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A S T R O P H E L
for thou hast heard me from the horns of unicorns
for thou hast heard me from the horns of unicorns
changeling fae child. his birth foretells misfortune.
sometimes you live long enough to become the monster they say you are.
CW: ANIMAL CRUELTY, GORE, VIOLENCE
the order of prophets from which rom originates has a history of reputable credibility. what were the people and the fae alike supposed to make of news foretelling misfortune? nip the weed at the bud, of course. kill it before it can kill you. brother castor would not have it— this little fae child's hands were not stained with blood yet. why condemn those who have not yet sinned?
so he stole him away, this infant. exchanged a human for his brother. an innocent mortal babe sacrificed to put the people's mind at ease was a small price to pay for his brother's life. in equal exchange, castor relinquished his eyes to cast a spell of unseeing— to mask astrophel's presence for many years to come. and for a while, this seemed to work.
astrophel grew. his foster family adored him, unaware of his origins, affectionately gave him the name once bestowed on to that long-gone infant: asher. they treated him with every ounce of love they had, and for the first ten years of his life, they were happy.
things were not meant to be.
by the age of twelve, asher showed signs of something his parents could never begin to place. it started small, in his youth— in the morbid curiosity of insects and the feeling of them being crushed underneath his shoes. then, as time went on, his prey became larger. small lizards. birds. rodents. rabbits. innards strewn about the manicured yard. there was not an ounce of malice in his body as he drew his knife across fur and flesh. only one thought existed: what would happen if i did this? when the boy brought home the carcass of a newborn fawn, that's when his parents knew something was not right, that the unnervingly level tone from asher's voice was precursor to something more— yet little would it matter; castor's spell waned by the day.
at the age of seventeen people began to whisper, recalling a prophecy once thought to be averted. with the disappearing animals, the random corpses left behind in the forests, they began to have second thoughts— thus ensued the witch hunts, the accusations. fearing the worst, asher and his family fled— ran from village to village in their feeble attempt to outrun fear. and at the time, asher didn't understand what was going on. as twisted his acts were, he was all they had. their only child. so shield him they did, with his mother's pale lips pressed against his forehead, worry not my dear. harm shall not come to you.
one day, when he came home from the forest, he found the lamps unlit. a repetitive thud came from the back of the house. when he approached, he saw the corpses of his parents, bloodied and cold from blunt force trauma. standing above them, three men with weapons.
asher couldn't remember what he did next. somehow the gap in his memory refuses to close. all he knows is that he remembers five corpses around him, his hands grasping the entrails of the dead man he straddled.
there was no sadness. his parents were good to him, but there was no need to mourn for something as natural as death. from then on, asher wandered aimlessly, subsisting on his own until a chance encounter with the boy from his past: castor.
so he stole him away, this infant. exchanged a human for his brother. an innocent mortal babe sacrificed to put the people's mind at ease was a small price to pay for his brother's life. in equal exchange, castor relinquished his eyes to cast a spell of unseeing— to mask astrophel's presence for many years to come. and for a while, this seemed to work.
astrophel grew. his foster family adored him, unaware of his origins, affectionately gave him the name once bestowed on to that long-gone infant: asher. they treated him with every ounce of love they had, and for the first ten years of his life, they were happy.
things were not meant to be.
by the age of twelve, asher showed signs of something his parents could never begin to place. it started small, in his youth— in the morbid curiosity of insects and the feeling of them being crushed underneath his shoes. then, as time went on, his prey became larger. small lizards. birds. rodents. rabbits. innards strewn about the manicured yard. there was not an ounce of malice in his body as he drew his knife across fur and flesh. only one thought existed: what would happen if i did this? when the boy brought home the carcass of a newborn fawn, that's when his parents knew something was not right, that the unnervingly level tone from asher's voice was precursor to something more— yet little would it matter; castor's spell waned by the day.
at the age of seventeen people began to whisper, recalling a prophecy once thought to be averted. with the disappearing animals, the random corpses left behind in the forests, they began to have second thoughts— thus ensued the witch hunts, the accusations. fearing the worst, asher and his family fled— ran from village to village in their feeble attempt to outrun fear. and at the time, asher didn't understand what was going on. as twisted his acts were, he was all they had. their only child. so shield him they did, with his mother's pale lips pressed against his forehead, worry not my dear. harm shall not come to you.
one day, when he came home from the forest, he found the lamps unlit. a repetitive thud came from the back of the house. when he approached, he saw the corpses of his parents, bloodied and cold from blunt force trauma. standing above them, three men with weapons.
asher couldn't remember what he did next. somehow the gap in his memory refuses to close. all he knows is that he remembers five corpses around him, his hands grasping the entrails of the dead man he straddled.
there was no sadness. his parents were good to him, but there was no need to mourn for something as natural as death. from then on, asher wandered aimlessly, subsisting on his own until a chance encounter with the boy from his past: castor.
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