Ellen ran a finger down the glossy page, continuing to look at the figures in the group photograph that stared back at her. She let her eyes wonder along the lines, quickly realizing that they were all men. She paused on one of the gentlemen in the third row, closest to the right; his lifeless eyes piercing into hers.
Those eyes. They seemed vaguely familiar!
Ellen struggled to come to grips with where she had seen them previously, and bit her lip. She knew she would remember eventually; she usually did. But nothing irked her more than seeing something that she had come across before and not being able to place it. She struggled for a brief moment more, the throbbing of her heart filling the daunting, silent void around her. Drawing blanks, she resigned the thought and stowed it in the back of mind. With a single finger, she snagged the corner of the page and turned it to the next one. It was a solid page of text, the word History blazoned across the top in bold, black wording. Assuming her normal study position – her head propped up by her hands with elbows on the desk – she began to immerse herself, the words dragging her into the story that was purposefully penned to be told. She was so consumed within the book that she hadn't realised that there was now a figure sitting on her bed, gazing; waiting. His arms were folded and his face neutral as if it was set into stone.
"There is only so much," he said softly, drawing out each word as they came out from his mouth. The words were almost filled with disdain. "That you should believe when reading books." His words sliced through the silence like a knife.
Ellen leaped out of her chair in fright, the trance that held her to the book now broken. She pushed herself up hard against the wall and noticed that the book was pushed onto the floor in her haste. It was now sprawled open to the page with the group photograph. It took every ounce of self-control to not let out a scream from the fright that riddled her body. The man that occupied the throne in the image, the man that had visited her previously, was now sitting on her bed with his eyes taking in Ellen's state. The light from the desk lamp distorted his features, making him look more foreboding than he actually was. Deep, dark shadows stretched across his face and the entertained smile on his face seemed sinister. He had changed clothes, and was no longer donning a long robe. Rather, he was impeccably dressed in a burgundy turtle-neck, three-quarter sleeve shirt and black, long cargo pants. These were complimented by a pair of highly shined black boots.
"Hello," he mused. "It's quite alarming how much humans can disengage themselves from reality when they are gripped by something. It makes it easy to attack them from behind without them knowing that you're there."
He flashed his pearly white, perfect teeth at Ellen and picked himself off her bed. his body weight leaving a neat groove in the blankets. The man moved with grace, light on his feet, across the room and pulled the chair away from the desk. He knelt down and retrieved the book, closing the cover to analyse the front of it. His eyes glazed over as he scanned the aged, peeling-gold title. The words glinted eerily at Ellen. Ellen was still pushed up against the wall, a hand over her heart, trying to regain her elusive breath.
The man furrowed his brows.
"Ah," he sighed. "I'm all too familiar with Hiddlestone's work. He was a prime researcher back in the day but his integrity took a hit and he became lacking. By the time he had finished this particular book, he had entwined so many old wives' myths into it that it can hardly be described as being accurate. Quite frankly, this isn't even worth the paper it's written on nor the glue that holds it together."
He gazed up at Ellen, lifting one of his arms, and motioned for her to sit back down onto the chair which he had now positioned back at the desk. Ellen pushed herself off the wall and complied. He slid the book back onto the desk, open at the page with the photograph, and stood behind her. He reached over her left shoulder, pointing at the picture, and began speaking; his gentle voice carrying her into another world.
- - -
A young boy, no more than thirteen years of age, skipped down a dirt street, kicking his heels together and whistling as he went. Small puffs of dust lashed upwards with every step. The child's cheeks were cherub-like and hinted red; his eyes were still a baby blue. His grey cap was drawn down over his face but strands of blonde-silver hair peeked out from underneath. A large smile was spread across his face and his book-bag bounced jauntily against him as he made his way home from school. His mother often permitted him to stop by Elder Smith's workshop and it was here where he was heading to now. Elder Smith's wooden-boarded workshop was located centrally along the busy main-way which was often full with horses and carriages, and today was no exception. Seeing the workshop on the other side of the road, the young boy eyed distances between each carriage and made a dash for it. He was aware not to do risky runs across. His parents were honourable members of the community and they would find out quicker than he would arrive home. And this would most certainly come with punishment.
With over-brimming happiness, he crossed through the open doorway and into the warm cabin that acted as the shop area. The child caught orange-yellow anvil sparks from the corner of his eye and found Elder Smith hammering a heated piece of metal, forging something he didn't recognise.
"Eldy Smith!" he proclaimed in a not-yet-matured voice.
The blacksmith looked up at the child, sweat pouring down his face. He was a very stoutly man, and short; his brown shirt and black crafting apron were filthy, as were his hands. His sandy hair was covered in grime. His tight lips stretched upwards as he gave the newcomer a toothy grin.
"Aye, Master Grey. What would your parents say if they knew the way you were speaking?" he poked, with a brogue. The hammer he was holding was placed onto a workbench and he waddled to the boy. He sat down on a stool and took the boy onto his lap.
"I'm sorry. Whatever you do, please don't tell them!" Hans Grey begged. He didn't want to be punished!
"You know I'm just fooling around," the blacksmith laughed. "What can I do for you today?"
"A story?" the boy asked, hopeful. The blacksmith always told the best stories! The blacksmith opened his mouth but another man had appeared in the doorway dressed in travelling robes. He was clean and well-dressed, the opposite of the blacksmith.
"Master Melvin," the blacksmith acknowledged, and gently took Hans from his lap and stood him on the ground.
"Good afternoon Artisan Smith. I presume you've finished my request?" the other man asked. He was tall and severe looking with black hair and dark brown eyes. He peered at Hans through those dark eyes and then back at the blacksmith.
"Of course!" Smith rushed to the back of the workshop and retrieved a large, long object that was sheaved in silk. He bowed deeply as he passed it across. "To your dimensions, sir."
The man took the object and gave the blacksmith a pouch which rattled every time it moved. Gold. "Payment to where it is due for your constant, fine workmanship." He turned back to Hans and knelt down so he was now eye level with him. The silk-sheaved package protruded away from him. Matured eyes now stared into youthful ones.
"I trust the young master has been keeping out of trouble?" he asked. Hans took a step backward, surprised and wide-eyed, looking at his blacksmith friend for encouragement.
"Go on son, he's a friend to your parents," Smith urged.
"Yes, sir," the boy replied politely.
The man kept eye contact with the child, smiled, and placed his empty hand on Hans' shoulders. He gave it a tight squeeze and Hans immediately felt warmth spread throughout his body like his blood was being boiled. It passed as quickly as it came.
Standing back onto his feet, the man nodded curtly to the blacksmith and hurried out of the workshop into the busy street.
"What did you make him, Eldy Smith?" asked Hans, curiously.
"Oh, that's between me and him. Now shouldn't you be running home, young master? I expect your parents would have dinner ready and you still need a wash." The stoutly blacksmith gave the same, toothy grin and watched on, hands on his hips, as the boy carried himself home.
Hans kicked at the dirt, watching fragments of rocks forcefully fly away. His head was hanged and he muttered random, incoherent sentences quietly to himself. But this didn't last long. As he rounded the final corner to his home, he saw the two storey manor engulfed in flames. Well-meaning community members surrounded it, attempting to extinguish it with buckets of water. Others were crowded around the burning home, screaming and looking for ways to help. Thick, black plumes of smoke polluted the air around them making it hard to breathe, like you were trying to suck oxygen out of water.
Grey snow fell from the heavens and onto his cheek. Only, it wasn't snow but rather ash from his home. Tears welled under his eyes and he felt them roll down, making clear, meandering channels through the fallen ash. Sadness shot through his heart and it seemed that his life had stopped and was now standing still. He felt a hand drop onto his shoulder and the man from Eldy Smith's shop looked down at him sombrely. They both looked at each other for an indefinite amount of time, trying to find comfort in each other. No matter how hard the child looked, comfort was not something to be found.
Deep down inside, Hans knew that he had just become an orphan.
- - -
It was a rainy day when Master Melvin called a sixteen-year old Hans into his large, wooden-panelled stateroom and had told him that he was different. He was, what they called, a Tempusmancer; a figure that had the ability to control time and fate, and he had bestowed this gift on Hans in the blacksmith workshop when he was thirteen. Why? Hans asked.
Because I had a premonition that tragedy would strike that evening, was the reply. And indeed it had, with a fire being the tragic conclusion to his parents' lives.
The conversation was surreal to Hans, and was deep and emotional.
During this time, he had come to learn that Melvin had an estranged brother that had turned his back on the family and was never heard of again; that was, until Melvin had undertaken his own training and became a Master. The Masters were part of the Grand Committee and had the responsibility to determine the future of the race as well as investigate any phenomenons that involved them. There came a time when the Masters had to investigate the disappearance of several Tempusmancers, some of whose dismembered bodies were found across the globe. It was concluded that a different race, Necromancers, had begun a purge so they could use their DNA and blood samples to develop a hybrid of races. To Melvin's chagrin, it was led by none other than his brother. Where he was hiding and controlling his pawns from remained unknown. Necromancers were only able to converse with the dead and their powers to learn other divinations were rather limited to that of their counterparts.
As the years passed, Hans became more refined at his craft, spending countless hours taking notes from his teacher's lessons. Although his acquired skills seemed great, they came with great responsibility and this he kept at the back of his ever-ticking mind.
Be careful where you tread because you could be upsetting a delicate balance.
He could determine peoples fate, bend time to make it seem like there was more of it, and influence those around him to a high degree. Over a dinner, he had asked why Melvin couldn't change the fate of his parents. To this, he explained to Hans that there were things you can't change no matter how hard you try. He didn't say more.
Tragedy struck once again on a cold winter's night.
News had broken amongst the Tempusmancers that a large group of Necromancers were to ascend on the bustling community and take all known Tempusmancers that resided there. The takedown of Master Melvin was to be especially reserved for his brother, for the bitter sweetness of it all. Younger ones – those in training and had vulnerable powers – were either hidden or sent away to safe havens; to this category, Hans fell. Melvin had made him promise that he would stay in the false floor until he had received advice that it was over. Hans had begun to protest but was beaten by a single word: Go.
The war had started when a sudden quietness filled the streets, and each of the dim streetlights had gone out.
One. By. One.
It wasn't a normal quiet either. It was an eerie, high-tension quiet; the sort that you could hear a pin-drop at the other side of the street. The Necromancers brought stillness, brought death with them, and tonight it had descended on top of this unsuspecting community.
Hans listened, the throbbing of his heart ringing in his ears. Like this he waited for an hour.
For two hours.
For three.
He couldn't hear anything, so he creaked open the loose floorboards which served as the entry to the false floor and peeped through the crack.
The room was how it was left. Neat. Warm. Untouched.
Scanning the room, he pulled himself out of his hiding place when he realised no one was inside, and crouched down. He opened the curtains just a sliver so he could look outside of the second-storey window. Two figures stood in the snow outside, both bearing resemblances to each other. One of them was Master Melvin. The other was his brother.
The whole thing was over in a blink of an eye. The estranged brother had lunged for Melvin who in turn, attempted to feint. But the bluff was caught, and Hans watched as a long, dirty dagger was sunk into his Masters heart and twisted. Red liquid tainted the snow around them, and Melvin fell lifelessly with the snow beginning to bury his body.
There were things you can't change no matter how hard you try.
Hans gasped. He had once again lost someone that was family. Master Melvin had assumed the father role in his life and Hans had loved him as such. Restraining the tears in his eyes, he continued looking outward at the horrible, snowy scene.
As if hearing him, the estranged brother went rigid, reared his head and stared up at the second-storey window. He seemed to be staring directly at Hans, almost as if making eye contact. He withdrew the blade and, in a haunting manner, pointed at him through the window and slid a gloved finger along his own neck.
The brother smiled as Hans seemed to have interpreted the message correctly.
He was next.
- - -
"And what happened next?" asked Ellen, awestruck by Hans Greys' detailed recount.
She saw a faint smile spread across the man's lips, softness filling his eyes.
"Nothing. Nothing happened. This photograph," he pointed back at the book, "was taken after I had assumed Master Melvin's position on the Grand Committee. At this time, I was Grand Master but gave it away as it was a great burden and needed full commitment."
There was an awkward silence. Ellen wanted to hug the man for going through so much and to comfort him.
"Why did you share this with me?" she asked instead.
"I shared it with you because you need to understand the importance and impacts of your actions, but to especially highlight the great importance in being aware of your surroundings and how you need to keep what you are, a secret. There are bad Necromancers on the prowl, and there is a rumour that his brother is still out there hunting for people like us. If you can agree to be cautious, to be quiet, then I am happy to begin teaching you so you can help others. This is after all, what Tempusmancers were intended to do with their powers."
Ellen sat back in her chair, turning around so she was now facing Hans. It was clear that what was given to her was a dangerous gift, one that could threaten her life. On the flip side, it was something she could use to make the world a better place. Her head throbbed from the horde of thoughts that now clogged her mind and she found herself drowning in an anxious sweat. Would she find herself in a similar position to Hans and lose people she loved? Did she really have the potential that Hans saw in her? It was a major risk, one that would shape her future, no doubt.
Biting her lip, she gave her answer.