'May 2008'

The first piece of written lore is here! Thanks to all of you who joined the stream, I think I'm finally understanding who Asirel is as a character. I'm not fully there yet, but the pieces are coming together!

I hope you enjoy this new addition, and please let me know if there's anything I should change in the next posts of written lore!

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Asirel stared through his blurred reflection, focused on the cluster of umbrellas rushing through the garden. It was as if the sky wept in his stead, knowing he wouldn’t shed a tear. During the eulogy, his tone echoed strong. During the burial, he stood tall. And now, as rain slipped down the glass, he remained indifferent despite the subtle tense in his jaw.

The door creaked open, and a manicured hand settled against his arm. “Rel?”

He lowered his gaze from the window to the girl beside him, her hazel eyes glossed but just as defiant as his own. “Are they all here?”

“Yes,” Vanessa said, emitting a shaken sigh.

Her composure she desperately clung to began to crack. The way her lips attempted to twitch into a smile said as much. The way her fingers lightly gripped his black suit said as much.

Exhaling a breath, he turned, embracing her in a tight hug. In the darkness, her head tucked in his shoulder, maybe she would allow herself to cry. And not even thirty seconds passed before sniffles sounded, forcing him to bite back his own with eyes squeezed shut. Even Vanessa, one of the toughest women he knew, had a breaking point.

“Where’s Mother?” he asked, to which she shrugged with a scoff.

“Probably looking for a bottle of Cabernet to drown herself with.”

Of course she would be. “Go and find her. Make sure she doesn’t embarrass herself.”

Vanessa reluctantly pulled back, removing a tissue from her shoulder bag to press underneath her lashes—to not mess up her make-up, he assumed. “Okay. What will you do?”

Asirel flattened down the cashmere blazer, rolling his shoulders back. “Be the man Father made me.”

“He’d be proud of you, y’know.” Vanessa adjusted his tie with a forlorn smile.

“He was proud of you too,” Asirel was quick to add. “His ‘Little Nessa’.”

She groaned with a roll of her eyes, causing him to smirk. “Don’t ever call me that.”

“That’s only reserved for him, then.”

They sunk into a melancholic silence, save for the muffled chatter from the adjacent room. Her hesitant look to her right was almost as if she didn’t want to leave his side so soon. Or maybe, if he was truthful with himself, he would agree he didn’t want her to go just yet.

“Come on,” he said, walking towards the mahogany door. Once she followed, Asirel pushed it open and entered the expansive, rustic living area. Guests mingled inside, leaning against the beige-coloured walls and sat upon lavish chairs. They wore expensive suits and dresses—no doubt from the latest designer collections—with styled hair, glinting jewellery, and shined shoes.

He expected nothing less from family friends clutching onto their silver spoons.

Vanessa gave a reassuring pat to his arm before she departed in search of their mother, leaving Asirel to this flock. And though the guests’ stares proved to straighten his back, they didn’t make him uncomfortable. Attending multiple parties and gatherings in the past steeled him for this moment, when Father no longer observed him from the shadows with a crystal glass in one hand and a cigar in the other.

“Asirel,” a stout man called, striding up to him with an extended hand. As courtesy demanded, he firmly shook it, offering a smile. “My condolences. I am so sorry for your loss.”

He never understood that phrase. What were they sorry for? They didn’t start the cancer, nor were they responsible for the chemo’s failure. It was standard practice, he knew, but it was still nonsensical.

“Thank you, Mr Hatton. Father would appreciate you being here.”

“I would hope. I, er…” He held up a familiar bottle of bourbon, engraved in cursive writing with a crystal eagle sculpture for a stopper. “I know this was your dad’s favourite. The last time we were together, I think I ended up drinking most of his, so it would be an honour to have a toast with you.”

Asirel cradled the bottle for good measure, tracing the winged ornament with a thumb. A flash of memory froze him: a young rebel stealing the eagle stopper, and running about this room with it, and pretending he was an eagle himself with limbs spread. And Father chased him around the furniture with a tone of annoyance which soon melted into laughter once captured.

“It would be my pleasure. How about after the wake is officially finished?”

“Yes, absolutely! Take your time!” Mr Hatton patted his shoulder before leaving to make conversation with an elderly man lounged by the extravagant mantelpiece. Asirel breathed out and scanned around, wondering if everyone here waited for the perfect time to snatch him away—if not the family friends, then certainly work associates. Not much was known about them. Father kept descriptions vague enough for him to ponder; either the work was too embarrassing or too dangerous to talk about, yet that only fed his curiosity.

Moving through the crowd, he approached a woman adorned in all black, her attentive stare sweeping across both guests and employees. An apron hung about her waist, and silken gloves stretched up her forearms—as they did for other members of staff. But she, much older than her coworkers, had a silver crest pinned to her collar, signifying her status as the head maid. “Please put this in the cigar lounge, Christen.”

“Yes, sir,” the maid replied, carefully taking the bottle of bourbon and leaving with brisk steps, fishing out a set of keys from one of her many pockets.

Alone again, Asirel walked through the mansion’s lower floor, acknowledging guests here and there with a succinct nod and exchanging small words of condolences and thanks. He didn’t want to spend his time reminiscing with people he barely knew and indulging in their apparent teases to lift the mood. No words could. He half-expected Father to walk through the open double French doors and rescue him from unnecessary small talk.

But with one sharp inhale, the stark truth dawned on him: he was the man of the house now regardless of having turned twenty a few months before. The family reputation that extended back generations rested on his shoulders.

And so, he gathered his thoughts and proceeded with one person at a time. Gerald Brandt, the owner of Brandt Management. Winona Fischer, spokesperson of a German car company. Laroma, a grammy nominated artist who swept through the charts after Father persuaded a label to sign him.

The amount of people seemed endless. He accepted gifts, gave them to the maids, and moved onto the next. By the time he reached the main doorway, only a few remained.

The state governor stood by the main staircase conversing with two men: the CEOs of ParaLife, Asirel’s first endorsement two years ago. Their experimental concepts seemed outlandish to other investors, but they profited from his wealth, and were now considered a company likely to make a breakthrough—or so the medical blogs preached. Even Father advised caution choosing ParaLife as his first business endeavour, but now he owned a portion of the company whose trajectory only pointed upward.

Their animated conversation paused once Asirel stepped closer.

“Asirel! I’m so sorry to hear about your father,” the shorter CEO said. He ran a hand through his slicked back hair, olive-green eyes unable to look at his own. Perhaps funerals made him nervous.

“Thank you, Giovanni. I appreciate you all being here.”

The governor offered a hand to which Asirel shook. “It’s a shame it’s not under better circumstances.”

“Taking the time to come is more than enough. I know you must have a busy schedule.”

“For Raymond, the state can wait.”

Asirel snickered. “I’m sure he’d like the sound of that.”

From the corner of his eye, he spotted his mother and sister walking towards the kitchen, arms linked together. It didn’t appear like either of them were too drunk to participate, but Vanessa shouldn’t have had to chaperone. Of course, one maid could have easily taken her place, but Mother seldom refused her ‘baby girl’.

“We were just talking about the preliminary results of the silocurine trials,” said Tony, blue eyes twinkling with enthusiasm. “It’s too early to tell what we can see from the tests, but I think it’s really promising.”

His baritone affirmed those beliefs, as did Giovanni’s pleased grin. From what he recalled, the newly developed synthetic substance had potential to monopolise the market if human trials were a success. But that was a thought for the future.

“I’m looking forward to seeing the headlines,” the governor said, “and I’ve been meaning to find another company to endorse. Both of you are born and bred here, your base is here, so—”

“Excuse me, everyone!” a man called from within the living area. Clinks of glass followed, and the guests quietened, giving way to the pelting rain. The lanky man stood by the antique table, red wine in one hand and a butter knife in the other. Asirel wondered when Father’s childhood friend turned business partner would steal the sadness away—as he often did. ‘Uncle Derrick’ became his name despite the lack of a direct relation, but some bonds proved thicker than blood, and the short-haired brunet raising his drink was a fine example.

“I’d just like to say that it’s great to see so many of you here,” Derrick started, lowering his glass. “I’m Derrick, joint CEO with Ray. I’ve known him since he was a stuck-up brat tripping over his own shoelaces—which isn’t far off from how he was last month, I’ll admit.”

The guests laughed, sorrowful expressions appeasing as Derrick continued. “But I consider myself incredibly lucky to have been a part of his life for forty years. And boy, do I have some stories to tell!”

Others in the vicinity—including the governor and ParaLife CEOs who quietly excused themselves—moved further into the living area, taking seats on the black leather sofa, the patterned loveseats, and the piano stool. And the unfortunate latecomers reclined against the walls instead, waiting to be whisked off to embarrassing memories.

Asirel folded his arms and propped himself up on the doorframe, skimming over the gathering as story after story was told. When Father was too brazen and fell from the orchard tree behind the house, breaking his arm. When he and Derrick pined after the same girl in school and the ‘measuring contest’ shenanigans that ensued.

They all attended for Father. Some had flown into the country, and others took leave from work to share their mourning. Everyone seemed hooked to every retelling, and Asirel couldn’t help but fondly smile. Derrick’s voice wavered now and then, but the audience’s laughter pieced him back together—if only for the next sentences to follow.

Asirel turned his head, considering checking on Mother and Vanessa. Though sombre, the stories filled him with a sliver of tranquillity, and he didn’t want them to miss the bittersweet moment. Ready to bring them in, he managed a couple of paces before a middle-aged woman with long, black hair sauntered up to him with the sharp click of stilettos and a gentle clear of her throat.

“Asirel Cain, yes?”

He nodded in response, glimpsing the small group of four men behind her, their eyes fixed on him.

“I’m Lilian Vasilou, a friend of your father’s. He was a brilliant man, and we were very sad to hear the news. Only a few are born with that kind of tenacity and devotion, and he is greatly admired.”

“Thank you for your kind words.” He had never heard or seen this woman before; the accent was unfamiliar to him, but he would’ve remembered it. And as his attention moved between her and the watchful gazes, suspicion brooded in the pit of his stomach.

She studied him from head to toe before focusing back on his face. “I’ve heard your grandfather was too, as well as his father. You’re a part of an esteemed family lineage, and you should be proud of that.”

“…I am.” Where was this going?

Lilian continued. “My colleagues and I would like a word in private, if possible.”

Asirel furrowed his brows. “Now? At my father’s wake?”

“It’s rare for so many of us to be in the same place outside of work. It must be now.”

He peered into the living area where Derrick mimicked what he assumed was swimming strokes; he zoned out of the last tale, so who knew? “What do you want to talk to me about?”

“In private, or not at all, unfortunately.”

Vanessa and Mother sat in front, their heads rested together as if for mutual support. Maybe he could finally unearth the secret Father kept locked behind lies. The threat of his life loomed behind questions that intrigued him for so many years.

“…Follow me, then.”

He gestured with a hand for the loitering group to follow, and a series of clacks resonated through the foyer. From white marble to glossy acacia, they moved through the grand mansion, Derrick’s voice now lost to the elements thrashing against brick and glass. Pausing at a sturdy, solid oak door, Asirel pulled out a set of keys from his breast pocket and separated one from the rest—silver with gold embellishments—and promptly inserted it. None of the maids would disturb him here, and certainly not Mother unless she was in dire need of some liquor.

Checking for any stray footsteps from afar, he unlocked the door with a sharp ‘click’. For a cigar lounge, the deep red carpet, painted wooden beams, and black furnishings exuded luxury. An array of alcoholic beverages lined the left wall, framed by delicate shelves and the warm glow of LED lighting. And on the middle shelf stood Mr Hatton’s gift, its fine detail glinting like a beacon among the average.

Only occasionally had he been in here. And this was his first time without supervision. Without Father.

Gulping down the brief knot stuck in his throat, Asirel rounded the antique desk of dark hardwood and pulled the leather chair back.

Did he deserve to sit there? Father had never praised him enough to insinuate it. But inheriting the Cain fortune must have meant something. So he sat down, and the group dispersed to their own seats within the lounge.

The room fell silent, its air uninterrupted by rain and stories alike.

“So, the private matter?” Asirel asked, smoothing his hand over the desk.

“By discussing this,” said an older man in a sharp tone, adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses perched atop a high nose bridge, “you must agree to never speak about it to anyone outside these walls, including family,”

Confusion weaved into Asirel’s expression. “Fine.”

For such caution, being forced into a corner by a crowd of strangers proved efficient for murder—if he believed their intentions were nefarious. But surely, that came closer to paranoia than truth. They exalted Father, after all.

Lilian—sat in a velvet seat opposite the bar—parted her lips with an inhale. “We are half of a collective, you might say. A part of many organisations that expand across multiple occupational fields. Our reach is influential at its worst and revolutionary at best. We operate as investors, like you, but we carefully choose who to endorse in order to change how the world functions. Your father was one of them, and now his seat has been prepared for you.”

Asirel squinted his eyes, glancing at each person with suspicion. “I don’t understand.”

“Your ancestor was one of the founders, along with mine. They created this in secret because they believed in a better world and couldn’t make that change in public. You and I, and Nielsen over there,” she gestured to the man wearing horn-rimmed glasses, “are part of a legacy. Other people are chosen depending on the power of their agency, but us? If we are worthy enough, we’re recommended to take their place. And your father said you were.”

Warmth spread through his chest, soothing his quickening heart. Father thought him worthy. Of what, he was still unsure. None of it made sense. If he processed this correctly, was she suggesting that— “You control… the world, is what you’re saying?”

“In some ways, yes.”

Asirel failed to hold back a small scoff, a sound that sent disapproving glares his way. “I’m sorry, but you expect me to believe that my father and all of you are part of a secret organisation that…what? Throws money at companies? I’m not following—”

“Clearly,” Nielsen interrupted, annoyed. “We aren’t typical investors.”

Asirel rose an eyebrow. “Like me?”

“I didn’t infer that, but if the shoe fits.”

Lilian snapped her head to Nielsen with wide eyes, but he seemed to ignore the warning, continuing. “With our endorsements, we dictate how some of the world progresses. Give some money here, military weapons are funded. A whisper there, and politicians change their stance on regulations and voting.”

“But didn’t you say you believed in a better world?”

“Nothing changes if there’s nothing to heal. Nothing improves if there’s nothing to be learned. And we move the pieces to make it a possibility. All of us, including your father.”

That caught his interest. “What changes did he make?”

Nielsen smirked. “We can’t discuss anything further unless you agree to take his place.”

This entire conversation didn’t seem real. At first, he thought it was some elaborate and distasteful joke, but upon noting the serious purse of Nielsen’s lips and the passionate flames dancing behind his glasses, Asirel doubted it.

To govern a piece of the world. He never strived for futile dreams, but he could not deny the temptation. The power. The ability to create an ideal future from the rotting foundation humanity balanced on. With his help, maybe it would have hope to stand a while longer. But to agree with little else meant a lifetime wager without rules, though he wondered if the price would be money, blood, or his life.

“…Why couldn’t my father have told me this? Or write me a letter?”

“Would you have believed him?” Nielsen asked, cocking his head knowingly.

No. He wouldn’t have. But meeting strangers he knew nothing about, spouting ideologies of ‘changing the world’ didn’t make digesting it any easier.

Still, with impressive shoes to fill, he believed in his ability to surpass Father. ParaLife might have been a gamble, but he examined the data and trusted his instincts. It could’ve been luck—a power impossible to replicate. And yet, as leather creaked from his lounging form, Asirel stared at the warm ceiling light through the desk’s reflection as if it would give him the answers he sought.

Power wielded by those too weak to use it often led to their downfall, and leaders controlled by hubris tied their own nooses. He wouldn’t allow weak wrists and a warped mind to handle such responsibility.

Asirel straightened up, lifting his fierce gaze. “I accept his place.”

Those in the room seemed pleased, save for Nielsen who only reclined with a curt bow.

“Now, you need to choose a name for yourself. Kind of like a title,” Lilian said. “We each have one. For example, I am Terra.” Then, she pointed to the others. “Nielsen is Harbinger, Hiroki is Searl, Michael is Caelus, and Leon is Oxius.”

It sounded like the formation of an alternate X-Men; he hoped none of them suffered from a complex. Michael, sat at the bar, conveyed more interest in the liquor collection. But beside him, Leon’s stare was steadfast, not to mention his intimidating stature; the seams of his suit would burst if he flexed to his fullest.

“What was Father’s?” Asirel asked.

“Adonai,” Lilian replied.

He hummed in amusement, failing to obscure his faint smile. The nickname paralleled the view Father had of himself, no doubt. Maybe he was more consumed by power than Asirel first thought.

But it begged the question: What would embody Asirel Cain, next to acquire a position supposedly created from a great ancestor he’d never known?

After a few silent moments of deep contemplation, only one came to mind.

“Call me Master.”