Arcane Epics, Verse II "First Gods of Man"

A beam of light shot through the ever long darkness of the stars.

The gleaming spark slowed as it approached a huge planet in the near distance, shimmering like gold in a black mass.

Home to the Monto’Ac Royal families, this massive planet was the largest of all; the crown of the solar system. It was shielded by two sets of giant rings--one vertical and one horizontal--sparkling as if they were divine ornaments from the gods themselves. And perhaps they were.

On this day, Hister was to join the Royal council of Princes for a meeting concerning his family and his fate. His bright orb, a craft made of physical light used by the Royals for centuries, sped forward into the swirling mass of clouds and dust below. The massive rings like halos over the air. As his ship lowered into the atmosphere, bright yellow shine emanated from the inside of the rings, setting the land below ablaze.

Surrounding the dark blue and purple surface, these thick rings encompassed the entire circumference of the planet, cradling it from all sides. They were used to harness solar rays from the sun, using organic technology created by the early descendents of the Creators themselves.

Because the Monto’Ac system was centered at the top, furthest from the sun, the planet was unable to sustain human life. However, the descendents envisioned a new way for the planet to not only pull sunlight to it, but sustain the light permanently. The rings, of course, had been with the planet for millions of years, and contained many small particles of dust, rock, and other organic compounds. But when sections of the rings were infused with special crystals from the Andacon system, the descendents discovered they reflected light onto the surface.

Within a short time, they ordered the creation of twelve moons which would ride in between the waves of the rings. These moons, which housed huge volcanoes that spewed ice, would be pulled by the gravity of the planet. The ice from the volcanoes would shoot out into the rings, creating reactions with compounds. In turn, the rings would produce a dust which would fall into the atmosphere of the planet, charging it and attracting the sunlight.

As a result, the charged atmosphere in combination with the crystallized rings, would literally pull sunlight to the space in between two rings. As the planet rotated inside the rings, it created a natural day to night cycle.

When finally finished, this allowed the Monto’Ac to build their civilization and maintain position at the top of the solar system, closest to the gods.

This has also remained an argument among scholars and wisemen for generations, especially those who go against the teachings and order of the Royal families. Some claim that because the planet could not naturally sustain life, the Creators never intended them to be there. Instead, they should have accepted their fate and believed themselves equal. However, the Royals believe their special treatment is what made them important; they were selected. And so, with the faith of the masses, order has forever been held.

Hister’s ship carved through the fluffy pink and purple clouds, winding it’s way around tall, ancient spires carved out of stone. The surface of the planet was covered in mostly light blue colored grass and gray oceans, with dark trees and vegetation. There were no major cities and hardly any artificial lights. Instead, there were only old stone buildings of specific shapes and sizes. Nearly all were square or rectangular in shape with domed tops, resembling courthouses and small castles. Barely any public housing was needed, as only the extended families of the Royals were allowed to live there. They resided mostly in the main city, with a few groups constructing homes at various habitable locations around the globe. Between the scattered complexes, uncharted grass fields, strange flora and haunting black forests surrounded them for hundreds of miles.

Most of the attention was given to their rings, which they treated as literal planetary crowns. Often times, travelers or new comers to the system would be surprised by the drastic change of environment. From space, it was a wonder to witness. In fact, many photographers of the time would come here just to view it from their ships. But venture down to the surface, and it was as if you were suddenly transported back in time hundreds of years. It was dark, drab, cold and very ancient.

Even in the daytime, deep purple clouds would often muddle the sunlight. Tombs and statues of leaders from the past lined the streets. Faces carved into the rock pillars stared at you from all directions. Wild roots and plants grew up through weathered cracks. The street lights were dim blue orbs of fire, lining the cobblestone streets in all directions like a grid. Fog rolled in every night from the icy ocean, casting shadows over shadows.

This was the way of life to the Royals. They were the ever unchanging of all the civilizations. Today they still appeared as they did thousands of years ago, with lavish items, armor, robes and symbols of power handed down through countless generations. Real change came only from the attitudes and auras of the individual family members, which were often times very progressive.

The public, however, were mostly drones. A working class who only existed to push commerce and civilizations forward in the name of the Royals. They were dedicated, some even passionate, but they lived their lives much like the statues.

Hister’s orb flew over a few domed buildings set atop wide pyramids, finally making a steady landing on a raised, square platform on the edge of the complex.

Hister slid out from the borderless opening of his ship, as if passing through water. A narrow platform lowered and he stepped off. As always, still dressed in his traditional white robes and head dress, flowing and free, but never exuberant.

He was met by Royal guards at the entrance, swiftly gliding to great him. Dressed in basic silver and red robes, they flanked his side and lead him through a huge, wide stone archway filled with sunlight from above.

As he made his way down the bright, silent corridor, the artificial light from above radiated over the hall. The border of light moved slow, but just fast enough to be seen if one were to stand still and watch it crawl. Like a shadowy hand was obscuring the planet.

The echo from his steps began to increase as the narrow hallway turned into an open room. A set of broad, glossy stairs directed him down and into a large, circular chamber.

The expansive chamber was one round room, with no corners or crevasses. Lined with red wood, white stone walls and red silk curtains that fell into specific patterns like an organized web. Above the section where Hister came to a stop, there were nine ornately decorated chairs in a row, spanning his field of view. They appeared to be ancient, crafted by the hands of artists in another time. Spindled and woven into tiny, thorny thrones, each with specific ornamental designs.

Hister stood attentive, waiting for something in the still air.

His gaze fell onto the ninth chair. That was the chair that once belonged to his father. This chamber would forever haunt him, and for that reason he hated to endure it.

Then, the room filled with noise all at once, as doors on the left side of the chamber swung open to reveal a commotion of men.

From the unseen, another parade of Royal guards entered. Dedicators from the Twin Empire, they remained always in the same silver and red silk robes, hiding the arsenal of weapons beneath. Their faces were covered with a white, domed head mask, giving them the appearance of pawns on a chess board. Although the Twin Empire never employed foot soldiers for themselves, offerings to their gods in the form of guards became an ancient tradition. The Monto’Ac simply treated them like dogs, seeing no other use except commanding them to appear important or powerful.

As they scuffled around trying to maintain order, more important looking figures strode through them, parting and pushing their way to the center of the stage.

They were the Monto’Ac council of Princes. The judges and masters of the Royal families, and dictators of the solar system. So named for their proclaimed kinship to the Creators, the Princes were the accepted sons of the gods. Interestingly, even in this system of hierarchy, neither king or queen was allowed to exist. The Monto’Ac were loyal only to their kingship of the solar system, but it has never been a part of their internal families.

Most of them looked the same, with sharp, striking black armor, adorned with interlocking gold rings, symbolizing their prize from the gods. They wore hard, molded head dresses which covered their heart shaped heads with horns, spikes and crafted symbols, all ranging in color. Some were young, skinny and tall. Others looked like old men about to find peace. And only one was very slimy and obese, carted in last on a personal platform. Six servants, with wavering arms, set him down at the edge of the stage, grumbling and coughing. They helped him into his throne like a lumbering mammoth. His eyes were sunken, his hair was white and wild, bits of food stuck to his robes.

This was the way of the council. New members were only selected when needed or desired. Your very life became the council. Once great, nobel men, they were now little more then a vision.

Once all of the Princes were seated, the servants scurried off stage while the guards stepped behind them. All went silent again while Hister watched the show. Words he wished to say hiding beneath his thin lips.

Finally, one of the Princes broke the silence and sat forward with a displaced grin.

“Hister. My dear friend.” The Prince said with a coiling smile. His words were false.

“Prince Arasi. Always an honor.” He returned the coldness.

Prince Arasi was the self proclaimed leader of the Royal council. Although the system of Princes did not officially recognize a leader, in the years of waning, Arasi had become the most vocal and was the most recognized. He ruled with no compassion and no imagination.

“How are you?” He continued. “Tell me of the moons, I’ve not been in ages.” The council almost murmured a laugh.

“Forgive me, lords,” his head bowed, “I have only requested your council for business today.”

“No pleasantries then? We’ve not seen each other in so long.”

“Perhaps if I were not so far away.” Hister’s eyes sparked. Arasi changed the subject.

“We come to this council today,” Arasi began, “for what reason? To honor the past? To honor the future? Or simply to forgive.”

Hister examined the council. His eyes shifted slowly from side to side. As he talked, a line of bright sunlight from above crept across the faces of the ghostly figures.

“I am here to resolve our relationship. I am here to find new beginning.” He said.

“For you? Your family?”

“I am.” Hister said without thought. Arasi paused and pondered.

“I knew this. As we all did.” Arasi looked between council members. “And I assure you, it is with great pleasure I hear your thoughts today.”

“I am sure, and I thank you.” Hister struggled out.

“Though, I admit, I am not entirely sure what there is left to discuss.” Hister was confused. One of the other Princes leaned forward to speak.

“This is a tired effort.” He said proudly.

“Your line is over.” Another Prince added. “It is final, Hister.”

“By no fault of mine!” Hister sprang to life.

“Meaning what?” Arasi barked.

“It is clear. It was a choice from the gods themselves-”

“Quiet caretaker, hush your voice!” A Prince interrupted. “How dare you speak of the gods, when it was your very life that hindered our existence. You think the gods chose deformation, they chose an anomaly to be born? A conscious choice to dismantle order?”

“Forgive me, my lord, but the conscious choice was yours. That seat belongs to me.” He gestured to the empty throne.

“That seat is soiled. It will forever remain empty as a testament and a scar.” The Prince finished.

“The order is given by the gods. It is ours to follow.” He sat back and fell quiet. “I will speak to this blasphemer no more.”

Arasi thought for a long moment, then felt he had the right words.

“Hister,” he began, “I understand you. I do.” He tried to assure Hister, but knew his words were empty. “I honor and respect you for coming before us. But we will not change law, or will, or fate. This is our way. It is your way.”

“Is it the way of the gods to through away their own future?” Hister regained the attention of the Princes. They stirred and sat forward again.

“What do you mean?” Arasi asked.

“It is not their will to turn a blind eye to the future of our civilization,” Hister began, “Our Creators were visionaries. They created because life must exist in their image, under their control, moving ever forward. The Monto’Ac system is not the crown because we claim it. We earned it, by becoming the most progressive system of all.” He had the councils attention. “But look at you. Forgive me, but look at you! You are a shadow of the past. Stagnant and unchanging. Too long have we been without discovery, or technological advancement. Human advancement. Biological advancement.”

“Hister,” Arasi stopped him, “what are you saying? What is this?”

“Lords, I have been working,” Hister stared him down. “During my...captivity on your moons, I have been evolving and changing. And so have other things.” He paused and gazed around the room. “I began my research. I have opened my labs and have been, for many years, discovering new ideas that will surely lead to our continued success. A future of real change, power and security.”

“You speak of the flowers?” Arasi said softly, almost showing natural interest. Arasi knew well of the powers that different species of Monto’Ac flowers held. Hister was not the first to research it, but he was the most prominent.

“I do,” Hister continued. “But more importantly, I speak of the research that must still be done.”

“This is ridiculous.” One of the older Princes remarked.

“This is the future.”

“Quiet, boy!” The Prince snapped back, his craggy face wrinkling in anger. “Never speak to us of the future. This chair to my side remains ever vacant because of your tarnished blood. What future is that? A broken system. And you, standing before us, prepared to fix us.”

“I have already fixed you.” The Princes gasped. “I have paid my due in blood, in time, in my bones.”

“We have no time for this,” the old Prince said, “we must focus on other things.”

“Does the advising of Castor Montrosaur mean nothing? My moons have served as not only peace offerings, but catalysts for a strengthened relationship. There is one thing the Twin Empire needs from us, and you shun its possibilities.”

“We shun nothing,” another Prince said harshly. “Our relationship with the Twin Empire has always been strong, and it will continue to remain strong forever. This is assured by your cooperation with our laws, not the altering of them. We will not risk change.”

“My lords, this is insanity.” Hister lowered his head.

“Hister,” Arasi stopped him again, “enough. Go back to the moons. Remain the faithful guardian of the dead. Continue your work as law dictates.”

“Crawl away back to your underground.” The old Prince grumbled.

Hister seethed.

“Fool.” Hister whispered, but everyone heard it. A few more gasps leapt through the air.

“What did you say?” Arasi was shocked by this. No one spoke out. Ever.

“Fools.” Hister raised his head with dignity.

“You would dare call us fools in the presence of the gods?”

“I see no gods before me today,” Hister stated. “I fear what you will become if you shut me out once again. I am certain.” He was admittedly scared of his actions, but he knew something had to be done.

“Cage your tongue. Or shall we remove it?” The old Prince was ready to fight.

“Remove it then!” Hister suddenly stepped forward, the guards on either side of the stage rushed to him. “And cut this off too!” He tore a white sash away from his arm to reveal his deformed, claw hand. “Be rid of the disease that spoils me to your dynasties!” The guards grabbed him and pushed him back into his place.

“You are the disease,” another Prince stood and exclaimed. “The virus!”

“We are done, Hister.” Arasi said rising to his feet and preparing to leave.

As all the tired, bothered men rose to their feet again, Arasi walked toward Hister for a final word. He hung over Hister like a withered tree, daggers in his glare.

“The moons are your fate.” He said with hatred.

“I believe this,” Hister replied coldly. “And they shall be yours as well.”

On the planet of Eniam, in the floating city of Ogunquit, it was a bright yet cloudy day, with patches of fog lingering around the shore line. The sun struggled to shine through the haze, casting all in steel and gray, outlining all shapes in shadows.

In the mist, atop a great rock wall thrust out into the ocean, two figures danced.

The shapes swung and swayed around each other with perfect, precise movements. They hopped and bounded over one another with grunts and yelps. One would think local street performers had ventured up to the coast to perform. However, it was simply two familiar friends practicing their arts.

Raymond and Charles leapt through the air side by side, then crashed back down, crouching into the same stance. They rose to their feet in stiff poses, staring each other in the eyes like snakes. Then, with the sounds of cutting air, their hands and arms flashed to life. They batted and bumped their limbs together, blocking punches and parrying blows.

Today was a good day for martial arts training. The cool mist clinging to beads of sweat, the sheen of the muted sun outlining the rippling muscles on their naked torsos.

Most days off were spent like this, practicing a divine art that was neither passed down to them, or through them. It was a passion born out of imagination and thoughtful planning. Raymond was first to discover the power of Eunoia, which not only grew him a wise mind, but also encouraged him to engage in physical training. He passed this down to Charles, and almost every day they have spent together since had involved this lifestyle.

This was a perfect tool to be used in their line of work, and far beyond that. But unfortunately, with Raymond constantly answering to the Judges and the system collapsing, their training was more for fun and distraction these days.

Today, the two brothers had picked one of their favorite spots to indulge: The great rock wall that jutted out from the shoreline, one mile into the ocean. Along its craggy pathway, fisherman lined up for the catch of the day. Families with small children climbed down to the bottom where the water was still shallow, hunting for crabs and local lobsters. The brothers stayed away from all the local activity, perched up on a higher section of the wall, careful not to lose their balance and fall onto the jagged shore.

Words were never exchanged between them while fighting. They remained intense and focused, always in the moment. Even more interesting was the way they mirrored each other. Raymond had instructed Charles so well that neither bested the other. A take down was rare. A cut or accidental gash was improbable. Raymond’s methods of teaching were perfect and Charles had the sharpest mind. It was as if Raymond was fighting himself.

Finally, after a few more hours of practice, this time with swords, the two men locked blades and waited for the next move.

Raymond breathed hard, the greyed hair on his chest pulsing in and out. Charles’ striking blue eyes leered through his older brother like a wolf. Their hair was getting longer now, with Raymond’s pulled back into a thin pony tail, and Charles’ wild and free.

“You’re going to kill someone with that stare someday.” Raymond said between breaths.

“Hasn’t worked yet.” Charles replied dryly, smiling a toothy grin.

They unlocked swords with a metallic ping.

Both weapons were decorative oval shaped swords, with a line of black stone running up the center of the blade. Raymond wielded smaller, twin blades with rounded tips for slashing, and he was twice as deadly with them. Charles’ was a much bigger staff-like weapon, with a wide, flat blade built for defense. It could also transform from single handed to double handed with a mechanical hand grip extension.

Raymond flipped his blades around and attached them to the small of his back.

“That’s it, you’re done for the day?” Charles asked, still ready to fight.

“For today, yes.”

“I should have imagined with all the breathing,” he jumped forward to stop him. “Have we not just started?”

“It was sunrise when we started!” Raymond exclaimed.

“You used to stay until sunset.” He stared him down again.

“Charles,” Raymond covered himself with his sleeveless, black shirt, “I am not spending my entire suspension with you.”

“Nor I with you! But still, you’re out of practice.”

Charles suddenly took a few playful swings across Raymond’s body, which he easy dodged.

“You speak of yourself,” Raymond replied with a coy smile. “See? You’re spending too much time in that forest, all by yourself.”

“I find new ways to train myself,” he placed his sword upright on his back. “That was one of the first things you taught me. Free thinking.”

“True. Free thinking, but always conventional training.” Raymond stated.

“Define conventional.”

“You’re getting smarter.”

“And so I am, so let us practice more!” Charles moved forward again, still attempting to skillfully block his path.

“Charles,” he studied his younger brother’s eager face. “It’s time for tea.” He began to walk away, heading down the rocks. “And relaxation!”

Charles sighed and looked disappointed. But he soon gathered his things, threw on a loose, light blue shirt and jumped down the rocks.

As they made their way down the side of the rock wall, they crossed through tribes of fishermen and families, all the way to the coastline in the shallow waters. The waves lapped white caps against the sharp rocks, but the sand beneath them was silk-soft and perfect for walking.

“Is Vic still not talking to you?” Charles said, walking behind Raymond.

“Not at the moment.”

“Have you tried to explain your theory?”

“Of course, many times,” Raymond kept his eyes forward. “But she will not hear it. You know her, she will come to her own conclusions. I can do nothing but sit and wait.” Charles came beside Raymond to get a better look at his face.

“And you believe it was the Eunoia?” He asked.

“Absolutely, without a doubt.” He stopped and gave Charles a severe look.

“Why?”

“That is what I believe. If you use it correctly, like I have, like you have and like Vic did, it will manifest.” Raymond walked forward again with Charles trailing.

“I believe you, it makes sense,” Charles continued. “It would explain everything.”

“We had our moment too,” he stopped again and turned back to Charles. “You remember?”

“I do.” Charles solemnly answered.

Of course Charles remembered. One of many stories the brothers shared was their own survival story against the odds, many years ago.

When Raymond finished school at the age of nineteen, Hister had introduced him to the Eunoia flower and sparked his interest. However, it was not until both brothers decided to join the Capitol forces that they began to unlock it secrets.

At the time, both were living on the outskirts of the city in a small house by a river. One day in winter, while practicing together on the icy plain of the frozen river, they fell through the ice and began to be swept away by the under current. Miraculously, they not only survived for a long time, but punched through the ice like beasts at the mouth of the stream. The locals claimed they emerged from a circle of boiling water in the ice, bone dry.

It was in this moment Raymond realized the power of what they had just discovered. On that day, with the help of his parents’ research, Raymond had concluded that Eunoia must go through an incubation period in the body, then suddenly manifest when most needed: Near death.

Both remembered their vivid memories as they stood in the ocean, under the clearing sun.

“There are more secrets still to be unlocked. But this I know for sure.” Raymond said with a final tone. Charles nodded and continued to follow him again.

“I still can’t believe they suspended you,” Charles said adjusting his voice for the wind. “After all that. What was the point of letting you out of prison?”

“So they could prove to me they still had a small, glint of a soul left. That’s my theory anyway.” He laughed to himself as he remembered something. “They also offered me a job on the mining council.”

“You?” Charles’ face contorted in confusion. “The commander of Solar Warden? It’s insulting.”

“It does not trouble me.”

“You know,” Charles began, “that actually might not be a bad position.” Raymond slowed and meet his gaze.

“Why is that?”

“I hear the mining council is working on top secret projects these days. Last I heard they were working on survival technology. Something about putting cities inside asteroids.”

“Sounds fantastical.” Raymond commented, uninterested.

“Well, what ever you decide to do, just remember they need us.”

Both stopped for a moment to wet their towels in the fresh ocean water. Eniam was the only planet in the solar system to house unique, heavily salted oceans. But unlike the course, harsh sea waters of most planets, Eniam’s waters were filled with special mineral salt. It was mostly used for natural skin care, but it could also be ingested with minimal filtration. In several parts of the solar system, the planet was known by many locals as the ‘salt planet.’

“I do not doubt that,” Raymond agreed and whipped his face. “However, they will also never compromise their control. Over us, and over them.” He observed the families playing in the water by the coastline.

“They don’t have control over me.” Charles replied swiftly, wringing out his towel and draping it over his neck. Raymond swung his head toward him.

“Over you especially!” Raymond snapped. “Were you not just in battle? In the heart of the protest wars? Did you not kill?”

Charles thought for a moment, realizing the conversation was becoming dark.

“I have killed.” He stated, almost proudly.

“As have I. You watched me. And now I watch you.” He was almost unable to say the words. He stepped away and began walking toward the coast again. Charles remained still.

“We don’t kill without reason, Ray.” He said. Raymond stopped again.

“What do you kill for?” Raymond asked. Charles thought again. “Who do you kill for?”

“Who do you kill for?” Charles immediately replied.

Now it was Raymond’s turn to think. He usually had all the answers, but when faced with his own reality, it was hard to find the right thing to say.

“I knew that once...” he returned, then looked down into the choppy waters.

“I see now I have found one thing you don’t know. And it is perhaps the most important.” Charles walked ahead of Raymond.

“Perhaps it is time to readjust our thinking then.” Raymond replied sternly. Charles turned around with a puzzled face.

“I don’t understand.”

“You will.” Raymond walked past Charles, but Charles strode beside him this time.

“Is this a secret I sense?” Charles asked. Raymond remained silent. “We have no secrets, brother.”

“We have some.”

“I have none. Include me and let us be rid of this burden.” He joked.

Raymond allowed a smile and slowed himself as they neared the coastline. The sounds of ambient beach noise filled the air, the crowds bustling around them. He turned to Charles again with a more hopeful expression.

“Do you remember the name Hister?”

“Hister...” Charles thought. “Fearatu Hister? You’re old school mate?”

“You do have the best memory.” Raymond smiled again.

“You saw him? He was here?”

“He was. We met outside a local cafe here in town before a long conversation. He had looked me up after all these years...” his voice trailed.

“It was not a fair reunion I take it?” Charles asked.

“It was...enlightening.” He was having trouble expressing his experience.

“Ah, so that is what ales you,” Charles patted him on the back. “What did you discuss that has your mind so distracted?”

Raymond questioned telling his younger brother anything. He was unsure of involving him in whatever was coming. But, they were siblings after all and Charles was right; no secrets were kept between them.

“Walk home with me. We will discuss this over our break.”

The two walked forward together up the shoreline, wading through the white waves. The last lingering patches of fog evaporated into the misting air. The city shimmered and came alive in the background of the bright, dusty coast, as the sun finally broke through the kingdom of clouds.

Chimes. Chimes could be heard wafting through the ceilings of Kloven’s industrial park once again. The sounds would always come on slow at first, as though waking you from a dream you were unaware of. Then all at once, the clear bells sang, echoing sounds in every corner of the complex.

Though the area was always alive with life, most of Kloven’s followers lived in the city. Not only because they could live for cheap, but because many were every day people. Businessmen, construction workers, shop attendants, anyone you could see. They remained hidden among the crowds of random faces during the day time, with their heads down like the rest. But at night the vampires come.

And then there were the select few; Kloven’s diehard followers who lived within his ghost town. Free speech and living was a justified and accepted way of life on this planet, so an action such as creating a commune was entirely legal. In fact, Kloven was far from the first to begin such a place. Several older generations spent a long time building a free community on the outskirts of the mesa jungle. Today it is the largest commune on the planet, with over half a million people existing basically as a separate country.

For members of the Power Chord, being two people at once was often a hard life. Many in the business district had countless stories to tell about their misadventures in public. But for the rest of the street rats, they remained happy and protected by the city government, who provided them support in a number of ways, including financially. Kloven had brilliantly set up the commune with all proper paper work in order, creating a government sanctioned living space that was not only private, but funded and free for his people. All the while, they were sucking blood from the hand that fed them.

This was a place for the outcast, the forgotten, the weird, the violent. But most importantly to Kloven, they were malleable minds ready to be instructed. Ready to be shown the path. Ready to walk into hell.

A few of his followers, still dressed in their flamboyant colors and threads, wandered away from their camp fires and hideouts inside the dank buildings. Some literally crawled out from underneath narrow openings in the cracks like spiders, joining groups of colorful youths on their way to the open area outside.

This time, the chimes were coming from an old grandfather clock that had been left in the middle of Kloven’s circular stage. Many of the unsober members of his party thought it was him at first, frozen in some odd position.

As the ragged crew finally made their way up the steps and in front of the clock, they could see a few of their fellow friends completing stunts around them.

Encircling the stage grounds, men and women alike hung by chains in strange contortions. Some were trapped in clear boxes, starving themselves for days. They strung themselves across the yards like ornaments, performing outrageous acts as dedications for their self proclaimed master.

A few men on stage noticed a small doll hanging inside the inner gears of the grandfather clock. It was the shape of a man that resembled Kloven, dangling by his feet. A decorative card lay over the doll, featuring a picture of a figure in the same position. It was titled ‘The Hanging Man.’

As their eyes moved up and down the clock, they could see a hard etching in the face of clock, above the hands. It read: “Time is Construct.”

One of the men grabbed the doll and closely examined it. He flipped it over in his ashy hands, dried blood staining the card. He picked it off and read yet another inscription on the back. They were directions to his next public speech. Even in his absence, Kloven put on a show.

Within moments, every person staying at the commune was rushed to an exit, fearing they would be late for the show. They gathered small bags, books and belongings. Grabbed scarves, flags, spray paint and vibrant jackets. Without thought, driven by passion, they swiftly paraded away from the complex and into the outskirts of the city. Many of their friends were forgotten and left behind, still screaming from boxes hanging in the air.

Their outlines turned to shapes, and soon just colors floating in the distance. Splitting apart and coming together again, like a fire slowly overtaking the world beyond.

Kloven rarely gave public speeches, but when he did, it stopped the world. Tonight he had chosen a popular spot in one of the local parks, on ground level, down inside the depths of the city. A majority of the public spent their time attracted to the city above, a bustling inner network of floating buildings and bridges, all connecting commerce. But on ground level, the world became real again. The ocean was close by, parks had native residents and ancient trees, animals and insects buzzed. It was alive. This is also where most local businesses were founded and continued, as the older generations had no desire to move to the upper city. History was in the streets.

Even so, ground level cities still attracted the youth, as they came to see it as a place for extended vacations. Unfortunately, many stay too long and end up becoming lost in the culture, or eventually homeless. As a result, there are several small communes and low cost living areas across certain sections of the seaside villages.

This is where Kloven planned his attacks.

Tonight, the stars were out and not even the city glow from above could dull them. The crowds of local people were all around, eating at food carts, watching humble street performances, buying small gifts for their families. It was a bustling atmosphere, filled with all kinds of smells, sounds and distractions. But something else was in the air.

In a passing moment, Kloven suddenly appeared atop a small boulder centered in the middle of the grass. He was clad in a blood red cloak, whirling around in the layers as if a bird fluttering into a tree. Then he froze.

There he was, stark in one of his poses again for all to see. Tonight belonged to him.

As the people gathered around, they stared in wonder at the hooded figure in the middle of the rock, arms stretched to the sky.

“I am the dead!” He abruptly screamed. The crowd flinched. “Who are you?!” He moved around to meet everyone’s faces. “The undead, the darkness, the hole in the center of the universe from which all creation steams. I am the blood and stone of the earth!”

“Blood and stone!” A few of Kloven’s party had arrived. They exclaimed from the shadows in the back of the crowd. Wassador’s huge bear face loomed behind them.

Kloven smiled.

“Fire and ash are no end.” He continued, his hands and arms dancing. “They are a cycle, a rebirth, a destiny and a mythology. You are the construct of everything you see and believe in this world. But know this. Know what I say. Know that there is only one truth. To give eyes light, to see the true world beyond the fabric of society. A system to sear and blacken your heart, melt your dreams, to suck your soul from your flesh. Your blood- yours!” He pointed at random people. “Your red dust will be sifted into the sands of time. Your oil will feed the gears of corruption and evil.”

A decent crowd was now gathered before him, all intrigued and fascinated. The more vibrant colors of the Power Chord slowly seeping into the audience.

“You lack kings!” Kloven exclaimed, his arms reaching out to the people as if in pain. “You lack heart and soul. Leadership. You lack the sun. You bury the sun.” His eyes grew colder with every word, piercing the hearts of the stunned faces around him.

As his words drifted off into the night to the diamond stars overhead, another hooded figure made its way around the back of the crowd. It moved like a predator, stalking every person who had their back turned.

When a safe position was determined, it stopped and a face came into the soft glow of the streets lights. It was Charles, wearing an oversized dark gray cloak to hide himself.

Charles usually only ventured off to two separate locations in Ogunquit: The Forest Mesa and the park Kloven gave his speech in tonight. The park was often a dark place, filled with mystery, but not cold. The people who spent time here were all very happy, friendly and willing to please or perform. Random plant life overgrew everything, community gardens were at the end of all corners, and quaint farmers markets lined the beach walk. At night, the old, slanted street lights blazed with orange and yellow. Moths dashed in the illuminations. Vivid adolescents used drugs in the shadows, listening to music in small circles. The cracked brick walls were decorated with graffiti from top to bottom, marking statements of power, protection, equal rights, human rights, and violent gang tags and territory markers.

This was what Charles loved. He absorbed the culture. But tonight, he had come here for another reason.

He knew Kloven was due to perform tonight. For years, Charles had secretly been watching the uprising of this very unique idol. Over time, he eventually made acquaintances with some of Kloven’s men, acquiring information from them any way he could. Wassador, Kloven’s secret militia leader, was once in an infantry division who worked directly for the Capitol. He was a promising solider who grew fast through the ranks, eventually attaining secret military knowledge and information.

However, after many years of service, he turned up missing, never to be seen again. Then just two years ago, he reappeared at Kloven’s side.

It was how Kloven ran his secret operations so precisely. If it were not for Wassador’s valuable information and experience, the Power Chord could not have been possible. They continue to secure arms desperately, cover their tracks professionally and most important, remain hidden in view of the public. Kloven was the ring leader, Wassador the organizer.

On some nights, Wassador would recognize Charles, who had been to more then one performance. His keen eyes could immediately pin the sullen stature of a military man.

Charles was hidden from all, except for him. But Charles knew this. He too was always very aware of every inch of his surroundings.

Wassador measured Charles while he listened to the rest of Kloven’s speech.

“Unchain yourself from the reality!” Kloven continued, his voice now horse from screaming. “Unchain your mind from this construct. I tell you this only once, it is up to you to choose. Know me well, for it will be the last time you see me.”

Then, his body slouched again as if shutting itself off. All grew still and silent.

But not for long.

His compelling ending and brave, shocking message had resonated with the audience tonight. They erupted with noise and praise. A few stragglers were always unimpressed and wandered off, but most stayed and cheered wildly. Whether the feelings were true, or some drug induced coma, Kloven cared not. As long as they gained wisdom and became interested in the cause.

Charles stayed in the shadows for a while longer, allowing the people to move around him as he leaned himself against a brick wall. He watched Kloven’s followers surround the big boulder, chanting words of encouragement, or reaching out to grab him. Some passed out flyers or patches, encouraging others to join the fight.

When Charles was finally about to leave, a strong voice stopped him.

“Charles?” Wassador said in a pronounced tone.

Charles turned and nodded in his direction, careful not be too friendly.

“You come again?” Wassador asked. “It is not often we have repeat visitors from the Capitol. That is rare sight.” He almost let a smile slip through his prickly snout.

“I am a rare person. It’s no surprise to me.” Charles returned slyly.

“This I believe to be true.” His broad body stepped closer to Charles. Charles could smell his burnt clothing; the gray cargo suit ridden with laser marks and dried blood. One could only imagine where he had come from. “I also believe this visit may be more important.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am no spiritual being, but I know destiny in the eyes.” Wassador may have appeared big and slow, but his mind was sharp and fast.

“I would hardly call seeing a performance destiny. My appearance serves no purpose.” Charles brushed off.

“I think you know what I mean.”

“I can only imagine.”

At that moment, a few older homeless men wandered by beside them. They were covered with worn rags and asking any who passed by to spare them some extra money.

“Anything, sir? Anything?” They muttered.

Wassador remained silent and still, staring them down. Seeing no sympathy, they quickly moved on in fear.

“Why do you not even respond?” Charles questioned.

“Trash does not make a noise.” Wassador stated. He looked to Charles. “It blows down the street.”

Charles decided not to respond.

“You have lost your hard edge.” Wassador added. “You forget, we were once part of the same force of rule and order.” He attempted to take hold of the conversation.

“As I recall,” Charles began, “you were not able to make it to Solar Warden.” Wassador’s face grew hard and angry. “I remember a tale of escape and betrayal. A tale of underground markets, illegal arms deals and death. Destruction for the cause of rebellion.” Charles looked into his eyes. “And now of hope, apparently. But who is it for?”

Wassador allowed himself to take in the words, to consider them. But he knew his path was true. He was was right. He was justified.

“My soul is prepared and pure.” He said finally. “My cause is just. I know who I serve. Do you?”

“I used to.” Charles replied quickly.

“Have you lost your faith?”

“They have lost vision.” Charles corrected.

“No, Charles,” Wassador placed a fury, weathered paw on his chest. “You follow the wrong leader.”

“I believe in no leader.” He stated proudly, raising his chin. “I believe in only myself.”

Just then, another voice cut into the conversation.

“Beautiful words, friend.” Kloven said as he approached Charles from behind Wassador.

Charles leaned over to see him surrounded by a small group of lively people, protecting him as he strolled through the park. Sweat drenched hair still clung to his forehead, a glass of ice in one hand, his hooded cloak cast over his shoulders. He was a celebrity.

“Who are you?” Kloven asked, rejecting a formal greeting.

“Just another soul.” Charles answered humbly. Wassador stepped aside to let Kloven speak directly. But Charles was already turning around.

“You seem like a poet to me.” Kloven stated. Charles halted himself and swayed his body toward them again. “Perhaps it is you who should be captivating my audience tonight.”

“I mean no disrespect to your arts...”

“Disrespect? No, not at all.” Kloven raised his arms. “I welcome all souls to the fire, my friend. We are all one.” Charles listened. “My poetry was not inspired by libraries. It was inspired by you.” He pointed at Charles.

“That’s very admirable. I respect that. However, this is not my place.”

“Even more interesting, one who knows his place. For I know not what mine may be.” Kloven smiled and drew closer, but never enough to endanger himself.

“I mean nothing. I only have my life to live.” Charles said stoically.

“Indeed, a candle must burn.” Kloven froze for a moment, as if trying to remember something. “I know your face.” He studied Charles.

Charles was almost frightened by this. It was an odd response that unsettled him. He certainly did not wish to be known by this faction.

“I really must be leaving now, I’m sorry.” He said turning to leave again.

“The face of a visionary! But you do not realize it!” Kloven skipped forward quickly, shaking his arm at Charles as he made his way outside of the park gates.

Wassador thought of going after him, but remained steeped in thought instead.

Kloven noticed this.

“...You know this man?” He asked coming beside Wassador.

“I do.” Wassador replied deeply.

“A man that has tortured the mighty Wassador into thought.” He peered up at his powerful counterpart, hands clasped behind him. “Fascinating. Truly. My feelings do not betray me.”

“A man of artificial faith.” Wassador grumbled.

Kloven’s mind ran when he said this.

“The Capitol?”

Wassador nodded once. He fixated somber eyes on Charles’ hooded figure, fading into the outskirts.

“And yet, he is no friend?” Kloven wondered.

“He is something else.” Wassador sounded angry.

Kloven thought for another long moment, then moved himself in front of Wassador’s face.

“Tell me more of this.”

It was clear now that circumstances were changing. The system was collapsing, the servants of the Capitol grew weak and tired, rebellion was seeded. As Charles disappeared into the many colors of the world, Kloven was not concerned. He knew he would see him again. He prayed for it. All paths would soon come together.

The next day, overcast skies had enveloped the city of Ogunquit once again. In the gray weather, the hovering buildings lay quiet and peaceful, mirroring only the frigid ocean. In the highest of the tall structures, atop their apartment complex, Raymond was overlooking the steel sky. He closed his eyes from time to time as the breeze blew, finding moments of solace to think. As the sun shimmered behind clouds in patches of light, the city below him was animated with the usual, lively activity. Freight ships and personal transports lumbered past him and into the sky. The people in the streets below moved about in rhythmic patterns, lead in every direction by the sights and sounds of the metropolis.

When he became tired of his observations, he climbed down the side of the building, onto a thin catwalk, then hopped onto the patio by the front door. As always he remained clothed in his traditional uniforms, even when not on duty. He knew little else but dark cargo pants, blocky boots and sleeveless, silk shirts with shoulder garments. Today he wore a dull red top, notched at the neck with a thin V running down his chest. It matched a battle worn maroon shoulder cape, with attached silver chains draped over his heart.

As he walked into the living room, it seemed more quiet then ever. The air was still, as if the energy in the house had vanished.

For some time now, Victorian had not left this place, still clearly in shock from her near death experience. Most of the time she spent with Dove, keeping him from many naps, folded in her arms in the living room chair. When Dove was asleep, she talked constantly to her daughter Emillie who was still off planet in school. She had changed.

Raymond knew to keep his distance, but he also knew this ordeal must end at some point. He had been an excellent teacher all her life; instructing his beloved daughter to be strong, learn from failure, be brave and move on. Naturally, to see her in this state was unnerving for him.

Making his way toward the seating area, he suddenly noticed Victorian laying down on the sofa. She was awake, wearing a light rose body suit that cut off at her knees, and a baggy yellow shirt exposing one shoulder. She looked almost content, but deep in thought.

“Vic?” Raymond said quietly.

“Father?” She perked up.

“Father?” He almost laughed. “Its been quiet some time since you’ve said that.” He eased a smile, she did the same.

“How are you feeling today?” He wondered.

“Not sure.”

Raymond ambled over to the sofa and sat beside her. He lifted her legs and placed her feet on his thighs. He patted them once gently and looked her over.

“Ready to talk?”

“I’ve always been ready,” she replied. “I...I just haven’t found the words.”

“Patience is the king of virtue.” He assured.

“A lesson?” She cocked her head.

Raymond stopped himself. “I’m sorry.”

Victorian thought for a brief moment, then sat up face to face with her father.

“I still feel something.” She said cautiously.

“Like what?”

“I’m unsure. That’s what worries me.”

“You will never know everything, even about you.” He tried to sound convincing.

“I know everything about me.” She returned with slight frustration. “This is something I can’t place. A change I have not felt.”

Raymond chose his next words very carefully.

“Have you given any thought to what I had said?” He struggled to make direct eye contact.

She looked away initially, rejecting the notion. Raymond feared he had spoken too soon. Then, surprisingly, she nodded.

“I have.” She met her father’s gaze again. Raymond was pleased to hear this.

“That’s enough for me.” He smiled and placed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She couldn’t help letting her emotions paint a smile, but she quickly let it fade.

“I...” She started again. Raymond stopped her.

“You are still young. I trust with all my heart you will discover this on your own, as you always have.” He promised.

This statement empowered her. It was something she had longed to hear for some time.

“But know this,” Raymond continued, “I will always be here with you. Both Charles and I. What little family we have must remain strong now.”

Raymond reached his thick arm around her neck. She slouched closer to him.

“You’re right. And we will.” She looked to her father again, attempting to convey hope, but he could see the tears welling in her eyes.

“Vic? What is it?” He asked.

She finally allowed herself to break down, whimpering and collapsing into her hands as the tears flowed. Raymond cradled her and pulled her back upright.

“Oh father,” she began between small gasps, “they have taken my work from me. My life line!”

“What?!” Raymond was astonished. He was aware that in some circumstances jobs were cut for those unable to continue work. However, given Victorian’s unique circumstances, this should have been forgiven.

“What do you mean?” He inquired ferociously.

“They actually did it.” Her face went blank. “Demons.” Sadness had faded, replaced by pure anger.

“The Capitol cut you? Ridiculous! What reason do they have?”

Victorian remained silent for a short while, trying to control her feelings. Raymond calmed himself and sat forward.

“Vic. Why?” He said impatiently.

“Call it insanity.” She sounded crazed.

“Is that what it is? Is that what you believe?”

“Everyone convinces me so.” She took a long breath and dried some tears. “That’s how everything is run. Rules, law and oppression.” She glared at him.

The words cut Raymond deep. His own wisdom thrown back in his face. A heartless reality in too many ways to count.

“Isn’t that why we fight?” She added. “That’s why, right? To end it.”

“Yes.” Raymond had never felt so much frustration and guilt coursing through his veins. It worried him. It tempted him.

“They tell us we’re insane.” She proclaimed. “In a world of the mad.” She rose to her feet, all melancholy woes washed away, replaced by resolve. “And now, they tell me to die in it.” She finalized, and headed for Dove’s room again.

Without a word, Raymond jumped to his feet and began to storm out the door.

Victorian saw him, turned back, and immediately grabbed his arm to stop him. When he tried to walk through her, she grabbed him harder until they were facing each other again.

“If only they would listen to me!” He shouted with all is rage. “Why won’t they listen!”

Victorian said nothing. She held onto her father firmly, a sensation she not had experienced since she was a small child. She squeezed him tighter until all his fury withered.

They fell into each other arms and began to weep.

Raymond felt so helpless as a father. As a warrior. As a hero to his family.

“I’m sorry, my heart.” A stifled apology was all he could manage out. Victorian pulled away and held his cheeks, running her palms across his thick beard.

“You will always be my hero.” They both smiled. “Our hero.”

He knew she believed this. It was all he needed to hear.

They embraced tightly once more, then stepped back to recompose themselves.

“Where were you going?” Victorian asked. “What good will it do talking to them?”

Raymond nodded once and looked to the floor. “None.” He breathed.

Victorian studied her father as if examining a gem. She stepped toward him again, placing a delicate hand on his shoulder.

“Fight for us.” She spoke softly, but sternly. He caressed her hand for a moment.

Victorian gave him the hopeful look he desired, reassuring him that she was fine, at least for now.

As he watched her walk back to Dove’s room, he remembered the simpler times. The younger years, when everything was far more free and happy. No pain, no illusion. And now, these had become merely aspects of life to experience.

At that moment, Raymond’s communicator buzzed on is belt. Someone was trying to reach him.

He removed it and raised it to his eyes, checking the name on the digital display.

An old friend had returned again.

Soon after, Raymond had rejoined the city streets he had been observing from his perch all morning. The mysterious smells, the whimsical colors. The atmosphere of the cafes, street performers and vendors crackling around him. So much life danced through the winds, yet so much death surrounded all.

For reasons unknown to Raymond, Hister had preferred to met him in the busiest part of the town square again. He assumed it was a personal agenda, as one could discuss business while simultaneously enjoying the jesters in every corner.

As he made his way across a sky bridge, he noticed all too familiar white paterns wafting in the breeze. Except they were not on the street, they were in the air.

To Raymond’s surprise, he looked up and saw his old friend floating on a moving platform, positioned right beside a small, elevated walkway.

“Raymond!” Hister called out, lifting one arm to the sky.

“Hister! You can fly!” He returned.

“And yet, you still do not know the full extent of my powers.” Hister was still wearing his white robes, but now lacked the head dress, fully revealing his craggy, heart shaped head.

“You continue to amaze.” Raymond said coming to the edge.

Hister pulled the platform closer to the walkway, allowing Raymond to jump up and on to the device.

“Where is young Charles today? I was hoping I would get to see him as well.” Hister pressed buttons on a control panel.

“Oh you will, believe me.” Raymond sounded unsure. “He spends most of his time out at the mesa these days.”

“There is nothing wrong with training in nature, right?”

“Of course. I only wish he would return to form someday.”

“Which form would that be? Yours?” Hister quipped.

Raymond smiled. “What else?”

“You are a true commander. It sounds like you’re ready to join myself and the rest of the Royal council.” He smirked.

Hister hit a switch on the controls and the platform eased forward, into the city. Even with the beauty of the floating structures unfolding before them, Hister could notice something was quiet wrong with Raymond. He edged closer to him as Raymond leaned forward over the guardrail.

“I can see the sadness in your eyes, my friend.” Hister stated with concern.

“And you will always see it,” Raymond replied turning toward him, “it is my mask these days.”

“Tell me.” Hister sought details.

“It is...odd.” Raymond said quietly. “I feel something within me I’ve not felt in years. Decades. It is like a great ghost from the past.”

“The roots of you soul grow deep, my friend.” Hister remarked, touching his back. “I assure you, it simply must be wisdom catching up with you.”

“I dwell on life too much? Is that it?” He asked with natural intrigue.

“Perhaps, you do not dwell enough.” Hister replied with a serious tone.

Raymond was going to say something, but refrained and found himself agreeing.

“Perhaps.” He spoke, hanging his head slightly.

“You are not to blame.” Hister removed his boney hand from Raymond’s back and placed it on his broad arm. Raymond could feel a strange strength coming from Hister’s muscles.

“You do not know, Hister.” Raymond stepped back as Hister’s hand fell. “It is because of me, I alone, that my family remains in ruins.”

“I have a different theory to offer you.” Hister replied. Raymond awaited answers. “It is they who will not listen. They will not hear. They destroy all, not you.”

“And yet here I stand. An enemy.”

“We will open their ears.”

“Who will, Hister? You, or I?”

Hister searched for his next words, letting his eyes lift to the sky. He scanned the clouds.

“The gods will.” He said to the sky.

“How can you preach religion with the life you have been given?” Raymond struggled to understand his friend’s views and motives. And yet, he was very intrigued by these statements.

Hister smirked, as if pregnant with secrets.

“You are wise, my friend. But you remain ripe with questions.” Hister stated. Raymond let his confusion sink, slowly nodding his head.

“I do.” He agreed.

“And I will show you.” Hister’s face was flush with pride. “Come with me to the moons.”

“Now?” Raymond responded.

“Yes.” Hister toggled more control switches. “That is where I am taking you.”

The two friends stared at each other, ready to launch another battle of wits. But tensions could not be held, and Raymond’s curiosity got the better of him.

The platform sped up and onward through the rectangular, hanging buildings. It disappeared into the swarms of other transport ships as the sun lowered behind city.