The following leads on from the three volume series "Irae and the Recipe for disaster" now sadly lost.
Being on the whole disheartened by the loss, I decided to continue with this sequel as it does not require the original tale to be understood and enjoyed.

Chapter one: Ambiguous Origins.

Irae felt consciousness seep into his psyche like a sponge dipped in lukewarm water.
Perhaps not water... his mouth felt dry and he had the makings of a terrible headache. Dehydration. Lips not cracked though.
Haven't been out long. Head. Hurt.

Something purple flashed in the darkness before his eyes and pain spiked through his mind, forcing it back into operation.
He felt bad. Things were not alright. His eyes stung when he tried to open them.

Movement without sight was not possible. He didn't know how he'd gotten into this situation; he could not remember… anything. Which was odd. Because if he couldn't remember anything, then who was doing the thinking? What is a person without memory to make him. Or her. Or what.


The question passed through his head, shunting everything else aside with the urgency of its passage; who… am I?
There was no answer. Just silence, darkness… An impenetrable cloak which robbed him of every sense he could name.

When it became too-much to bear, he realized that there was one option he hadn't tried yet.

A high-pitched wale began to echo through the dormitory corridors, causing lights to flick on in the windows that lined the rectangular building. The outwards proliferation of the buttercup yellow squares bleeding light from between cracked curtain's gave the building, walls black against the horizon, the momentary appearance of a blooming flower.
An illusion shattered as curtains were shunted aside to reveal the rudely awakened residents. The population was more than a little Irate; with a graduation ceremony tomorrow, pulling a stunt like this was unacceptable.

Somebody was going to have some explaining to do. As it happened they found the culprit to have a little more, or rather less on his mind than the prospect of their wrath.

The small boy was led to the dean by a long-haired high-school student still in her pajamas; the boy had been found stark naked on the floor of a dorm room for senior students; one of whom had mercifully given him her robe.

It was maybe a dozen sizes too big and bright pink, but it was also fluffy and snuggly and warm. Three pluses beat two minuses; his take on wearing it.

The dean looked the boy over. He was about two and a half feet tall, with a somewhat ruffled head of fine black and brown hair. His eyes were swollen and puffy and his face tracked from recent tears.

He kept his head inclined to the floor as he made his way to the dean's desk and after reaching it, taking a moment to wrap the robe a little tighter before sitting down on the overlarge chair.

The dean walked round the desk and swiveled the chair. He lifted up the boys chin gently with a softly spoken order. "Look at me boy. Look into my eyes and we'll see what you can see shall we?"

He smiled reassuringly and the boy finally looked directly at him. Pupils locked.

The dean watched astonished, as the moment his magical probe hit the surface of those eye's, tendrils of shadow spread like ink dropped in water to encroach upon the boy's sparkling green eye's until it was like gazing into a black hole.

The dean began to compose a counter-spell as the second stage kicked in; the dark iris causing the lens of the boy's eye to become reflective. The dean's connection was reversed instantly, throwing him deep into his own mind.

He came too with the boy's face, eyes once again vibrant green, hovering over him.
"I'm thirsty … and hungry." He waited expectantly. The dean, slightly drained by the unexpected turn of events, looked at the new arrival and standing up, led him over to the kitchenette off his room.

He gave the boy a glass of water in silence, pondering the presence of such a high-order counter-spell in a boy who looked to be about four or five. The boy hadn't cast it himself, he was sure of that. It took years of dedication and training….. and; his train of thought was interrupted by a muffled thud and a soft giggle behind him.

The boy had taken the flour from a concerto cake he'd been making for the post graduation blowout, poured it on the table, added the contents of the salt shaker and his glass of water.

Even as the dean looked on, a delicate finger drew in the mix with short sharp strokes.

The boy finished his design and saw the dean looking. The man spoke in a wry manner which was lost on the young child.
"Artists are getting younger every year..."

He moved round to look at the unexpectedly eldritch design sketched in the mess "What's that? Your name?"
If it was, the man mused, then it might be only something with the appearance of a human sitting before him.

The boy looked at him contemptuously. "No silly ! It's for doing this."
The boy clapped his palms together, the sharp smack punctuating two short words he intoned, with a hint of brass ringing in his voice.

"Fiat Panis!" he blew on the mound of watery flour and salt causing it to fountain up in slow motion. It twisted like white smoke, billowing out even as the symbol now etched into the table glowed; drawing it back in to a ball. Light radiated from it and a soft breeze blew out, taking with it the smell of yeast.

The light died down and finally winked out. There was no evidence of the action, but the boy now held an ovoid loaf of bread. The boy bit into his work, chewed, swallowed and smiled at the dean with a gleeful radiance. "I made a bread! I yam... a Baker!"

The dean was speechless.
The boy finished the loaf and frowned with all the seriousness of a man making a decision that would forever change his life.

"I wanna sleep now. Baking makes me tired. But I am hungry and still thirsty. And I can't eat if I sleep."
The dean found his voice and asked the child hoarsely "Where are, who are your parent's?"
"Dunno" The boys face fell. The Dean quickly handed over the sandwich he'd been making before the boy had played baker and tried to rethink the question.
"Where is the person who looks after you."
The boy swallowed the bite he'd been chewing and answered mournfully. "Can't r'm'b'r."

"Where do you live?" The dean was relentlessness.

"I Don't…" The boy trailed off as the dean interrupted again.

Grabbing the boy's shoulder, he shook him lightly "Who brought you here?"

"No one-" He was on the verge of tears now, the man didn't notice.

"Who are you!" this was too much and the boy cracked and yelled at the dean; "I DON"T KNOW. Not nothing, not anything. I can't remember. It's all gone. Just me left now. Not even that!"The boy broke into sob's of deep distress.

The dean tried and failed to comfort him. When he'd stopped crying, he made one last attempt at questioning. "Your name boy… do you remember your name? If you know you have to tell me."

The behest hit something in the chokingly dark hole that existed where he tried to reach for his memories. The spark went nova as the single memory that remained anchored his thought's, allowing them to pull away from the swift descent into the whirlpool of despair and back into the realms of light and certainty.
The boy stopped crying abruptly. For a few seconds, total silence reigned. The boy looked up and the dean felt a conviction that hadn't been present earlier in his gaze.
"I remember… my name, is Irae. I am Irae… just Irae, no one else."
He took a shuddery breath and went on more confidently "I know who I am. I am a boy. My name is Irae." He beamed, as though he'd done a new trick or solved a difficult puzzle.

The dean shook his head and smiled. "Well mister Irae. I'm sure you have a bright future ahead of you."

I don't normally add in much commentary but here goes:

Please. Even if you're not going to tell me what I've done right. Please, just tell me what I've done wrong.

It's not that hard. Even a small review would do. The buttons right there.

It doesn't cost anything.

Thanks. In advance.