Creation
By Metranome
Disclaimer: Slayers is not mine. This story concept belongs to me, but the characters are the property of the manga author and series producer. Attempts to sue me will yield nothing but a headache and a long, fruitless day in court. Flames will result in the same, as I do not take kindly to threats and/or insults and will hunt flamers down and find out what a harassment lawsuit looks like on them.
Note: this story is my personal, biased theory about a certain character’s origins. It takes place before the series begins, so do not expect to see any of the usual characters save the one whose origins I am exploring. I am only making an uneducated guess as to where this particular character came from, so do not tell me silly things like, “That can’t be what happened because of this-or-that in the series,” or “You don’t know what you’re talking about, you fool!” I will not appreciate it and there would be no point in any case. That said, enjoy the story.
He was just an average doer of good deeds, traveling from town to town, city to city in search of those who needed a spot of help or a bit of cheering up. He especially loved to visit orphanages; children were, in his opinion, the best mankind had to offer by way of personality.
It was an orphanage he was staying in right now, as a matter of fact. He had been caught by a midsummer storm on his way to one of the regions larger cities, and had been forced to seek shelter in a small town several hours out of his way. He was grateful to have found the place at all in such weather, knowing perfectly well that he would never have made it to the city.
He felt fortunate that he could earn his keep, even without having a career per say. After all, ‘wandering priest’ was not really considered a career, simply because it wasn’t particularly lucrative. In any case, he had agreed to help care for the children for the duration of his stay, and in return the owner of the establishment would provide room and board free of charge.
The storm had raged for several days now, but it seemed as though it would soon blow over. In the meantime, he had enjoyed his time at the orphanage immensely. He had already met all of the children, had used his healing powers to fix those who were ill, and had spent many hours at play with the little ones. In turn the children were quite taken with him, so much so that there had been many a teary eye when he had announced that he would be leaving shortly.
It was on the last day of his visit when he was sitting in the playroom with the children all around him, listening intently as he told them a story, that he noticed her. She was a tiny thing, a pale, large-eyed waif with hair so pale-blonde that it was almost silver. Her eyes were icy-blue, and took up most of her face as she stared at him. Her gaze was intense, and her expression bordering on severe in its sternness. It felt as though she was looking right into him.
“What happened to the sorceress?” a boy by his knee asked anxiously.
He glanced down at the boy and smiled. “Why, she defeated the monster with the crimson eyes of course, and she and her companions survived to greet many more adventures. Unfortunately, that is a story for the next time I visit.”
A collective “a~awww!” of protest sounded, but he shook his head and told them that he would have more stories on his return from the city.
When he looked up again, the girl he had seen was gone.
Later, he asked the owner of the orphanage about her. The owner, a middle-aged woman who had been a priestess in her youth, told him that he must have seen Zara.
“Zara’s always been that way. She’s quiet, and her eyes look through a person like she’s looking at their soul. I’ve never seen her smile the whole two months she’s been here, and she almost never speaks.”
He pondered this information. “I believe today is the first time I’ve seen her. She must not like strangers.”
The owner smiled wryly. “I don’t think that’s right. You see, when strangers come is the only time she comes out of her room. She even has her supper in there.”
The news startled him a little, because the girl had not struck him as shy.
“Well,” he said eventually, “It’s time I left. Do give the children my fond farewell.”
“They’ll be sorry to see you leave.”
He headed out shortly after his conversation with the owner, walking unhurriedly down the damp, grassy road toward the city. He grinned to himself as he thought about the little “surprise” he had left for the poor woman. It was a bad habit of his to never leave a place he had stayed in without playing some sort of harmless prank; a calling card of sorts for those who had a sense of humor. For those who did not…well, he never worried about that.
This time, he had enchanted all of the silverware in the orphanage to scream obnoxious phrases when picked up, such as “Ger off me! Ger off me!” and “Yer not gonna stick me in yer mouth, are ya!?” The enchantment would last for a week only, but that was sufficient time for the talking utensils to drive the former priestess all but mad with frustration. He felt certain his trick would provide hours of entertainment for the children.
He had traveled for only a day, the city still several more ahead of him, when he sensed it. Every few minutes he would look over his shoulder, down the road swiftly becoming imperceptible with the approach of night. Each time he looked he saw nothing, but he felt it just the same. He was being followed.
He camped far off to the side of the road, laying a barrier around his campsite before going to sleep. All night he tossed restlessly in his sleep, his senses telling him even as he lay dreaming that he was being watched.
He woke the next day to find his thin bedroll twisted around him uncomfortably, and a pair of icy-blue eyes gazing intently down at him.
Something in him told him that he should have expected to see Zara sitting next to him when he opened his eyes that morning. He was not startled by it, in fact felt nothing aside from mild bewilderment as to why the girl would have followed him all this way at all. He also felt a twinge of annoyance. He had no means to care for a child; he himself usually depended on the charity of those he aided in their times of need. He had only a small, emergency savings that he had never intended to have much use for.
“Why did you follow me?” he demanded, not angrily but still sternly.
Her equally stern countenance mocked his attempts at discipline. “I chose to.”
He glanced beyond her, to the small pony she had obviously ridden to catch up to him so quickly. The animal could not have been the property of the orphanage, as they had no stable and not enough land to pasture the animal. Had this diminutive urchin stolen the beast? Somehow it seemed unlikely, but it was the only logical explanation.
“Listen, Zara,” he said, trying to sound as though he were not exasperated, “I can’t take care of you. You need to go back to the orphanage now.”
She matched his stare with one that seemed to almost laugh at him. “Will you force me to go back? It would be more trouble than it would be worth.”
He gawked at her. “I…believe you.”
“Then, shall we go?”
Shaking his head at the absurdity of it, he repacked his things (he did not carry much, as he often had to walk many miles a day and he needed to travel light), and they continued along his course. Zara road beside him on her pony, saying nothing unless he spoke to her first (and sometimes not even then!). Every so often he would glance over at his reticent companion, thinking about how he could entice her into more animated conversation.
/Two months at the orphanage, and she never smiled once. I wonder how long she will be with me before I see a smile on her face./
They reached the city to find it bustling as usual. Every so often someone would stop the pair and comment on how adorable his “daughter” was. At such times he would merely smile helplessly, knowing full well that if he told anyone the truth of his companion that they would likely think he had kidnapped her, or something of that sort. After all, to any who did not know Zara’s nature, it would seem more likely that he had abducted the child than that she had followed him all that way of her own free will.
But follow him she did; as he went about his business in the city, as he made arrangements for lodging, as he went up the stairs of the inn he had selected and into the room he had rented. She had not said a word all day, and the trend of silence lasted even through dinnertime. He noted that she pushed the food around her plate with her fork, but never once did he see her actually lift a bite to her lips. She sipped a glass of water, reaching across the table for the glass pitcher to refill it once it was empty. The silence stretched between them, and he made no move to disturb it. He instinctively knew that any attempt at useless conversation would be quickly thwarted.
When it was time to sleep, he laid out his sleeping roll on the floor, intending to allow his tiny charge the single bed. Zara would have none of that. She had already slipped inside the sleeping roll by the time he had begun to turn about and wish her good night.
“Well,” she prompted impatiently, “Are you going to sleep or not?”
Dumbfounded but somehow amused, he nodded cordially at her and climbed into bed. It would have been useless to argue with her; she was entirely too adept at getting her own way. “Goodnight.”
Zara responded with a curt nod of her own and laid down her head on the padding. The silence fell once more, and he and the girl were soon both breathing softly and steadily.
She woke him the next morning at the crack of dawn, when the sun’s first rays had begun to dissipate the remnants of night. Without a word she bade him rise, insistently tugging on his arm until he was up and getting dressed once again for the road. It was a bit unnerving to have her stare unashamedly at him as he pulled on his traveling clothes, but he bore it. She was only a child, after all. It would do no harm to have her watching him. In truth, as he would later admit to himself, it was not so much the issue of modesty that made him wish she would not stare. Rather, it was the feeling that she could see right through him, no matter what he chose to wear, right into the very core of him. What might a child see, he wondered, if that child saw into his heart?
Zara rode the pony again on their way out of the city. He had not seen it stabled. In fact, he had not seen it at all until she had led it out from behind the inn and mounted it. In fact, the inn did not even have a stable. Presumably the animal had simply waited behind the building for Zara to fetch it. Absurd, considering it had no lead rope with which to tether it, but again it was the only logical explanation. As he was quickly learning, though, very little about Zara answered to the normal constraints of logic.
As they rode/walked along, a sudden epiphany struck him.
“Where are we going?” he asked her.
For indeed, the girl rode with purpose toward some undisclosed destination. Her path did not waver, and her eyes were fixed stubbornly ahead. He knew she knew where she wanted to go, and he realized that she had only been allowing him to believe that it was he who led them on their journey.
Zara turned her head and regarded him with blatant amusement. Her wry smirk was hardly a smile, but still the closest thing to one that he had ever witnessed on her face.
“We are going wherever you go,” she answered matter-of-factly, “Wandering Priest.”
The way she said his informal title made him think she was mocking him again. The smirk faded as if it had never been, and he could not be sure of his suspicion.
A week passed, then two, and he still knew absolutely nothing about his often-silent companion. She had not so much as smirked, let alone smiled, since that day, and he was beginning to think she never would. What would he find, he wondered, if she ever allowed him to look past the mask she wore? What trials or circumstance could create in a little girl such a perfect illusion of chilly indifference and irony? What could have possibly made this girl who could not have been more than eight years old to seem as though she were a hundred? Because that was the impression that he had received in the days journeying beside her; she did not seem like a girl at all, but rather like one who had seen far more than was a child’s right to have seen.
They were into the woods now, following a dirt path just slightly overgrown with grass and tiny, white flowers. The sounds of various birds brought a lightness of tone to the atmosphere, as did the dappled sunlight that broke through the boughs of the trees.
He paused to lean on the staff he always carried with him, more so he could enjoy the scenery than so he could rest. He was accustomed to walking for long periods of time without stopping, and he was not tired yet. Zara halted her pony and waited for him, apparently unimpressed with Nature’s splendor. She really was such a cynical child, he thought. She should take delight in the beauty around her as any other child her age would have.
There was no sound, no stereotypical rustling of bushes to indicate something’s approach. One minute he was gazing about at the flora, the next there was a huge wolf where before there had been only shadows.
He inconspicuously took a tighter grip on his staff. He had encountered wild animals on his travels before, and he was not afraid. It was little Zara he worried for. How would she react to a mighty predator such as this wolf? If she made the mistake of crying out in terror, the wolf might attack her, and it was closer to her than it was to him. He would most likely not make it between the beast and the girl in time.
The wolf growled low, catching the girl’s attention. She neither screamed nor even so much as stiffened in fear. She regarded the creature with her usual intense stare, and it was then that the wandering priest noticed that not even her pony seemed perturbed. He was the only one in the area whom the wolf intimidated at all. Upon noting this he relaxed. If the wolf did not see them as a threat, it would not attack them, he believed.
The wolf stared warily at each of the travelers in turn, then made some sort of decision and slunk away into the brush. Zara watched it go, and the priest recognized that somehow, some sort of mutual understanding had passed between the predator and the girl. He shook his head incredulously. How many more surprises did Zara have in store for him along their future road?
The pony started off again, signaling that his brief stop had come to an end. He followed the girl and her mount for the next few hours in perfect, unbroken silence, thinking that perhaps his companion was more than he had first assumed.
Night found them in an abandoned shack off the trail. Zara made herself comfortable on a blanket and promptly went to sleep. He stayed awake, staring at the stars through a small hole in the roof of their shelter.
/She followed me all by herself away from the orphanage,/ he mused, /She behaves as though she is far older than her eight years. She commands unbending loyalty from a pony and placates a wild wolf. And she is steering me where she wants to go, no doubt about that. She does not smile or laugh, yet I have seen her amused by my efforts to fathom or control her actions. Who is this waif I have in my care, and why do I feel as if it is I who am the child here?/
If it had not been for his restlessness that night, he might never have heard the cautious footsteps surrounding the shack. He slowly rose to a crouch and reached over to wake his fellow traveler. She was already awake, and completely unsurprised by the intruders. Again he shook his head at the absurdity of it all, and waited to see what the unwelcome visitors would do. He could fight if he had to, and he had a few defensive spells if his enemies’ numbers were too great for close combat.
A dark shape blotted out the starlight leaking through the front door, and hushed voices called to each other in the dark. The wanderer made to grab his staff, but little Zara grabbed his wrist and shook her head. A sliver of whiteness shone in the dark, and he realized with a jolt that she was grinning. That grin reminded him of something one might encounter in the darkest part of the woods where hungry animals roamed.
All at once, chaos erupted outside. Men screamed and ran this way and that in confusion, and the howls and snarls of many wolves rent the night air. Death cries made the still-crouching priest shiver, and then there were only the triumphant calls of the wolves. It had been over in mere minutes, and it did not sound as though a single man had lived long enough to draw a weapon.
He turned and stared at Zara. He could only see her outline in the dark, and she did not seem to be grinning anymore. She only shrugged and curled back up on her blanket, pulling a second up over herself.
/She knew, he thought, and he shivered again, She knew the beasts were out there, and she knew what they would do. Who is this child?/
He did not sleep again for a long time that night.
Zara woke him early as she always did, urging him with silent, insistent tugs on his sleeve to rise and continue on their way. The pony was once more waiting patiently outside, and there was no trace of the wolves or the men they had killed.
They made it to the relatively new city of Seyruun by midday, but the priest had no intentions of staying long. He had little taste for the eccentric ways of Seyruun royalty, and though the city was beautiful it offered him little excitement. He paused now and then to ask directions of the locals, friendly people who were more than happy to offer him and his “daughter” a place to stay while they were in the city. He politely refused each invitation, not wishing to remain after he had completed his business here.
Said business was with the temple in the center of the city. He had heard talk of a manuscript there that he had wanted to see for some time now, and it was this alone which had brought him to Seyruun.
The priests that ran the temple greeted him warmly upon his arrival, for his reputation as a healer and generally benevolent character had preceded him somewhat. So apparently had his little jokes, for one of the Seyruun holy men politely asked him not to wander off unless accompanied by one of those who worked at the temple. He was hard pressed not to laugh at that, managing to simply smile agreeably instead.
It was only once he had entered the main chapel where the manuscript he sought was kept, that he noticed Zara was missing. He questioned one of the local priests about it, and discovered that the man had seen her head back in the direction of the entrance. He could only assume that she had grown bored and had decided to wait for him outside. He worried she would get lost, then quickly dismissed the thought. She had proven herself quite capable of finding him wherever he went, and of taking care of herself with or without his presence.
He studied the manuscript for a few hours, pleased with the information it offered on the history of shamanistic magic (a subject he had always deemed fascinating). Soon enough it was time to leave, and he thanked the Seyruun priests for their hospitality and returned to where Zara had left the pony. The girl was indeed waiting for him when he arrived, but he got the distinct impression she had not been there the whole time. His suspicions were confirmed when she offered him a dumpling from a stand he had seen quite a ways back in the city. He accepted the gift and did not scold her, knowing that she would only look at him with those intense, blue eyes of hers that said it was he who was in fact the child.
“Did you enjoy your reading?” she asked unexpectedly.
“I did,” he answered, “It was quite informative.”
“How nice for you,” she said, “To be able to study magic in such a way. Reading about it is, after all, one of the simplest ways to learn it.”
He gave her a long look. “And what would an orphan child know of magic and how it is learned?”
She shrugged and said nothing more on the matter. “It will be dark in but a few hours. If you do not plan to spend the night here then we should be off.”
Seeing it was useless to argue with her, he sighed and walked on, towards one of the roads that led out of Seyruun. He had decided to head for Atlas City, where he would at the very least find people in need of his skills. Seyruun had little need for more healers, having an abundant supply of its own.
A small smirk found its way to his face as he thought of the statues at the Seyruun temple’s entryway. What fun it would be when the enchantment on those activated tomorrow morning at dawn! Moving statues was not his most original idea ever, but it had always been funny before. He held faith that it would be again. It was only too bad he would not be there to see it.
“I liked the silverware,” Zara remarked, “They were funny.”
He smiled more broadly at that, though it was more than a little disconcerting that she had so easily guessed his mind. He was just pleased that she had appreciated his prank.
“Perhaps,” the girl mused aloud, “They should no longer call you the ‘Wandering Priest.’ I think the ‘Trickster Priest’ would suit you better.”
“Do you think so?” he asked, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.
“Though people would not look at you so favorably if that were the case.” the girl admitted.
“No,” he said with a laugh, “I don’t suppose they would!”
“I like you,” Zara said matter-of-factly, “You aren’t a typical priest, and not as benevolent as people think.”
Puzzled, but happy that he had befriended the girl at last, he turned his head to regard her. “Is that good?”
“Yes,” she answered firmly, “I hate people who pretend to be completely pure and holy, when in fact they’re no better than anyone else. They’re just lying to themselves if they think they’re not vulnerable to human weakness.”
He looked ahead once more. “I’ve always tried to be who I am, I guess. I can do a good thing or two, so I do. I’ve never thought about doing or being more than that.”
Zara nodded slowly, as though truly contemplating his words. They continued on in the silence the wanderer had become so familiar with in the past weeks.
It was several days later before Zara saw fit to bring up their conversation again. It was nighttime once more, though the sky was splotched with dark clouds that blotted out large sections of stars and kept the moon always drifting in an out of sight. He lay looking up at that sky, listening to the fire crackle and pop, when she spoke to him.
“So, you’ve never considered being more than what you are.”
It was a statement more than it was a question, just a reopening of the discussion they had had several days hence. He recognized what she was speaking of, though it startled him that she wanted to continue the conversation at all.
“No,” he answered at last, “Not really.”
“What if you could be whatever you’d always wanted,” she asked, turning her ice-azure gaze toward the heavens, “What if you could do anything?”
He took a moment to honestly consider this. “Well,” he said slowly, “I suppose I’d go and do anything, wouldn’t I? If there was no limit to what I could do, then I think I would want to do everything. Of course, that might not be such a good thing.”
“Why not?” she pressed.
He sighed. “If you offer someone the chance at ultimate freedom, he might eventually use that freedom to destroy everything. There would be no one to stop him, you see. You yourself said it: humans are prone to human weaknesses, and one of those is his own destructive nature. That’s why we have gods, I think; so that we will always have masters to tell us when we have gone too far.”
“Then the idea of having a master does not displease you,” Zara queried, “Because you know the value of limitation? How odd. Most human beings would resist the notion of being controlled.”
“Perhaps,” he answered, “But I’ve had enough years to see the results of people trying to go beyond boundaries that were never meant to be crossed. Magic is a field that is often used to attempt such foolishness.”
The girl lapsed into quiet contemplation, and he let her. Any intrusion upon her thoughts at this moment would likely not be taken kindly.
Later, after the fire had long since died and after Zara had long since curled up near the embers to sleep, and after even the pony had lain down to doze, the wandering priest woke from a fitful sleep to a feeling of ultimate restlessness. He had experienced such a feeling before, and he knew what it meant and what was required before it would go away and allow him sleep. He checked to make certain the girl really was asleep, then crept silently away from their campsite, towards the creek that he had seen a ways back.
The creek bubbled cheerily along, oblivious to the darkness that blanketed the area. The moon flitted from cloud to cloud, it seemed, hiding one moment and peeking out from its hiding place the next.
He settled into a sitting position on the grass next to the creek, ignoring the dew that dampened his clothes. For a long few minutes he merely sat there, listening to the water and to the night insects and the night birds. He was in no hurry, the urgency that had woken him somewhat calmed now that he had heeded it.
The moon slipped out from behind a cloud, just long enough to cause a sudden glimmer of silver along the edge of the small blade in his hand.
He had never really questioned his need for this, the need that came upon him without warning some nights when he felt alone, and all the world seemed distant to him. He only knew that he could not fight it, and more importantly, that he did not wish to.
The first small, shallow cut stung painfully as it always did before he became numbed to the unpleasantness of it, and a soft hiss escaped him. Soon, after a second cut, then a third, the pain hazed into a sort of lazy pleasure. The marks were not so deep, as he was always wary of doing himself permanent harm, but they were deep enough that tiny rivulets of blood welled up and spilled down his arm. He watched the crimson fluid trail down the pale skin of his wrist with a strange satisfaction that only came from this, and nothing else. Blood dripped off his elbow onto the ground, staining the grass and soaking into the earth.
He felt her eyes on him and did not have to turn to know she was there. He did pause in his actions, unsure of what she would think. He found it odd that while he was concerned with how the girl would react, he could not find it in himself to be ashamed as he thought he should be.
“You are full of surprises.” Zara murmured, her voice close at his back.
Thinking this to be her way of expressing her disgust, he started to lower the knife. A small hand closed on his uninjured wrist.
“No,” she said quietly, “Do not let my presence stop you. Please, continue.”
Now he did look at her, unable to contain his surprise. She merely nodded in encouragement, her blue eyes seeming to gleam in the dark. Seeing his hesitation, she released him and drew back several steps, giving him space.
He did not know why, but something in her gaze made him feel at ease. He felt no more reluctance as he carefully drew another line of red across his arm. She did not judge him, only watched as he threw his concentration fully into his task.
Another cut, deeper this time, followed by another even more so than the last. He knew he was being reckless this time, knew he was cutting deeper than he had ever dared, but his nerves sang with ecstasy and he did not care for the consequences. Another cut, and this time metal scraped bone and a dark well of red pumped forth; he knew he had crossed a line. He leaned forward with a ragged gasp, his violet hair spilling about his face, and brought the mortal wound in close to his chest. His lifeblood soaked his shirt, but he was smiling. This time he hadn’t kept the pain all to himself. This time he had given it to her.
His hands grew weak and he could no longer hold the little blade. It dropped to the grass and lay there glittering in the moonlight, silver metal stained with bright crimson. He did not feel himself fall, only knew that he was somehow now staring up at the sky.
The girl who was not a girl at all came over and knelt beside him. She too was smiling, the first real smile he had ever seen her wear. She brushed a few strands of violet hair away from his face.
“You are special,” she told him, “The most special human I have ever met. You are the first human to ever willingly give me your pain and your blood. I thank you for this gift, and I would very much like to give you one in return. Would you like that?”
He could not answer, could barely draw breath anymore to keep his mind active and his hearing tuned to her words. She did not need him to speak; she knew his heart, and knew what she wanted and what he would welcome from her. Still smiling, she stood, spread her small, child-sized arms over his prone form and began to chant.
Her voice deepened in timbre, becoming the voice of a woman instead of a girl, and her small form glowed with inherent power. She changed with a flash of white, her body now matching her voice, and no sooner had she done so then he felt himself being transformed as well.
He felt light, and he knew that his mortal body had died and left his soul floating free. His spiritual eyes sought and found her face, and remained there while she continued to chant in a tongue that no human had ever spoken or ever would, lest they be destroyed by the sheer power of the words!
Then there was pain, absolute agony as his very being was reformed. He screamed, voiceless in his incorporeal form, but he did not know if the sound was one of despair or joy for the two collided within him and merged to form something that was both and neither. He became an extension of the power that flowed outward from she who remade him, his spirit and mind coalescing into a dark, sentient cone of energy.
All at once he felt solid again, and he drew a sharp breath that was no longer necessary into lungs that were no longer human. He could feel the artificial nature of his body, and recognized that it was not his true form anymore. More than that, he felt changed on a level more intimate than any so far. It was not simply the energy of his spirit or the makeup of his physical form. His very nature had been altered, and to his surprise he found that this notion did not displease or disturb him. He was not so very different from before; it was only his perspective that had shifted.
It was a very nice perspective too. All around him he could feel the mortal denizens of this world as they felt and thought and dreamed, their emotions as a rainbow of color and light to him that flooded strength and vitality back into his core being.
The woman who was no mortal woman at all smiled broadly and extended a hand to help him to his feet. “What is your name?” she asked pleasantly.
He cocked his head to one side. He did not recall what his name had been before. It just didn’t seem important. “What name will you give me?” he asked.
She laughed. “Your name shall be Xelloss. And who am I, Xelloss?”
He grinned, his slitted, violet eyes sparkling. He knew that one. “You are Beast Master Xellas Metallium, my master.”
“Please,” she replied with a smile, “Call me ‘mother.’ I did just give you new life.”
He bowed low, his grin never faltering. “As you wish, Mother.”
“Come, Xelloss,” Xellas Metallium bade her newborn Mazoku son, “I must show you your new home. I think you‘ll like it there.”
He straightened and took her hand once more. He did not yet know how to use his new powers to teleport, but that would come to him in time. After all, now he had all the time in the world, and a wonderful master to show him the way. She would keep him out of trouble—at least, the kinds she wasn’t having him cause.
Life would be interesting from now on.
