OK, I replaced the story that was once on Dec. 13 so any new comments would be nice. :]
Blackwaters is diminishing before my eyes. Each day the city is becoming worse, fires blacking out the sun, confusing storms from the thick throng of dark clouds, building crashing down into piles of stone pieces and splintered wood beams, and the river that splits and wiggles its way around the small islands carrying bodies and debris down stream. Corrupt leaders, rioting masses, and self-acting soldiers made it this way soon after the war began to bloom once more. Apparently it never died but instead was tucked a way until the next attack was made. And it has, ten years after the public thought it was through. Now three major cities lay in a nuclear dust cloud, their skies tinted red and their building skeletal outlines of great beauty brought down by the need for power.
I feel useless. My great promise to protect the city is backfiring with the amount of events that happen day in and day out. My kind can no longer keep up and save those in need, the effects of the war quickly playing catch-up with its people. It had to make up for the years missed and was completing its destructive power and fear induced crimes in what would be years within just one. Giving up feels more like the better option each day because of the little effect I am making. People talk bad of us instead of the usual pride for having such a great “guard” to promise them relief of any troublesome connections that tie down their lives. A bowed head of shame replaces the smile that I wore when I heard these comments as the war carries on.
At the moment, as I watch the Harbinger’s Gazebo be licked with the flames of rioter’s torch on top of the Altus Chapel dome, its eight foot spire rising above with the flag of the people fluttering in the wind of a coming storm. The flag is red and white and ridden with holes. On it is the symbol of the rioters’ resistance: a fist in the air with the thumb tucked underneath the fingers instead of on top. I heard from eavesdropping on the norm of the current public that it is meant to show the missing idea of the war: its people. I’m not sure if it’s a specific section or type of people, but that is the most I have ever heard when the flag is pointed out and discussed. The dome itself has had its beautiful grace destroyed by an explosive of some sort, a large, jagged edge gap revealing the innards of the building on the western side. White bricks that make up the dome slip and fall on to the delicately chosen pattern of black and white tiles below on the chapel floor each time I climb up here to gaze upon my dying city. The entire thing is slowly slipping a way from repair should the war ever cease or, better yet, disappear completely for striking workmen to fix. But in truth, I think I’ll be still be alive to see the city fall from the grasp of a much need savior. Like now, I’ll watch each little island crash and burn, murdered by blood thirsty, war influenced minds. And like the three cities that sparked life back into the war, it will be a reminder of power hungry fools willing to kill for the world.
I close my eyes and take in a slow, deep breath, wishing with all my power for everything to return to what it was. The bustling, gleaming city of Blackwaters that I grew up to love. The people smiling as they walked among the vendors and return to their families with warmth in their hearts and food in their arms. Even the daily storms that blow through are only but a symbol of love for the city. The people welcomed it with open arms, young women and men dancing arm and arm under the heavy sheets of splattering cold, laughing as they do. The rivers that twists its fingers around the islands runs with dark, forbidding waters that we steer far from when it turns torrent during the rain. But it is the reason for our name and we don’t fear as much as we should.
But of course, that Blackwaters is gone and I doubt its return. I open my eyes to my callus ridden hands, all my times of free running the city is showing its signs. A fat drop of rain hits my palm and I watch as it dips into the lines of my hand and pools near the middle of it, the water gray and fogged. More drops begin to slowly fall from the sky, its clouds a mix of storm and hellfire smoke. I tilt my hand forward, allowing the drop to meld into its original shape and drip from my fingertip, its body heading fast to the cobblestone streets below.
What is to become of us when the city is gone? Our use will no longer be needed with the grounds reduced to rubble and the remaining people turned to beggars looking through the decaying ruins for some sort of shelter or food. Will we gather our things and head for a larger city with a greater need for protection? Though I fear that their laws won’t be as loose with our ways of help. There our heads would be chopped clean off and put on a pike for the civilians to look upon, their fear for the government escalating steadily with each new head. My hand folds into a fist with the thought of it all.
“I hate to be a bother to you,” A smooth, deep voice interrupts from behind. “But the storm coming is said to be the worst of the year.” I turn around to stare right into the dark eyes Darcy. Well eye, since the right has a patch over top. He must have been hunting an enemy for it to completely filled in black, the trademark of our kind. Everyone can tell if one person is part of us when they see our hunting eyes. The parasite makes it so and sometimes that very fact can give us away to our targets.
“I suggest you find shelter before you’re stuck in the middle of it all.” He continues. His shirt’s high collar is up and buttoned to block the lower half of his face so only the eye and up are visible. Even then he where a black cloak with its hood up to block out the rain and his shoulder length black hair that is probably tightened into a ponytail like he usually has it. I blink once, allowing a raindrop that has clung to my eyelashes to fall, the weight a very little improvement to the one on my shoulders.
“Maybe it’ll kill me,” I say monotone, refusing my eyes to stray course of his. “The city won’t miss me.” I turn back towards the gazebo, the flames not giving up the fight with its mortal and worst enemy. Darcy snorts and I don’t react when he’s suddenly beside me, his footsteps lacking audible sound. Like we were taught to do. He joked he was trained to do the job we do while still in his mother’s womb, and you almost want to take it seriously because there is no better “guard” then Darcy. He is the one to make the hardest of targets seem as easy as breathing. We all envy him.
“Twenty-five, fully trained, and you’re already giving up on me, Arawn,” He says it as a statement and not a question. “I always thought you were the most determined. Even a leader, perhaps. And leaders are captains. They always go down with the ship.” His eye looks over at me, but I do not crack a smile at the first thing he said to me during training. The city is the ship, but I don’t know if she’s really worth dying for anymore. She’s that beat up, old thing that people jeer at when it passes by. Not worth it at all.
“I think the city is ball and it’s fumbling in our hands,” I say, turning towards him. “We’re losing a grip and fast.” He doesn’t break my gaze for a moment, but then sighs and looks back at the islands ahead. His hand with a quarter of it and his ringer and pinkie finger missing threads its way through his hair and his grasps it, deciding whether or not to rip from his scalp.
“We have one last try, Arawn,” He says, pronouncing every word slowly. “And God help us that we don’t lose it”
Eleven Years Earlier
My father tells me the war is finally dying. But it confuses me still. A month before he told me we had to move before the battle comes over to our side of the country. I ask him why we can’t stay here if it is nearly over and he tells me that at any moment it could spark again, burning like wildfire and continuing path towards us. He doesn’t want his family to die because of his careless state of mind.
So we pack. I share a room to myself with my two sisters’ room on my left and my parents’ on my right. My room is the smallest, Father having to give up his study when I became ten so that I didn’t have to share a room with two girls. Not only is it indecent, but he also said that every male should have his on private area before he hits puberty. I enjoyed the small place at first, but I was young and little and with my growth spurt behind me, becoming my full height of five feet ten, the area is cramped. The metal frame bed with its old mattress, itchy, wool blanket, and lumpy pillow is pressed against the right wall near the back and beside the tall, arch-topped window. It has dull yellow, stonewalls that have small, hair thin cracks in almost every area you look. The wooden floors are in need of polishing and are also dull and scratched. Besides the bed, the only thing that can fit in the room is Father’s old desk. In closes with an arched cover that you have to grab by the crooked, brass handle and push up and over to see the flat top with all the little drawer, nooks, and crannies.
A few notebooks with school studies and books sit on top of it now, waiting for packing. I have my leather and brass suitcase that holds my few articles of clothing and personal items on my bed. A pocket watch, long dead and that belonged to my great-great-grandfather, is one of the few things I keep very close. Its golden top has a symbol etched into it: the outline of a half circle with what looks like an upside down letter “A” connecting to its bottom point. When opened, the face has spider web cracks running from the top corner and across, the hands stopped on the time 12:07.
My father tells me that my great-great-grandfather was part of secret organization and the watch was given to the first of the family that joined it. When the first member died, the watch was broken the moment of their death and then handed down to the generations. He also tells me that the time on the watch is like an omen that is either good or bad and something is meant to happen to the next family member who holds at the exact time. My father says I was his omen because of my birth at 12:07 in the morning and at ten years of age he gave me the watch, telling me the story. I just fear the outcome if my sign if it should be a bad omen instead of good.
I close the watch, my thumb rubbing over the etched symbol and through the sunlight that glints of it like it is a tool sent from the heavens. There is a knock at the door and I turn in time to see my mother’s face poke in. Her light brown hair is up in a bun, a few stray, curled locks falling in front of her creamy brown eyes. She smiles at me the same smile that is warm and friendly and took my father away.
“I knew she was the one at that moment,” He told me while we walked through the city streets, a twinkle in his eye. “And I would fight to the death to see that smile everyday for the rest of my life.”
I smile back at her, but in a sad sort of way.
“Are you ready? The carriage is already here and everyone else is strapping it.” She says. I look back at the watch slowly, nodding as I pocket it and close my suitcase. Through my window I can see my sisters climbing into the carriage, giggling as a boy I know from my school studies throws two roses at them. Mel, the middle child and a year younger then me, catches hers and smiles as she sniffs at it, looking at the boy through the petals. Joule misses her rose by a fingers touch and scrambles to get it from the puddles on the cobblestone road and away from the horses’ hooves. She nearly trips on her white dress that is for an age older then eight while making a quick grab for the flower. She steps into a puddle and the dirty water splashes over the hem creating an ugly water and dirty speckle stain.
I roll my eyes and grab the suitcase by the handle, walking after my mother out my now old bedroom. I know the boy well. Jackson taught me a few ways on how to woo a woman and it has worked for me numerous times. But no girl can resist Jackson charms and he learned over the years of how to make a girl really fall to your feet. Some in the sickliest romantic ways that even I won’t try.
The second floor, on which our rooms are, is more like a balcony that hangs over the first floor. In has a small walk space to the stairs that spiral down to our living area with a small television, two puffy red velvet couches, that were a gift from a rich family member, and bookcases that line the entire wall from floor to the wooden border underneath the balcony. We walk out of the front door where a tall coachman is waiting for my suitcase to finish the loading. As he reaches for it I put a hand up to stop him.
“I have it.” I say, giving a small smile. He bows and walks over to the front of the carriage to ready the horses and sit on the driver’s bench to steer them towards our new home. I walk to the back and fit the suitcase between two thick ropes of twine. It scratches my hand and small cuts criss cross over my palm, burning like paper cuts. Blood seeps up quickly and I have nothing to stop it from spreading into the lines of my hands. I curl them into fist and stuff them into my trouser pockets, only taking them out to pull myself up into the carriage and sit on the black leather bench next to my sisters who still faun over Jackson’s roses. Mel is in the middle of the seat while Joule sits next the window. My parents sit on the bench in front of ours, my mother looking out the window with her hands in her lap and my father staring down at some documents, his thin, metal rimmed reading glasses squat on the bridge of his nose.
I already know it will be a silent and long ride over to Blackwaters. Three hours to the ship docks and then a four-day ride to the city across the ocean and into a river that leads to the lake where it is stranded like a forgotten child’s toy, separated into twelve tiny islands. The sound of a whip cracking starts the horses to the docks and I watch through the mirror beside the window as our old home, stuck between two shops, turns into a pinprick of color then nothing at all.
Gender:
Points: 4815
Reviews: 45