Notes::  Right, I'm the writer of the doing-okay "Immortality" novel (check my profile), but now that I've finished that story I've started on my next one early. A few things didn't go right in Immortality; maybe the happiness was just too… happy…(find out more on In this story I've made up for all the stuff I didn't like.

Warning::  "R" for pedophilia, rape, murder and incest, but other than that, I consider it an okay story. Please give it a chance.

Summary:: It's about a young boy named Thorate, who was brought to the country's capital, Harrem, from an unknown place, that's all I'm telling ya, you'll just have to piece it together as you go along.



15 years ago

Harrem was a small city at the base of the giant mountains of Dacasde range, a great cluster of peaks stretching all the way from Vanhula to the south to the northern edge of Ynarz wood. To the back of the city were white crests of the gigantic mountains, to the front and either side, more mountains. Between two sister peaks a small trickle of melted glacier wound its way down to the farmland. On its great journey more trickles joined with it, from Wani, to the east, and from Nferinal to the north. By the time it hit Kichell, a small farming city, the bubbling creeks had combined to form a roaring river, affectionately called the Torrent. Affectionately, because it brought rich soil to their crops, Torrent, because it was dangerously rapid, its white foam sloshed against the aged and worn rocks like a hammer on a nail. From Kichell the great Torrent wormed its way to Chess, the coast city to the east. Here the bubbly waves crashed into the icy waters of the Ttosl bay, where the current created by the river sent a pulse through the bay's surface until a swollen hump lapped against the shore of Ttosl Island, forbidden to the world.

Back into the Torrent, past the salty city of Chess, through the ginger Kichell, and into the powdered mountains to the north, it all begins in a refreshing mixture of mint and vanilla called Harrem. Its stone buildings were buttered with white snow, sprinkled with cheerful lanterns with just a dash of happy children skipping down the cobblestone streets to the Sweet Shop, owned by Mr. Seed, a elderly man, who, if slipped an extra penny, would give you the world.

"Chocolate Wraps, please."

"Sir? Honey Wasps?"

"Are you out of Mint Cakes?"

Mr. Seed loved children, more than his small little shop on Highrock road, and the succulent candies he sold from its display cases.  Mr. Seed was one of the cheeriest and adored adults in all of Harrem, which is saying a lot, if you consider the size of the city.

"Let's go see if Mr. Seed has anything new!"

"Let me grab my pennies!"

He loved children.

Maybe too much, a voice caressed at the back of his head. Concentrating on the little blonde happily pointing out a dime's worth of candies, he managed to block his inner thoughts. "Yes my dear," he purred. He wrapped her candies in a piece of paper, took the shiny dime from her hand and replaced it with the heavy package. "Thanks for coming," he said to her retreating back. The bell hanging from his door jam jingled merrily.

Mr. Seed checked the clock hanging from the wall behind the counter. It was almost closing time. He walked to his front door, locked it and flipped the painted sign that read "Open" to "Closed". He reached around his waist and pulled the apron strings loose, hanging it on a small fishhook hanger near a back door. Then, exiting through that very door, he climbed a flight of stairs to his apartment on the second story of his shop.

"Done." He always said this when he returned to the quiet dimness of his apartment. For him, the word "done" meant more to him than "I'm home". "I'm home" was a phrase usually reserved for a family, maybe himself, a wife and a few children of his own. He didn't have any of that. But the word "done" had much more meaning for the old shopkeeper. Not only was he really "done" for the night, but he was no longer required to wear the friendly mask he did in the shop, he no longer had to use his honey sweet words to charm his customers. Done. He was done for the evening. Finished. And tired.

"Thorate, dear?" his sweet voice boiled into a sticky molasses.

Knowing that his target wouldn't willingly come out of his hiding place, Mr. Seed was required to go out in search of him. Mr. Seed wasn't too bothered by it: a game of hide 'n' seek always excited him, it made him anxious when he finally located his prey.

It didn't take long today; Thorate was slowly running out of ideas to elude Mr. Seed. Being pulled from under the sink, Thorate was brought into the light. The boy's dilated eyes fluttered painfully.

Mr. Seed, his eyes growing red with lust and his lips moist under the weight of his flickering tongue, brought the small boy closer and touched his soft, bruised, ruined skin.

Thorate whimpered, the fear in his heart more painful than the crushing grip of his captor.

The elder man was only encouraged by Thorate's whimpers and small struggles. He bit at the boy's ear, drawing a drop of blood that he quickly lapped up with his tongue. The coppery taste brought saliva to his mouth in anticipation.

There was always one thing that Mr. Seed loved more than his shop and his candies, and those were his children. However, for ten hours a day he could only watch as one by one they pranced into his small store to purchase their candies and dashed out of his life. Could only watch.

But now, in his secure grip and under his strong, straight teeth, was the boy he would use to lessen his eagerness and fulfill his fantasies, for the little blonde girl who purchased her dime worth of candies, for the delicate twin boys that ran in every week, a penny each. He could only dream… until he came home to say, "done".

Thorate's breathing was faint, his head rolling back in weariness. Mr. Seed was excited.

Five years now.

Mr. Seed brought a pale hand up into the boy's hair, stroking it as he threatened to pull it out of his tiny head. Five years. He wanted to hear the boy whimper again, Mr. Seed wanted to be assured that he was dominate, that he could still love the children. Five years.

The man's nails dug into Thorate's scalp and the boy hissed through his clenched teeth. His eyelids sagged over his eyes as he fell into unconsciousness. Five years.

The Torrent roared from Harrem, between the mountains and into the plains below. Someday, when the hands of his caretaker could no longer touch him, hurt him, he would run with it… far, far away.

Five years.


Are you going to review? Please do… please? I would like reviews… On the topic of the length of chapters… well that's going to vary, some could be only a few paragraphs long, while others could be near 15 or 20 pages it just depends…