Puppeteer

 "Peasants like you are undeserving of names. You are nothing more than slaves, dirt underneath our boots! You don't see the dirt groveling over names, now do you?"

 That's what the nobles said to each and every peasant who wanted to be like any other peasant outside of the castle boundaries. Those outsiders were different, free to do as they will. But the nobles warned them that the outsiders were also savages, murderers, wild like the wolves and bears in the forest. People that nobody should aspire to be.

 No, the best peasants were busy ones, working as slaves as they worked at the few factories the nobles acquired from the great Shark God. The conditions were filthy and horrible, almost unbearable with the little time they had to eat, sleep, and spend time with their families. But it was better this way, so the nobles said.

 The child had no name. He had worked much like his parents and their parents and the ancestors before them. They were assigned to the windmills, told to turn the great big wheel so that the fan could move and this wonderous "electric energy" would power the castle. Of course, they had no choice. It was either do as the nobles said or get fifty lashes of the whip and no dinner. It was grueling, boring work, pushing a wheel around and around with thirty others, in the hopes that the windmill would generate enough energy to please the nobles.

 As he grew up, though, his magic began to develop. He found himself with strings around his fingers, which moved around almost on their own. It made the day's work easier, as the strings carried the weight of whatever they held, taking the pressure off the small boy's hands and body. He used them whenever he thought the watchmen wouldn't notice, sometimes even taking the place of two other slaves as they took a rest.

 He was not lucky forever. One of the watchmen noticed what he was doing and reported it. He was allowed to continue, but as a result, none of the other slaves got food. "No work, no dinner," the nobles said. The boy protested over and over, but the nobles would not budge. If he wanted to do all the work, fine. However, the others would starve, and that wouldn't be very good, would it? The boy became more and more desperate in his pleas until, in a rage, he lashed out with his strings at one of them.

 The strings attached to the noble's arms, legs, head...whatever they could reach. And like a puppet, the boy controlled the noble's every move until he gave in. The slaves would be allowed to have a break, as long as the boy took their place for however long they rested. Pleased, the boy accepted the proposition, eager to see things improve.

 Someone had other ideas.

 It was easy going, for a time. The boy's power grew as he did, the strings handling more and more weight on their own before snapping. He could control little dolls, and he did so to keep himself company at night while his parents worked. He would always pretend that they were having adventures out in the wild, saving villages and slaying demons. The boy longed for freedom, just like the outsiders.

 The nobles caught wind of this and offered him another preposition: if he could control at least one slave, he would be free in a week's time to do whatever. Naive as he was, he accepted and did so, helping out with work indirectly. It was harder to control a person and took more energy, but it was alright, right?

 One slave became two. Two became five. Five became ten. He was made to control more and more, and he noticed that afterwards,  not only did he feel exhausted, but the other slaves had no memory of what happened. He wanted to argue against the nobles, but they had his parents, ready to slit their throats if the boy didn't do what they wanted. The boy was forced to control all the slaves at the windmill so they would never ask for sleep or breaks, just work mindlessly until the nobles were pleased. The sheer strain of it all left the boy extremely tired, yet he could barely get a wink of sleep. Watching as his own friends walk around as complain of headaches and unable to remember much terrified him, as he knew he was to blame. Their misery was his pain.


 When he could take it no longer, the boy snuck out in the middle of the night and ran, ran as far as his legs could take him. Far, far, far away from the windmill, the farms, the factories, the castle. Far away from the life he was forced into.

 The boy lived off the land after escaping, picking berries and making tools out of what he could gather. He stole cloth and sewing materials from nearby towns so he could make his own puppets, each developing a personality of their own. He had no money to his name, no place to stay. Not even a name.

 Now, though, the Puppeteer performs for others, leaving the past in the past as he does silly little ditties with a little red devil. The coin it brought wasn't much, but as long as he had food, the Puppeteer cared not. Word on the wind was that a trial in the Netherworld would begin soon, and people who succeeded in them would be rewarded handsomely. The puppeteer thought about how much gold that would be, and imagined a grand feast, like how fairy tales decribed a victory celebration for a great triumph over evil. That would last him a lifetime!

 Eager to do these trials, the puppeteer headed toward the Netherworld with his puppet. Eager to escape the past and break free of Fate's strings...