Durmstrang NPC iNPC Registry

OOC Note: Mikhailov is the surname of @Corrine Aelina's future iNPC. We plotted our characters to have relations and intertwined their lore.

A boy as pure as snow was brought into this world in late October, the transition from the somewhat milder month of September into the impending harsh and unforgiving subarctic conditions of Northern Finland. The sweet child who would have embodied the harmonic values of autumn, would soon experience the true nature of winter within the stone cold walls of the ancestral Ikonen estate, which was buried deep within the forests surrounding Sodankylä. He would stand true to his given name of second-hand tragedy that was bestowed upon him at birth.

Kullervo Ikonen was born into a wealthy pure-blood family where he was the heir to a dynasty. The Ikonen lineage did not bend, falter, nor forgive, not unlike the heavy snowfall and sharp temperature drop raging outside just a week after his birth. Perhaps it was inevitable that the punishing Nordic winter would shape his first proud breaths of life. Or perhaps it was his very birth that bent nature itself to revolve around him.

Kullervo’s parents, Ainikki and Eero Ikonen, were blood status elitists who both worked for the Finnish ministry. With their spoils came reputation and Kullervo learned early on, by the time he took his first few steps, that they were not the kind of people who would freely give affection nor praise. Such things were to be earned and came in the form of quiet acknowledgement.

Unbeknownst to Kullervo, another son carrying the Ikonen name came years before him, Tapio, who abandoned the family ideals and embraced the Dark Arts. From that day, he was nothing more than a nameless wizard and was cast off with disgrace. The Ikonens did not mourn him. They erased him. His portraits disappeared from the walls, his name was scrubbed from family records, and those who remembered him were dismissed or bound to secrecy. By the time Kullervo was old enough to remember the structure of the manor, there was no trace that another heir had ever existed. Thus, Kullervo was raised as the only Ikonen heir and Ainikki and Eero would not repeat the same mistakes as they did with Tapio.

Other children were not part of Kullervo’s upbringing, due to both geographical isolation and his generally unpleasant attitude. Tutors certainly came and went. History, art, etiquette. But they were never anything more to him than another authority figure to feel contempt towards. Even his own parents spoke to him like a malleable object. And the portraits of his ancestors were silent witnesses to his indoctrination. They judged how he walked in the place of footsteps that were not his own, watching in silent approval when Eero would correct Kullervo’s posture, tell him to dry his sour tears and harden his heart.

Regardless, Kullervo was nothing short of spoiled. By the time of his first sentences, he’d found he could have absolutely anything he wanted on a whim if he simply snapped his petite little fingers. He made certain to exercise such power, ordering the family servants around to do his bidding, discarding expensive toys when they no longer stirred his curiosity, purchasing other peoples’ treasured possessions even if he didn’t really want them, but just because he could. He believed that people were of the same matter as material and his parents did nothing short of reinforcing that principle. It earned him something dangerously close to approval from his father, something that Kullervo would spend the better part of his childhood chasing after.

Kullervo, however, found comfort in his solitude. He’d spend his leisure time consuming literature by frosted over windows, watching how the snow fell elegantly into the drifts. With observation came the understanding that many emotions were not unlike the impending heatwaves of the midyear. It spread rapidly and left disorder in its wake. It required urgent reform, to be shut out.

The older he grew, the more apparent it became to Kullervo that perfection was not harmonious with affection. Achievement was expected of him as naturally as snow was expected come his next birthday. But excellence did not earn him praise, simply the brief absence of criticism. He learned to crave even that much, especially when he was systematically taught to conceal every ugly sentiment beneath his composure. If it could not be refined into something that provided, defended or inflicted harm, then it was useless. That concept would soon become a staple in his life.

It was around the age of seven that Kullervo learned what it truly meant to hold any power that wasn’t borrowed from his predecessors, and he committed his first deliberate act of cruelty. He remembers a meeting between his parents and other pure-blood families that were invited to the estate, nothing that was of any interest to him at this age. Instead, he found himself lingering by the steps that led to the grand front door, drawing little shapes in the snow on the railing while the adults’ conversation drifted outside. This was when another boy had wandered too close to the manor. A groundskeeper’s son, a shabby little half-blood no older than himself.

Kullervo remembers few details about him beyond his irritating giggles and the dirty footprints he left in the snow. And that the boy had greeted him so casually, as though they knew each other, as though they were friends. As though they were equals. And within earshot of distinguished guests, no less. Kullervo couldn’t be seen with this boy, much less heard speaking with him.

For the past hour, he’s heard the adults’ careless utterances from indoors regarding blood status, disdain woven so naturally into their dialect that it no longer sounded defiling, and he would repeat those very sentiments in this moment. The other child cried. Kullervo waited for guilt, but it never arrived, never in the place of triumph. Not because what he said was in any way inventive, nor that the other boy’s tears amused him, but because he had discovered that true power over people was not loud. It was the ability to reduce your enemy into something small and pathetic.

Kullervo does not know when he started considering every other person to approach him to be his enemy… but his parents’ lack of scolding for his actions was enough approval to encourage that behaviour to take root.

Nevertheless, beneath the frostbitten arrogance and carefully cultivated condescendance, Kullervo remained painfully aware of the ghostly emptiness that remained tethered to him throughout the estate. His home was as devoid of mirth as it was vast, the corridors stretching on indefinitely, illuminated only by dim enchanted sconces and the watching eyes of his ancestors’ portraits. Sometimes, while his mother was occupied with work, Kullervo would linger outside his father’s study just to hear another voice, to remind himself that he wasn’t the only living thing within a hundred mile radius. He never entered.

There only existed one indulgence Kullervo picked up the following year that his parents never succeeded in entirely regulating, purely because they adapted to the elegance of the craft. Painting. It was first a practice to nurture sophistication, just another thing his tutors found to subject to their clinical disapproval. But somewhere amidst the scent of turpentine, he found he couldn’t help but put a bit of himself into his artwork. It was the one thing he allowed himself to find nothing but pure enjoyment in.

The canvas did not scold him when he made mistakes and the colours did not recoil from his sharpness. Kullervo discovered a rare authority over flaws within gilded frames. Imperfections and mistakes could be concealed with layers of colour and refined into intention. It obeyed him in ways that his negative emotions and people never could. His parents would praise the technicality of painting, but his father would scrutinise the art whenever Kullervo would paint without instruction. He never forgot his father’s words; “Art is only valuable when disciplined. Emotion ruins it.” Kullervo neither forgot the painting he destroyed following that remark.

The subject of his artwork shifted following his foundation year for Durmstrang. Portraits he painted depicted faces that he’d not necessarily seen before and they became meticulous with realism, yet they were uncanny and hollow with grotesque beauty. Winter remained constant throughout each artwork; pale forests, motionless black lakes, skeletal trees melting skywards toward empty heavens. Even at a young age, his paintings possessed an unsettling stillness to them, as though something terrible had just occurred or was moments away from happening. No one cared to comment.

The passing of Eero Ikonen occurred less than three weeks before Kullervo’s departure to Durmstrang for his first year. Kullervo thought the foundation year would stomp out any weaknesses that remained, but it seemed to him that his heart, which he had spent many years calcifying, was raw with the ache of grief. The body of his father was never shown to him and perhaps that was the most disturbing thing. Death became strangely abstract when one was denied proof of it. As far as Kullervo was concerned, his father was seated at the head of the table for breakfast one morning, not bothering to spare him much of a glance over his paperwork like he always did, left for work, then simply ceased to exist on the evening of that same day. It was as though he simply went away for business, as he had done before. Except Eero Ikonen would not return home this time.

Ainikki did not cry and neither did Kullervo. Grief didn’t detonate, it was more like the wound was instantly cauterised by the blizzard of rumours surrounding Eero, that perhaps his death was less sudden as it was intentional. Political enemies, foreign intervention, opposing radicals. Assassination. That much the boy could understand. Truth had become secondary to the wound itself of the fact that someone had struck against his family. Someone had humiliated them. And worst of all, Kullervo was powerless to prevent it from happening. Such was the fact that gnawed at him more than anything.

The weeks that followed up until the beginning of the school year contained a transformation of how he carried himself. He began listening during the meetings his parents - no, his mother attended. He committed names, alliances, and murmured accusations to memory rather than mentally drifting off elsewhere. Mikhailov was a recurring family name during such discussions and he made certain to stow that information away for later.

The portraits of his ancestors were no longer decorative, they watched him with expectation as the sole successor of their lineage, and the servants bowed to him for instruction. His mother did little to alleviate that burden. Ainikki told him not to miss his father, but to honour him. Kullervo took those words as law.

Kullervo set foot in his father’s study for the first time that night. He had his paints in hand, encroaching on the grand portrait of Eero Ikonen behind the imposing desk that was cluttered with forever disorganised paperwork. His father looked startlingly different on a canvas than in person; the portrait didn’t have such cold, dead eyes full of apathy when it cast its judgemental gaze upon him. The picture seemed to have more humanity than the figure it depicted.

Kullervo took the portrait from the wall and, with all the composure and patience of a priest delivering a sacrament, dipped his brush in black paint and delivered a heavy stroke over his father’s eyes. He repeated the action until they were completely shadowed. Deep beneath the hollow, wrath replaced the anguish, and a vow formed. Kullervo would restore dignity to his name. He would uncover who had done this, he would hunt down every Mikhailov to the ends of the Earth if he had to. And one day, when he stood head of his house, he would make sure that debt was paid in full.

Childhood ended for Kullervo Ikonen long before he was shipped off to Durmstrang.

Kullervo’s first instance of magic was during a hissy fit at the age of five when he was spending time outdoors in the snow, ordering the servants to bring him his gloves that he’d forgotten inside. The servants weren’t moving quick enough for the rule of his little iron fist, he shouted pitifully and stomped his feet, complaining that he was cold, and the sheets of snow that coated the alder trees lining the front courtyard shook violently before bursting from the leaves. His mother scolded him for behaving like a lesser child and that he should have just brought his gloves with him, while his father didn’t look up from his papers when he told Kullervo to stop crying over trivial matters. Kullervo never forgot his gloves again.

To be able to tell this story, we need to go back to before River ever came into existence. We need to start with Heinrich Georg Mazi and Eleonora Maja Rosenau. Both grew up in Austria, attending Durmstrang, and making a place for themselves in society. As a pureblood, Eleonora was taught every societal manner and grew up in the spotlight of the media. Heinrich was only a half-blood but he coveted the idea of becoming seen as a pureblood. He was not brought up in high society. His family was poor, only having enough to provide the necessary things in life, like schooling, food, and a home. During Heinrich's sixth year and Eleonora's fifth year at Durmstrang, Heinrich fell in love with Eleonora. He knew that she was of pureblood descent and he also knew that she was the sweetest person he had ever met. Naturally, he asked her out on a date and they continued seeing each other, Eleonora infatuated by Heinrich's idea of their grand future together. She did not see him truly as he was. A selfish and greedy young man who wanted nothing more than his own way for once in his miserable life. A few years after they graduated school, they married, Eleonora taking on the Mazi name. Heinrich climbed society's ladder, securing for them one of the largest mansion's in Carinthia. It was even larger than the one Eleonora had lived in for her whole life. A year later, Eleonora gave birth to River Evren Mazi. Heinrich continued making a name for himself, often not seen for days due to being in his study planning and devising the next big money maker. Eleonora became weary each time, but before she could care to leave, he would return and show his love again.

River grew up much unlike Heinrich had. At a young age, Heinrich started teaching him the business and how to act in society. River was being molded into the perfect replica of his father. In the summer before River comes to Durmstrang for his foundation year, one of Heinrich's exchanges in the black market goes awry and he finds himself in jail. River has to start school on his own, but he is not without tools. He takes all he has learned from his father to make a name for himself and to get what he wants at school.

Now, we can't spoil the rest can we?

But, there's more to say, specifically about River's extended family. His grandparents live in Austria, as does one of his uncles. The other three aunts and uncles live in Whales, Britain, and the United States. River's immediate family is isolated. They don't see their extended families much due to the large travel distance, even for those living in Austria. This helps Heinrich create a small world for River to live in and to control him in.

Much of River's world is about control. Control of himself and control of others. The question is, will he learn that some things are not to be controlled?
(Word Count: 510)

"Dad," River burst into the study, running to his father's desk.

"One minute, River," Heinrich put his finger up, still looking at the paper in his hand.

River stood in front of his father's desk, hands on the edge, feet shuffling in his urgency.

"Dad?" River questioned. His father hadn't moved, except to put his pen behind his ear.

"River. Give me a moment, I'm busy," a hand shooed him away.

River waited for another few minutes, not willing to give up. Why won't he just look up? Frustration boiled up inside him and soon, he was stomping his foot and yelling at his father. They were plunged into darkness, no lamp to light their surroundings.

"Dad?" he asked more timidly now.

"River, go open the curtains."

Dutifully, River did as he was told, though with difficulty, and returned to the desk in front of Heinrich.

"River Mazi, do you know what you just did?"

"No."

"You closed the curtains with your mind. Someday, you will be the greatest wizard to ever live."

"Do you want me to do it again?" River asked.

"No, but when you go to school you will learn how to. It's called wandless magic. I expect that you will succeed in this department very well."

Elijah Emberly, most commonly known as LJ, the typical rebellious boy. However, under his fun and attractive façade lies a broken and shattered world.

Elijah grew up unwanted. His earliest memories were not of laughter or a comfort of a normal family, but empty rooms and suffocating silences of his “parents” who treated attention like a sort of currency that Elijah could never afford.

His father? Cold and distant to sum it all up, he is part of the famous “Cadell Family”, brother of Gabriel and Maël Cadell. Taking from his family, his words were sharp and he was annoyingly short-tempered. It was as if Elijah was an inconvenience, which to his father’s eyes, he was. He treated Elijah like a servant, and that’s the closest their relationship ever got to be.

His mother? Quiter, but not kinder. She moved through the small apartment like a ghost: soulless. Her only expressions were sighs of disappointment directed at Elijah. She never touched him, reassured him, comforted him, hugged him even. He remembers scraping his knee badly enough to see the blood through his trousers, he stood in the doorway, waiting and hoping for her to offer her help. She didn’t. She told him not to stain the carpet.

Altogether, love and comfort and warmth did not exist in this household. He didn’t believe it ever would be. In all honesty, Elijah was the product of a forced life. Raphaël Cadell married Madeleine Emberly simply because she was of a blood as pure as him, only trying to impress his father after years of constant “disappointment”.

Raphaël was only trying to please his father, but in vain as nothing was enough for Charles Cadell, who fully rejected him the second he moved out of the Family Manor, burning his name in the family tree to leave no trace of his shameful existence, as if he was making it “official” that he did not deserve a place with the Cadell.

Soon enough, word came out rapidly and Raphaël lost all reputation in the world of work. No one trusted him enough to hire him, now known as a traitor to his family forcing him to move into another country, far away from Paris, far away from France, far away from his family, where no one would ever find out about his background. However, he fell into gambling and drinking games fast, bringing his wife down a deep hole with him, leaving Elijah isolated at a very young age.

As Elijah grew, the isolation heightened with him. One day, Elijah woke up to an empty apartment, just the faint smell of alcohol lingered in the air. Elijah was used to it however, his parents must’ve slept at a friend’s house.

He was used to it, even at a young age .... he was used to it. He sighed as he walked over the obstacles over the narrow corridor filled with dust, broken glass, empty bottles and multiple stained clothes.

Going out, he can finally breath, yet the whole city is filled with a dark smoke-it felt healthier than at home anyway.

He walked the familiar streets of Moscow, thinking how his life would’ve been if his father stayed in France, how he would only have to speak French and not to have learnt Russian, how he would be closer to his cousin Tes, who was the only one still in contact with him from his family, how he wouldn’t need to be in survival mode all the time, how he would’ve had a.. family.

He brushed these thoughts away, it was pointless now. He carried on walking the dangerous streets he was a part of.

Elijah spotted a man in a small shop, pocket open, wallet visible. No need to say more, Elijah moved carefully, no one suspected a 6 years old. He had quick hands, light steps, the benefit of seeming innocent, it was perfect and well, he was bored.

But Elijah misjudged the man, he noticed and grabbed the child’s wrist before he could run.

Elijah struggled, trying to escape and pull away. Before anything could happen, an unfamiliar voice yelled,

“That’s my boy, forgive him, he’s young.” The unfamiliar voice shouted to the man from a distance.

The grip loosed out of annoyance. The man walked away, muttering something under his breath before walking off, closing his pocket.

Elijah turned around to see the stranger behind the voice. An older man stood near, leaning in a street light. He was already watching Elijah amused as he lit a cigarette, seeming unimpressed. His teeth were yellowed, he was barely shaved, dark circles drawn under his eyes, his grey and greasy hair fell to cover his ears

“You’re bad at this kid” he said as if the situation was normal.

“Stick with us, you’ll last longer” he chuckled, walking away, the scent of smoke and dirty clothes leaving a distinct trail behind him.

Elijah, confused, stood in the middle of the streets, not knowing if he was supposed to follow him.

Elijah didn’t realise he was holding his breath as he immediately exhaled deeply when the stranger turned around, signalling the young boy to follow him. He put an arm around Elijah and lead him.

And just like that, without anything official, Elijah found the beginning of something he never truly had before: a friend.

It was there, among the dealers, drinkers, homeless, criminals that Elijah felt comfort. They were rough, loud, but their sense of community was unconditional: they shared whatever they had. Elijah realised he doesn’t have it as bad, I mean, he had a roof over his head. These people didn’t.

When someone stole something and showed the rest of the group, it was usually food, money and clothes or anything else useful. But sometimes, mixed into piles were what they call “boring things”: books, trinkets, pens, empty paper pages wasted from offices’ bins.

These stuff, especially old books, usually ended with Elijah whenever he came to visit them. At first, he just checked them out for curiosity but it became a hobby, his “secret”: reading.

Over time, Elijah became known as LJ, he considered these people part of his family, he would go out until extremely late, sometimes even sleep out without his parents worrying.

There was 4 years of this, until he was 10. Where one day, he received an acceptance letter from Durmstrang…

Elijah was six when his magic first appeared.
He had been following Jack and the others around the streets, as usual, when they got themselves into trouble with a shopkeeper. Jack quickly grabbed Elijah by the arm and pulled him away, but Elijah stumbled, falling straight into a pile of old cardboard boxes.
“Get up, LJ!” Jack called.
Elijah pushed himself up, annoyed and embarrassed. He kicked one of the boxes without thinking, and it suddenly flew further than it should have- like, way further, knocking over a stack of empty bottles, making them shatter on the broken stone floor.

Everyone froze.
Elijah stared at the mess.
Jack looked at him, then at the bottles.
But from then on, Jack occasionally joked that LJ had “a bit of magic in him.”
Elijah didn't think much of it at the time. To him, it was just another strange thing that had happened in his already strange life.

Elijah never really learnt how to be the same person around everyone. At home, he knew better than to make too much noise, breath too loud, talk too much.

Around his father, he kept his head down and tried not to cause problems, nodded when he complained.

Outside, it was completely different. With Jack and the others, he was loud, reckless and always looking for something stupid to do. He learnt from a young age that changing how he acted depending on who was around him was the easiest way to live and survive in this very much harsh world he was subject to at such a young age.

For him, changing was okay- it was normal, it was a need. He needed to adapt and shift and completely change to feel some sense of belonging where he was.

Elijah's metamorphagus abilities first appeared when he was still very young. He never understood what was happening at first. When he was scared or angry, his appearance would sometimes change without him meaning to. His hair could suddenly become a different colour sometimes lighter, sometimes darker or his eyebrows would go thicker.

His eyes would look slightly different, or his face would change just enough for him to notice when he caught his reflection. It was always extremely subtle- almost invisible. But Elijah knew his shape very well of course, so these changes were blatant to him.

At first, he thought it was strange, maybe he was crazy, maybe it was in the heat of the moment, but eventually he became curious.

Once he realised he could make some of these changes happen on purpose, Elijah wanted to control it. He would use any reflective surface he could find, from broken mirrors to shop windows, and spend ages trying to recreate the changes he had accidentally made before. He started small, like making his hair seem longer but in vain. He never managed to purposefully change his appearance.

Strong emotions can interfere in risky ways, especially anger or fear, and sometimes his appearance changes before he even realises it.

Still, Elijah has become naturally good at adapting. Whether he is trying to fit into a new group, avoid attention or simply mess with someone, changing his appearance has become another part of that instinct, of his world, of his identity.

He never dared to ask his parents for explanations, but maybe int he future, he would devote himself to find the origin of such talent- a talent he keeps invisible to others. The only one aware? His cousin, Tes Cadell who he shares a strong bond.

Did they even know? I mean.. Maybe. He didn’t exactly held a strong and close relationship with them.

He suspects his ability to come from his mother’s side, the Emberly’s. He did recall a glimpse of a conversation years ago about Madelein’s (LJ’s mother) father. From what he can recall, he was a Metamorphmagus- he did not yet know the meaning of that word, and even less what this race carried, expectation wise, but it came with a rush of familiarity.

For Elijah, being a Metamorphmagus isn't just a useful ability. In a way, it reflects the way he has lived his entire life. He learnt how to change himself long before he learnt how to understand himself.

Warmth was never particularly a trait the Mikhailovs were known for. Yelena found her new in-laws to be reminiscent of the winter season; though her husband was considerably softer with her, it was impossible to ignore the rest of the family’s distrustful gaze. To them, she was a risk, an outsider who had somehow weaseled its way into the family’s core. Even when their little Elisei was born, their treatment of her never faltered.

Unlike her in-laws, Elisei was anything but winter. From the moment of his birth, everybody could see the way the boy smiled and cooed to his mother’s loving words. He radiated the warmth that could only belong to spring, Yelena’s favorite season.

Being more than aware of the turbulent state of this family’s affairs, the woman made a promise to herself. For as long as she remained on this earth, Elisei would get to live; he’d have friends without strings and political gain attached, and he’d know the loving touch of a family that wouldn’t freeze over at any given moment. Her husband remained strict about their son’s education, but Yelena wouldn’t budge anywhere else.
Elisei enjoyed spending many of his years causing trouble with his cousins, ignoring the way the elders looked down at him in distaste. Their stares didn’t matter to him a single bit, and although his father would occasionally shake his head in disappointment at his shenanigans, he never moved to correct him beyond the occasional reminder. Yelena’s insistence on providing him with a childhood worth celebrating was what allowed him to remain a kid ignorant of the growing tensions.

Unfortunately, that stubbornness could only shield him for so long.

By the time Elisei had turned eight years old, it was impossible to ignore the growing rift between the members of the family. Though they were particularly tight knit in the first place, even the children were quick to pick up on the sides that everybody had silently chosen. It seemed that his parents, too, chose a side of their own, having packed up and moved to a new manor vastly different from their first one. Neither of his parents made explicit mention of it, but he could remember the conflicted expressions they shared. Elisei knew for sure that there was a reason they had moved, but even he wasn’t privy of that information. All he knew was that he no longer had the opportunity to play with his cousins, much to his annoyance.
In the following two years, his father taught him everything he needed to learn as to how to be an heir. Elisei wasn’t particularly fond of being an heir; he just wanted to have fun, but he also didn’t want to disappoint his parents. And so, reluctantly, he put some energy and effort into learning how to be a good heir, making sure to pay attention to the classes his father paid for. Majority of them focused on good business and polite mannerisms.

All of it felt entirely stuffy and much too formal for his taste. Instead, he quite preferred his mother’s teachings much more; though they weren’t traditionally taught to men like himself, his mother seemed to like the activities plenty... and he loved anything his mother held dear. Whether that be the flowers in the garden, her favorite spring season, sewing, anything and everything; he learned them all.

At ten years old, formal events have become an unfortunate norm. Elisei saw his cousins in a few occasionally, but with the way their parents steered them away, he figured they weren’t allowed to approach. The atmosphere between his other relatives and his parents remained tense. The boy had learned not to ask; instead, he listened to the whispers of shadows behind closed doors. The exact details were unknown to him, but it seems that the family had divided into two. It was an educated guess, as his mother and father only kept a few of their acquaintances.

Though it was a strange situation, Elisei found it hard to be interested. Politics was an adult’s business, and often, they were too boring for his taste. Galas were no different, as it required him to unwillingly act his part

Galas weren’t any different in his mind, but there was one specific gala that stuck to him throughout the years. Though it was still a painfully boring event, he found amusement in irritating a prideful boy who bristled like a cat in his presence. The night ended with the two parting ways—one boy greatly entertained, the other severely irritated—but Elisei never forgot that boy.

Not long after that specific gala, his father had pulled him aside. To Elisei’s surprise, homeschooling was no longer the option for his education; instead, his father had informed him that he was to attend Durmstrang. It was an interesting choice, as he was certain he’d be enrolled in Koldovstoretz. Clearly, he underestimated how much his father wanted to avoid the rest of the family.

Still, the boy didn’t particularly care much about why he was being sent to Durmstrang instead. Elisei certainly wasn’t one to complain about this, considering he’d finally be without his father’s watchful eyes for the first time in ages.  

Though Elisei was fond of embroidery and sewing now, it hadn’t always been the case.

Back then, these hobbies were merely his mother’s interest; he didn’t hold a deep interest in them. They were beautiful to look at, and his mother’s work was more than skillful, but he couldn’t see himself doing such things. It didn’t seem like an activity he’d enjoy doing; he’d rather be out and about running through the gardens and the halls than to being confined to a chair putting needles through fabric.

Still, the boy loved his mother dearly, so at the age of six, he begged his mother to let him try.
To say that it went well would be a colossal lie. His mother had given him only a few things: a piece of white fabric to practice his stitches on, a spool with green thread, as well as a pack of needles. Despite his mother’s warnings about not fooling around with a sharp needle, he only flashed her with a smile, settling against her side on the couch.

The first step, naturally, was to put some of that green thread through the eye of the needle. Elisei found the action simple enough, but he certainly underestimated how nimble his hands had to be. By the time he’d finally managed to string it through, he was pouting slightly, grumbling under his breath about how stupid the eye of this needle was being. Yelena, his mother, only laughed at him lightheartedly, saying that it always took some practice.

Elisei remained determined to keep trying, so he went on. The boy watched as she tied a proper knot at where the two ends of the thread intertwined. With his tongue sticking out, he moved to mimic the movement she had made, albeit at a clumsier and slower pace. Thankfully, the boy succeeded this time, making him beam. Moving the needle through fabric for the first time felt like an accomplishment as he thought he finally caught up to his mother.

Little did he know, it’d only take a nosedive from there.

Putting the needle through the fabric was one thing, but keeping your threads straight in the fabric was another. Somehow, Elisei would keep finding ways to miss the very line he had made on the fabric with a pencil. He didn’t understand how, he was only flipping back and forth between the two sides of one fabric! Then, when he finally got a semi-decent straight line in, he was faced with having to look at the back of the fabric... only to realize that the threads had somehow gotten tangled into a messy ball. Don’t ask him how such a thing was even possible, considering he had only been trying to sew a straight line. Not a circle, not a dashed line, just one straight line!

With a groan of frustration, Elisei began backtracking his progress, clumsily pulling the needle through the holes he had just poked through. While he was at it, he attempted to carefully undo the knots that had formed with the last of his patience. There wasn’t much left to begin with though, he could feel the annoyance bubbling under his skin.

By the time he finally got back to where he was at, Elisei was more than unsatisfied with the progress he had made today. Glancing at his mother’s work, he faltered at seeing the intricate design she had already sewn into her fabric, feeling another wave of frustration.

The last straw was when he had poked the needle and pulled it to complete the last step, only to realize that the line itself had become crooked no matter how focused he was.

Before he could even process anything, the fabric he was gripping burst into smithereens right in his hands, turning into dust below him. Elisei only froze as the extent of his disastrous attempt to sew finally clicked in his head. Nervously, he glanced at his mother, as if wordlessly asking if it was still worth it to try once again.

TW: mentions of suicide, subtle abuse and insanity

Do all people suffer? Truly, they do. But do they suffer as much as little Icarus did? After all, no one caught him when he fell…

Oppression. Depression. Suppression. That’s all you need to describe Orestus Diamandis. The face, strength, and backbone of the ancient and noble house of Diamandis, ranked second in the Thisyrus Hierarchy. Only due to the fact that the di Angelos were the founders of Thisyrus. Orestus wanted his only son to be stronger than him and keep the lineage going. But Alosyuss failed every one of his expectations. His son was soft, kind, caring, and…just. Everything Orestus wasn’t. Alosyuss refused to attack and conquer. Instead, he chose treaties, peace, and a white flag.

Angered, Orestus turned his predatory gaze on the oldest son, and the heir of Alosyuss. Helios Jason Diamandis. Though among the Thisyruns he’s just the Diamandis that ran away. Orestus tried everything in his power to make his grandson a strong and fine leader. But alas, Helios was even softer. Kinder. What he lacked in ferocity and aggression, he excelled in bravery and compassion. He defied every rule that was set out for him. He attended Hogwarts instead of Durmstrang. He became a dragonologist instead of continuing the family business. He fell in love with a man instead of a woman. He was associated with ‘mud-bloods’ when he wasn’t supposed to. He lived in a cottage with his boyfriend instead of a mansion with a girlfriend. Helios turned every rule the right side up. Defiance was his armour in
arms. But what Helios didn’t realise was that his bravery and defiance might cost him his brother’s life.

Icarus Kairos Diamandis. The boy who flew and was dragged down by the wax that stung his skin. The wax that was Orestus Diamandis. The wax that refused to stop clinging. The wax that almost took his life. Until he was saved by the moon. His moon. His Marcella. The child of darkness and the bearer of Hades. Everyone viewed him as the weak offspring. No matter how hard he tried to prove otherwise.

He excelled in archery, fencing, boxing, swimming, and sword fighting. Yet nothing was enough. Enough to prove his strength. His grandfather looked down on him. But his father and brother did not. Yet they never helped when his grandfather served punishment in what he deluded himself was just. They never noticed him. Helios was too busy escaping, and his father fell into a coma after Dytrin's death. His mother was long gone after Percy’s death. Percy had been prophesied to be a squib, a black mark in the strongest family devoid of any squibs - or so the history told. He was three years old when he had gotten severe dragon pox and passed due to his very weak immune system since birth. It took a great toll on Icarus and his family. And it took a greater toll on Dytrin Diamandis. Icarus' mother, filled with grief, committed suicide. Percy's death had been too much for her fragile mental state, which was already on the brink of failing due to Orestes' not-so-subtle snarky comments about her. But no matter the extent of his love, he could not save his younger brother. But his oversight will not be cast upon Aphrodite. He vowed to keep all evil off of his younger sister.

After Helios ran away when Icarus was just 6 years old, Orestes grudgingly decided to shape Icarus to fulfil his needs. He always viewed the boy as a weakling. Fragile. Made of glass and porcelain. Just like his mother.

Another parasite in the family of strength. But with no other male to carry on the legacy, he decided to shape him up. He made him train, go to Durmstrang, forbade him from showing any signs of weakness, left him hurt, and did everything to bend Icarus to his will. It elated Orestes to find the boy’s weakness, after all that Icarus had done to put on a strong facade and keep his loved ones safe. He loved to exploit it. Marcella, Aphrodite, and Anthea. His friends, His family. His stars and light in his darkness. His sole weakness. Orestes threatened to hurt them. Having vowed to keep his two sisters and best friend safe, he did everything to please his grandfather.

Finally, after half a decade of enduring pain, he was saved by the di Angelos. Valen di Angelo,
Marcella’s father, walked into Orestus’ study one day and found him doing something he would not soon forgive him for to Icarus. Orestes was emotionally blackmailing Icarus. Enraged at Orestus and at himself for never noticing, he immediately prepared to take Icarus, Anthea and Aphrodite back to London with him. However, Icarus and Anthea, who were attending Durmstrang, decided to stay in Greece with the Russos - Marcella's maternal family. So they could stay closer to their father, Alosyuss, who had been kept there under the care of Doctor Giovanni Russo, Marcella’s maternal uncle.

It was dark in the room. And the wait for the door to open was taking forever. Seven-year-old Icarus never figured out why he deserved such a thing. He just sat curled up on the cold floor waiting for any sign of approaching life. And then the darkness got too much to bear. The darkness clawed at his sight. The darkness tainted his fight. The darkness embraced the night. And suddenly there was light. Bright, blinding light. And then it was gone. As quickly as it came, it was gone. But it lasted long enough to give him hope. A reason. A belief. And then an hour or an eternity later the door opened and light spilled onto his grinning face. Which may or may not have earned him another hour locked in for simply smiling.

Rarity. And a weakness. They called it soft abilities. And a curse still. Many woman in the family had possessed it. And it was with varying emotions that they were held. With shame and respect. With disgust and awe. But no true Diamandis male is gifted with such a rarity. Oh but he was. Icarus. The boy who lives to fly and yearns to soar in the sky. He'd sit by the windowsill staring enviously up at the birds. What if he could build a set of wings for himself? One of iron instead of wax? But what if that iron chokes him and makes him fall instead? And suddenly he did fall. The world went dark. And then it hit him. He was dreaming, but he hadn't slept.

"Close the door, Kai..." a melodic voice boomed in his ear. And he jolted upright. What was he hearing? How did that happen? Why was this happening to him? Another punishment? Icarus slowly came to the conclusion that it may just be his hallucination. He was, after all, exceptionally tired.

He got off the windowsill and ran to his mother's room. But she wasn't there anymore. He pushed the door open with shaky hands and sat on the bed. No dirt or dust was found, as her room was kept well clean and preserved. He took his mother's favourite blanket and curled up on the bed. He could imagine himself lying on his mother's lap as she sang and told stories to him. She loved him, and he loved her. More than anyone in the world. And despite such a crucial fact, they had very little time together. His mother was a seer. And her final prophecy brought silence and grief to the house of Diamandis. Reduced their numbers and left only four of them conscious and active.

He took a deep breath, and her smell comforted him.

"Check the green box in the drawing room." He exclaimed as his brother Helios searched around for his charms textbook. Summer had truly made his brain into slush. The fourth year grinned at his little brother. But before he could rush off, Icarus yelled for him to wait. This successfully startled his brother.

"Are you alright, Sparrow?"

"Are you leaving?" Icarus did not know why he asked. And he did not know how he knew that his brother was leaving. Helios never showed any indication. But when he asked, panic flitted across his brother's features. "Oh, you are leaving, aren't you?" The gravity of what would happen if Helios left now attacked him. He'd be next. As the sole male heir of the Diamandis Line, if Helios left, Icarus would be expected to tick every box and be the good puppet.

"I'll come back. I promise. It's just I can't do this anymore, Sparrow."

"So you're leaving us. You're damning us, Lio. Imagine how this will affect Deity. How this will affect Thea. You're not thinking straight."

A touch of tenderness painted his brother's glossy blue eyes. "This is for the best of us, Icah." He was hurting him. And the simple mention of this mother's nickname to Icarus was just not the cause. "I'll be back...someday. But till then, stay strong...Icarus, the god of facades and masks. Forgive this mortal, my lord..." A quick smile and then he was gone. Their private joke turned into a farewell song. Icarus the god looked helplessly as his brother's figure receded into the serpentine hallways of the Diamandis Castle.

Icarus sat through dinner in silence. Without uttering a word or a breath as his grandfather berated him about his brother. Icarus knew all along that Helios would leave one day. To save himself. Like the coward he was. But Icarus will never run because he knew that if he did, it would be his sisters who would pay. And so it began. The story of how Icarus fell as he got seared by the sun.

He has always believed himself to have heightened senses and intuition. He knew that since the time when he was 4 and he had saved his cat by scooping her into his arms a minute before a heavy branch fell on the spot she sat a minute ago. But he believed it more after Helios left. He believed it more when he stopped Marcella from leaving his house after a playdate because he sensed a...potential danger to his best friend's life, and exactly as he had predicted, they all got a warning of a heavy rainstorm.

And so on it went, but he wished his sister, Anthea, would heed his warnings a bit more. Or else she would have been able to save herself the embarrassment of breaking her arm by tripping over a tree root, the misfortune of stepping on a fallen beehive, and losing a fencing match due to lack of strategy and sufficient practice.

But his slowly budding gift included, but was not limited to, having correctly guessed hunches and finding lost items.

And on the night of his twelfth birthday, Icarus experienced something unusual. It was the night his sight had finally manifested into cryptic dreams. When he was asleep, he would find himself in familiar places from his life. He would see people in his dreams that he would most likely meet later in his life or the very next day. To keep a record of all his visions, Icarus would write them down in a journal, describing the vision as well as he could. And when he loses memory of his dreams, he experiences a jolting feeling of emptiness and loss, like something had been carved out from within the inner sanctuary or sometimes a prison called his mind. And when such heart-wrenching knowledge is carved out, Icarus would be left to jolt awake, his heart pounding like a strong bass that hurts his head, his eyes peeled open, and his head in his hands. And they were harder since he barely got any sleep with his insomnia.