The ship, that stinking, floating nutshell, finally docked with a jolt that nearly made me spill my precious mouthful of rust-flavoured water. Through the morning mist, thick and cloying as cosmic phlegm, a monstrous structure rose against the grey sky. A tower. Partially constructed, yes, but already possessing an imposing presence that seemed to suck all light, all hope, and probably even all good thoughts from its surroundings. The air, previously laden only with the salty scent of the sea, was now seasoned with sharp notes of human sweat, the metallic odour of old blood, and the unmistakable, universal fragrance of despair. A veritable welcoming bouquet.
(Well,) I murmured to Eos, my mental voice dripping with my trademark sarcasm, (at least we can cross 'five-star, all-inclusive beach resort' off the list of possible destinations. This has more of a 'forced labour camp with a view of the abyss' feel to it.)
[Your sense of humour, Azra'il, remains as appropriate and comforting as a hug from a giant octopus with venomous suckers,] Eos replied, her impeccable logic clearly not appreciating my attempt at levity.
(It's a gift, my dear. A defence mechanism evolved over many, many particularly unpleasant lifetimes.) And a way to stop myself from screaming and breaking things. Usually.
We were shoved off the ship with our captors' usual delicacy, which is to say, like cattle heading to the abattoir. It was then I saw the 'guard creatures'. To call them dogs would be a profound and unforgivable insult to the noble canine species. These… things looked as if they'd been stitched back to life by a particularly drunken necromancer, with a severe tremor in his hands and dubious aesthetic taste. Bits of different animals, crude stitching, eyes that glowed with a dead, hungry light. And their smell… ah, their smell was a symphony of putrefaction and malodorous dark magic.
[Definitely not normal or even remotely healthy canine specimens,] Eos commented, with a tone of scientific disdain that I appreciated. [What exactly are these… ambulatory abominations?]
(Good question, Eos. I have a few theories. The first is that perhaps Frankenstein had a particularly unfortunate dalliance with an unlucky street dog, and this was the tragic result. The second is that a particularly vivid nightmare of a mad alchemist, after a night of spoiled cheese and cheap wine, decided to come to life and go for a stroll. Or perhaps they're just the local version of guard dogs, raised with much love, affection, and rusty sewing needles.) The creativity for the grotesque in this world never ceased to amaze me.
I observed the other slaves, those already 'enjoying' the place's hospitality, working on the tower's construction. Elderly folk bent under the weight of enormous stones that would make a golem weep. Adults of all ages and races dragging heavy chains whilst attempting, with precarious, desperate balance, to carry wooden beams that looked as if they'd been cut from ancient trees. All, without exception, wore the same magical shackles as we did – grotesque devices of dark metal that, from time to time, emitted menacing blue sparks.
As if to demonstrate the exquisite functionality of these jewels of imprisonment, a man slightly further ahead, probably too exhausted and dehydrated to care about the consequences, cursed one of the cultist guards under his breath, using some particularly colourful and creative profanity. The next instant, the poor sod was on the ground, writhing and foaming at the mouth as crackling blue electricity coursed through his body, twisting his muscles into knots of pure agony. An educational spectacle, no doubt. And terribly effective for maintaining discipline.
[What sort of magic is that, Azra'il?] Eos asked, her mental voice laced with a rare note of horror. She could process the destruction of galaxies with calm, but individual cruelty seemed to unsettle her.
(Magical containment and punishment shackles, probably cobbled together with third-rate technology,) I analysed with professional detachment, observing the effects on the unfortunate prisoner. (Efficient enough to cause excruciating pain and keep the slaves in line, but crude enough to make the whole process look like something straight out of the darkest Dark Ages with even less basic sanitation. A touch of mediaeval barbarity to liven up the working environment.)
Erza flinched visibly beside me as she witnessed the brutal scene. Her brown eyes, usually so full of cautious curiosity, were now wide with pure terror. Instinctively, almost as a reflex, Jellal moved closer to her, subtly placing himself between her and the horrific sight, as if his mere presence could shield her from the world's cruelty. A small gesture, yet laden with profound meaning.
[These children, Azra'il… They don't stand a chance of surviving in this place. It's a slaughterhouse,] Eos murmured, her voice tinged with a sadness she rarely showed.
(Don't underestimate the power of human determination, Eos, especially when fuelled by desperation and childish stubbornness,) I replied, my eyes still fixed on the small group. (Sometimes, hope is like a stubborn weed. It flourishes in the darkest, most unlikely places, defying all odds.) And I always had a soft spot for stubborn weeds.
Erza squeezed her eyes shut tightly, small tears stubbornly escaping from the corners, and she tried to hold them back with a bravery that moved me in an unexpected way. Without much thought, with an impulse that surprised me as much as it did her, I placed a hand on her thin shoulder, squeezing it gently. A small gesture of comfort in a sea of brutality.
"Hey, little one," I said softly, my voice surprisingly gentle. "I know you're scared. Anyone with an ounce of common sense would be. But don't give in to it. Don't let it snuff you out. You're stronger than you think." The words slipped out before I could censor them.
She looked at me with her large brown eyes, surprise and confusion clearly etched on her face at the unexpected display of… well, of something other than indifference or sarcasm on my part.
"Little one?" Erza repeated, and then, to my complete and utter surprise, one of her scarlet eyebrows arched with a hint of childish indignation. "I'm taller than you!"
[Well, well, Azra'il,] Eos commented, her mental voice vibrating with a faint, poorly disguised amusement. [It seems the great, fearsome, and ancient Azra'il, she who has made gods tremble and demons weep, has just met her match… in a nine-year-old, red-headed tyke.]
(Shut it, you overgrown tin can,) I grumbled mentally at Eos, though my tone lacked its usual caustic sharpness. I really hadn't expected the girl to contradict me like that, especially in this situation. The audacity! The petulance! It was… almost refreshing.
Erza blinked a few times, processing the bizarre interaction. Then, to my even greater surprise, her tense face softened into a small, trembling smile. A genuine smile, which reached her eyes and seemed to dispel some of the darkness surrounding her. That caught me off guard – I wasn't used to seeing such sincere, disarming expressions on such young faces, especially in places like this, where innocence was the first casualty.
"Th-thank you," she murmured, her voice still a little choked, but with a new, faint note of gratitude.
[Well, look at that, an interesting plot twist,] Eos teased, clearly enjoying the situation. [It seems you're not as callous and cold as you'd have everyone believe. There's a heart in there beneath all those layers of apathy and cosmic experience.]
(Don't be daft, Eos,) I grumbled, casting a sidelong glance at the nothingness where I imagined my invisible companion would be floating and judging me. (I just… thought she needed a bit of comfort, a reminder that there's still something beyond fear. That's all. Don't read too much into it.) Even to me, the justification sounded a little weak.
Erza smiled back, her expression gaining a little more colour, the fear in her eyes receding minimally, like the tide before a promise of firm land.
"Do you… do you really think we can do anything?" she asked, her voice still trembling, but now carrying a hesitant yet unmistakable hint of hope. A question so simple, so full of childish vulnerability, and yet, so heavy.
Before I could formulate an answer that was neither too pessimistic to crush that small flame, nor too optimistic to sound like a cruel lie, we were rudely shoved forward, towards the ominous shadow of the tower. Erza stumbled on a loose stone, but Jellal, ever alert and protective, caught her in time, preventing a fall that would certainly have resulted in more than just grazed knees.
"We can't give up now," he said, his voice surprisingly firm for a boy his age, gripping Erza's shoulder tightly, conveying a courage he perhaps didn't even know he possessed. "We have to try. We have to keep fighting."
"Stick together," I whispered to the small group, taking advantage of the commotion. "Observe everything. Listen to everything. Knowledge is power, children, even when it feels like we have absolutely no power at all. Information is a sharper weapon than any blade."
Simon, always the tallest and physically strongest of the group, despite his gentle nature, placed a protective hand on Milliana's small head, who cowered beside him like a frightened kitten, her large, almond-shaped eyes wide with terror. Sho and Wally exchanged a nervous glance, fear etched on their young faces, but then Sho, the youngest and usually the shyest, took a small, hesitant step forward, his grubby little face suddenly determined, as if he'd made an important decision. Children. They are surprisingly resilient.
The tower loomed before us, a grim promise of even darker, more laborious days to come. An open-air prison, a monument to cruelty and greed. But as I watched that small group of frightened, hungry, and probably exhausted children leaning on each other, finding strength in their shared frailty, I couldn't help a small, almost imperceptible smile curving my lips.
[Now what is it, Azra'il? I detect a slight alteration in your facial patterns, indicating… amusement? That's new,] Eos asked, her mental voice laced with the curiosity of a scientist observing a particularly interesting anomaly.
"Nothing, Eos. I was just thinking that, sometimes, the greatest revolutions, the most significant changes, begin in the most unlikely, desperate places… and are led by the most unlikely, underestimated people." And this place, with all its misery, had potential for a great deal.
[You're growing attached to them, aren't you? To these children,] Eos stated, not as a question, but as a fact, her voice carrying a genuine surprise she rarely showed. [Why, Azra'il? After so many lives, so many losses, why now?]
"Because," I replied, my eyes following Erza as she lifted her chin with stubborn determination, even with the fear still evident in her brown eyes, "there's something undeniably special about these children, Eos. A spark that refuses to be extinguished. And I have a strong, nagging feeling they're going to cause a great deal of trouble for our dear, incompetent cultists." And I, as an appreciator of well-directed chaos, was eager to watch the show.
[Who would have thought that the great and immortal Azra'il, the entity who has walked among the stars and conversed with the void, would have a hidden maternal side somewhere,] Eos teased gently, her tone almost affectionate. [It seems you've truly met your match in little Erza. Or perhaps, your newest, most unexpected protégée.]
(Don't be ridiculous, you sentimental, loose-screwed artificial intelligence,) I grumbled, though my tone lacked its usual caustic venom. My cheeks might have warmed a little, but it was just the heat of the sun, of course. (She just… she reminds me a bit of myself, a long, long time ago, in some forgotten life. A certain stubbornness, a certain… refusal to break. And maybe, just maybe, she and her friends might surprise me.) Surprises were rare in my long existence, and for that very reason, precious.
Erza looked my way again, and this time, there was more than just fear in her eyes. There was a spark of hope, a promise of a fight. That made me smile discreetly – perhaps this dark, ominous tower wasn't just the end of their childhoods, but, in some twisted, unlikely way, the beginning of something much, much bigger. And I would be there to watch. With popcorn, if possible.
------------(*)------------
Days turned into long, painful weeks, and the weeks, with monotonous cruelty, turned into months, as the blasted tower continued to rise, brick by brick, stone by stone, sucking the life force, hope, and even the dreams of those who toiled there like beasts of burden. Each day was a repetition of the last: exhausting work, scarce, poor-quality food, and the constant threat of the guards and their cruel shackles.
In our overcrowded, fetid cell, we shared what little living space we were allowed with an elderly man, with white hair and beard, and eyes that, despite everything, still shone with surprising kindness and quiet wisdom. His name was Rob, and he was a beacon of gentleness and resilience in that sea of misery. He always strove to keep the spirits of our little group of children high, sharing the little, inedible food he received with us, and telling stories of his youth, of adventures lived in a noisy, camaraderie-filled mages' guild called Fairy Tail.
"Did you know that once, my brave friends and I had to fight a giant basilisk with a petrifying gaze?" Rob would say, his wrinkled eyes shining with the nostalgia of happier, less oppressive times. "That creature was enormous, with scales like emeralds and mesmerising eyes capable of paralysing anyone who dared meet its stare! We needed a great deal of courage and a well-placed mirror to defeat it!"
Erza, Jellal, and the others listened to Rob's stories with almost reverent fascination, their young, dirty faces lit by a flame of admiration and, perhaps, a newfound hope. They were small moments of escape, little windows into a world where magic was adventure and friendship, and not just a tool of oppression.
Rob, with his keen storyteller's perception, noticed my contemplative, often silent gaze, and smiled kindly in my direction.
"You seem a very interesting person, observant and surprisingly calm for one so young, my little friend," he said, his voice hoarse but laden with genuine wisdom and a curiosity that went beyond words. "I would very much like to hear some of your own stories, if you're willing to share them with us. I'm sure that, even being so young, your experiences would be… illuminating and, who knows, perhaps even amusing."
I raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised by the invitation. Normally, I maintained a calculated distance from the other slaves, a barrier of indifference to protect myself and, perhaps, them. Emotional involvement was an unnecessary complication in situations like this. But there was something about that old storyteller, something in his gentle gaze and his silent resilience, that made me want to lower my guard a little, that vaguely reminded me of other mentors, from other times.
"My stories, my dear Rob, are probably not as exciting or edifying as yours," I replied, my tone tinged with my usual dose of self-deprecating sarcasm. "After all, you've lived a whole life of adventures in a legendary guild. I, on the other hand, am barely out of nappies. My most recent adventures involve stealing cucumbers and delivering messages to rats."
Rob laughed, a genuine, warm, contagious laugh that echoed off the cold, damp cell walls, and the children, catching the tone of my self-deprecating joke and relieved by a moment of levity, joined him, their young, spontaneous, surprisingly carefree laughter a brief, unexpected, incredibly precious song in that dark, oppressive place. For an instant, the weight of the tower seemed a little less crushing.
"Ah, but that's precisely why I'd so like to hear them, my young friend," he said, his eyes turning fondly to the children around us. "You young folk have such a unique perspective, so fresh and, at times, so surprisingly wise about the world. It may be that, even at my advanced age, there's still something valuable I can learn from your experiences." A wise old man is one who never stops learning, even from the youngest.
[Well now, Azra'il,] Eos murmured in my mind, her voice laden with a restrained amusement I knew all too well. [The cunning old storyteller isn't going to give in. It seems you'll have to tell a story to entertain the captive audience. Prepare your repertoire of comedic disasters and near-death experiences.]
I completely ignored Eos's comment, focusing my attention on Rob and the children who now looked at me with bright expectation in their eyes. Something about that man, that situation, made me want to lower my guard a little, to break my own protocol of detachment. Perhaps it was the way he looked at the children, with a mixture of protective affection and a fierce determination to keep hope alive, a combination that vaguely reminded me of someone I had known… a long, long time ago.
"Very well, Rob. You win," I conceded with a theatrical sigh, settling myself as best I could on the hard, cold cell floor. "But don't expect much epic excitement or profound moral lessons. My life isn't exactly an edifying fairy tale. More a mildly dark comedy of errors, with occasional unexplained explosions, chases down fetid alleys, and a worrying amount of interaction with individuals of dubious morality and even more questionable hygiene."
Rob smiled, his wrinkled eyes shining with genuine interest, and then, with a small mental flourish so Eos wouldn't interrupt me with unnecessary comments, I began to tell some of my own, less conventional stories.
"Well, to begin with," I started, watching the children lean forward, their small faces attentive. "There was a time, not long ago, when I was 'working' in an establishment of dubious reputation, a particularly colourful pub in the pulsating, generally infected heart of Raven's End's Shadow District." Immediately, Erza's and Jellal's eyes widened in surprise at the name. Curious about what sort of place that was. "That den, my dears, was a veritable nest of vipers, dregs, lunatics, and occasional gutter philosophers. So, as you can imagine, one needed eyes in the back of one's head and a good pair of running boots, at all times."
Eos huffed audibly in my mind, a sound that was the equivalent of an electronic eye-roll, but I ignored her with the mastery of one who has had many inconvenient mental conversations, and focused on my tale for my small, captive audience.
"So, on one particularly lively night, full of the promise of chaos," I continued, a small, mischievous smile playing on my lips as I recalled the colourful scene, "in walks a group of burly, loud, and terribly drunk mercenaries, and, as one would expect from gentlemen of their class and refinement, they start causing a monumental ruckus. They began throwing chairs at each other, breaking empty bottles (and a few full ones, much to the pub owner's dismay), overturning tables… total and utter chaos, a true work of art in gratuitous destruction!" I smiled, an almost palpable nostalgia in my voice.
"But, instead of hiding behind the bar like any sane person with a self-preservation instinct would do, I, in my infinite childish wisdom and with a certain accumulated boredom, grabbed one of the sturdier wooden stools and, with a war cry that probably frightened my allies more than my enemies, gleefully waded into the general brawl!"
The children's eyes widened, a mixture of shock, admiration, and perhaps a little horror in their expressions. Rob, on the other hand, let out a guttural, approving laugh, as if reliving his own glory days and tavern brawls.
"Ah, those poor mercenary sods didn't know what had hit them!" I continued, gesturing animatedly with my hands, despite the shackles. "I was small, fast, and surprisingly efficient with a stool. I was whacking everyone who came too close over the head, not much caring if they were friend, foe, or just unlucky bystanders who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was a matter of survival and, let's be honest, a bit of sadistic fun."
Erza looked at me with a mixture of almost heroic admiration and amused shock, her brown eyes shining with a light I hadn't seen in a long time. It seemed my tales of juvenile delinquency had found a fan.
"But then, my friends, things got truly, properly mad, the sort of madness only Raven's End can provide," I continued, feeling the enthusiasm of the narrative take hold of me. My eyes shone with the vivid memory of that chaotic night. "When a certain Doctor Dooom – yes, with three 'o's, he made sure to emphasise, which already indicated a certain level of eccentricity – an elegant man with a battered top hat, a broken monocle, and a goatee that defied gravity, burst into the pub bellowing about his precious, patented 'magically enhanced explosive rubber ducks' which, according to him, had been cruelly stolen by a rival faction of third-rate villains!" The audience was completely absorbed. "He, in his righteous, theatrical fury, started firing flaming arrows randomly in all directions, whilst his clumsy minions, dressed in uniforms that looked as if they'd been made from potato sacks, unleashed said rubber ducks throughout the pub. And the worst part, or best, depending on your point of view, was that those seemingly harmless, flying yellow creatures actually exploded in clouds of coloured smoke and magical confetti as soon as they touched any solid surface, or even an unlucky person!"
Rob was laughing so hard he was turning red and breathless, his guffaws echoing around the cell. The children, though a little frightened by the description of the explosions, also couldn't contain their laughter at the absurd story and my animated performance.
"But the best part, the cherry on the chaotic cake of that memorable night," I exclaimed, struggling not to smile too broadly as I recounted, "was when, amidst the confusion and duck explosions, I 'accidentally' knocked over an enormous crate full of particularly large, ill-tempered sewer rats that were being used for tests of a new, highly unstable potion by Mrs Ravencroft, the mad scientist!" The memory of the screams and ensuing pandemonium still warmed my heart. "And those rats, my friends, were no ordinary rats. They were enormous, the size of small cats, with razor-sharp teeth and red eyes that gleamed with a malevolent intelligence and an insatiable hunger! And the worst, or perhaps most hilarious, part was that they had been terribly mutated by Mrs Ravencroft's experimental potion, so they started spitting a green, bubbling acid and glowing with a frightening phosphorescent light in the dark!"
The children squirmed in their places, a mixture of disgust and fascination on their faces, but they couldn't contain their nervous laughter and exclamations of surprise. Even Erza had a hesitant smile on her lips.
"I, of course, couldn't miss such a glorious opportunity to add more fuel to the fire of insanity!" I continued, my eyes shining with the memory of the adrenaline and pure anarchy of that moment. "So, with the bravery born of desperation and profound boredom, I grabbed one of the broken bottles conveniently lying on the floor and began to use it as an improvised club, heroically trying to hit the exploding ducks before they hit me and, at the same time, defend myself from the acid-spitting, ankle-biting mutant rats! It was a chaotic dance of survival and stupidity."
[I vividly recall that particular day. You truly possess not the slightest notion of danger, or perhaps just a fetish for life-threatening, near-death situations, do you not, Azra'il?] Eos commented, her mental voice laden with an amusement she barely tried to hide.
(Where's the fun in life if there isn't a little bit of danger and the possibility of being devoured by mutant rats, Eos?) I retorted mentally, with a smirk. (Besides, I had to protect the structural integrity of that pub. Or at least what was left of it. That was my bread and butter for the week, after all. Priorities.)
The children laughed and wriggled with excitement, completely fascinated and entertained by my vivid, slightly exaggerated account. The tension and fear that usually hung over them in the cell seemed to recede a little, replaced by childish curiosity and contagious joy.
"And then? And then?" Erza asked, her brown eyes shining with an animation I hadn't expected to see there. "What happened next? Did you manage to defeat the ducks and the rats?"
"Well," I continued, with an air of mystery and a roguish smile, "let's just say that, after that particularly eventful and memorable night, I was politely, but firmly, 'invited not to return' to that particular establishment. Apparently, the owners didn't much appreciate my contribution to the evening's 'entertainment', which involved nearly blowing up the place along with Doctor Dooom's flying ducks and almost being eaten alive by the mad scientist's genetically altered mutant rats. Some proprietors simply have no sense of humour."
The children laughed even louder, their young, carefree laughter filling the gloomy space of the cell. Even Eos, in her own particular way, seemed to enjoy the story, emitting a mental sound that could be interpreted as a small, restrained "beep" of approval.
[You really know how to cause a memorable, and probably illegal, scene, Azra'il. Your talents are… multifaceted,] my system commented, her voice laden with an amusement that was almost palpable.
"Aye, well, Raven's End's Shadow District isn't exactly a place for the faint of heart or for those who value their own safety," I replied with a nonchalant shrug. "But, hey, at least one thing's for certain: it's never, ever, boring."
Erza looked at me with renewed admiration, her expression far less gloomy and frightened than before. There was a different glint in her eyes now, a curiosity, perhaps even a glimpse of an adventurous spirit. I smiled at her, genuinely surprised by how this stubborn, resilient girl seemed to captivate me, breaking through my carefully constructed defences with her simple, unexpected humanity.
I nodded slowly, watching the children laughing and chatting animatedly with Rob, the old storyteller, their voices filling the oppressive silence of the cell with a life and joy that seemed to defy the very darkness of the place. There was something I had learned, painfully, over my long and strange existence: happiness, hope, the resilience of the human spirit… these stubborn things can sprout even in the most arid soils, in the darkest, most desperate places. Like little wildflowers stubbornly growing through cracks in the concrete. And it was a sight that, even after so many aeons, never failed to surprise me and, secretly, warm me from within.