't quite so sure if he was standing up or lying down, that

and

the world was spinning around him. He tried to move his legs, but the shift in his weight bought stabbing head aches, and his feet felt like he was standing on needles.

Well, at least I know I'm standing up

, he thought.

But not for long. A falling sensation, a dull pain in his knees. His joints has lost energy, giving up amid the disorientation and confusion and pain. He realized the blinding light was gone, but with everything that's been happening to him he wasn't sure if he still wanted to open his eyes. Maybe everything will go away if he remained in the dark, like a bad dream.

A sound made him open his eyes. There was no blinding light this time, but what he saw still set him reeling.

He was in the middle of a wide, perfectly circular clearing, thick woods surrounding the edges. Like this particular spot was made for him to be on. Looking down, he saw that the earth he was kneeling on was charred - some parts even looking like it had turned to

glass

. He sat on his knees dumbfounded, and looked around.

He was in the middle of what appeared to be a satanic circle.

Aaron's mouth hung open in shock. An almost perfect circle of roughly three meters in diameter was burned in the earth, strange glowing lines drawn within it that made strange patterns. The whole set up was

still

smoking and he could

see

little bits of freakish blue fires still bursting intermittently in random places within the circle. The sound he heard was the furious hiss of flame as it consumed something.

He looked down blankly in his hands, and got his third shock since waking up. Now he has tattoos. More specifically, he has what appears to be lines and lines of characters, bending and connecting into each other to form thicker lines that flowed from his wrist and disappeared around his shoulders.

So I guess I'm the avatar now too.

"Welcome"

Aaron looked up. He wasn't even surprised anymore to find an old man, which definitely was not there before, right there in front of him. He was bald, and had that kind of eyes that seems to shine with something from the inside. He was smiling, and he was looking at Aaron on the ground with what seemed to be a mixture of amusement and pity.

Aaron rubbed his eyes with a now-tattooed hand.

This has all got to be a dream.

"I deeply apologize, Aaron Greeve. I hate to be the harbinger of bad news, but this is not a dream. What is happening to you, this is real." The old man's voice was not unkind, but something in it bothered Aaron. He apologized like he knows that Aaron does not have any other choice.

"By the time you are hearing this, I would have ended my life in the ritual to Summon you into this realm. Once again, my apologies - you did not have any choice in the matter; and further, this old selfish man has escaped this life and would not be around to assist you in traversing this strange new realm. I understand if you would hate me."

Aaron groaned, overcome by the strangeness of it all and the physical pain of apparently being

summoned

to a different world.

The old man winced and had the grace to look guilty.

"You will recover. The pain is due to the strain of... well, I guess it's quite obvious. And unimportant."

Aaron tried to think.

"You're dead?" he croaked, seizing on that particular impossible fact.

The man nodded a little bit too eagerly. "My body burned out with the strain of casting several heavy spells at once" he noted with a hint of smug satisfaction, "one of them is this; the ability to talk to you from the grave. I cut some of my essence and... preserved, I suppose you could say... preserved it with magic, then I cast it unto this place where you will appear."

Aaron moaned again, the casual talks of magics and spells hurting his brain even while the truth of it was hurting his body.

"I'm afraid this is all real, child."

The boy knew deep in his gut that it was the truth staring at him the face, burnt into the very ground in strange lines, etched in his skin in strange marks.

"You feel it. I know."

"Who are you" it was not even a question, more like a dying gasp of disbelief. Like the last, surprised gasp of a murdered man in cop films.

"I am - was - many things. I was this world's Seer. I was a great Talent." Aaron found that he was a bit bothered by the man referring to himself in the past tense. "I was a revered scholar of magic, a warder... Although, that hardly matters any more. What matters is that I am the one who summoned you into this world, and my name is Tar."

The boy fought a rising wave of vertigo to stay awake, rejected the black spots he could see in the edges of his vision. He couldn't, for some reason, communicate the urgency of his situation to the old man. He wanted to scream at him to get on with it, lay upon him an impossible quest to save the world, to slay the immortal dragon. Isn't that how it goes? He wanted to get it over with because he would be going unconscious very, very soon.

"Three things you must know," Tar continued, perhaps picking up on some of his distress. Aaron wondered how the man could sound so calm and unhurried despite the sight of a teenager barely hanging on to his consciousness at his feet. He guessed it must have something to do about being dead. " One; this realm will be facing a great danger. The likes of which it has never before faced. Two; you have no obligation whatsoever to help this realm."

Despite disorientation and the sudden, heavy weariness that is creeping up on him, the boy was still surprised. "Wha-"

"Your existence, boy, is enough. You are something outside of this world; outside of the system. You are the embodiment of unnaturality. Your very presence is a catalyst for change. For better or for worse."

Aaron thought about that wearily, still kneeling and naked and afraid.

"Three; I have not left you helpless." Tar said. Did his voice seem less lively, less real? "You have skills, a resourceful nature and a steady head - I have chosen you well in this. I have granted you three powers. To keep you alive. To stir things up. As a gift. As an apology. Discover them."

Aaron could now plainly hear the non-life in the voice of the old wizard. He sounded increasingly basic and lifeless, like a robot with a message he was supposed to relay, finding the most basic words to convey it.

"Two things to do," Tar - or the magically preserved spirit of Tar, whatever - continued talking. Somehow, Aaron was surprised that there was more. "First; Go to the Queen of the Little People. Ask for the Boon of Tar. Two; when asked, say you were sent by Tar. As a statement. To confuse the others, get them to act. To heed."

Aaron was now almost barely listening. It felt like the humanity of whatever magical construct the dead magician left behind was steadily leaching out of it, even as the vision itself was slowly fading in front of the tired boy's eyes. By now, he was fairly losing in the battle to stay awake, his body shutting down, lulled by fatigue and a terrible tiredness into feeling that the middle of a magic circle in the middle of bum fuck nowhere was the best place to lie down for a nap, indeed.

Before he was completely gone, he was first able to see his summoner vanish completely, perhaps forever. As the old man's face gently atomized in the breeze it uttered "Your memories withheld. But... I must go now," the lifeless voice almost regretful.

And then Aaron was gone, too.

* * *

The rocking motion was the first thing that Aaron noticed as his consciousness returned. His body seemed to gently rock to and fro on a hard surface, his head cushioned by thick, coarse cloth that kept the worse of it from his sensitive head.

Memory returned along with consciousness, and although his eyes were still closed in flashed clear memories of what had happened some time before; the bright light, the smell of burnt grass, the old man and his kind voice. He remembered pain, confusion, and restrained fear - he remembered that he was alone in a strange world,

snatched

away from -

From where? Earth, certainly. But from

where?

Suddenly panicking, he sat up.

Dread bubbled up from somewhere in his chest so abruptly that it left him reeling. He choked back a sudden sob, but then broke down, the reality of his nerves too strong to be denied. He was crying, his eyes open but unseeing and instead shedding confused tears. Why was he crying? and trembling?

Because he was basically kidnapped and brought into another world. Because a dead fucking magician showed up and told him that the world he was in is dangerous. Because magic is real. Because he can't remember where he was from, and he was most likely bat shit crazy, anyway.

"Sshh," he felt hands on his shoulder, shockingly cold in the feverish warmth of his skin.

"Sshh," it said again, the coolness of the hands somehow working its way into his brain, soothing the headache he didn't know he had, making the world steady so that it wasn't spinning so much anymore.

He was breathing heavily, slicked with sweat. He realized he was burying his face savagely into the palms of his hands, like he used to when he had nightmares when he was a kid and he wanted them to disappear. He had nightmares when he was a kid, hadn't he? He did. He remembered being a kid, having nightmares, but the specifics of it eluded him, sand through the clumsy fingers of his memory. How did his room look like? What was the color of his blanket?

Before he could work himself into another panic attack, the voice shushed again, "You're alright, now. You'll be fine." The hands on his shoulders were squeezing him gently but firmly, a silent support.

Aaron looked down on his hands.

Yep, the strange tattoos

. He closed his eyes, drew a shuddering breath.

He decided to focus on the voice, the soothing cold hands on his shoulder, ignoring everything about his fucked-up-but-all-too-real circumstances and what he does and does not know. Aside from... those, well, isn't he alive, and healthy, and sane?

Okay, a question mark on that last one.

Is

he sane?

He breathed deeply again.

It can't be that bad

, he thought,

I wasn't 'left defenseless', whatever that means. I can probably stand on my own

. Besides, a world with such gentle hands couldn't be that bad.

His breathing came steadier, and soon he was rhythmically taking deep, centering lungfuls of air. He had attained what could pass for calmness in his situation. Or a similar replica of it anyway. He couldn't deny the slight, exhilarating tinge of hysteria that rested on the edges of his thoughts.

"Thank you," he said, genuinely appreciative of the girl's efforts to calm him. He glanced back, and then jumped in surprise.

Somehow, he had always known it was a girl from the dainty feeling of the hands on his shoulders, the sound of the soothing voice. That wasn't what surprised him, no. It was the fact that the hair of the girl who saved him appeared to be on

fire

.

* * *

Lydia was bought back to reality by the surprised youth whose back she was staring at like a patron in a brothel pole show. She jerked her eyes away in surprise, a guilty flush coming to her cheeks unbidden, the apology already halfway out of her lips, when she noticed where his surprised stare was directed.

"Your hair-" the boy started, before choking off when her eyes met his. And then the words were already out of her lips before she could think about it, "What, never seen a demon touched before? Well, I'm

sorry

, and I'm sorry for touching you without permission, O great noble blooded, warded human."