asaell

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Ａ Ｓ Ａ Ｅ Ｌ Ｌ
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lysander   asaell  male  seventeen  the snake

lucky child, dressed in red. beloved by the gods. 

asaell sits, poised, upon gold-embroidered cushions in scarlet robes. offerings lay at his feet untouched; he has no use for them. wealth comes in spades when fortune is inexplicably drawn to you— like a magnet. he recalls a memory— the day he struck gold in his father's field. he was nine then— growing older with his growing luck —until one day it earned him audience with the magistrate.

asaell, he would say. come. your presence brings blessings.

  if only that were true.

it was sheer chance that let him save the magistrate's son. a mere mistake— a spilled goblet of poison on a silver spoon, tarnishing it with the tell-tale signs of arsenic. instantly, he became a favorite of the court— living lavishly alongside the elite and their inner circles.

but fortune has a way of balancing things. luck is a two-way street.

one day, far away from his home in the comfort of the palace, he heard news: a raid was staged on his village. his parents— robbed, killed, for the wealth he'd brought them. a month later, the magistrate's son— dead. a stray friendly arrow laced with poison left him cold by morning.

these serpentine blessings are curses in disguise.

he still receives visitors in his self-imposed exile. tales of his blessing travel far and wide— but no words nor gifts move him from his meditations, his asceticism— nor his mountainside hermitage.

please, they would say. lucky child, dressed in red, beloved by the gods— you bring good fortune!

and asaell, still poised, sitting upon gold cushions in scarlet robes, would reply— his voice steeped in bitterness:

  if only that were true.