Tales of Heaven

Isaac

Watching Dante enter deep meditation at eleven years old was a treat for the soul. Most of Isaac’s students usually advanced this far in their late teens. Dante not only unlocked his abilities, but he also managed to hover in the air a few times. It was clumsy and, honestly, hilarious, but that just meant Isaac had to push him more.

The other brats were still sleeping in a pile in the other room, while Dante exercised his newfound ability unbothered by anyone.

So far, he was the only one who progressed to actual training. Then again, the others were ever younger. Isaac didn’t exclude the possibility of having another prodigy, but for now, his attention was going exclusively on his star pupil.

The light of the early morning sun entered through the glass-less window, shining behind Dante’s head. He had his eyes closed while sitting comfortably on the floor. His face was so tranquil that someone might think he was sleeping. He wasn’t even shivering under the cool draft in the room.

“Come on, brat. I don’t have all day,” Isaac said.

Dante did not flinch at the sound of his low, raspy voice. Good. He did not wake up so early to watch him break focus. The boy’s breathing remained even. It was taking longer than usual today. He’s been sitting like this for almost half an hour.

“Come on! Do it! Just do it!”

“You’re not helping!” Dante snapped.

“Don’t talk back! You just ruined your meditation!”

“You’re distracting me!”

“The world will distract you! You think those gangsters will politely wait for you to charge up? Learn to do this on the go!”

Dante growled in frustration. “I’m trying!”

“Try harder!” Isaac stood up on his feet. “I’m giving you the count of three to get your ass off the ground. Or, I’m beating you to a pulp! One!”

Dante closed his eyes again, letting out a deep, angry sigh. Isaac could swear he saw his breath coming out as steam, blowing some of the floor dust to the side.

“Two!”

The word barely left his mouth when a burst of hot air expanded from the boy, raising debris to the ceiling. Isaac stood his ground as a wild vortex or wind swirled viciously inside the room. Dante glared in pure rage, as his body slowly raised in the air.

This was a typical pattern for him.

Every time he achieved a new milestone in his telekinetic ability, he manifested wind. It wasn’t uncommon. All of Isaac’s students manifested wind in this manner. Some radiated heat, and a few caused sparks in the air. There was undoubtedly something elemental about a demon’s abilities.

“Good, now you can eat,” Isaac said and casually turned his back.

As soon as he did, the wind ceased and Dante dropped back onto the floor. Isaac walked up to the kitchen area, where a small fire pit with a chimney had been roasting bread on a spit all morning. Luckily, the wind did not put out the fire, though he had to blow away some dust from the bread. 

Yesterday Isaac got his hands on some dried garlic and basil. The proper herbs could make any meal a feast. The apartment already smelled delicious.

Isaac turned around and tossed a hot piece of garlic bread in the air. Dante caught it excitedly, his eyes gleaming with happiness, even though he could barely hold it in his hands. He opened his mouth for the first bite, but then paused and suspiciously looked at the old man.

“Wait. I wouldn’t have gotten food if I’d failed?”

Isaac shrugged. “But you succeeded, didn’t you?”

“You’re a fucked up geezer.”

Well, it wouldn’t be a day without Dante insulting him. Where he had gotten this attitude from, Isaac had no idea. Of course, Isaac would have given him breakfast if he had failed, but not without instilling a deep sense of guilt and disappointment.

This way of teaching worked best on orphans since they were always the most desperate for recognition.

Dante and Isaac sat on the blanket designated for a dining area and enjoyed their breakfast in silence. It was peaceful early in the morning. Barely anyone was out on the street. All they heard from outside were the birds chirping.

If Isaac closed his eyes and focused on the sound of the birds and the smell of roasting bread, he could imagine he was back in his childhood home up on the mountain.

“So, how well did I do today?” Dante asked with his mouth full.

Isaac opened his eyes and suppressed a sigh of disappointment at the sight of the gray walls. “You’re below expectations. But you’re getting there. I’ll have to train you harder.”

Dante’s shoulders slumped. “It wouldn’t kill you to say I’m better at it. I’m not stupid. I can see I’m better at it.”

Isaac took another bite, ignoring the accusing, slightly hurt red eyes, watching him from the side. Dante waited for an answer, an insult, a scoff, but he wasn’t getting anything.

This was helpful for his upbringing. He shouldn’t expect an answer to every question. Most of the time, he would speak, cry, and shout into the abyss, and no one would be listening. The world will not dignify his existence with a response, so he shouldn’t have hopes for it.

“Eric told me his parents used to say they’re proud of him,” Dante said.

“I’m not your parent.”

“So, where are my parents?”

Isaac swallowed a large bite, and his throat stiffened. “I told you, I don’t know.”

“You’re lying.”

Isaac rubbed his forehead. The first ability that immediately appeared after unlocking the demon heritage was the sense of killing intent—the most sophisticated survival mechanism any living being could possess. It made the person highly sensitive to the changing environment and enhanced the intuition.

Dante could now read Isaac a lot easier.

“The life of a demon appears and then disappears, leaving no trace behind,” Isaac said. “Your parents left no trace. That’s why no one remembers them. When your time comes, you won’t leave a trace either, and no one will remember you. So stop rummaging around the past. Enjoy what you have now. Because it’s very little.”

Guilting a child for asking about his parents was shitty. Isaac had experienced many years of disappointment, pain, and heartache, but one thing that frightened him to his bones was looking Dante in the eyes and telling him the truth about his origin.

“I grew up without parents too,” Isaac said. “Guardians murdered my father back in my hometown. They framed him for a crime he didn’t commit, to save their skin and avoid a corruption scandal. My mother overworked herself to provide for me, often starving so I could have food. Eventually, she fell ill, received no care, and died. As you see, you’re not the only one who is growing up without parents. I was the same.”

“But you knew your parents,” Dante said.

Isaac nodded. “Yes, I knew them.”

“So, it’s not the same.”

Moments like this made Isaac hate himself for treating Dante as though he knew nothing of this world. At his tender age, he understood a lot. Maybe too much.

The door opened and several heads peeked into the kitchen, curious and hungry.

“Bread!”

That same night, after everyone went to sleep, Isaac stood alone in the kitchen area. Years ago, he couldn’t care less about the pain of others. But now, there was this creeping feeling of guilt for surviving what had murdered so many of his old comrades. He watched people he didn’t know move on, while he stood still ever since the day of his biggest failure.

He wanted to do something meaningful with the remains of his life. And, so far, the only one who could pick up his torch was Dante. Old men never changed their attitude, but Isaac would make an effort today.

So, he picked up a pen and started writing.

 

Dear Dante,

There are many things I don’t dare say out loud. The following is something I’ve been keeping from you ever since you were born. I know what happened to your parents and the short answer is they are dead.

I never told you anything about them to spare you the pain. The life of a demon is filled with too much heartache as it is. Unfortunately, I suspect this world isn’t done hurting you. So, one more punch in the gut might not make any difference. And who am I to deny you the truth of your origin?

I’m writing this down for you because I don’t have the strength to look you in the eyes and tell you this story.

I’ve been caring for abandoned demon children all my life. I trained them to unlock our heritage. Some managed, others didn’t. Those who did joined the Resistance with me.

This is a secret I thought I’d take into my grave because everyone who knew what I used to be is now dead. But recently I thought someone should know.

I’ve done a lot of awful things in my youth in the name of the grand cause of the Resistance. And after the failure of our grandest mission, after the untimely death of the students I raised myself, I moved to the ghetto of Alirie to disappear.

I started caring for children again. In the end, that was all I was good for. One of these children was your mother. Yes, she was a child, and she died a child.

At that time, the ghetto was a battleground for a gang war. I won’t say the names of the two rival gangs because neither exists now. They should be forgotten. If anyone writes down the history of this place, it would be nothing but fight after fight for insignificant power.

Back then, I stuck to my usual principles. I did not involve myself, or the children, with conflicts that only benefited thugs. This is something I teach you and everyone else in our small group. I still believe this is the right way to live.

Except for the night I met your mother.

She was fourteen years old back then. Her name was Ayana. I remembered it because a comrade from the Resistance used to have the same name. Ayana was the daughter of one of the gang leaders.

She came to my door one night and asked me to take her under my care. She did not want to stay with her father. He loved her. All his underlings protected her with their lives, but she did not feel safe.

I declined her plea.

Even though my life’s goal was now to keep children safe. Even though I instantly thought of a plan to hide and disguise her as another orphan. I refused to save her because I thought this would put the other children in a crossfire.

I was stupid enough to think they were safe in the first place. Because, no matter how far away you stay from danger, somehow, danger always finds you in the ghetto.

Several days later, Ayana disappeared. Everyone suspected the rival gang kidnapped her to get to her father.

What followed was pure anarchy.

You could walk out on the street and step over corpses that died just last night. They purposefully displayed dead gang members to be seen, their bodies mutilated in disturbing ways. This was supposed to serve as a warning of what awaited the rest.

These only ignited more violence. It did not end with just gang members. Many innocent people lost their lives. Children weren’t spared, either.

The guardians didn’t even try to keep this insanity under control. This infernal chaos was all the same to them, as long as it didn’t leak into the capital.

The ghetto turned into a prison. No one was safe. Many of my children lost their lives too. Some willingly joined sides. The most agonizing notion for a caretaker is knowing that you failed to teach the most basic lesson, to treasure life.

Eventually, both gang leaders died, leaving behind a trampled wasteland of confusion and devastation. You’ve never seen the Graveyard as full as it was back then.

But at least, with both gang leaders gone, the underlings calmed down. The balance of power had shifted and new gang leaders would emerge. But it was going to take some time for new names to take hold, so we, the survivors, enjoyed the eerie peace and tranquility that came directly after the slaughter.

It was a few months later that I saw your mother again.

I thought she had died.

It was winter. She was barely dressed in bloody rags and barefoot in the snow. She was skin and bones, undoubtedly ill with some disease. Her eyes wandered somewhere in the air over my shoulder, as though she was seeing something behind me.

And in her arms was you—a distressed, crying newborn. Ayana handed you to me. “This is Dante,” she said, and collapsed dead at my doorstep.

Later, I found out the gang imprisoned her throughout this entire war. They abused her in all kinds of ways, and as a result, she became pregnant with you. In all that mayhem, they forgot her in the prison cell. Someone found her a few days after she had given birth to you, all by herself.

How she survived those cold months in captivity is still a mystery to me.

You were a small, weak baby, in urgent need of medical help. Luckily, I found a doctor and, after you started eating, you turned into the most energetic little brat I’ve ever seen.

If I couldn’t save your mother, at least I saved you.

Dante, I was wrong about saying that demons don’t leave a trace. Your mother did. You are this trace, and I know you will grow up to be something extraordinary.

The future might be bleak for our kind, but life is about happiness, as much as it is about heartache. It doesn’t matter how your life started. It matters how it ends. The end depends on your decisions and no one else’s. Your mother made her mark on the world by having you.

And one day you will leave your mark.

The world will be different because you were alive. Fight injustice, and fight corruption, but recognize who deserves your mercy. If you are good to others, especially when no one else is, if you live by a personal set of principles, and if you survive long enough, you will undoubtedly get a piece of joy you will cherish.

I know this because you are this piece of joy for me, Dante.

 

Love, Isaac Nevio

 

Well, this letter turned more emotional than Isaac intended. And there were still things he missed—for example, Dante’s surname. The brat was very distraught that he did not know his last name like most of his friends.

Isaac refused to write it down, as this was the name of that awful gang. If the wrong people find out Dante’s origin, if they find out about his new abilities as they get stronger, and they will get stronger, then the remnants of that gang war will eventually reach him. That nightmare will start anew.

No.

Dante should just be Dante.

Isaac put the letter in his inner coat pocket. Tomorrow, he would give it to the boy, so he could have some closure, and ideally stop asking about his parents.

Tomorrow passed with the usual training, eating, and working. Dante did not ask about his parents today. And there was something more urgent.

They had to supply the place with firewood for the winter. Isaac also had to make sure they had enough non-perishing food for the cold months. There were very few jobs to do after the first snowfall of the year and money was useless because people held on tightly to their supplies.

Isaac filled his time with preparations and negotiations with the neighbors. Helping each other was key to surviving the winter. Days rolled by one after the other, and all the while, the letter remained in Isaac’s pocket, unmentioned, untouched.

Winter came, and the entire building holed up inside.

Isaac gathered a large supply of firewood. Some of it was wood, the rest was garbage that served well for kindling. Some items burned for a long time when set on fire. It was perfect for keeping the children warm. No one slept in the other room during the cold months. Everyone spent their days in the kitchen around the fireplace.

And even though Isaac was stuck in a single room with Dante and all the other children, he still did not mention the letter.

He wished Dante asked about his parents again. Maybe if he did, Isaac would finally have the courage to give him the letter. He couldn’t do it alone. Dante had to push him. Just one mention. Ask that annoying question just one more time.

Isaac never felt more like a coward. His mind played imaginary scenes of Dante reading the letter and breaking down in tears. He imagined the boy looking at him, crestfallen. He also imagined Dante smiling through all that misery, grateful that at least he was here. At least he had this roof, this group of friends, this warmth.

Dante was stronger than anyone gave him credit for.

Yet Isaac still didn’t give him the letter.

One day, he had to walk out of the room. He miscalculated the amount of supplies. The firewood was running out, and it was barely the middle of winter. He had to get more, and it should be today. The vicious snowstorm that’s been brewing the last few days has died down. The air was still unbearably cold, but it was liveable.

“I’ll help you,” Dante said.

“You’ll stay inside,” Isaac shot back. Even if the weather was relatively merciful, the streets of the ghetto were dangerous. More dangerous than they were in the summer.

“But I can bring more firewood,” Dante protested.

At eleven years old, this boy considered himself an assistant caretaker, just because he was the oldest. The old man turned around to see a look of determination on an adorable face. The boy was a ray of sunshine, even when he was frowning.

“You’ll help me by protecting the children while I’m gone,” he said.

Dante crossed his arms in acceptance, though highly displeased with this decision. Isaac patted his head. He didn’t know why, he just wanted to.

The air outside was still.

Isaac did not have much time, so he quickly headed between the buildings with an ax over his shoulder. On the way, he looked around for anything discarded that could burn. Knee-deep snow had piled up and most of it was untouched, though there were some tracks on the main street.

Isaac had a scarf around his nose and mouth. The air was so cold it made his chest tight. Icicles were already forming on his eyelashes.

An uncomfortable silence surrounded him. Guardians rarely patrol at this time of the year, unless for emergencies. However, emergencies did not concern the safety of the inhabitants. If someone froze to death, the guardians’ first job in spring would be to dispose of dead bodies after the melting snow reveals them.

As he kept walking, Isaac made a mental note to give Dante the damned letter. He has waited unnecessarily long for this. As soon as he got back home, he would give Dante the answer he’d been seeking. And, whatever happened later, it would be out of his hands.

The kid was in control of his own destiny.

Something blunt smashed into the back of his head and he heard his skull crack. Pain exploded for a sliver of a moment, and then there was a cold numbness.

Isaac dropped forward in the snow. He should have known someone was around. The snow in this part had been trampled. The old man was still conscious but unable to move. He couldn’t speak. His ears were ringing.

Several pairs of feet surrounded him. He had seen these thugs recently. They were new members of one of the local gangs. One was holding a wooden bat, stained by Isaac’s blood. These were young brats, probably no more than sixteen-years old. Judging by the clumsy strike and the frightened looks in their eyes, they haven’t done this before.

Ambushing defenseless people on the street was new to them, but someone must have made them do it. All gangs tested their newest members. They always had to prove their worth. The brats exchanged a few worried looks and said something to each other, but Isaac couldn’t hear.

The brat wasn’t supposed to kill the lone old man on the street, otherwise Isaac would have noticed the killing intent. The weakness of the most sophisticated survival instinct—it was useless if the attacker did not intend to kill you. It made you vulnerable against the clumsiest, most reckless, immature imbeciles out there.

A nauseating redness spread through the snow around him and he could only tell it was coming from the wound on his head.

All of a sudden, Dante attacked the thugs.

What was this stupid brat doing here? He should have stayed home.

The thugs gave the boy a good beating, until Dante dropped into the snow, struggling to breathe. They ignored him for now and turned back to the old man. Someone lit a match and set fire to his coat.

Isaac’s eyes were still open, still completely unresponsive, while his vision hazed with the heat. He could smell his flesh burning, but he still couldn’t feel anything.

He watched Dante’s horrified face through the flames. The boy sat helpless, a few steps away from the thugs, watching the closest thing he had to a parental figure burn. Tears beaded in his wide-open eyes and slid down his cheeks.

With lots of effort, he stood on his feet and ran away.

Isaac should have given him the letter.

It must have burned along with his coat. Now Dante would never know about his parents. He would not know that Isaac was proud of him. Isaac should have told him this yesterday, the day before, last year. He should have praised the boy every time he worked hard.

Isaac Nevio thought death would be excruciatingly painful, but to him, his last moments, although filled with regret, were mercifully tranquil.

Reni Stankova favicon

Hi, there!

Since I had a fan ask about Dante’s parents, I felt compelled to write this story. Dante’s parents play no role in The Heaven Trilogy and his origin isn’t meaningful to the main events in any way.

But for those who are suckers for tragic backstories (me included), this had to be written. To see more of Dante’s hardship and his rise to brilliance, check out the Heaven Trilogy.