The Boy with Silver Eyes

Not a single soul contained courage to make contact with him. Stories began to emerge of how he mocked the fate of the blessed, a lingering curse spouting mirthless laughter for remembrance of what shall not come to be. Even the rare merchant passing by, offering sustenance, walked away with an illusion of a soul.

Perhaps that contributed to such an unkind upbringing upon the streets of Isme.

Nothing in the world felt quite like isolation.

It read, “EXHIBIT OF BLESSED HISTORIAGRAPHER ALCRUXIO,” highlighted letters hued in off-white against a royal blue background advertising a potential interest in the tropical town known as Isme, off the Southwestern shores. Demutare stared at the letters, half in disbelief and the other in disapproval. Whoever came up with the idea of having a sign in blue—let alone a bright variant of it—must have been desperate since most of Isme consisted of white-adorned red pillars with hanging plant gardens drooping off every single balcony, and even more flora sporadically lining the cobblestone roads.

The street urchin long awaited this moment; for as long as he could remember the tourists of Isme always chatted with each other about a certain sort of deity, and how they sized each other up in reassuring they were bound to become the “reclaimers of Alcruxio’s historiography; founders of the Precious Eyes.” Yet the opposite was told from the natives: any who resembled naught of the tourists nor their own was considered a demon or dark spirit of some sorts, cursed to trouble the town until one of the legendary Earthmothers of the Southwestern continent opted to grace the presence of Isme and cleanse the poor masses of the evils manifested in physical form lurking about. And it was widely accepted the “Boy of Silver Eyes” was but a lowly, fire-wielding demon forever obligated to steal the best two pieces of fruit from the poorest merchant cart of the day, or snatch the water of the parched and run cackling through the night; in short, all of Demutare's actions for survival as an orphaned outcast were all seen as nothing short of an imp's inconvenient misdemeanours.

The people of Isme, of course, were quickly unsettled from the steady breakouts of the lowly street urchin, and the retorted prayers Demutare would receive were said to attempt to banish him forever from the world of peace and good, and each were responded with many a hiss and a wild display of fire for a grand escape. However, the urchin had a purpose: merely biding his time – with some cathartic revenge-merriment along the way, of course – for an alleged exhibit of Alcruxio, the first one ever brought to the Southwestern shores and welcomed with open arms by the people of Isme. This inevitability was hinted with the steady increase in the teachings of Alcruxio touched on more and more by the revered Earthmothers. Yet the whole occurrence did not seem real when it arrived, as earlier than expected by the boy. Days passed with Demutare simply daydreaming of how there would be a whole surprise festival inside the museum, filled with the most delicious food and people praising him for all his hard work, and that his parents were waiting for him in a faraway ship ready to take off to the Northeastern shores to do something with his life. What if he was this famed deity-like philosopher and historiographer, Alcruxio?

When he opened the gold-adorned door he glanced giddily around once more – just to take in what would soon be his kingdom, of course – and, satisfied, entered the exhibition.

Inside was not what Demutare expected: a humble setting of numerous, diminutive museum cases beholding history book after history book, all signed and dated by what appeared to be Alcruxios of the past, with portraits triumphantly resting beside invaluable parchments delineating the history of each passing generation. Devoid of golds, coppers, silvers, jewels, gorgeous stones of the earth and sky – what grandiose scale dreamt in the desperate mind of a street urchin was henceforth dashed, instead replaced by the vast Ismian carpet of dull reds and greens, most likely fashioned in fondness by a great Earthmother of eras past. As he progressed through virtually an entire timeline, Demutare could only gawk at each portrait of the Alcruxio bloodline, the gold-flecked, silvery eyes boring into his soul.

The feeling became a haunting nostalgia; was he staring into the depths of himself? That these so-called other Alcruxios of the past all possessed the same striking eyes as his?

Before the urchin could delve deeper into a moment of self-reflection, his gaze met with a statuette of what appeared to be a majestic dragon, glittering platinum and almighty power, grasping a book in one hand; and beside it was a single gem – no, more of a displaced eye, unlike anything Demutare has ever seen in his time upon the streets of Isme. The surface shifted two colors every few minutes, as if an optical illusion played devilishly around with Demutare's sight. And yet for some reason, staring upon the gilded eye seemed to cause a desire in the back of his mind, scratching and writhing to get his hands upon such a precious piece. The urchin shook his head, pulling himself out of the growing trance.

Having no other way of asking about the gem, Demutare resolved to draw out his sketchbook from the diminutive, tattered satchel he possessed that was said to have been his mother's. The voice of the elderly woman whom Demutare bought his sketchbook from boomed in his subconscious:

"It is said, dear child, that only those who truly purified themselves can ignore the seductive voices of the demons and reach salvation."

“How do you exactly purify yourself?” he would ask. She would simply smile back with her dancing eyes, through her colorful niqab.

“It is different for everyone, dear Demutare, as all of us were made unique from one another. Only you can find that out: look deep into yourself, and bring forth your true soul to face it.” The woman would place her finger upon his heart. “And the demons' voices would lose all meaning.”

“But tell me, Earthmother,” he would inquire. “How can you purify what is already set in stone?”

She would only chuckle, walking past him and ducking underneath the hanging prayer bead curtain. “My child, that is for you to decide.”

As he strode out from the exhibit, one silent step parted the seas before him; the lazy town of Isme, kissed by the coy, gilded lily and draped in lurid golds, yellows, reds; and from there did he wickedly grin, the contrast fighting against the silvery eyes, windows to perhaps naught of a demon. In a great ease he found the welcoming shadows of the dying afternoon, and he slipped through the merchant’s square and past the notice of a poor merchant desperately advertising his wondrous fruits of the recurrent yester-day, harvested in extraordinarily mundane fashion. Demutare blindly picked a fruit and bit into it – the result being a gush of over-sweetened, shrivelled mush that was quickly expelled in a loud fashion. The distraught fruit vendor detected the noise and craned his lanky body down, and repulsion painted his face as a bony finger reached in accusation.

“Oi! Begone, demon! Out, out, out!” Demutare scrambled from his rather comfortable spot and threw the fruit to the side, covering the street in more withered reds. The other people within sight suspended their idleness, or daily motives, and stared at the fruit, then to the fleeing urchin. Some men and women kneeled down in prayer, creating scoops of their conjoining two hands and raised them high in and act of cleansing themselves for encountering a demon. The irregular, rough stones on the street echoed the footsteps of the fleeing urchin, as the jostling group howled to the passing afternoon, cursing him: Demon of the Streets.

“It was rotten anyway!” he silently hissed, as the incident of his sighting quickly died as much as it began. The man who left the clay pot he was throwing on the wheel returned to motion again; a woman who left on her door-step a pot of cold water where she was trying to soften the fever of her child, returned to her nursing; and as the matted locks and bare arms sporadically spread to finish the day, a sort of gloom against the gold gathered on the scene, appearing so unnatural to a demon in the sunlight. The street urchin glanced over to the sun's position and noted the time of day – it was about the time when the museum closed, and for the real fun to begin.

The urchin predicted one of the only three museum guards already locking the large entrance; thus, he opted for a window leading to the vacant second floor of the building. Once inside, Demutare alighted down the carpet-ridden stairs to find himself at the museum cases once more – and luckily devoid of any guard in sight. He cracked a triumphant grin as he moved over to the Eye and the corresponding dragon statuette.

I am not a fool as I look, he exultantly mused, carefully opening the museum case and removing the Eye – and the statuette for that matter, since it so happened to fit well inside his satchel anyhow. When he re-secured the museum glass case, Demutare turned his attention to his new prizes and noticed a sort of groove inside the seemingly artfully opened mouth of the statuette. It felt rigid and secure, as if some sort of mechanism was simply waiting to unite with the completing object. He felt the outline of the Eye – the key was right there.

The urchin clumsily retracted from the case and brought out the statuette and Eye, and a whole slew of emotions riveted through his consciousness – excitement, bewilderment, and a tinge of greed – as he slowly placed the so-called “Emperor Milliznier's Eye” into the dragon's socket. First there was a simple click, and Demutare's body tensed in sheer anticipation of what he just committed: a crime? Something good? Was it or was it not meant to happen? The few seconds that followed afterwards felt like hours, days, or perhaps time simply froze and the poor orphan was stuck in a perpetual loop of anticipation. However, he finally noticed a glow that was beginning to emerge from the Eye, however diminutive it was, and abruptly shot out one of the museum's windows, acting as if it were some sort of a laser apparatus meant to point towards a direction.

It's pointing straight east – what's in the east? Demutare creased his brow in a mix of logical elimination of nearby landmasses he knew and utter confusion as the perdurable light fixated to the great beyond. Nothing was in the east, besides the fabled Beach of Purity, where none dared cross for it was seen as bad luck to disturb the grains of sand if your heart was not pure.

However, for a split second, the urchin swore he had a flash of a vision: a single ship faraway in the distance, drawing ever closer, and a lone woman draped in colorful veils, hands mournfully outstretched. As if she was mourning the loss of the world.

Legs paralyzed and refusing to budge, Demutare’s eyes darted back and forth in sheer confusion between the window where the light escaped, and the statuette. Was this a sign he was getting heat stroke, or should he actually investigate?

I have two options I feel: finding where that light went and disturb the Beach of Purity, or doom myself to wallow away in this god-forsaken town, he mused. After several moments, his eyes flashed with a fiery resolve.

The Demon of the Streets was ready to be judged by the the Sands of Purity.