The Indigo Chronicles: The Staff of Empyrean

Ch. 1: (Xavi) In Which I Don't Die

A/N: Warning - it's long.

He took the name Itzaac Fayn to stop being afraid.

It seemed like the crowd parted before us as we entered the town. Not in a gauntlet kind of way, more like when someone famous or at least rich walks through town and everyone, no matter how moral they claim to be, stops to watch. Supposedly that sort of scene never had to happen in the capital of Korona, what with how "close" the royals supposedly were to the people, but maybe it was genetic. Humans see shiny things, and they want the shiny things.

Don't tell any guards I told you that, though; they'll only laugh. They think people only steal when they're inherently evil, but they're wrong.

Of course, the gauntlet may have also been caused by the vicious glare Phil was giving everyone in our path, like his strong Roman-esque jaw could have chopped wood, as he pulled Ziele by the hand that I wasn't holding through the crowd, her basket swinging from her elbow as a result. I was just along for the ride.

I could only imagine what would happen if Pascual wasn't camouflaged in her basket.

Ziele squeezed my hand for dear life as we hurried along. I pulled the cloak she'd let me borrow closer around me, desperately trying to ignore the smell of her former master and of death clinging to the air inside of it, but it was the only thing keeping me from focusing on the fact we were surrounded by so many people it was suffocating. I can't say I didn't squeeze her hand any less tightly. All of Buntunia seemed to be watching me.

Itzaac Fayn was the greatest hero in the world, as far as he was concerned – a rogue hero so awesome in the history of the continent of Civilis he ascended into legend. He was brave, fearless, handsome, could do anything he put his mind to. He got plenty of people to like him just by using his charm. He defeated corrupt kings, dragons, and demons. He never had people second-guessing his credibility just by looking at him.

Itzaac was the opposite of him.

It didn't take long for the palace to come into view, as though it was built on the ground, it was still on the top of a hill in the middle of an island. As we approached the gates to the palace courtyard, the guards in front of them immediately whipped out their swords. The sun glinted off of the blade and my stomach did a backflip. I prayed that the apple I'd forced myself to eat this morning wouldn't come up anytime soon.

He wasn't brave or fearless or trustworthy – that's just the way he was born. Having the uncanny ability to steal anything just because he got the uncontrollable urge to do it didn't exactly make him anyone's trusted confidant. Constantly being targeted by royal guards for suspicions of crimes just because he just barely met the physical qualifications for passing as native but not quite didn't help either. He'd been poor his whole life – and life in general really hadn't been kind to him. His headmistress had only seen his weakness as a tool for her own gain – literally, it was like he was not a person to her. The only thing he could take refuge in were books. Stories were the only thing that could calm him down after the side effects of the urges.

He'd left the orphanage when he was 11 because he didn't want to be a tool anymore – he wanted to no longer be tethered to the urges and he thought running would solve that. He'd run all the way to Al-Andalus because of it and thought it'd work, until it hadn't and he'd had to run again.

He became Itzaac Fayn, his favorite literary hero, because if he couldn't control the urge, he might as well become the urge.

He'd played this role for almost ten whole years. The only thing he could really say positively about it was that it had kept him alive.