(a.k.a. BASRC’s Search for A New Headmaster, 10 years before the start of "The Balkan Academy For Society's Rejected Children")
Prologue
The sun had only moments ago slipped behind the Balkan Mountains in Bulgaria, shading the town at their mighty feet in an inky blackness. The residents shuddered--it was cold, too cold even for this, the middle of winter. It was also dark…Far, far too dark. Everyone, from the oldest maid to the youngest babe to the lowest of animals could sense the great sadness that had been hanging in the air for three days now. While the young and the dumb had no idea what the problem was, those old and wise enough to know the secret this village guarded looked toward the thin dirt path that could barely be called a road that led up into the mountains. Surely it had something to do with THAT place, hidden high up towards the sky, through the forest in a clearing only the few given the privilege could ever hope to find. Yes, they figured. Yes, something must have happened to that house of freaks and, more importantly, to the man, if indeed that’s what he was, running it.
It was getting darker now, so the old and wise herded the young and dumb into their homes like so much cattle. It was getting to be about that time…the time when the Secret School, as the locals called it, and those who resided there began to stir.
The moon was beginning to rise, casting a ghostly reflection upon the lake that rested in a very large clearing of the thick forests. Normally, this place would be alive with all manner of sounds from the typical owl hoots to the suspicious sound of children to the menacing reptilian roars of things that should no longer be on Earth. Now, however, the snow-blanketed area gave not a whisper, not a sigh, not a sound. This place, more than ever, felt the sorrow that seemed to cover the world.
A brilliant white building, five stories tall, one hundred and fifty feet long, and seventy-five feet wide stood near the lake. The Balkan Research Institute, as it was called, was empty right now. The scientists had all gone to their living quarters, a small village at the edge of the clearing, for the night. This did not mean that there was no life, though…In fact, the building’s true purpose was only just now beginning to play out.
Deep in the basement of the Balkan Research Institute, there was a gathering going on. Thousands, perhaps even ten thousand, children and adults were meeting here. They were no trespassers, for these basement floors belonged to them. These basements had been there since the early 1900‘s, long, long before the Research Institute was ever conceived. These basements were the true purpose of the clearing, the guardian town, the secrecy, and all the other strange goings-on in this part of the world…For everything from B2 down was not the Balkan Research Institute, it was the Balkan Academy for Society’s Rejected Children.
And currently, every student and staff member, from the youngest preschoolers to the oldest janitor, was crammed into the enormous auditorium on floor B4. Normally upholstered in candy-apple red, one of the school’s representative colors, the chairs seemed to be more of a dull red-gray, like a red shirt that had been run through the wash every day for ten years. The usually bright fluorescent lights seemed ready to go out, and the normally chatty students were as silent as the grave. Things had been this way in the entire world for three days now, and here, at the Academy, was the epicenter. The air itself seemed dead, and all colors were as shades of gray.
These events could only mean one thing--something was bothering someone in a very high place. Most of the world would site some god or another…But not those here. Those here knew better. They knew who made the gods, and knew him personally.
Ask any Joe Schmoe and he could tell you the world seemed to be in mourning. After all, just about everyone around the globe had been crying themselves to sleep for no good reason at all. Anyone who knew even a small bit of the truth of the world would say, “Of course it is. An elf must have died.” Elves were the Creator’s chosen ones, the one’s made in his likeness. Naturally, the world would seem like a much sadder place if one were to die. The scale of this grief, however, was gigantic. The world had experienced the death of an elf before, and it was nothing like this. Christians would reference their God’s wrath and grief as His son was crucified and remark at the similarities. If only they knew how accurate they were.
This time, not any elf had died…This time, the Creator’s own child had been killed. None were more effected than those who knew him. And, sadly, every student and teacher knew, loved, and adored their Headmaster and his son.
Valdesh the Wise, known to the world as the Creator and Protector and known to BASRC as its Headmaster, stepped onto the stage and approached the podium. The man was usually beautiful and lively past all comparison, clad in robes of pure white and shining with radiant happiness and eternal youth, his bright grey eyes that were wise beyond the meaning of wise twinkling with some form of mirth and his long raven-colored hair flowing in the wind. Not today, not yesterday, and most certainly not the day before was he his usual self. Now he was wearing solid black, and his hair was tied back. His skin was pale, but did not have its normal glow, and in fact looked rather deathly. He even looked older, like someone in their forties instead of an older teen or young adult. He looked out over his students and teachers, his janitor and lunch ladies, his nurses and counselors, and they could see that all the emotion, all the vigor and purpose and life, was gone from those magnificent orbs. He was still beautiful, but his beauty was like that of a withering rose…He had lost every drop of his once never-ending zeal.
“Students and staff of BASRC,” he began, even his voice, normally full and playful, sounding empty. “I thank you for your patience and kindness. You have put up with me over these last five days, and I realize that I am very much a handful. I did not ask a single person to help me search, and yet every one of you that was able was out there searching with me. Not one of you was required to attend Lucien’s wake yesterday nor his funeral last night, and yet all of you did. I have been receiving a steady stream of condolences from you and your families, and many of you have gone out of your way to offer me your shoulders to cry on. The words ‘thank you’ are not nearly enough, but they are all I have.”
He paused for a moment. Those sitting in the front rows could tell it was so he could gather his composure and not break into sobs. It pained them to see Valdesh like this, but they knew that nothing they could say would console him. After that moment was over, he continued.
“Classes will resume on Monday, as I’m sure many of you are eager to return to your studies to take your mind off the recent events. The counselors’ offices will now be open twenty-four hours a day to offer ears if anyone feels they need to be heard and grief counseling to those who feel they need it. I encourage all of you to go, even if you did not know Lucien very well. Also, I may not be myself, but I still have my eyes and ears--I beg you all not to play the blame game, for this is no one’s fault but my own. And now, for my final announcement…”
Faculty and student alike leaned in expectantly. Their Headmaster looked very, very deadly serious, and it was worrying them. Not even a single person on the staff had any inkling as to what this announcement was going to be about.
“…These last five days have made me think about the state of things. The last three days have been especially trying on my mind…However, that has not clouded my judgment. I have reached the conclusion that, if I cannot care for and protect my one and only child, I have no right to care for and protect the children of others…From this moment forward, I resign from my position as Headmaster of the Balkan Academy for Society’s Rejected Children.”
