Noah P.O.V
Five years. A complete cycle since I crossed the threshold of the Addams Mansion and my destiny became intertwined with that gloriously dysfunctional family.
They were years... Turbulent? Yes, absolutely. Between subtle assassination attempts from Wednesday, "collaborative" explosive experiments with Pugsley, and philosophical discussions about the nature of death with Morticia during afternoon tea, the definition of "turbulent" gained new layers. Strange? Not so much. After traversing the Gray Mist and witnessing portals of cosmic larvae, an animated cemetery, and fried tarantula meals seemed almost... homely. Productive? Yes, and very much so.
Morticia's teachings were a watershed. She didn't teach me power in the brute sense. She taught me control. The refined art of a Seer.
Through it, I managed to develop spells that amplified and directed my innate abilities, turning clairvoyance from a passive gift into an active tool. More crucially, she taught me focus in Spirituality.
Not just as a well of energy to be depleted, but as a muscle, a subtle circulatory system. I learned to optimize its use, to channel it with precision, to spend the minimum for the maximum effect. An Air Bullet that once required considerable effort could now be fired with a simple snap of the fingers or a "Bang." A Trick from the Path of the Door that now consumed only a tiny crumb of my immense Spirituality.
However, her teachings, as valuable as they were, only helped me up to a certain point. They were the foundation of a Seer, but I was more than that. This is where my own methodology came into play. The development of Interpretation and Enactment of my visions – a technique I refined to the extreme – proved to be the master key.
By not only seeing the fragments of fate but by embodying them, by acting out the roles and archetypes they suggested, I discovered that I accelerated my progress on the Paths exponentially. Each vision was a script, and by incarnating it in the real world, I "convinced" the Sequences themselves to recognize me, to grant me the next step.
And the results... the results spoke for themselves.
In these five years, I passed through 5 sequences of the Path of the Fool. From Magician to Scholar of Yore, and then beyond, climbing steps of madness and enlightenment that irrevocably transformed my perception of reality.
Simultaneously, I advanced through 4 sequences of the Path of the Door, mastering not only the opening of physical paths but also a certain dominion over Space. And, in a more sinuous but no less effective way, I walked 4 sequences of the Path of the Error, learning things such as Creation of Avatars by separating the Characteristics of the Path of the Error from my body.
The abilities I gained from the Path of the Fool were:
Metamorphosis of the Faceless: The ability to reshape my face and form, not as an illusion. Useful for infinite situations, from infiltration to scaring Pugsley in new and creative ways.
Manipulation of Spiritual Threads & Creation of Living Puppet by the Marionettist: Allows me to perceive and manipulate the Spiritual Body Threads of an organism; they directly influence the Body of the Soul, the Astral Projection, the Body of the Heart and Mind, and the Ether Body of the target. Then, using the Ether Body as a bridge, they can control the target's body, creating a Living Puppet.
Granting through Spiritual Worms and Concealment of the Bizarre Sorcerer: I can use the Spiritual Worms – creatures present in the Mythical Creature Form – to "infect" others with fragments of my power. Concealment allows me to hide my Beyonder nature and abilities from anyone below my Sequence.
And then, there is the crown of many of these achievements: the power of History of the Scholar of Yore. This power is a method for interacting with the very fabric of the past. History here is an active concept, an accessible realm, divided into three main disciplines:
Historical Void Borrowing: This is the most direct application. It allows me to borrow strength from my past self. Imagine conjuring the physical strength, agility, or peak spiritual power of a version of myself from minutes, hours, or even days ago. I can borrow that power as many times as I want, creating a devastating cumulative effect – like the punch that crushed Joel, which carried the impact of a hundred of my "past selves." The limit is not the number of borrowings, but the Spirituality required to sustain them.
Historical Projection Summoning: Here, the power expands beyond myself. It allows me to summon people or objects that existed in the past as ephemeral Historical Projections. These are not illusions; they are temporary echoes with a portion of the original's power and essence. However, the invocation is governed by three immutable laws:
1st Rule (Knowledge): The more detailed and better my understanding of the historical fragment and the specific subject I wish to invoke, the greater the chances of success and the longer the projection will last. Knowing the name, face, a famous feat is the basics; understanding their motivation, their fears, their favorite scent – that strengthens the summoning.
2nd Rule (Hierarchy): The lower the target's level is in relation to me (the Scholar of Yore), the greater the chance of success and the longer the duration. Invoking a legendary hero is a Herculean and fleeting task. Invoking a common soldier from a forgotten battle is significantly easier.
3rd Rule (Affinity): Increasing affinity with the target I wish to invoke in the future (that is, in my present, which is the future of the past I invoke) increases the chances of success. If I, in the "now," create a bond, keep a relic, or study something deeply, it becomes easier to pull its echo from the past later.
Historical Void Hiding: Being able to enter the Historical Void and hide within its gaps, as long as my Spirituality allows it. This allows a me to avoid danger, but I must exit the exact place in the world as soon as the me stops hiding.
Ah, I'm digressing. Time to focus.
I turned 13 exactly one week ago. There was no party, by my preference. The idea of a structured social ritual in my honor seemed so... superfluous. But gifts, those came. Although only from three family members. Back then, Wednesday and I still weren't on... good terms. Which is a generous euphemism for the cold war of provocation, disdain, and occasional homicide attempts that characterized our early years.
From Gomez, it was a Saber and a Foil. Blades of excellent quality, balanced, elegant down to the smallest details. The gift came with a memory. I vividly remember our first fencing duel. Gomez was unbeatable for the first few minutes, a whirlwind of lethal grace, his sword an extension of his mischievous smile. But then, I got the hang of it. It wasn't just technique; it was about reading the intention in his eyes, anticipating the rhythm of our duel.
I managed to beat him. The expression of pure, ecstatic surprise on his face was better than any trophy. It was so much fun that we scheduled another duel for the next day, and thus created the routine of subsequent duels until today. It became our ritual, a form of conversation more honest than any words.
From Morticia, it was a book. I opened the black silk wrapping and... it was a romance novel. A dark and passionate classic, of course, but a romance nonetheless. I froze for a second. I don't know if she knew about my... intentions with Wednesday, which at the time were more confused and less defined than they are now, or if she just thought it would be a great idea to give it to me, since she and Gomez... Well, it's better to stop here. Otherwise, I'll remember things I involuntarily witnessed and heard during my years of residence.
Some whispers at night, certain looks during dinner, the... macabrely passionate poetry that sometimes echoes through the corridors. The Addams' intimacy is a force of nature, and being exposed to it as a spectator was a peculiar education. The book, therefore, was a very enigmatic gift. A provocation? A veiled approval? A manual? Morticia, as always, left it for me to decipher.
From Pugsley? A bomb. Not a metaphor. Yes, a bomb. Handmade, with colored wires, a spinning timer, and a bright red button. He handed it over with a shy but proud smile. He told me to choose what to blow up with it and that it would be great chaos. His perfect gift. And the most touching part: He learned a lot after that explosion in his face. That incident, which began as a manipulation by me and ended with him charred, didn't push him away.
On the contrary, it seemed to have inspired him to go further, with more (relative) safety and creativity. The bomb was a symbol of that. It was his way of saying: "See how I've improved! Let's blow things up together, but better this time."
I stood there, in my room, with a saber, a foil, a forbidden romance novel, and a homemade bomb inside the suitcases on the bed. A perfect summary of my life over the last five years: martial arts, emotional intrigue, charged literature, and controlled explosions. And, somehow, it all made sense.
Knock! Knock!
"Come in," I responded, without raising my voice. My hands finished adjusting the strap of the suitcase where I had packed the gifts – the saber, the foil, the enigmatic book, and the bomb, each in its rightful place, protected by layers of fabric and paper.
The door opened, and she entered.
Wednesday Addams. Three days since the last significant encounter, since the last charged exchange that didn't end in blood or poisoning attempts. Even after 3 days, she remained the same, a perfect silhouette of darkness and sharp lines, her face a mask of pale porcelain. Yet, something had shifted in the air. The scent of imminent threat, the metallic click of traps being set, that... had ceased. There was a different silence, a space charged not with hostility, but with a new and unknown tension.
I didn't turn around. I remained with my back to her, my hands still resting on the suitcase, feeling the leather's texture as an anchor point. The provocation came naturally, an old dynamic trying to reassert itself.
"What is it?" I asked, my voice neutral. "Were the 3 days we spent without trying to kill or discover each other's weakness a waste of time?"
"No." Wednesday replied, and the simple fact that she answered the question directly was already a deviation. Her voice was softer, but no less intense.
"They were not a waste of time. It was a time of learning." She moved, not to encircle me, but to stand beside me, looking at the same dark window I faced, her profile outlined against the faint light. "I learned some things during that time. My weaknesses. And my strengths."
Her response wasn't what I expected. It wasn't a cutting insult, nor a silent attack. It was a calm, heavy statement.
Inside me, something shifted. A rare feeling of... genuine surprise. And then, an involuntary smile touched my lips, directed only at myself. Who would have thought she'd say that?
I took advantage of the opening, turning the provocation into a probe, trying to map the new contours of this unknown territory between us.
"And I," I asked, finally turning to face her, "am included in which of those?"
Wednesday looked at me from the corner of her eye, a slow and deliberate movement. Her gaze was no longer the ice spear from before. It was a silent firing squad, an analysis carrying the weight of those three days of introspection. I knew the answer, of course. The dynamic between us was the very definition of ambiguity. But I still wanted to hear it from her.
She didn't answer immediately. Wednesday crossed her arms over her chest, a defensive but also contemplative gesture. For a moment, it seemed the old hostility would return, that she would kill me with that look.
Then, she spoke. The voice was flat, but the words were the most complex I had ever heard from her.
"You are both to me."
The phrase hung in the air between us, simple and devastating in its honesty. Both. Weakness and strength. Vulnerability and power. She acknowledged me as the contradiction I was in her life.
It was a monumental admission, a surrender to the complexity we had denied for years. And in that moment, looking at her serious profile illuminated by the gray window light, I understood that those three days of truce were not an intermission.
My body turned almost of its own accord, drawn by the magnetic pole of her presence. She was already looking at me, her black eyes – those two pools of resolute darkness – fixed on mine. There were no words. The air between us, so charged with newly admitted truths, seemed to contract, pulling us toward each other.
We drew closer. A step from me, a slight lean from her. The outside world – the suitcase, the gifts, the silent mansion – dissolved into an irrelevant blur. We closed our eyes almost in unison, an act of mutual surrender.
And then, our lips met.
It wasn't like the first, that act of defiance and brutal discovery. This was different. Slower. Deeper. A recognition. A feeling welled up from my chest, warm and overwhelming, a whirlwind without a name but that dictated my movements. My hands found her waist, firm, pulling her against me, feeling the familiar curve beneath the dark fabric of her dress.
Simultaneously, her hands vanished from in front of her body and wrapped her arms around my neck, her fingers lightly digging into my hair, pulling me even closer. It was an embrace that was both possession and surrender, a perfect balance of strength.
The kiss seemed to last an eternity and an instant. When we finally parted, it was with a reluctant slowness, our faces still inches apart, the shared warmth lingering between us.
My voice came out as a hoarse whisper, laden with an emotion I no longer tried to hide.
"Cara mia..."
"Mon Cher."
Her reply came in the same tone, a sweet and dark echo.
Our eyes met again. I saw her, truly. The porcelain mask had cracked, not into pieces, but enough to reveal the vulnerable intensity behind it. The coldness had transformed into a concentrated heat, a passion as deep and singular as everything about her.
"Te valde amo." I spoke, the emotion overflowing, finding expression in an ancient language, fitting for something so eternal.
And then, it happened. For the first time, she smiled. It wasn't the sharp, triumphant smile of the Wednesday plotting revenge. It was a genuine smile, small, that merely touched the corners of her mouth and lit up her eyes in a way I had never seen before. It was beautiful. It was terrifying. It was everything.
"Ego quoque." She whispered back, her voice as soft as silk over a blade.
And then, in a movement that was both graceful and decisive, she pulled away. Her arms lowered from my neck, her hands slid down mine until they let go. She took a step back, her eyes still locked on mine for a prolonged second that carried a world of unspoken promises. And then, she turned and left the room, the door closing with a soft click behind her.
I stood in the middle of the room, her taste still on my lips, the echo of Latin in the air, the image of her smile burning in my retina. The silence she left behind was different from all others. It was a charged, complete silence.
And then, an absurd, mundane, and completely human question arose in my mind, hovering over the cosmic ecstasy of the moment:
'Is there any way I can only go to Nevermore next year?'
The idea of leaving that mansion, that room, that presence which had finally revealed itself in such a raw and perfect way... suddenly seemed the most foolish and painful proposition in the world.
...
The moment of farewell on the staircase of the Addams Mansion was a silent, charged ceremony. Gomez with a firm handshake and a glint in his eye that said, "cause chaos, but cause it with style." Morticia with a light touch on the shoulder and a whisper of, "remember the lessons, dear pupil, both those from the grimoire and those from the heart." Pugsley with a surprise hug and a suspiciously heavy, ticking package that I accepted with a resigned smile. Wednesday... Wednesday remained a step behind, her black eyes burning a hole through me, a single nod that was worth more than any speech. Promises didn't need words between us.
Then, I turned and got into the car. The interior was a familiar cocoon of leather and silence. And there, in the driver's seat, after all these years, was Dominic. His face seemed to have aged a decade, his eyes deeper, but his hand on the wheel was steady. The aura of fear was still there, but now tempered by professional resignation.
"It's been a while," I said, settling into the back seat. My voice echoed softly in the confined space. "I believe you don't have any more questions like the one from 5 years ago, right?" The memory of our dialogue on the plane, about justice and theft, about the parasite and the host, hung in the air.
The response came not in words, but in a deep, solemn silence. He didn't turn around, only looked at the road ahead, but the tilt of his head was an agreeing nod. The questions had been answered by the force of actions, by the years of observation. He no longer needed to question my nature; he served it.
"So cold~" I teased, a light smile touching my lips. It was an established dynamic. Him, the silence. Me, the commentary. It worked.
The engine purred softly and the car began to move, slowly pulling away from the dark property. Through the tinted window, I looked back at the Addams House. The gothic silhouette against the cloudy sky shrank, each familiar detail – the tower, the twisted trees, Wednesday's bedroom window – merging into a dark, distant mass. An involuntary sigh escaped my lips, carrying the complexity of five years of transformation, pain, learning, and... love.
But from that sigh, a smile was born. It wasn't one of sadness, but of anticipation. A chapter was closing, but the book was far from finished.
"Here we go," I spoke to the car's void, my words sounding like an oath. "Nevermore Academy."
And then, like a reflection of the power now coursing through my veins, my eyes shone. It wasn't a subtle glow. The icy blue of the left eye and the intense red of the right lit up like beacons in a face of absolute serenity, painting the car's dark interior with their ethereal colors for a brief moment.
I was no longer the lost boy.
I am Noah Adnyeus Edgar, Beyonder of the Saint class, bearer of the Paths of the Fool, Door, and Error, and Nevermore Academy, with all its secrets and dangers, had no idea what awaited it.
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Just so it doesn't go unnoticed, here's what Noah looks like now:
[Image]