The Man and the Moon

“Daddy?” The thoughts of an aging man were barely perforated by the whispered word. Taking a slow breath of smoky air, the man sitting by a dancing campfire turned to face his daughter. Tree leaves far above her angelic head cast speckled shadows across her tiny frame, and the light from the fire seemed to age her face a few years. He couldn’t help but notice how much she looked like her mother.

The man held out his hand to the child distractedly, his gaze flickering between the stars in her eyes and the stars in the sky. The little girl took a few timid steps across the dying leaves and sat down in his lap. Her bright, blue eyes, framed by tiny wisps of blonde hair, studied the large hand that cradled her own.

“What are you doing up so late, sweetie?” he asked, his voice seeming distant.

The little girl squeezed his hand with her tiny fingers. “I had a bad dream.” A tiny wind blew, like a breath of air, and she shivered. He hugged her close to himself, wrapping his arms around her.

“You know what makes me forget bad dreams?” he asked his daughter.

The little girl shook her head. He turned her in his lap so that he could look her full in the face. His mind had deserted whatever it had been previously occupied with, and now he completely devoted himself to his daughter. “Stories,” he whispered. As if his voice was a sign, the fire gave a crackle, sending tiny bursts of light into the nighttime air.

The girl wrinkled her nose like she had taken a sip of sour milk. “But daddy your stories are always about knights and dragons and kings and boys. I don’t like boys.”

The man tried to hide a smile. “There’s nothing wrong with boys.”

“Ewwww!” the girl said, rocking back and forth in protest. “Boys pick boogers!”

The man laughed now, the traces of a few wrinkles beginning to emerge from his tanned skin. “Alright, what do you want to hear about?”

The girl grinned like she had just received a new doll. “A princess!”

“Ah, princesses…” the man said, watching his daughter’s eyes light up at the word. “So be it…are you ready?” The girl nodded eagerly, curls bouncing around her face as she did so. “You’re not going to fall asleep on me, are you?” She shook her head reverently, almost appalled he would accuse her of such an act. “Alright. Here we go.” He cleared his throat, took a moment to think, and began to stare into the fire. He stared so long the girl thought that he might have forgotten he had promised her a story, but then he opened his mouth and begin to weave pictures for her in the air. She sighed to herself and leaned back into his chest, inhaling the smell of the woods around her and his cologne.

“Once upon a time,” the man began, his eyes growing distant once more as he watched images flash across his mind’s eye, “There was a kingdom in the sky, full of people that floated on clouds and sailed across rainbows to get from one place to another. These sky people were beautiful, tall, and happy, and they had a beautiful king and queen that ruled over them. The queen had skin like light beams that dance in the sun, and sky blue eyes. Her beauty was unmatched by anyone in the kingdom except her own daughter. The queen and the princess had personalities as different from each other as the colors of a rainbow.”

The man paused for a moment, capturing the look of his daughter’s expectant face as she peered up at him in anticipation. The air around them was still, as if it too was waiting for him to begin again and speak of the wonders of the sky kingdom. “Well,” he started after a moment, “The queen’s daughter was extremely curious, and every day she would stare down past the clouds and dream of the land of earth she had heard tales about. You see, the people of the sky were all so beautiful and radiant that if they touched the ground, they would die.”

Slight pressure around his fingers caused the man to stop once more and he glanced down to see his daughter’s fingers clenched around his. “Is this a sad story, daddy?” she asked quietly, eyes downcast.

His heart lurched inside him like someone had tied a string around it and was trying to pull it out of his chest. “You’ll never know if you stop listening…do you want me to stop?”

The grip around his fingers loosened. “No,” she admitted before meeting his eyes once more, a signal for him to continue.

“The princess would ask her mother every day if there was some way she could go to earth, but the queen was afraid that if her daughter went to the world below, she would fall in love and never come back to her home in the sky. She lied and said there was no way.”

The firelight died just a little and the girl asked in a hushed tone, “Was the princess sad?”

“She was very sad. She was so sad, in fact, that every night she would go to her room and cry, and her tears froze in the sky and became stars.” The girl gasped and immediately glanced up in a way that was so cute her father almost forgot his train of thought.

With a small smile, he resumed. “The king soon noticed that the princess was sad, and that there was not a day that went by that she did not stare down at earth in longing. One night, he came to her room without telling the queen and he built the princess a secret door that opened on the surface of earth. If she passed through the door, a magical spell would fall over her and protect her from death on the surface. The king loved his daughter very much, but he (like the queen) was afraid that the princess would leave her home forever once she stepped foot on earth. He told her that the door would only open one time every month, and it would stay open for one full night. If she had not passed through the door before it shut in the morning, she would stay on earth and die when the sun rose.”

“Did she go to earth, daddy?” asked the precious girl, her eyelids closing half an inch.

“She did indeed,” he answered, tucking a stray strand of golden hair behind one of her tiny ears. “She left the first night her magic door opened, and she found herself in a forest. This was very strange to her, for trees did not exist above the clouds in her kingdom. She placed her pale, white hands on the rough bark. She smelled the piney scent of the woods. She walked through the freshly fallen leaves barefoot. She let the wind tickle her skin.” As if to demonstrate, the father blew gently on his daughter’s nose. She let out an innocent giggle.

“She found many things in the forest, but she found one thing she did not expect…a man.” The wind whistled through the tree leaves again, as if to remind him that the whole world was listening to his tale. “What a foolish man he was. He was no more than a mere woodsman, hunting and fishing, and resting by the river. He saw her walking through the trees… so curious and delighted by every little thing she saw, like a child just born and new to life.” The tone of his voice changed slightly, from one of mere recitation to one of recollection.

“He watched her for a while, and as he was a curious man, he began to wonder who she was and why he had never seen her before. He rose up from his resting place beside the river and began to approach her, but in doing so he stepped on a twig that snapped so loudly the princess heard and caught sight of him. She was startled and immediately ran back to her door in the forest, jumped through, and disappeared. When he ran to open the door, it had melted into the trees and was no more.”

Ancient oaks and other wizened trees loomed above and stretched out their limbs in front of him, but the storyteller saw nothing save for the images in his mind. “For the next month, the princess could only think of the earth, and the man in the trees. The woodsman, likewise, could only think of the woman in the forest. He determined the next time he saw her again, if ever he did, he would speak to her. A slow month came and passed, and the princess waited eagerly that night for the door to open. The second it did, she went through and began to search for the strange man in the woods. They met, and talked, and walked by the babbling stream.”

The father glanced down at his daughter, for she had grown quiet. Rubbing her eyes, she asked quietly, “What happened?”

The man hugged his daughter tightly, throat constricting. He fought a moment to overcome the feeling of compassion he had for his little girl, then said, “In the morning, she bid him farewell, and went back through the door once more. More slow months passed. With each new visit, the princess decided she loved the strange man, and the man decided he loved her back. They would hold hands and walk along the riverside. Sometimes the princess would sing him a quiet song, her voice as sweet as a nightingale. Sometimes he would tell her of all the animals in the forest like the funny little chipmunks that shoved as many nuts into their mouths as they could. Each time the sun rose, the princess would shed a tear to leave her strange earth man, but he would urge her home to her family so that she would not die. He promised her he would never cry, for she shed enough tears for both of them. One night, they had a wedding ceremony by their river, and the night sky above them sparkled with stars. The months grew long, and the princess gave birth to a beautiful little girl.”

“As the years wore on, the queen began to notice her daughter had changed. The queen asked questions, and eventually the princess told her mother of the magic door, the trips to earth, and the woodsman that waited with their child. The queen grew afraid and angry and demanded to see the magic door. As soon as she laid eyes on it, she tried to destroy it, but only the king could remove it since he was the one who put it there. Enraged, the queen did the next-best thing and cursed her daughter with the worst curse she could think of. The princess could not be touched by anyone on earth or she would melt into the earth and be tread upon by all the animals, nothing more than the dirt and dust of the ground.”

The firelight had now grown dim, but even in such pale light the father could see his daughter fighting to stay awake. He kissed the top of her forehead. Her smooth, young skin seemed so soft against his parched lips. “The princess was very sad; she knew she could never hold her woodsman’s hand again or rock her baby to sleep. The next night the door opened, she walked through slowly, and as soon as she saw her husband, she had to shout at him not to hold her, or she would die. Her child was a month old already, and they realized that very night that the girl would never have two normal parents. How could they explain to a child as young as theirs that when it grew, if it touched its mother, she would die? What if on accident either the woodsman or the child brushed against the princess in passing?

“She cried again that night, tears enough for both of them; she knew that she had to return to the sky for good. And for the last time, the woodsman and the princess sat by the river, untouchable. When the sun rose, the princess shed one final tear, the brightest and biggest of them all, and once she stepped through the magic door, she used her tear to seal her magic door shut forever.”

The man’s daughter was limp in his strong arms, and he rocked her tenderly back and forth, as if he held the greatest treasure in the world. His eyes were upturned to the sky once more, tracing lines between each star and connecting them all to form the face of a woman he knew once, long ago. “That tear, the saddest tear that was ever cried, is the full moon. And once a month, every month, it creeps into the heaves, covering the door to the kingdom of the sky.”

There was stillness in the woods, and peaceful silence. The world had fallen asleep, lulled to rest by the melody of the story as it had been sung through the air, a tune that time had long ago forgotten. In the stillness, in gazing at the full moon above, the man almost imagined he heard a voice whispering to him on a tendril of wind. It told him to hold her tighter, to love her deeper, to kiss her soft cheeks, to rock her back to sleep, to tell her of all the joys of the world, to laugh with her and make her smile, and to cry stars with her when she felt alone. Love her as I cannot. Love her for me.

With shaky knees, the woodsman rose, careful not to disturb the tiny person huddled in his arms. He carried her gently to their house built in the middle of an ancient forest, the trees hushing the wind’s voices so the little princess could sleep sweetly. He softly slid her out from his arms and onto the warm covers on top of her bed, then proceeded to tuck her in. Perched at the corner of her bed, he watched her sleeping delicately in the moonlight, then peered out the window at the distant sky. The girl, confusing this all for a dream, opened one lazy eye, and for a split second thought she could see upon her father’s face the glittering tear trail of a star.

The Day Begins.

The day begins.

Ringing in your ears. Grab the phone, grunt to symbolize your consciousness. Slam it shut. Another grunt as you roll out of bed. The routine begins. Clothes, check. Teeth, check. Hair, check. Makeup? In process. Grab a waffle and a colored eyeliner. You’re out the door, mother calling words after you that you can’t quite catch. Grunt and wave, hop in the car, put on your shades, and drive to the end of the street.

Turn right. You’re out of the range of vision from the large, front windows where you know she watches every day. Music, on. Gum, in. Makeup? Still in process. One foot on the accelerator, one crunched up beneath you for comfort’s sake. Let the music push you forward. Let the beat of the drums and your foot on the accelerator tap in tune. Let your soul fly in the vehicle; don’t look at the creeps looking at you from their cars.

School’s in view. Phone, off. Shades, off. Car, locked. Dash inside to the ringing of the bell. You’re safe. Unload. Listen to the laughter echo around you, the friends encompassing you from all sides. Cram for a few minutes – the test is next period. Shove the book in your purse and pay attention. Grasp your wandering mind and pull it into submission. Listen to the girl on your right make a joke. Share her laughter. You’re safe.

Third period rolls around. Doodle on your bookmark. Meet the teacher’s eyes every once in a while, to give the illusion you’re attentive. Let his words soak into you; simply absorb. Try to keep your closing eyelids wide open. Watch his image multiply as you go cross-eyed. Muffled giggles. The bell rings. Everyone freezes, watching the pacing man at the front of the class. Finally, he raises the green flag. You’re dismissed. It’s a race down the deck.

Lunch. Grab the half-eaten sandwich you’ve been nibbling on throughout the day. Finish it off. Busy yourself with listing all your ideas for art, so no one will notice how little you ate. Tiny tidbits of conversation flash by. Food flies from across the room. Distant laughter. Annoyed teachers.

That freshman guy is back again, merged with your circle. Your bracelet is swiped. A battle for friendship occurs. Time for a breath of air. The deck calls softly to you inside the emptying room. March outside. Sun, check. Friends, check. Bracelets…one is missing. Brush it off; you’ll steal it back later in the day.

The periods fly by. Spanish class – write a story, just to see if you can. Whisper to your friend. She shakes her head. “aba, not avia.” Stupid preterit tense…History class is next. Zone out during discussion, mind still engrossed in the Spanish story. Yearbook. Crowd around the computer monitors. Practice making captions for pictures. Pride flares up – you see a picture you took. Laugh at the freshman, so silent and scared. Your bracelet ends up back on your wrist. The bell rings. Art class.

You’ve heard all the lectures before. Feet tapping, eyes closing…patiently, wait. Anxious fingers move the tiny slip of paper with your list of ideas. He’s done with art one; he addresses art two. Idea time. He stares at your list. The excitement shows on both of your faces – they will work. Bell rings. Up, out of the class. School is done.

Run down the deck after dismissal. Sing loudly with your friend who’s had “DJ’s got us fallin’ in love again” stuck in his head all day. The louder the better. He sings low, you sing high. Annoyed looks. Laughter. The rush of people, of noise.

Hop in your car again. Blare the music – on to volleyball practice. Walk in the gym, change, slip on your kneepads. Coach is missing…substitute is filling in. Let the misery begin… Miss all your spikes. You’re too slow today to dig. Call your mom because you might be failing Spanish. What? Do it anyway; you’ll explain later. Spike in rage. It hits the net, rolls down. Harmless.

Anger. Spike again. Out. Great load of use you are…try to serve. The ball flies out. Grind your teeth into each other. Serve again. Barely over. Smirk. Sigh. New drill. Didn’t move fast enough – run laps. Run again. Run until I say stop. Run until you can’t breathe. Run until you can’t run anymore. Run so much you won’t be able to play in the game tomorrow. Trains of words you aren’t allowed to say rumble through your mind, and for once, you let them. You’re past caring. For today.

A few concerned faces pop up, ask what’s wrong. Press your mask into your face. Nothing, nothing at all… smiles, smiles, smiles. You’re dead, or dying. The minutes drag on. Finally, you’re done. Parched, dart into your car and head somewhere, anywhere, for a large Dr.Pepper. Entertain thoughts of a milkshake, only for a minute, to keep your cravings happy. Dr.Pepper it is. Speed home, music drowning out all thought. There’s no time to reflect on how poorly you did, of how much you hate yourself. Only driving, on and on, the music numbing your mind.

Home. Grab your stuff, walk up the steps. Open the door and smell the cooked rice and melted cheese, broccoli and chicken wafting up your nostrils. Dump your stuff. Steal the last bites of food. Slide into your seat. “What was the deal with Spanish?” “Oh, I’ve done all the work, I’m only ‘borderline failing’. That’s what she said.” The conversation spins on. Do well, go to a good college. You have to work hard. You have to pass. Make A’s. Droning, on and on, droning, droning…

“And about that sleepover tomorrow, can I go?” “No, you have too many activities…” “But it’s completely convenient. Everything works out, and it’s near where I need to be tomorrow anyway.” “No. Stop arguing. You have too many activities…” Silence. Because surely you know what I’m capable of, and how many activities I can handle, and how well I can survive with little sleep, since of course you’re exactly like me and survive perfectly fine with little sleep because you stay up as late as i do every single night with no signs of fatigue... Bite back your words, don’t let them slip out of your mind and onto your tongue.

Say nothing – head upstairs. Grab your backpack. Dump it in the corner. Grab the computer. Music, check. Facebook, check. Homework? Maybe, in a little. You grow tired of all the talk, all the chat, all the noise…close something down just to open another. Get out a book. Labor through the problems, if only to keep your mind from other things. Work, work, work. Build calluses on your fingers from writing so much. Build calluses on your mind to keep out your thoughts. More music. More noise. More distractions. Finish your work, finish your conversations.

YouTube. Images flash before your eyes. People, the things they do, they say, they know, they way they say them, they way they do them. Watch the strangers talking to you like you’re a friend. Wonder about them, but not too long. Another video. Another distraction. Happy distractions are beginning to become bothersome. Computer, down. Homework, done. What’s left? Shower.

Grab clothes. Grab a towel. Time to check if the leak is fixed…waltz into the bathroom; the walls come down. Your mask slips off. No music. No friends. No car. No phone. No computer. The water hits the tub, drowning out all other thoughts except for a slow, soft voice. You stare straight ahead, your numb fingers searching for the shampoo and the conditioner. There’s nothing left for you to distract yourself with in this silence.

Shakily clear your throat. You begin to hum a small tune. It’s not loud enough. It’s not loud enough to drown out the thoughts you’ve been refusing to think throughout the day; the thoughts that lay in wait on the other side of that wall you’ve built in your mind.

Worthless. Pathetic. Won’t amount to anything. Whispers, whispers... You stare straight ahead, pale yellow tiles all you can see as the water around you drowns out everything but the voice in your head. Can’t you serve a volleyball over the net? You made your teammates run today. You write stories in Spanish, you finish all your assignments, you memorize all the words, and yet you’re “borderline failing”. What an idiot. The song dies on your lips before you hesitantly begin again once confronted with the sound of silence. You know you’re never going to do well in art. You saw all those other people in yearbook with cameras. They’re all better than you. You’ll never amount to anything at all. No college will want you. No one wants you.

Your tune isn’t heard over the noise of a thousand drops of water hitting the walls all at the same time. They hit your face, they trickle down your skin. Hot, salty liquid streams down your cheeks…but the faucet is off. You’re standing, shivering, your face wet with tears. There’s nothing left to hide behind now. What was that song you were singing? You don’t even know…it was just a song, plucked from the fabric of your sub consciousness…perhaps you heard it on the radio on the way home. How did the chorus go?

You whisper them softly to yourself, through unwilling lips, trembling and empty, your head in your wrinkled, prune-like fingers. “Don’t you know I’ve always loved you…even before there was time…Though you turn away, I’ll tell you still… don’t you know I’ve always loved you…and I always will.”

Your voice cracks. You grab the towel from the hanger and wipe off your dripping face, half-mumbling another song you thought you might have heard on a radio station in passing. “You’re the God of this city. You’re the king of these people. You’re the Lord of this nation… You are...You’re the light in this darkness. You’re the hope to the hopeless. You’re the peace to the restless…You are.” Why are you singing these songs? You dry off, slowly, thinking. “There is no one like our God. There is no one like our God…greater things have yet to come, greater things are still to be done in this city…greater things have yet to come, greater things are still to be done here.”

And then there is silence. You’re not listening. You’re slipping into your clothes, walking out the door, plopping down on your bed. Your fingers twitch for your phone, computer, music. But you don’t respond. You close your eyes. And wonder why a God so great…could love a human so small.

How many hopeless, peace-less, dark, lonely, angry, afraid people know about this love? This love loved you when you were hurting inside. This love loved you when you thought you weren’t good enough. This love loved you whether the volleyball made it over the net or not. This love loved you whether you took good pictures or you didn’t. This love loved you when you thought you were all alone. This love loved you when you hated your substitute coach. This love loved you when you cried in the shower because that was the only place your tears would go unnoticed, unquestioned. This love loved you when you wanted to be left alone, unloved. This love loved you when all you needed was someone to love you, someone to hold you and not say anything.

The love that loves when no one else does. The love that remains when you’re all alone and your mask is off and you’re not safe anymore. The love that isn’t based on what you say, or how you act, or what you appear to be, or what you do. The love that loves, regardless. True love. The love that you can’t understand and can hardly accept. The love that loves you when you’re mad at the world and want to move faster than you know how to think. The love that hears every word you speak in your mind when you’re angry. The love that knows everything you want to say back to the authorities when they try to control your life. The love that sees into your soul and knows every thought, and memory, and action…and still loves you. The pure, perfect, holy love that can love a stupid, dirty, lowly, proud, worthless, miserable lump of flesh like you. …And you think you can keep this love to yourself…

And then, you open your eyes. Breath of air. Chilling, calming. Piano music, on. Laptop, on. Mind, open. Another breath. An open document. A blank page. And then, you write:

The day begins.

Three.

A fleet pair of black shoes landed noiselesly on thick carpet. Softly they tip-toed across the darkened room and arrived in front of a dark piece of furniture. Soft snores issued from an elaborate bed across the patch of moonlight on the floor. The moon was the sole witness to what exactly happened next, for as quickly as the shadow arrived in the room, it left, and the occupant was left sleeping soundlessly.

Four hours later, the secretary of state opened his eyes on a fresh new day and stretched. He was a young man in his early twenties with sparkling white teeth and locks of soft, brown hair. Groggily, he rubbed his eyes and studied his surroundings. Pleased that his maid had remembered to clean the clutter off of his desk, he slid out of bed and over to his workstation.

Nothing out-of-the-ordinary struck him at first. His hazel eyes roamed across the smooth desktop casually and he shuffled papers around. In fact, he didn't notice that anything was different at all until he had been sitting at his desk for twenty minutes and was just about to request tea when a beam of sunlight fell onto something shiny.

Raising a well-groomed eyebrow, the man reached for the glittering object and studied the note it had been perched upon. A thin piece of notepaper clearly read in a handwritting he had almost forgotten, "Take my heart and I'll take yours. - Jenny."

His face flushed at the name. Glancing down, he recognized the golden object as the ring he had given her on their first date. On one side her name was inscribed in fading letters. On the other, his had been scratched out.

The ring slid out of his fingers as he leaned back and sighed. Weary fingers caressed his aching head as his mind re-lived the years between them. Jennifer Stone. The prettiest girl in highschool. The coolest girl in college. The only girl who had ever found out he was a cheater.

A series of images flashed behind his closed lids. Her face as he gave her the ring. The way her hair felt when he stroked it on their first date. The way he snuck out of his house to see another girl. The way Jenny screamed at him as she explained how she knew everything that was going on. The way he didn't care that she was mad at him. The way everyone stopped to stare while she created a scene and he stared stoicly ahead of him. The way her tears flowed down her cheeks.

The secretary of state sighed and opened his eyes, hesitantly caressing the piece of jewelry chiding himself for being so foolish. It was just highschool. None of that mattered now. Still...he smiled slightly to himself and slipped on the ring.

***********************************************
A world of darkness. A neverending sea of black. And then. Oxygen. Gasping, Arnold opened his eyes. Light met him full-force, blinding him for a moment so that a slight headache began to develop. He slowly sat up. Where was he? In a hallway in the White House. He glanced down at himself. The tuxedo he had rented for the occasion was puncured by a bullet hole.

Arnold frowned and took off his jacket, revealing a bullet-proof vest underneath with a fresh, new scar. Looking around, he caught sight of a body next to him. The President. His heart pumped hard in a second of panic as he gripped the shoulder of the body and rolled it over. He quickly took off the president's jacket, revealing a vest identical to his own. It rose up and down. The President was alive.

The agent raised his watch to his lips, pressed a button, and reported, "Suspect A confirmed as a lethal threat. The next target unknown." He released the button. Static. His roaming eyes stumbled across the dead bodies of the butlers as he helped the president to sit up.

The president followed his gaze, slowly regaining the breath that had been taken out of him while holding fast to Arnold for support. "Mr.President, our fears are as suspected. Your daughter, Jennifer Stone, is the murderer o--"

"Agent Arnold?" a staticy voice asked over his watch, interrupting the agent mid-sentence.

"Lighthouse! Suspect A has been confirmed. She tried to take out the president but the target has been contained." Arnold nodded to the president while swallowing. "Next target unknown."

There was a pause over the radio unit. "Not quite."
***********************************************
A hum resonated in Arnold's head as he drove the black, armored vehicle parked outside the White House to Jenny's latest hit. The President sat next to him, eyebrows etched into a frown that matched his lips too perfectly. There was no music in the car, only the hum of the engine and the grating noise of the unpaved road beneath them.

Arnold swallowed, considering what to say to the leader of the country who had just found out that his daughter was on the most wanted list. "Mr.President-" Arnold started.

Before he could say more, the President turned to him with a serious face and said, "Thank you."

Surprised, Arnold asked, "It is our duty to protect--"

"No, I'm not thanking your organization. I'm thanking you." The president's voice was solemn. Pained. Arnold met his eyes for an instant before flickering back to watch the road. "You could have chosen not to let me in on your suspicions. Everyone has been looking for the murderer of my brother. No one would have suspected my Jenny." His voice cracked on the words.

Arnold cleared his throat. Not many people would have. If he hadn't known Jenny's uncle had abused her when she was little, he wouldn't have considered it either. "Sir, we believe many more people to be in danger. She seems to be seeking revenge on anyone who ever treated her badly."

The President sighed and stared absently out of the window. As soon as the words left his left, Arnold regretted them. Surely he hadn't been too terrible of a father. Then again, when Arnold had explained that he would be required to wear a bullet-proof vest as they were setting up for the dinner, the President had seemed genuinely shocked.

"Sir, if it's any comfort, you're safe with us," Arnold said, trying to offer what looked like a smile as he pulled into a driveway full of investigator and police vehicles. "Jenny still thinks you're dead, and she can't know you're alive. That's why you'll be staying with--"

Arnold was interrupted yet again as a woman with dark hair knocked eagerly on the window of the bullet-proof van. Arnold rolled it down and she exclaimed eagerly, "We're sorry, sir, but it's the secretary of state - he's been murdered."

"Good gracious," the president murmured.

Arnold immediately got out of the car. "How did this happen?"

The woman's eyes widened as she led him over to a stretched bearing a corpse of a young, once-attractive man clad in what he had slept in the night before. "Mercury poisoning."

"Mercury poisoning?" Arnold repeated, his eyes scanning over the man's discolored frame. Bits of blood marred his otherwise flawless skin when in his last moments he had gone insane and clawed himself. "How did this happen?" Disgust trickled into his voice. How did Jenny manage this?

The woman shook her head, staring at the disfigured body. "We're not exactly sure." She pointed to the dead man's hand. "But traces of mercury were found on his ring."

One. Two.

i wrote this once {something vaguely like it} in a facebook chat, and shall henceforth share it with you all...hope you enjoy.

Arnold's careful eyes roamed around the splendid room. Men and women adorned in fabulous colors spun around him cheerfully while butlers waltzed in between them carrying silver platters of tasty bite-sized delicacies. A great chandelier stared down at the guests from below a painted mural on the ceiling depicting angels and demons in a storm-clouded sky. Arnold's eyes flickered down to his watch and then up again at the occupants of the ballroom. All of them wore masks. How strange it was, that this vital information worthy of the president's notice should come up while the president himself was hosting a masquerade ball.

Footsteps behind him caused him to casually turn around. A short, stocky man who was both well-groomed and well-dressed eagerly stuck out his hand. He pushed up a pair of spectacles, introduced himself, and immediately led Arnold down a hallway to one side and into a smaller, more secluded room.

"The President knows of your arrival, sir," the man was stammering to Arnold's half-listening ears. "And apologizes that you were so inconvenienced as to have to come to the ball."

"The inconvenience was my fault," Arnold rumbled in a deep voice, nodding slightly to a butler who passed by with an empty tray. The man avoided his eyes and walked quickly past. "But this is an urgent matter that could not wait."

The man hastily opened a door to his right, which swung upon without a noise. Inside Arnold instantly perceived that the president and his daughter were standing around a cozy fireplace on one end of the room. A table and a pristine couch decorated the other.

The president, a man well in shape for his age, motioned for the man to leave Arnold with him. His daughter, adorned in a slimming green dress, smiled up at Arnold almost in wonder. As soon as the servant left them, Arnold shook their hands in turn.

"Mr.President, I'm terribly sorry to inconvenience y--" Arnold trailed off as he met the president's daughter's eyes. "Jenny?" he asked, incredulous.

She flicked back a lock of her chestnut-colored hair and let out a light laugh. "Hello Arnold! I never imagined I'd see you again!"

The president looked at the two young people, at a loss. "You two know each other?"

Jenny smiled at her father, revealing a set of pearly white teeth that contrasted well against her tanned skin. "We went through training together." Arnold smiled. She smiled back. They both knew that wasn't the whole truth. They both knew things were much, much more complicated.

"I seem to have missed quite a lot, Jenny," the president said in a matter-of-fact way the way someone would report the weather.

Jenny's eyes narrowed only slightly as if to imply a layer of meaning he would never understand as she replied, "Father, there are many things you have missed about me."

Arnold studied the two relations. Their eyes were the same except for the emotions portrayed in them. Jenny's eyes were full of spirit, and life, and rebellion. Her father's were distant and serious. Arnold's memories shifted back to when he had dated Jenny in college. The President had never cared for his daughter. The only reason he seemed to mildly take interest now was undoubtedly because of Arnold's presence.

Arnold, suddenly composing himself, turned to the president with a quickly sobering expression. "Mr.President, please listen carefully to what I have to say. I'm with a counter-terrorist agency and we have reason to believe there are in fact at this moment five potential assassins in this building. We believe they are all connected to an attempt to take your life tonight."

The president's face melted from one of wonder to one of alarm. Jenny sucked in a breath, but Arnold continued to speak in a low, level tone. "I myself passed a butler in the hallway bearing a firearm and branded with a tattoo on his forearm he had tried to cover up with stage makeup. Do not panic; the agency I work with has a car outside waiting to take you and your daughter to safety."

Jenny's hand flew to her mouth, her ability to suppress her emotions less practiced than her father, who stared at Arnold with a clenched jaw. Arnold continued after a pause, "Mr. President. I suggest you follow me."

A second flickered by. Two. Arnold slowly pulled his gun out of his tuxedo's jacket pocket. The wizened leader nodded stiffly. "Lead the way."

Arnold nodded, gut clenching. "Stay close."

He walked to the door, gun held at the ready, stomach churning inside his body as he placed a tentative hand on the doorknob. Counting to three in his head, Arnold listened to the short breaths of the people behind him whose life he held in his hand. He pulled open the door.

Stepping into the hallway, he raised his gun up so that he could align it with his eye. He swung it down one side of the hallway, then the other. "Clear," he said softly, waving the two figures huddling near the doorway forward. The second the president had stepped foot in the hallway, a flurry of motion attracted Arnold's eye.

Something down the hall moved and immediately the sound of muffled shots could be heard filling the air. Arnold's weapon proved true as he hit one butler and then another who jumped around the corner. A third replaced the first. A body hit the ground behind him, followed by a muffled scream. Arnold felt a bullet whiz past his ear as he shot the last assassin in the neck. Whipping around, he saw the president bleeding on the ground.

Jenny had covered her face in her hands and her eyes seemed to be accumulating tears. Arnold swore under his breath and dropped to the ground. Trembling, his fingers reached out to take a pulse. "He's alive!" Arnold repeated, relief trickling through his rapidly beating heart.

Footsteps behind him signified Jenny drawing closer tentatively. Arnold began to slide the president out of his jacket, working quickly in an effort to stop the bleeding. "One thing's for sure - all of the butlers were after one thing; to make your father dead."

The sound of a gun cocking clicked behind Arnold. "They have failed me," came the harsh reply. Arnold felt his ears grow red in anger. He had time for no more. The trigger was pulled. Arnold fell across the president's body, hand clasped against his chest. Another shot was fired. Both bodies lay still.

Jenny's eyes observed two men she had claimed to love lying dead on the floor before heartlessly staring at the dead butlers. She pulled the gun to her lips, blew gently to cool the heated metal, and stowed it back in the holster she wore hidden on her calf. Without a tear, without looking back, she slipped on a mask that went perfectly with her emerald dress, and slowly walked down the hallway, into the ballroom full of people, and away.

New Post, guys!

Hey guys!
How are y'all?
How's life?
...
No seriously, how go things?

So, I suppose I should post something new...does something new that's old count? Like...I wrote this a long time ago for an English assignment "to write a symbolic story". Props to anyone who figures it o-- wait, have I posted this befo?
...hm...
ANYWAYS! I'll post it again, and if I've already posted it before, I'll just take if off soon. {Implying someone had best tell me...otherwise this isn't doing either of us good. come on now, guys. come on.}

...IN OTHER NEWS {this is like previews before movies, ok?}
I've been writing this kind-of-analogous story, similar in style to "crossroads", and perhaps it shall one day appear.
Also, in art, there's this competition thing they do every year, and for the past few weeks we've been working to come up with concepts and ideas to do - basically, just sketches of general composition before we actually get to work drawing out the actual image.
SO! For my idea, I'm trying to kind of illustrate "Crossroads", and if it comes out well {we'll know in about a month...}, I might possibly put it up here. Maybe.
Alright, you guys are pretty patient and enduring, so...without further adeau, hoohah, or koalas, ladies and gentlemen, here's an analogous story! Have fun! Bring popcorn! Hey, you, down in front!

Four silhouettes snuck across the shadowed doorway. The figures hesitantly entered the art gallery, unsure of what they would find ahead. Dark, empty walls enclosed them, bearing no decoration except for the wall facing them.

An aging man with hair as white as sheep’s wool gasped in alarm, for on the wall he saw a painting. The image sent a chill throughout his blood and froze him where he stood. His wrinkled face beheld the artwork while his lips moved as if mouthing unspoken cries of terror. Faces and eyes stared back at him, lifeless yet moving; dead yet stirring. The emotions depicted in the painting seemed to jump out of the canvas and encircle him – pain, horror, and a dreadful feeling of unfamiliarity – the feeling of walking into a pitch black forest without knowing what would attack.

Beside him, a teenage boy asked, “What are you so afraid of?”

The man stared at the painting. “Don’t you feel it? It’s like looking at a black hole – it’s like the opening of Pandora’s Box.” And he turned his face away; he could no longer bear to look at the awful picture.

The teenager glanced at the painting, a lazy smirk finding its way onto his careless countenance. He didn’t understand why the man was so flustered, for all he saw was an empty frame embracing the black wall behind it. There was no painting or portrait or landscape to fill the empty void of darkness. The boy uneasily diverted his stare from the simplistic frame, and tried to shrug off the nervous feeling he got with a comment to the woman standing next to him.

“Strange for an old man to be afraid of such a simple arrangement.”

“A simple arrangement?” The woman repeated. “That’s an understatement.” Her blue eyes were locked onto the wall, for on it she saw the most beautiful sculpture she had ever seen. Vines and butterflies entwining golden flowers seemed to breathe with life. Light danced and played upon the shiny surface of the sculpture, giving the models twinkling eyes and playful moods. The woman almost wanted to touch the piece of art, for it was so overwhelmingly wonderful she couldn’t hold back a smile from spreading across her face.

“I wish I knew what the artist was thinking,” she murmured.

The teenager stared at her, and then stared back at the painting. Its dull simplicity met his searching look, and he said, “It’s not very beautiful – it’s a terrible conclusion to the art gallery.”

The woman shook her head. “I think it’s the perfect ending. They saved the best artwork for last.”

All of a sudden, the last member of their group, who had until now been silent, asked innocently, “What is it?” He was a child no more than six.

The woman gently took his hand and pointed to the work of art. “It’s life, dear.”

Confused, the child lifted his head for a moment, giving them a glimpse of his perplexed face. Curiosity shone in his naïve eyes. “I don’t understand,” he stammered.

“Look at the sculpture, dear. What do you see?”

“That’s what I mean,” the child persisted. “I don’t see anything.”

Crossroads

Two notes, first of all.
1. Without Render, I probably wouldn't have thought of an analogy this wood, so props for that and I hope this isn't considered plagurism, however u spell it.
2. The moral of this story is NOT to hop into cars with strangers. Props to anyone who can figure it out {hopefully u can cuz it's not supposed to be that hard...}
Enjoy.

You tremble as you stare at the quivering choice before you. On one side of the splitting earth is a road that leads to a familiar path you have come to believe is real and exists, though only because of what you have heard. The other is a path you cannot clearly see, and the quaking ground beneath you does nothing to sharpen the twists and turns you can faintly make out past the crossroads sign.

The clouds above you swirl around as if they were a dark, thick batter being stirred slowly with a spoon. Your hands lifelessly seek each other and you clasp them tightly, eager to hold on to something as the earth tremors underneath you, sending you stumbling forward to the fork in the road you have just arrived at.

It’s time to choose…the earth is erupting beneath you, the sky is groaning above you, and the wind in the air around you sends a chill throughout your body, over your skin. This is the moment you’ve been waiting for your whole life – to choose your fate; to choose your destiny. What to do, what to do…choose the path you exist and believe is real, though you haven’t actually seen it yourself…or choose the path that is hidden to you, which has a few visible turns before it escapes into shadow.

You don’t have to make the choice. Well, not by yourself, at least. Another factor comes into play. A factor you have forgotten. Between the two roads, vibrating softly with each tremor sent through the ground, is a truck. Its hood is bent and broken, and mud covers the sides of the wheels and coats the bottom half of what once used to be sparkling chrome. A few broken mirrors and windows suggest something has deliberately attacked the car, but your attention is drawn to one thing: The figure inside.

With painful steps, you stumble over to the car and limply grasp the edge of one broken window. The form inside turns toward you and says gently, “Climb in.”

“I don’t know you.”

“Look into my face. Look into my eyes. You know me. You’ve heard my voice. And I have heard yours. Look at me…you know my name.”

There is something familiar in the corner of his lips…the curves under his eyes…the small hint of joy that somehow permeated onto his face though he wasn’t smiling. You frown, gripping the metal of the car harder as the earthquake causes you to jolt to the side. “You’re here?”

“As I have always been.” The man in the car looks at you and leans back slightly in his seat, inclining his head toward you as his eyes gaze into your face. He leans over and opens the car door, which creaks open like it hasn’t been oiled in ages. Firmly, he says, “Let me drive you.”

“But…I don’t know where you’re going. If I choose my path, I know where I’ll end up.”

“If you ride with me, I know where you’ll end up.”

You shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “I want to go on my path. I have heard of its end: that it is wonderful. With all of me, that is what I most desire. Security. Safety from the shaking world around me. With every beat of my heart, I yearn for control. I want to go down the path I know has no difficulties, has no turns, has only an easy, controllable route; a path I have made for myself with my dreams and ambitions…You will say … that I should not cling to what I do not know is truth.”

He says nothing, only looks at you because He knows you have more to say. Patiently, as a father listening to his child offering up excuses for a deed not done, he places a contemplative hand on his chin and rubs it slowly as you speak.

“You will say…that I cannot control anything at all if I am to go with you. You will say…that the safest and most secure place I will ever have is in the seat next to you. I want to believe this…I want to trust you with myself…But…I can’t see down the path. The shadows conceal it, and it twists out of my sight.”

His eyes gleam through the darkness created by the storm clouds, who have grown closer all the while. “You may not be able to see down this path…but I can. I know exactly where you will be if you ride with me.”

“But…I know what lies on my path. It will be wonderful, I just know it.”

“You do not know that mine will not be even more wonderful than anything you can imagine.”

“But…what if it’s terrible? What if I get in your car and we end up going somewhere I’ve never been?”

“Look at me. Do you know me?”

“Yes.”

“Have I ever led you astray before when you have followed me?”

“…no.”

“Then is there reason to doubt me now?”

“But I’m scared that your path will not be my own.” Your voice seems weak now, as you’re rattled where you stand as lightning tears through the sky and the car is illuminated for a brief second.

In the brief flash of light, the man inside the car lets out a deep, joyous chuckle, as if he honestly thinks something is funny. “Of course it’s not your own. But, it will at some points cross over yours or run parallel to it. Just because you choose my path over yours doesn’t mean the things you desire on your own path are not on mine.”

“But…your car…it doesn’t look safe.”

He lets a smile spread across his mouth which is well-accustomed to speaking words of wisdom, of truth, and of love. “Have I ever looked safe? Yet have I ever led you astray? Sometimes what is best for you does not look the most attractive.”

You look at him and say slowly over the sound of your pounding heart, “You’re not safe…how can I trust you to take me somewhere safe? How do I know we won’t get lost, or stuck, or killed? How do I know that you know where you’re going?”

The man looks at you for a moment. It is obvious that many thoughts are spinning around his head, and that there are a million things he can say to you. Yet only a few words come to His lips that He speaks to you. “Trust me.” These words are utterly impossible. These words call for utter abandonment of any hope of getting to where you want to go. These words are more than you can absorb.

“I can’t,” you stammer out, your white knuckles moving from the window of the car to the door. “I can’t. How do I know you’ll take me where I want to go?”

He tilts His head slightly, and replies in the voice you have heard so many times before, “Would you rather have me take you where you want to go…or where I want you to be?”

Your eyes dance from his tender face, wise and faithful, to the dark world shaking around you. You have plans for where you were going to go…what would you become when you got there; what would you do when you first arrived…if He wants you to give up those hopes, to give up your plans and allow Him to make His own…

He continues, “Is your love for me greater than your desire for your own comfort?”

The earthquake rattles the mirrors on his truck, and the wind picks up in speed, causing you to blink rapidly because it stings your eyes.

Unsure of what he really means, you ask out loud, “You want me to give up my life? In order to follow you? You want me to sacrifice my dreams and instead travel down the path you have made for me?”

He says nothing, but a glimmer in His intense eyes confirms your statement. Your breath comes rapidly now as you feel your chest constricting inside you.

“You want me to turn away? To walk away from my own path, these dreams I have had my whole life; you want me to let them slip through my fingers; to let my path grow overgrown by foliage until no one even knows it’s there?” Your voice grows tight with emotion, and a wave of sorrow passes over you.

He leans back in his seat once more, eyes on you, and says with absolute clarity, “I want you…to give me your heart.”

Another shake; you’re on your knees, clutching the only thing stable in the shaking world: his car. “I…I don’t know if I can do that. If I give it all up…I might break my heart in giving it to you.”

He extends his hand, as if He already knows what you will decide. It is a calloused hand, like that of a farmer. Scars decorate it where nails have pierced His flesh. Veins stand out against his muscles, telling of His strength, like that of a carpenter. His skin is well known by the sun from its olive shade, like that of a fisherman who spends hours outside. But the way that He holds out His hand…like it would be of a comfort to your troubled mind, to your aching heart…is like that of a father.

“Trust me.”

Noticing He did not reply to your last comment, you state, “You will break my heart.”

“This may be true…it may not be. I may have to break you down in order to build you up the way I have designed you to be. But take comfort in this; whatever pain is necessary is only for the moment, and there is something much more wonderful waiting for you, where we’re going. You must know you need to rely on my strength and my knowledge and my plans for you. Stop trusting yourself. Stop convincing yourself you know where you’re going.”

Surprised, and eyes watering, you ask in a quiet voice, “Will it hurt?”

“Yes. In order to give up everything, it may hurt. But the joy you will receive for following me will overshadow any sorrow I will help you to endure.” His hand hasn’t moved, and He meets your moist eyes with eyes of love. “Do you trust me?”

You lick your lips, your heart quivering inside your ribs with another tremor through the breaking ground. Is your love for Him greater than your fear of being left with a broken heart? Are your dreams greater than His unknown plans? Is control over your life greater than trusting the writer of life itself?

He remains, patient, hand extended…waiting for you to give Him your dreams; to give Him your plans; to give Him your life; to give Him your heart.

Ch. 13 - The Dinner

"You're doing it wrong."

“I’m doing exactly what you told me to do.”

“I didn’t tell you to do what you’re doing.”

“You told me to wrap the man’s wrist, and if my eyes aren’t playing tricks on me, I happen to be wrapping the man’s wrist.”

“I told you to moisten the cloth, wipe the blood off of the man’s arm, dampen the bandage, smear herbs on the binding, and then wrap the man’s wrist. You’re a terrible listener,” Andrew said.

“You’re a terrible direction-giver,” Benji replied. He blinked, staring at the bandage he had incorrectly applied to a bleeding wrist. Turning to Andrew with a vacant face, he asked, “What did you say?”

Andrew shook his head with a smirk, leaned over Benji, and fixed the binding. The poor, shy man whose wrist was broken and bleeding could only watch the two boys, trying to figure out if he should request a different healer. It was later in the day. The sun was already down, outside, and the streets were turning cold. The infirmary was slightly emptier than it had been. Those with able legs were quick to leave the dreary interior of the building. A few healers still bustled about tending to the few patients left in the building.

“The moon will soon be up,” a voice reported, from behind the young men.

Andrew didn’t turn to acknowledge Jessica’s voice. The young woman peeked over his shoulder. “The binding’s applied wrong.”

Andrew and Benji exchanged humored expressions. Jessica peered at the grinning boys, wondering what had provoked such behavior. There was nothing funny about a broken wrist. She told them dinner would be starting soon, and they made sure there were enough willing hands to tend to the rest of the patients before leaving the old infirmary. They walked their way towards the tower of the new safe house. The streets were nearly empty now. The cold air made them shiver, but thankfully it wasn’t a long walk from the hospital to the tower.

Standing before the tower door, Jessica and Andrew moved to block Benji from reaching out to clasp the door handle.

“What?” Benji asked, his expression one that Jessica imagined she would find on a child deprived of a shiny, new toy.

“You realize that once you pass through the door, you can never go back?” Andrew asked.

Benji shoved his hands in his pockets. “I had assumed that ever since we entered the city. I don’t want to go back. The best way to fight my father is here…not from inside the castle.” He grinned. “Not that you could get rid of me if you wanted to.”

Jessica was as solemn as she could be. She got the impression he wasn’t taking this seriously enough. “And you know and accept that if you enter this building, you’re legitimately part of the resistance? You’re no longer the son of king Darfane; you’re an official member of the resistance, and we’ll expect you to act as such.”

Benji shrugged and shifted his weight impatiently. “I suppose. I can’t go back now, can I? Seeing as I know all your secrets and the like?”

“And if you reveal any of them, ever, we’ll hunt you down and torture you until you can’t feel your flesh aching anymore,” Andrew added.

Benji grinned. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy that day very much seeing as you hate my guts and my guts can’t die.”

“I’ve been looking forward to that day since I met you,” Andrew admitted, grinning.

Benji reached out a hand for the doorknob.

Jessica grasped his arm, looking the prince straight in the eye. “One more thing. You can’t tell anyone that you’re the king’s son.”

“I had assumed so,” Benji said.

“People in the town aren’t exactly all for your father-”

“Understandable.”

“And there’s no telling how they’ll react if you tell them.”

“Of course.” Jessica released Benji’s arm and sighed. Benji gave her a wide grin. Andrew and Jessica rolled their eyes and stepped away from the door. The door opened with a creak and they walked through the doorway into the safe house.

“That’s it?” Benji asked. They were crammed in a small, dim room containing a table, two broken chairs, and a door at the far side of the wall. The walls were made of wooden beams, and tiny rifts in the walls let in slivers of dying light, illuminating a plain, dirty ground.

Andrew dropped to his knees and began patting the wooden floor. A few seconds later, his hands stopped on top of a small object connected to the ground. He cast a satisfied look back at his friends before wrenching open a trapdoor and hurrying inside.

Benji didn’t need Jessica to tell him that he was next. The prince disappeared through the hole without a word to her. Jessica cast one last look around the dingy room before following the two boys, pulling the door closed behind her. She found herself standing in a large hallway at the end of which resided a pair of large double-doors with brass handles. Doors lined each side of the hall, painted different colors with different numbers and words decorating their exteriors.

Jessica eagerly followed the boys down the hall toward the great room. Andrew arrived there first, and he threw the doors open wide. Noise blasted out, and firelight nearly blinded them. The sound of mugs hitting tabletops, and plates being set down echoed in the large room before them. Three long tables ran the distance of the room, laden with food and plates. Men, women, and children sat around the tables conversing and jesting and eating.

Almost immediately, Jessica and Andrew were bombarded with a few little girls who had more questions than they did teeth. The children grabbed their hands and led them over to a table, a small girl no older than six taking Benji’s hand shyly and asking him to sit by her. Plates were set before them by grinning faces, some familiar, and some not. It took a moment for Benji to soak in all that was going on.

The smell of something spicy yet tangy reached his nostrils, and a platter of steaming meat was set before him. He eagerly grabbed a few slices and began to devour them. They had been eating nothing but apples, bread, and a few grapes for the past four days. It was nice to have a real meal. Or as close to a real meal as they could get. There were only two plates of meat per table, one loaf of bread, and two bowls of fruit. The prince didn’t notice the fact that the portions were meager, nor did the Jessica and Andrew think it odd, for they had been given slim servings all their lives. They were simply happy to have hot food before them. They grinned at each other as they watched the prince eating.

“Are you enjoying your food?” Andrew asked through a bite of bread.

Benji nodded. “Yes! I don’t remember anything tasting this wonderful! Ever! Not even—” he trailed off, noting the attentive little ears around him. He cautiously continued, “Not even where I came from before.”

Jessica swallowed a mouthful of cordial and stroked her chin as if deep in thought. “You know, Andy,” she said, turning to him as if to discuss something as trivial as the weather. “I never thought Benji would find such satisfaction eating pig ears.”

Benji adopted his usual smug face. Unscathed, he replied quickly, “Of course I would; I eat all kinds of things.”

Andrew lifted an eyebrow. “Cow tongue?”

“I used to eat that for breakfast.”

“Horse tail?”

“Consider it a delicacy.”

“Fish eyes?”

“Every night with a glass of milk.”

“Newt liver.”

“I once had five in a row.”

Jessica jumped in with the question, “Dried Ogre kidney and Troll feet covered with steamed snail entrails?”

Benji gave her a stunned look. He seemed to be faltering for an answer to her unexpected contribution. Andrew’s face quickly turned into one of amusement. Jessica giggled. Benji gave her a sheepish look, but he couldn’t help chuckling. Soon, even the little girls sitting next to them were howling with laughter.

They enjoyed the rest of their meal, eating heartily and happily. No one asked where the meat really came from. In hard-pressed times, they took advantage of every opportunity where meat presented itself. Especially after battles.

A few minutes into their dinner, and after several people had introduced themselves to the trio, Andrew elbowed Jessica and pointed across the room. Benji sat across from them, unable to see what they had spotted. The six-year-old girl sitting next to him yanked on his sleeve. Benji’s eyebrows rose as she gestured behind him.

“There’s the Dane,” the girl whispered, her eyes riveted on the man she saw pacing down the aisle between two tables. Curious, Benji turned around on his wooden bench to stare at the man they called “The Dane”.

The Dane was tall, and lean, with thick arms nearly hidden by a large, leather jacket. He looked to be no more than twenty-five, and he greeted those around him with youthful energy, laughing and talking with everyone sitting around the tables. His broad, muscled chest was covered by a loose, brown shirt a few hues lighter than the trousers he wore. Tousled locks of dark hair fell almost below his jaw, and the hint of a beard beginning to grow shaded his chin. He was almost hard to see clearly because he was moving so quickly and turning one way and then the other in an effort to converse with everyone around him.

“He talks to you?” Benji asked.

Andrew turned from scrutinizing the man. “Yes...”

Jessica studied Benji’s face before commenting, “We believe a leader should be equal with the people they lead. No one likes a distant superior.” “Like your father,” she thought to herself.

The little girl beside Benji glanced up into the prince’s face. “Are you new?” she asked, eyes shining with curiosity.

“Uh…yes, you could say that,” Benji replied.

“What’s your name?”

“Penelope.”

The girl giggled. “No it’s not,” she insisted childishly.

“You’re right; I lied. It’s Benji. What’s yours?”

“Ting,” she said, smiling underneath wide, brown eyes.

“What is it you like to do, Ting?” Benji asked.

“I like to dance…and I can fight good. And sing. I like to sing.”

“What songs do you like to sing-sing, Ting-Ting?” he asked.

She giggled again. Jessica stared at the prince as he talked to the child. She couldn’t keep a smile from trickling onto her face. She watched him make a bead from the child’s necklace disappear and then pull it out of her ear. The child was immensely delighted at this, and giggled unceasingly for several minutes.

“That’s an interesting trick,” commented a voice. Jessica whirled around to find the Dane looming over them. “Welcome back,” he said to them, cheerfully. Two brown eyes danced in his square face. A firm chin poked out from underneath a broad, white smile. Jessica smiled and watched Andrew stand up and clap hands with the man. This was their leader. Strong. Brave. The Dane’s eyes roamed over Benji’s features. They were deep, dark eyes. Experienced. Knowing. Wise.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, extending a large hand decorated with a few thick rings to Benji.

“Hello – I’m Benji.”

“The Dane.” They shook hands. “A new recruit, I assume?”

Jessica nodded.

The Dane’s eyes averted back to his loyal agents. “I trust he’s a sturdy fighter with a sharp mind?”

“Sturdy fighter, yes,” Jessica said, glancing at Benji, who had assumed an interested expression. “As for his mind…well, we all have our weaknesses.”

Benji’s eyes narrowed, but not threateningly. “What do you know of sharp minds? Your own is as sharp as the curve of a wagon wheel.”

Without blinking, Jessica shot back, “If that is true, than at least my wheel is still turning; yours is broken and doubtlessly stuck.”

The Dane let out a deep laugh, his white teeth contrasting well against his tan skin. “Oh, Jess, it’s good to have you back.” He leaned down to Benji, who was gaping at Jessica, and whispered, “Take no offense – mental jousting is just as important as sparring with swords, and this young maiden has had many opportunities to practice.”

Straightening, he said louder, “I didn’t expect you two here; I thought you were back in Tosh carrying out an assignment. Brooke and I got called on a meeting short-notice, or else we would have met you when you arrived back - what brings you to Darwol?”

Jessica swallowed. Andrew slowly rose from the bench. Suddenly Jessica felt sick to her stomach. The faces of her dead friends and the dead city rose, unbidden, in her mind. “Brooke didn’t tell you?”

The man’s jovial expression faded. “I haven’t seen Brooke since the battle…”

Neither three of the youths spoke. The Dane waited expectantly, sobering with each passing second.

Andrew’s soft response broke the silence that had slowly settled over the great hall. Everyone on every table was looking at them. “Soldiers. Tosh…is…dead.”

Jessica’s eyes closed. She could feel the sadness building in her chest. She fought it, focusing all her energy on breathing. Andrew’s eyes averted to the ground. Benji lowered his head respectfully, his gaze on the table in front of him. He was expecting for the people to burst into tears, or for a wailing to rise from the heart of the room.

No sound reached his ears. No one cried. Even the girl beside him stared numbly at Andrew. The Dane stared at the ground for a moment, not saying a word. His brow creased in concentration and his hands froze in a clenched position.

There was a flurry of motion that Benji saw from the corner of his eye. Brooke opened the door and began to walk in. Instantly aware of the pressing stillness, she paused and looked around. Spotting the Dane, she strode over to him confidently. Her arms wound their way around him in a tight embrace.

He raised his head and Brooke released him. He scooped up a lit candle from the nearest table and lifted it high, for all to see.

“Friends,” he addressed them, in a deep voice. He wasn’t shouting. He wasn’t whispering. His voice had reached an octave that seemed to rumble, though it was soft. The people sitting at tables all wordlessly took the candles lighting the room and lifted them. The girl next to Benji looked at him expectantly. He grabbed a candle and she placed her small hand over his; she was too young to handle flame by herself.

“Tonight we have seen the beginning of dark times yet to come…the creatures we have seen are many, and growing. The people we have lost were brave, and few. But the war is not over.” The firelight cast a vivid array of light and shadow across the Dane’s face and the sober crowd seated around him like a flock of sullen ghosts. “We will fight on.” Determination spread from his heart to his voice. “We will fight on for the ones we have left behind. We will fight on for those who cannot fight for themselves. We will fight because we have something worth fighting for.”

“Friends,” he turned around, making eye contact with as many people as he could. “Do not forget those who have died today, or the day before, or many days ago. They are the reason we fight on tomorrow.” He raised his candle higher. “For the brave men and women who gave their lives at Tosh.”

A few murmurs echoed about the room, whispered words of regret, or agreement, or pain. Then, as one and following the Dane’s lead, they all lowered their candles and blew them out. They were cast into complete darkness. Jessica wondered if this was how Melody had felt…if this was like dying. Complete stillness, and darkness, and silence.

Ch. 12 - The Injured

Jessica’s perceptive gaze swept over the streets. A few people had fallen and hadn’t stirred from where they lay. The bodies of soldiers as well as citizens could be seen sprawled across the streets. She eyed the body of the bird-like creature that Benji had killed. The young men stood beside her, studying the mass of flesh hiding underneath black armor. Its head was bald save for a few scruffy feathers poking out of its black skin, arranged like a misshapen crown. Its red eyes stared blindly up at the three companions through translucent eyelids. The large, hard beak poked out of its face, partially opened in a sneer that revealed its nasty, black teeth. A scrawny, bird-like neck protruded from the black breastplate, and the rest of its body was covered in its armor.

“What is it?” Jessica asked.

Benji replied without a trace of his usual smugness. “It’s a Waranger. I learned of those in my mythology class. Terrible beasts. The only way to kill them is with fire; otherwise they’re virtually indestructible.”

A hand grasped Jessica’s forearm firmly. Alarmed, she gasped and spun around. Andrew grinned.

“Jess!” a voice exclaimed, behind her. The hand loosened its hold and Jessica found herself staring into the eyes of a friend.

“Brooke!” she responded, laughing. The two young women embraced each other and chuckled, happy to be united once again. “It feels like much more than three days!” Jessica clasped her friend’s forearms and held her, examining her friend with a smile.

Brooke was a good two inches taller than Jessica, and her skin was as dark as the night sky in the summertime. Her face was shaped like a heart, and her black hair fell in unorganized curls around it. She possessed two unusually large, brown eyes that stuck out of her skin, and a white smile so huge it almost balanced out her wide eyes. She wasn’t extremely skinny, but rather possessed a muscular build, not that it was very apparent underneath her full-length skirt and over-sized blouse. She was several years older than Jessica, but she looked young and full of energy.

“Welcome back,” she said, her voice light and cheerful. She glanced over at Andrew, and then her eyes wandered over to the beggar beside them.

“He’s with us,” Jessica said. “New recruit.”

Benji gave her a charming grin, sticking out his hand. “Hello, I’m Benji,” he said.

Brooke clasped his hand in hers and shook it heartily. “I’m Brooke. Co-head of the resistance. My husband, the Dane, is in charge around here.” Her bug-like eyes shifted to search the rooftops. “He was helping the archers last time I saw him.” Her attention reverted back to the trio. “We got called here last-minute. Scout came and told us we’d been summoned.” She looked past them and around them, like she was expecting someone else to emerge from the shadows of the ramshackle houses. “Where’s the rest of the league?”

A shadow of regret passed over Jessica’s face. Andrew shook his head and answered, “Dead. The army killed everyone in Tosh. Apparently, while we were gone, the soldiers came and obliterated everything. When we got there, everyone inside the safe house was dead or dying. Justin told us where you had gone, and that’s how we knew where to find you.”

Brooke’s smile melted off her face. “All of them?” she whispered. Jessica nodded, trying to block out the images in her mind of her friends who were dead. Brooke closed her eyes, raised her hands to cover her face, and said nothing.

“It appears you two left just in the nick of time,” Andrew said.

“Indeed. We should hold a ceremony for them,” Brooke said, opening her eyes again. They were moist, but she didn’t allow a tear to slide down her cheek. People had begun to move again, and some had taken to clearing the streets of bodies. Others tended to the wounded. The archers had disappeared from the rooftops, and Jessica suspected they were meandering about the streets, helping wherever someone needed an extra hand.

Brooke sniffed and took Jessica’s hand. “Time for that later; we need to tend to the wounded now.” She led them through the people and bodies of the street, approaching a small building that looked less deteriorated than some of the others. Jessica made it a point not to look at the dead people. It would only make her sick, or sad, both of which were signs of weakness.

They approached the wooden door in the stone building and Brooke pushed it open. Tables lined both walls of the crowded room, and the smell of smoke floated by Jessica’s nostrils. Wounded people were sprawled out over the tables. Small candles rested on top of the side tables, upon which sat various herbs, bindings, and other items meant to help heal the sick. Jessica’s eyes jumped from one being to the next. Blood dripping down an extended arm…someone clutching their leg, their face wrinkled in pain… a hand clutching a shoulder that looked as if it had popped out of its joint.

Jessica swallowed. Brooke led them to the back of the room, pulling up the sleeves of her large shirt. They stopped in front of a table upon which a man sat, waiting. His dark, shaggy hair covered his eyes, and he sat with his back resting against the wall. A hood covered his face. He gripped his bloodied arm loosely in his other hand. Brooke turned to Andrew and Benji. “You two want to get started with them?” she asked, gesturing toward a few bodies draped over tables no more than ten yards away.

Andrew nodded. Benji said softly, “I’ve never…tended to anyone before…”

“Do what I say and you might be alright,” Andrew said, a hint of a smirk on his face. Jessica watched the two boys walk off, out of earshot. She let out a long sigh and turned to her friend, the heavy mood of the room settling over her soul and dampening her spirit.

“Can you dip that cloth in water and hand it to me, please?” Brooke asked as she took the bloodied arm in her grasp and inspected it. Jessica blinked at the bowl of water resting on the table next to a rag and a pile of dried plants. She doused the cloth in water and handed it, dripping, to Brooke.

Jessica watched the woman talk to the man, gently wiping away the blood from his arm. He didn’t say anything in response. He had thick gashes down his forearm and snaking around to his elbow, and it looked like the bone of his elbow was sticking out of his skin. Brooke worked quickly to cleanse his skin from dirt and blood. She glanced around, searching for something impatiently.

“Jess, could you find me a length of rope?”

Jessica wordlessly floated around the tables until she found the necessary item and brought it back. Brooke took the rope and placed it in the man’s good hand. “Bite this.”

For the first time, the man spoke. His voice was deep but smooth, and Jessica imagined he might sound nice as a singer. “I don’t need that.”

Brooke placed a hand on her hip. “It’s going to hurt, and I won’t have you screaming to the whole hospital making them think we don’t treat you well. You need to bite the rope to withstand the pain.”

He raised his head, and Jessica was slightly startled by his features. Long scars stretched down the corners of his cheeks, the purple lines spreading across the bridge of his nose and even over his neck. Tattoos and designs decorated his jaw and covered his throat. His firm chin was set in defiance, and he stared at the young women from underneath dark eyebrows. “Don’t speak to me of pain. I don’t need a rope.”

His eyes were so dark they looked black, and he stared at Brooke challengingly. Jessica thought for a moment that she would retort with a clever remark. Instead, she merely reached out, firmly gripped his elbow, and snapped it back into place with a jolt. A pop issued from his body, but the man only flinched, keeping his eyes on the young woman.

Brooke began to dress his wound, Jessica wordlessly handing her herbs and cloth bandages. “What do they call you?” she asked.

He rested his head against the wall behind him. A few dark locks of hair shifted with the motion. Jessica couldn’t keep herself from staring at the man’s strange facial markings. It was like he had gotten in a fight with a razor blade gone mad.

“They call me many things,” his voice rumbled from beneath the hood he was adjusting over his face, obscuring his mangled features. “You may call me Jaimus.”

Brooke finished tying the cloth bandage around his arm. “Do you live in the city?”

“I was coming through for a meeting. With your husband, I believe.” Brooke stared at him.

“You’re the storyteller, aren’t you?” Brooke’s fingers slid off the man’s arm and he slowly pulled it towards himself, his eyes roaming over the mended appendage with approval.

“Another of my many names.” He swung his legs around the edge of the table and jumped off, lightly landing on his feet. “Come; help me find him.”

“There are still men to be tended to,” Jessica said. The hood swung in her direction.

Brooke crossed her arms over her chest. “You’ll have to wait and talk with him later; the meeting invitation still stands. Be in the war room an hour before Sun Up.” The man spun around and slunk out of the hospital.

Jessica released a breath without realizing she had been holding it. Brooke sighed and faced her. “Come on.” They headed over to another injured man. “Tell me of what happened on your mission,” Brooke said.

Jessica told her about the wolves they had seen, and walking into the city to find their home destroyed. “Your beggar friend – who is he?” Brooke asked as she wrapped a huge gash on someone’s leg. Jessica applied herbs to the adjacent patient’s arm.

She hesitated for a moment, cautiously eying the injured people around her. A woman who sat eying her quickly turned away, embarrassed for being caught eavesdropping. Jessica licked her lips almost nervously. The announcement that the heir to the throne was still alive and posing as a beggar was not one she wished to make public. Brooke, noticing her friend’s silence, turned to scrutinize her.

“Come,” Jessica said, heading toward the door. Once they were both outside, Jessica searched the streets with her eyes to make sure no one was listening. A few people lingered about the bloody streets, but many had gone home or to help at the crumbling infirmary. Satisfied no one was close enough to hear her, Jessica whispered, “Benji is the prince.”

Brooke stared at her. “What?”

“King Darfane’s son. That’s Benji.”

Brooke grabbed Jessica’s shoulders and squeezed them tightly. Her eyes seemed to pop out more than usual as she exclaimed in a strained whisper, “You were supposed to kill him!”

“I couldn’t! I can’t!”

“Jess-”

“He can’t die.”

“I can’t believe this. You’ve been killing all your life, why choose now to—”

“No, Brooke, literally, he can’t die,” Jessica replied quickly, trying to make her friend understand. “He was enchanted by a faerie at birth. Andrew and I have seen it happen – even in the battle today, he took a blow for Andrew that went clean through his body, and got up afterward.”

Brooke gaped at her. Jessica continued, “And Benji’s different from his father. He’s not what I expected. He actually agrees with what we stand for – in fact, I think he’d be useful in the resistance. The fact that he can’t die would make him a valuable asset.”

Brooke shook her head as if to clear it. “But…faeries are exiled. We’ve even recently received word that most of them have been killed off by soldiers. It seems that the king’s army is seeking out anyone capable of doing anything magical and killing them.”

“Benji was enchanted at birth. Before the ban. And so was the king – neither of them can die.” Jessica had a sudden thought. “I bet that’s why king Darfane banished the faeries and magical creatures – if faeries can bless royalty with eternal life, what would stop them from making any old beggar off the street invincible?”

Brooke released her friend’s shoulders and rubbed her face with her hands. She let out a long sigh. “We’re fighting a king that can’t die?”

Jessica didn’t answer. Despair trickled into her heart discreetly like water dripping from a tree branch. “We have Benji on our side,” she said quietly.

“Mm,” Brooke said, hiding behind her hands.

“Are we going to tell the Dane?” Jessica asked tentatively.

Brooke let her hands fall. “No,” she said. “I’ll tell him.” She looked tired now. Strained. “I need to find him first. Jess, help Andy and Benji with the rest of the injured. Dinner at sundown. Meet in the tower. We’ll talk about things later.” Jessica watched her walk away, her shadow darkening the street underneath her determined pace. Jessica ran a hand through her hair, her eyes roaming the now-empty streets illuminated by the setting sun. The air was suddenly chilly, and she shivered as she contemplated everything that had happened that day. They now knew the king was invincible. They now knew he was killing magical creatures to keep commoners from becoming indestructible. They now knew he had strange, unknown creatures in his army that were incredibly hard to kill.

The weight of hopelessness pressed down on Jessica. She suddenly felt very small and insignificant. Things were changing. Times were ending and a new era was beginning. Strange things were happening behind the walls of king Darfane’s castle. It unnerved her and made her shudder. It was like the wind of uncertainty, stirring her bones and chilling her thoughts from the inside.