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oakfathers-blessings · 6 years

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Parvis Mahdavi: The Paragon

Parvis had never considered himself a man of many talents. Could he hold his liquor? No. Could he whistle? No. Hell, he couldn’t even dance that well (although a pint and a half of ale would have him convinced he was the best dancer in all of Bravos, much to the chagrin of absolutely anyone who would be forced to bare witness to his drunken cavorting). If there was one talent Parvis would be haughty enough to bestow on himself, it would be his seemingly inhuman ability to run. Not in a literal sense, but he could run figurative marathons around anyone he had met. In fact, he ran so well from what was inside that he was convinced he wasn’t running at all. You see, Parvis was a man of many tales, but not a single story he spun in the seedy taverns he spent his time in were half as harrowing as the life he had led. He was his own unsung epic, a poem he felt but could never quite put words to, a song he sang but couldn’t find the melody.

His story begins, as many stories do, at the beginning. Parvis Mahdavi, then known only as Rheza, was found at the doorstep of Madame Hustillion’s brothel one January morning. He was taken in, and like a stray dog who took too quickly to the hand that fed it, became the son of not one mother, but 8. The courtesans employed at the brothel were well aware that such a house was no place to raise a child. Protecting him by keeping Rheza sheltered away in a back room, at least for the first few years of his childhood. This is where he remembers some of the best years of his life. Memories flashing in his mind like strikes of lightning, illuminating the darkness in his mind when he laid in bed at night. The memories that shone through all the everyday sludge, keeping the monsters of the past at bay. He’d remember Para (his favourite mother of all) singing a soft lullaby in some distant nomadic tongue. He’d remember Fatemeh teaching him how to communicate using his hands, the two of them developing a unique dialect of sign language so that Rheza would be able to communicate with her despite the fact that she could not speak. He would remember Sara teaching him how to fight not with fists but with his mind, or Roya’s fantastical stories that made him laugh and cry and yell until Madame Hustillion scolded the two of them and sent him off to bed in his back room.

At the age of nine he would have been allowed out onto the streets. Running errands for Madame Hustillion, who regarded him as her grandson, her stern demeanour doing nothing to calm the storm he was growing up to be. He had arguably inherited the best traits from each of his adoptive mothers, at least they would say so. Madame Hustillion, however, would complain that despite having nine competent adults raising him, Rheza had somehow grown into the biggest fool of all. His heart too big, voice too loud, mind too clever. He remembers the eve of his 10th birthday clear as crystal. Madame Hustillion pulling him into her office just as he was getting ready for bed, mind alight with excitement for his coming birthday. He had asked Madame Hustillion to allow him to go travel with Fatemeh, who was leaving Briar Glenn for the coming months to visit her brother. He expected to be leaving the next morning, Fatemeh by his side as he watched the familiar landscapes of Briar Glenn melt away. Instead, he left that night, alone, and never looked back.

“Rheza you must understand that you, just as your mothers and I, will never leave this town. You are not a boy of any inheritance, or worth. In the eyes of the law and the eyes of the upper class, you are nothing but another number they can use in a census,” Minerva Hustillion spoke with a tone cold as ice. “I’ve seen boys like you die from maladies ranging from illness to the look on their face. The world is cruel, you cannot expose yourself to those people out there, Rheza-” “You are wrong,” Rheza interjected, fingers grasping the fabric of his tunic tightly, leaving Madame Hustillion in shocked silence. “You are wrong. I am special, Para has told me so. She says there is something different about me, I am not like those boys and you know it.” The boy was shaking now, small body filled to the brim with pure frustration, golden eyes burning against the gaze of the older woman. She hummed, her paper-thin lips curling into a satisfied smile, a laugh like a cracked bell leaving her throat. “You have spent your life in privilege, I have given you everything you have today. If I had known you would have turned out to be such an ungrateful brat I would have left you out on the street to become someone else’s problem-”

He wouldn’t remember much after that, only recalling the feeling of hot tears rolling down his cheeks as he marched out of the house, Madame Hustillion calling for him to come back, claiming that she didn’t mean what she had said, but the damage had already been done. He left the house with nothing to his name but a coat, leaving the warmth of his home, and the love of his adoptive mothers behind. On that cold January night, at the age of ten, Rheza realized that not only was he not special, he carried little to no worth in the world at all.

This was how Fazel had found him.

The Society of Open Eyes was not foreign to him. He would sometimes see members making their way in and out of the brothel, marked by the intricate tattoos blazoned across their necks depicting an open eye. The members of the Open Eyes mostly wore dark navy robes, silver designs etched into the fabric in different patterns. Regal and Commanding. Most of the history behind the Open Eyes was a closely kept secret. Though their reputation spoke for them. They represented the lower classes in Briar Glenn, providing protection to the more dangerous and unregulated underground of the city. Not only that, but they dealt in vice as well, carrying out various nefarious deals on the streets they protected. The Open Eyes were seen as heroes- saviours. Especially in the slums of Briar Glenn, where Rheza had spent the majority of his young life. Despite his lack of knowledge of the society itself, he knew a man in charge when he saw one.

Fazel Mahdavi was coarse, but kind, thin lines of age pressed into his pallor skin. Familiar. He had the gentlest smile Rheza had ever seen. The most defining feature of Fazel’s face being the tattoo. There, inked into the skin between Fazel’s eyebrows, was a small eye. He would come to learn that this mark was the sign of the sightseer, the leader of the Open Eyes. This would explain his rich navy robes, which fluttered carefully in the cold air as he knelt down in front of Rheza. “Little One, you will freeze out here if you stay on the streets any longer, come with me, we have food and water for you, and a warm bed,” the older man whispered, reaching up with gloved hands to unclip the buckle of his winter cloak. Rheza had never felt anything so warm in his life, sinking back into the fabric as the older man wrapped the cloak around his thin shoulders. It was in that moment that Fazel found a son, and Rheza became known as Parvis Mahdavi.

Rheza, now Parvis, spent the next four years of his life training under the older members of the Open Eyes. The classes started as one on one sessions, but soon enough more young individuals were recruited. First was Omin, who was a year his senior. Omin was a small boy, but he could fight like hell. The two of them were nearly inseparable despite their training. Fazel often commented that watching the two of them spar was like watching a tree sway in the breeze. They danced. After a few months Nadiah and Taraneh were brought in as well, and Parvis discovered that he had competition. Taraneh was an enigma. Their origins unknown and Their abilities seemingly endless. They were mute, although once they learned that Parvis knew how to sign they were impossible to stop: Nothing is more ironic than the mute of the group being scolded for being the most talkative in classes. Nadiah was Fazel’s second child, two years younger than Parvis but just as strong and just as clever. Where Omin was like a breeze, Taraneh like a river, Nadiah was a raging fire. She burned. Nadiah was erratic and unpredictable, fighting with the tenacity of someone willing to do anything to win. Needless to say, Nadiah and Parvis were as close as siblings could be. The four of them graduated from their training during the summer of Parvis’ 18th year. Fresh tattoos across their throats solidifying their place in the society. The newest group of silencers to work under Fazel and for the sanctity of the Open Eyes.

Within the society itself, there were four designations: The Elders, the Readers, the Common Eyes, and the Silencers. The Elders were the leaders of the Open Eyes, the Sightseer being the highest in command. The Seers were next in line, serving as confidants and advisors to the Sightseer. It was their job to make sure that business ran smoothly and fairly. The Readers were the journal keepers, writing down the histories of the Open Eyes. Readers were the smartest of the society, their intellect and aptitude being the glue that held the society together after so long. Common Eyes were exactly that, they were members of the society that ran the common grounds. They were the bakers, the tailors, the mechanics. Their designation was the largest group of all the society, and the most valued.

Finally, the smallest designation, and arguably the hardest to graduate into was the Silencers. They were employed by Fazel and the seers to track down anyone from enemies of the society to people who owed society benefactors money. The Silencers did exactly that, silence. Working quickly and unseen by the outside world. For two years the group of them worked loyally under Fazel and the seers. Parvis never once questioned his father. Not once. He would silence whomever his father ordered him to. Led into a sense of blind loyalty. Parvis and the others were willing to do anything- absolutely anything- for the greater good of the society. Parvis had never felt so needed, so high. And then there was the fall.

Every Sightseer must choose a successor. And while Fazel was nowhere near the end of his mortal coil, there was talk of the next sightseer being named from their small group of silencers. More specifically the title was rumoured to go between Fazel’s children: Nadiah and Parvis. He had been told that in the past, the two nominees were forced to fight to the death for the role, and the thought of having to possibly kill one of his own made Parvis sick to his stomach. Nadiah’s 18th birthday had come. The dueling day. He remembers the two of them holding each other tightly- both apologizing and forgiving each other simultaneously with that embrace. By the end of the day one of them would be named sightseer and the other would be given a silencer’s burial. The ring they were designated was smaller than he remembered, not having sparred on that stone floor since their training together. The room was full to the brim with onlookers. Most importantly, Fazel looked down at the ring from his seat on the balcony, his gentle eyes cold as his two children prepared to fight. Nadiah had learned the same look. A gift inherited from her father. Eyes empty and cold, Nadiah faced her brother. In that split second before the fight began, the voice of Madame Hustillion rang sharply in his mind.

“Your heart is too big, Rheza, you will die because you love too much.”

He was crying. That was the only fact he remembers from the majority of the fight. He was crying for fear of dying and for fear of killing. The duel was a blur of hand to hand combat, the world around him completely quiet for the first time in his life. Muffled screams and cheers breaking through the silence slowly before he snapped back into the present. Nadiah was on her back, his boot pressed firmly against her throat. All it would take was a bit more pressure and he would be the next sightseer. A little more pressure. The sound was overwhelming, buzzing in his ears like a hive of wasps. More pressure. Loud. More Pressure. Loud. Just a little more pressure and it is too loud. Too loud and too much pressure. No.

For the first time in his life, Parvis’ eyes were open.

He quickly recoiled, stumbling backwards, falling to the ground as his eyes connected with the gaze of his father. Fazel frowned, slowly standing, ignoring the gasps of his younger daughter who was still alive. He didn’t care about her at that moment. Every shred of his attention was turned to his son, fists clenching as he addressed Parvis in a tone far too reminiscent of a time long past. Cold. “Parvis, you must finish this duel. Nadiah has not yet died, and you are aware that only one of you may remain in this society. Finish what you started,” Fazel barked to his sobbing son, who stood on trembling legs. Parvis had not felt this small since he was a boy, and yet he had never felt so brave. “No.” he declared, kneeling down to help Nadiah to her feet. “I will not be another cog in this cycle of needless violence. I have silenced for you for years, without question I carried out your will but I say no. No more. If my ascension is to be marred by the blood of my sister than I say no. Only one of us can continue on, and I choose her. Do what you must, but I will not see her buried today.”

Parvis remembers that it burned- the branding. Normally excommunication from The Society of Open Eyes was carried out via silencing, but Fazel had spared his life. Branding was a more rare form of execution: the offender having two closed eyes burned into the skin of their forearms to mark their fall from the society of Open Eyes. Any trace of Parvis would be burned once he was sent off, his name an unspeakable word. A Curse. For the second time in his life, he would be without a home, but he was better off for it. Knowing that because of this sacrifice his sister would remain alive, and take the seat as sightseer was enough for him. He left the society with a smile on his face, bandages on his arms, and a fullness in his heart.

This is where Parvis is now, having been wandering for six years, a charming drifter returned to Briar Glenn for a few nights before moving onto some other town, some other bar to waste his time in. Parvis didn’t consider himself a man of many talents, but if he had to bestow a gift upon himself it would be his ability to run. His ability to chase the past away with a drink or a night of companionship. He was used to being able to run - from anything. He would soon come to learn that Para had been right all those years ago. He was special. Parvis would soon become very familiar with the term “Paragon” and although he would try-

this time he wouldn’t be able to run.

•••

The world of Bravos and Mythos belongs to @padrooke

#mythos #project mythos #fan paragon #the paragon #parvis #snarkyoc #oof #this is my first time writing #in months #snarkyconstruction

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