Ethereal

Destiny

By

Scarlet Autumn

 Ethereal Destiny

The day was hot; the sun beating mercilessly upon the near empty
streets of the long time capital of Ignitia. Near a thousand years previous, if
one were to walk a path through time down the main road, barely anything
would change. New paint jobs, repaired buildings, maybe the odd rotted house
scheduled for tearing down and building something new in its place. The city
was old; many knew it, and just as many didn't care. They've lived in this city,
beautiful in its own decrepit way, all their lives and it was hardly good to start
now. No, Magnite was fine as it was, and those who wished to seek it found
heavy resistance no matter how hard they tried.
Not that anyone really tried, as the city had its own eerie beauty
surrounding it. There was not a soul alive that knew every nook and cranny,
every dip and neither arch of the gothic towers nor the ancient architecture of
the main buildings, built entirely with stone. Living in a country that had
raging heat waves during the near unbearable summer, there was a certain risk
in using flammable materials to build with. The Woods was precious to the
capital; they were so thick, big, tall, and imposing that they not only protected
most of the city from any natural disasters like tornadoes (the rare occurrence
does happen, but far from the city in any rate) but also discouraged any
invaders from other countries, seeking to take the city for its humungous
wealth and resources available exclusively to it.
The people there were happy, content, and most were wealthy; not
needing to work so hard for their wares, and their children growing happy and
spoiled. Magnite was a very prosperous city, and every day, it had immigrants
from all over, hoping to gain some of that prosperity for their own, or sought a
better life than what they had in their old countries and cities. Most lived in the
beautiful city all of their lives, knowing naught else and unable to properly
compare. One such citizen was one person, out of millions, that had never left
Magnite, but knew most of its secrets from many adventures.
Down the main road, near the centre of the city where a monolith of a
tower stood, gleaming dully in the bright sunlight, a shock of wild, unruly
crimson hair can be seen bobbing quickly through the midday rush. Behind the
owner of the redhead were three unmistakably female figures, making angry
chase to the rapidly escaping redhead. The redhead, a trickster in her own
right, gave a foxy grin. She knew better than to be caught by three angry
females, especially if she had just pulled a prank of them. Ignoring the
grumbling people around her, some outright insulting and cursing, the redhead
quickly stole through the crowd of sweating bodies, making it to the other side
and dived into a nearby alleyway.
She knew exactly where she was; this particular alley, between Crescent
Lane and Fiery Path, led directly to one of the few libraries of the city. And
not just any old boring library, like the other ones that stored mainly children's
books, recent magazines, and the newest books, but the only library in
Magnite that stored only old manuscripts, tablets from many a-year previous,
leather bound books, crudely made bibles, stringed pages made to resemble a
book, and many more. This library's 'latest' addition had not a published date,
but a discovery and catalogue date, and only a few were allowed to handle any
recent additions in the library, not to mention that none of the occupants of the
library particularly cared that the most recent entry to be stored here was dated
to be nigh a hundred years old.
It was in this ancient place that the redhead found her refuge, her... home
away from home. Nobody would have guessed that this particular redhead was
literate, or that she was more inclined to the company of books than to the
company of another human being. To this particular teenager-soon-to-be-adult,
books did not judge; they did not laugh or sneer or mock. Books did not do
disgust, reject, deter or appall. Books were passionate, accepting,
compassionate, empathetic and sympathetic. Books were not prejudice.
Books were books; painfully silent despite the stories they wished to
share with the world and beyond. Some whispered, to the others on the same
shelf or to the visitors, unmoving yet clamouring for the chance to tell the
story among their yellowing pages and neat black script that, for many, many
hours, was painstakingly copied and preserved for generations to come.
As soon as the redhead entered the building, she was greeted warmly by
the head librarian; a greying woman of fifty years, she still looked like she was
thirty and her bubbly, yet reserved countenance spoke volumes for her
personality. Traces of wrinkles were visible around her eyes and her cheeks
were sagging almost unnoticeably, but it was not these things that caught your
eye, it was her own, silver gaze that caught it, ensnared it. Her eyes were
intimidating, sharp and focused and completely betrayed her age and
experience with books for she wore no glasses before that steely gaze. She
wore old fashioned robes she always had, made of linen and colored a dark
burgundy. There were many pockets in the two layered robe, and were
completely devoid of any oils that may accumulate over the many hours worn.
Over top of the burgundy robe was a vest, black in color, that held many more
wonderful pockets that were filled to the brim with pens, pencils, a stapler in
one and a hole punch in another, a stamp and ink right above her heart and a
six inch ruler tucked neatly in a hidden pocket in her sleeve.
The redhead knew where they all were because she had been coming to
this particular library for years and years, ever since she was about seven or
eight. And the woman never changed. She had a weird thought a while back;
what if the old woman was suddenly stuck in time like the rest of the books in
the library? She was ten at the time, she remembered, and it just struck her at
odd that in all the years she had known her, the old lady never changed; not a
grey hair out of place and not a wrinkle to be seen on her robes. It was
sometimes disconcerting. But nevertheless, the woman treated her like a niece,
and she an aunt, and they got on beautifully in the end.
"Good morning, Madam Marianne! Is it alright if I hide here for a
while? I'm afraid that my tongue has a personality of its own," she grinned, her
teeth shining in the artificial light of the foyer.
Marianne Eleandra smiled with an almost grandmotherly chuckle, "I do
believe you are right, Scarlet. I hope that your tongue will curb itself when the
time comes. Though how you will manage to find a boyfriend is beyond me at
this point," She chuckled at her spluttering and waved a slightly wrinkled hand
in a clear sign of dismissal. "I don't mind in the least, my girl, just make sure
you wash and sanitize your hands, even if you are not going to touch anything.
You'd make an old lady feel much more at ease."
"That would be the day," Scarlet replied. "When you actually look like
you're getting older. You've looked the same since I first met you!"
Marianne's ensuing laugh was light and tingly that shook her near petite
frame beneath folds of thin linen. Scarlet grinned back, sending her a wave as
she passed the front desk and into the bathroom behind it. The redhead didn't
bother to look at herself in the mirror, she already knew what she looked like,
and had no inclination for a reminder. Keeping her head bowed, Scarlet
properly washed her hands, reciting the alphabet at a steady rhythm, rinsing
her hands when she reached the last letter, and squirting two wads of the best
hand sanitizer on the market into her waiting palms. Rubbing her hands
together absently, Scarlet exited the private bathroom that was usually
reserved for Marianne, but shared with her because she practically lived in the
library.
As soon as she was out of site and among the tall, imposing oak shelves
that littered the massive building (Scarlet measured it in her own way once;
when she was eleven, she walked for fifteen minutes from one end to the other
and another twenty once she rounded the corner nearly two blocks away from
where she started), whispers began to fill the silence and rose in volume until
it became a low buzz. This always happened; every time she came here and
was alone among the bookshelves, the whispers would start. She had asked
Marianne once, and she had replied:
"Books are not entirely inanimate, nor are they silent. Each has a story
to tell, and if one listens hard enough, one can hear the story kept within
without ever opening the pages. Always treat books with respect, young one,
for you never know what you may need from them in the future."
Scarlet later learned that not everyone could hear the whispers that
echoed throughout the shelves, and ingrained themselves into her skin, her
hair, her eyes, mouth, nose, ears and clothes. She always rubbed herself down
right outside the library to get rid of the feeling that something was clinging to
her skin and matting her hair. Crazy, she knows, but she can't help it.
Sometimes she would have to clean out her ears to get rid of the lingering
whispers that talked broken gibberish into her ear-drums. If you had the
feeling she had every time she left the library, you wouldn't be as doubtful.
The redhead listened carefully to the whispers, walking down the
familiar corridor-like placement of the shelves. She had only been in three
quarters of the library so far, always too busy listening to one story or another,
or repairing older books from their previous state. The last quarter was the
farthest, a near fifteen minute walk from the foyer. It was the least tended to,
as Marianne was getting too old to get everywhere to banish the dust that
accumulates over the worn leather bindings and aged, musty parchment.
Scarlet made a mental note to ask her to become a member of the staff one of
these days. The old lady needed more help than she let on. But Scarlet had to
respect her pride; Marianne kept this hallowed holy ground for books for over
thirty years, and she still had another sturdy fifteen yet.
The sixteen year old redhead knew for a fact that it was best if you
started young, the better chances you had as an adult to get what you wanted.
What she wanted for her future was to take care of this particular library, like
Marianne, though the latter had started somewhere in her twenties. Scarlet did
not want to ask her age, as one simple did not ask a woman their age without
painful repercussions, but she had a feeling that she was near the middle of her
fifties, at the very least. She had done the math when she was younger, when
Marianne told her that she started in her twenties and held the position for
thirty years. Scarlet already had basic training in how to shelve some of the
less important documents and scrolls, nearer to the front desk where Marianne
could watch her, and she even got to watch the older woman, on several
hundred occasions, how to properly fix books that were falling apart at the
seams. Scarlet had called her 'Doctor Fix-a-Book' once and got an armful of
manuscripts to shelve and a stern smile.
To this day, if Scarlet was ever bored, she would call Marianne that, and
in return, she'd get a pile of books and manuscripts to shelve. It was a win-win
situation.
Shaking herself firmly out of her musings, Scarlet continued on her way
to the furthest corner. However, the further she got from the rest of the familiar
library, the quieter the whispers got. Eventually, as she was about to turn the
last corner, the whispers stopped altogether; as if something was blocking her
from hearing the books calling out to her to stop and listen.
Shrugging off the strange phenomenon, Scarlet turned the corner, and
was pleasantly surprised to find that the only corner she had not seen yet
wasn't filled with a shelf and mounds of books, but instead, a dust-free table
with an old oil lamp in the middle and a single arm chair situated next to it,
nestled in the very corner of the library. Along the wall on the other side of the
chair was a smaller shelf, but this held not books, but small, intricate figurines
of teacups, people, animals, and strangely enough, figures for books.
How odd.
Bemused, the redhead slowly crept into the comfy looking corner,
noting how nothing was covered in dust, nothing was rotting, nothing was
moth-eaten. The oil lamp looked brand new, though the teenager knew that oil
lamps were not made anymore and that the chance of getting a brand spanking
new one was a gazillion to one. It was like everything was trapped in time,
thirty or forty years trapped in time. Not a speck of dust, not a spot of age. It
was nothing short of strange.
Shrugging off the weird sensation of being transported back in time near
fifty years (she briefly wondered if she would accidentally run into a child
version of Marianne, which led off to what she might have looked like as a
child, and then promptly ran into a roadblock, as, no matter how much
imagination she had, she could not imagine what Marianne looked like as a
child; she was just too stern and scary to have been a sweet, innocent child)
Scarlet made her way to the very comfortable looking chair and sank her
bottom into the soft, velvet fabric. Oh. She just died and went to heaven. Or
Nirvana. Whichever one was better. All the unknown tension she had in her
muscles just melted away and Scarlet just about dozed off right there.
If the redhead had known there was a very comfortable chair back here
before, she'd seek permanent residence in the library like Marianne had and
sleep in the bloody thing. Right now, she didn't think a crowbar was good
enough to pry her from her new best friend. Felix? What's a Felix? Oh, well,
he's a thing of the past now.
Something nagged at the back of her mind, like she was holding a rope
and someone was tugging insistently on the other end. With great reluctance,
and she meant great, she pulled herself up off the chair and stood right in front
of it. With her mind clear from the drowsiness of the Nirvana Chair, as she
dubbed it, the tugging became stronger and more defined. Looking around
with a small frown gracing her usually smiling lips, a low murmuring began to
rise in volume.
The corner of the library, being without most of the electric lighting that
was mostly near the front, was dim and full of shadows. Scarlet absently
turned on the oil lamp with a familiarity that was lost on her distracted mind,
and the ensuing light chased the shadows deeper into the cracks and folds that
no light is able to pierce. Now able to see adequately, the redhead cast her
crystalline blue gaze along the shelves opposite to the chair and table,
searching for the book that was calling out to her.
It didn't occur to her that the other books were silent, still; their voices
hoarse from years and years of whispering to nothing but the air. Broken
spirits of the scribes that wrote them. They no longer had the strength to
whisper their respective stories, even to those willing to listen.
The murmuring continued to grow in volume; rising and rising with
each step the redhead took nearer to its hiding place. The frown on her face
was deeper, more pronounced, as she could not understand what the
murmuring was telling her, what it was saying; like the book was beckoning
her on in another language, though from what broken pieces she did catch, it
was not another language, but her own. The murmuring was a low roar now,
other voices joining it, high and low, grumbling and singing, creating a
symphony of voices that said the same thing, but did not help in her
interpretation. It was frustrating yet refreshing. Irritating yet soothing. It was
weird.
The murmuring was a wild roar now, so loud in her ears and made her
very bones vibrate with the intensity. She could hear not else. She had a
feeling that she didn't want to hear anything else but the weird voices calling
out. And with a jolt, they were calling out to her.
With a final, resounding thud of shoe on stone floor, the thunder roar of
murmuring instantly silenced. Everything was quiet. She couldn't even hear
her own breathing, not even her pounding heart, which she was sure was
pounding hard enough to give her a heart attack. The silence was so thick, so
complete, that it was like she was in an entirely different world, different
dimension from her loud one. And the redhead mused that she could probably
hear a pin drop from the foyer, a near fifteen minute walk from where she was
now.
Now that she could think somewhat clearly, Scarlet's eyes instantly
attached to a particular scroll almost right in front of her very nose. It seemed
to draw her in, ensnare her attention so thoroughly that the strange happenings
of earlier was almost forgotten. It was the same yellowed parchment as the
millions of others she's seen and handled, inches thick and bound so tightly
that Scarlet had a hard time guessing how many pieces of the old paper was
there. It was held by a single, black ribbon, tied snugly around the aged
parchment like a lover and seemed to somehow convey an emotion entirely
unfamiliar to the naive redhead. She knew that the black ribbon symbolized
something, something that was beyond her understanding; like grasping at
water like one would something solid. It just wasn't done, and until the
redhead knew more, she wouldn't be able to devise a way to grasp that water.
Shaking off the strange thoughts, Scarlet hesitantly brought her hands up
to the scroll, allowing her clean, oil free fingers to lightly caress the crinkling
parchment with a look of strange wonder on her face. She couldn't shake the
feeling that she knew what the scroll contained, that the black ribbon tied so
possessively around the roll was so frighteningly familiar and phantom arms
wrapping securely around her waist, a face nuzzling her tan neck. Visibly
jumping, Scarlet whirled around, breathing erratic and the scroll she was
looking at not a moment before held out before her in a vague gesture of 'get-
away or else I'll hurt with you a pathetic scroll!'
No one was there.
Scarlet's face screwed up into an emotion that closely resembled
confusion, but was a mixture between confusion and another emotion the
redhead had never felt before. She didn't know what it was, but had a feeling
that she should. That she had felt it many, many times before. Like déjà vu. It
was creepy.
Suddenly realizing she still had the scroll in her grasp, Scarlet flushed in
embarrassment at her defensive reaction and shuddered at the thought of what
Marianne would do to her if she found out how Scarlet was treating her
precious collection of scrolls. Firmly ripping herself out of that train of
thought, the blue-eyed girl loosened her hold on the fragile feeling roll of
parchment, though she knew on an intellectual level that parchment was not
that easy to rip. A long time ago it wouldn't have been, but now, aged to a ripe
old state, she didn't know if it was easy or not to rip or crumple it. It was not
something she was going to risk doing at the moment, for she did not want to
die a slow, cruel and unusual death at the hands of the sadistic Head Librarian.
Parchment was never very heavy by any means, and even the roll in her
hands was not that heavy, but it seemed to portray a weight that betrayed what
her mind was telling her; like the weight of the world was tied down by the
very ribbon that kept the roll sealed shut. It was puzzling. Scarlet put that
observation somewhere in the back of her mind and focused her attention on
the scroll. Her feet took her back to the comfortable chair and inviting oil lamp
that set just the right mood for a good curl up and read.
She sank right into the chair once again, but this time, she did not have
the urge to drift off into the sweet oblivion of dreams. No, she had a new urge;
to rip off the strange black ribbon and devour the contents of the scroll. Of
course, she didn't rip off the black ribbon, 'cause it was much too pretty to do
such a thing to (she firmly ignored the strange gut clenching emotion that
arrested her heart from the very thought), but gently coaxed it off, neatly
folded it, and rested it on the arm of the chair. The scroll immediately grew
several more inches at the paper slipped against one another in haste to loosen
the tight coil.
Distantly, Scarlet was aware that if Marianne caught her opening a scroll
that obviously hadn't been opened in a very long time, she would skin her
alive and set out her hide in the foyer as an example to anyone visiting. But
her damnable curiosity was wetted and now longed for blood; or, in this case,
something to feed it and the scroll was now opened and just waiting for
someone to read its contents.
Unrolling the still tight coil with patient fingers, the redhead
immediately caught the neat, straight black scrawl of what was written within.
The writing was a little on the small side, but not too small as to make reading
difficult. She was secretly glad for that. Scarlet did not want old person glasses
at the age of twenty five. Leaning slightly closer to the oil lamp next to her,
the adolescence unrolled another couple of inches of the scroll and began
reading in earnest, absently taking in the date near the top, but not really
registering it.
I have a name, but I choose not to bestow it upon ye who read this. My
anonymity will allow my story to survive as long as the parchment it is written
on will last. It is my wish that future generation will hear of the tragedies that
litter my life and gleam the lessons it took me to learn a lifetime. I do not wish
for anyone else to live the life I have, for I fear that they would not survive
such an experience.
I felt what love can do to a woman such as I. Love is all consuming. It
does not go away if ye so wish it to. When I first felt it, at ten and seven
Falling of the Leaves, it took me completely by surprise. And forever changed
my world. How can I convey what kind of things played with my mind, how
utterly lost in a world that I knew I didn't belong to? I was a mere bard,
travelling the world with my stories at the tip of my tongue and warm of heart
from how many children I made laugh even once in their gloomy lives. It is not
an easy life, in this empire, in this world. For me to be able to bestow the
power of brief happiness to those with none... it filled me with a sense of great
peace. Like I had finally found my place in the world.
My story, my life, starts like any other poor orphan in the world. I don't
know where I was born, or who my parents were. I was simply an orphan,
taking up valuable space in one of the many alleys in the village I had woken
up in one day. I don't remember anything before that. I just remember waking
up one day suddenly aware of the world around me, suddenly aware of hunger,
of pain, of danger, and of thirst. But unlike any other poor orphan left over
from the war I later learned that had just ended, I had a strong sense of
survival.
I was not afraid of death. I was never afraid to die, because I learned
young that everyone died sooner or later, but it was my own self worth that
preferred the later part of the deal. I struggled, I learned, I adapted. I never
allowed anyone to step on me, but protected those I grew close to with every
little bit of my being. When I was nearing the age of ten Falling of the Leaves,
a strange man arrived in the village I lived in. It was rare for someone new to
come to a village as remote as mine, so everyone was weary of him.
He told us he was a bard, someone who travelled far and wide and told
great tales to many people in exchange for a place to rest and food to eat. He
never told the people of the village what his name was, but as soon as he
started his wonderful tales, I was smitten. Not with him, of course, for he was
a very old man, but with the story that seemed to weave itself around me like a
tight blanket. Then, he seemed to disappear for the rest of the night. I was very
upset. I had gone to my bed, the very place I fought tooth and bone for against
so many, and no matter how hard I tried, I could not fall asleep. At the time, I
blamed it on the strange sounds I heard in the distance, but in reality, I believe
it was the pure excitement I felt towards meeting this old man.
The next day, he seemed ready to be on his way. He left with a wave. I
followed him. It utterly amazed me when, a few leagues away from the village,
he stopped in the middle of the worn path and told me to come forth. When I
did, he told me that he was able to hear me from the village and guessed as to
why I was following him. Despite his many seasons, the old man was very
perceptive and, by some miracle, immediately took me under his wing. I had
wanted to travel with him, become a bard like he was, and he seemed to
understand that. He accepted it.
So began my journey. For many seasons I travelled with him, learning,
rehearsing, creating new stories and repeating old ones. It was my life. And I
was happy with how it turned out. When I turned ten and six Falling of the
Leaves, the old man, whose name was (here, the text was smudged, as if
someone had deliberately wiped out the name of the old man. Scarlet took a
brief break to curse the person responsible to all levels of hell, as to
deliberately ruin a text as old as this was considered a sin to a librarian. And
the redhead was one to the very core. Finally settled down, she unrolled more
of the first page of the parchment, noting how there was only a couple of
inches left, and continued reading) faded into the heavens, leaving me in this
big world by myself.
It wasn't like I was scared of the world. I've never truly felt fear, and
those whom I had grown close to in my village had all faded into the heavens
before I left, so there was truly no one left for me to treasure. The old man had
been with me for six Falling of the Leaves, but it felt like longer. He was the
grandfather I had never known, and never will know. He told me many stories
of his youth, but instead of sharing those, I decided to horde them to myself.
They were precious; even if they were not true.
The old man had turned out to be very famous. He was known all over
the land, and had even told the Emperor a few stories. The Emperor! I still
cannot wrap my mind around it. Such an honor is beyond what I deserve.
Though that did not stop me from wishing for that kind of honor. Though I no
longer had my mentor, I continued to spread the stories he had given to me. I
knew that's that he would have wanted from me. For me. And I continued my
journey for his sake. In his honor.
I quickly rose in infamy. People I had never met were recognizing me for
who I was and what I represented. I went to noble courts and entertained them
with stories they had never heard of before and I saw many, many poor
villages during my travels. I never refused a plea for a performance, no matter
how poor they were. I was ten and seven Falling of the Leaves, and I was one
of the more known people after the Emperor.
Not long before the summer season I was invited to perform for a more
well known and revered clan. At first, I was excited. I had never performed for
a clan before, and if it went well, my fame would rise. I would be able to get
the chance to spread my stories further, and if I'm lucky, have the chance to
write them down and preserve them. My stories, and my mentor's stories were
precious to me, and I wanted nothing more but to preserve them for all
eternity.
My mentor wanted everyone to know his genius. And I want everyone to
know it too.
The clan I performed for turned out to be one of the most influential.
They had power everywhere. The Clan Head even had a seat on the Emperor's
council, as one of his many advisors and his right hand General. It was a
great honor to perform for these noble people and perform I did. With every
bit of my being, I put life into my stories and sung a few of them too. The
person I was performing for was arrogant and spoiled, but was attentive all
the same. He loved my stories, no matter how much he showed otherwise. It
was improper, it was downright treason, but we became friends.
It wasn't the kind of friendship most would envision between a Prince
and a lowly bard, but my status and infamy allowed us the friendship we both
sought. He once told me he was betrothed to a princess of another clan, and
he told me how reluctant he was to do so. When I met him years later, I would
understand why.
My friend, who was the same age as I, but older by a couple of seasons,
had an older brother that he barely ever saw. That night that I had performed
for my friend, for his Turning of Age, I had met him for the first time also. He
was not married, which surprised me. Men his age were usually married off,
but I guess his father allowed him the choice of choosing a bride. Something
that was a luxury and he was lucky. I didn't know how old he was, I never
inquired, and it seemed rude to openly inquire someone their age.
 When I first lay mine eyes on him, I felt time stop. There was an
unspoken fire between us that only we shared. One look from his black eyes
and I felt my knees go weak. I couldn't believe what kind of power he had over
me. How my body betrays my mind. It is wrong to love a man of his caliber. It
goes against nature itself, but when we met the second time, I didn't care. I
didn't care how wrong it was. He led me to the privacy of his bedroom and
there we made love. We were in love.
Scarlet stopped reading here, a deep frown of contemplation on her
whiskered face. Sexuality was something she never before contemplated.
Well, she heard about forbidden love, beyond what was normal, but at the
time, she didn't really care. To her, love was love. If you were lucky enough to
find it, did it matter whom it was that you loved?
The redhead never had anyone to tell her it was wrong. She had no
parents, had never even knew who they were, what their names were, what
they did for a living. And the people at the orphanage barely waited until she
was old enough for a boarding school before shipping her off with self-
satisfied and happy smiles at seeing her go.
She had a few friends now. She no longer went to a boarding school,
since she had a godfather that paid for her apartment and schooling until she
graduated from her public school in Magnite. Scarlet had many jobs, but she
was often flaky to all of them. None of them interested her, and besides, she
spent most of her time with Marianne and the library. The redhead has no idea
why she hadn't just asked the old lady if she could have a job here, since she
practically lived in the ancient building with her. It was starting to sound like a
more appealing job after she was fired for the sixth time.
The closest person to her was Felix. The black haired intellectual genius
was like a brother and Scarlet felt almost proud that only she was able to make
her friend show more emotion than contempt and sneers. And the redhead was
sure that Felix considered her to be a sister too. Though she doubted it; she
was nothing special.
Returning her attention to the scroll, Scarlet allowed what she had read
so far to go through her mind and immediately noticed the various similarities
between her and the person that wrote the scroll. First was that both of them
were orphans, though Scarlet was not sure if her parents died in a war or not.
The last one ended around the time she was born, but that did not mean her
parents were in it by any means. The other similarities were scary. Scarlet
loved to tell stories, and sing too, but not many people were privy to it. She
didn't write stories, but there were a lot in her head to tell to the people that
would listen. One day, she wished to write them down for other people to read
and she wanted to sing for someone extremely important. Like the King. It
would be an extreme honor.
 One similarity that really awed the redhead was that the writer of the
scroll and she had the same birthday. In Magnite, October 10 was the very day
that the leaves of the surrounding forest fell. It was why it was called the
Falling of the Leaves. A festival was made traditional for thousands of years,
centered around the legend (well, myth by now) of a woman who died for the
person she loved with all her heart, on October 10th.
The leaves fell that day and has continued to fall exactly on that day, for
a millennia. October had always been the month that the leaves fell from the
trees in Ignitia, and before the legend came into being, the day the leaves
began falling was erratic. So, really, Scarlet didn't know if they really did have
the same birthday. The legend didn't state who had died, or what they looked
like, but Scarlet had a feeling that the scroll she was reading now would
enlighten her.
Before she read on, the redhead had a brief feeling that she knew what
the end of this sad tale was going to be.
For many years we met in secret, sharing stolen kisses, and hours of
passion. Please, ye don't bear judgement against us; don't bear unjust disgust
and hatred toward my lover and I. Ye probably will never feel what I felt and
still feel for the man I had given my very heart to. I beg ye to understand, not
to accept, but to understand. It is a very hard life, and any happiness I can
selfishly have to myself after years of making others happy with my stories and
songs I will take and I will treasure. Happiness is fleeting. If ye do not capture
a bit for yerself as soon as ye can, it will be taken from ye, ripped away.
My friend died soon after he was married, but not before he blessed his
wife with a set of twins. Also nearly unheard of. Then, my love was sent away
to fight the war in the name of our Emperor. I did not want him to go, but he
did nonetheless. He told me he wanted to fight not for our Emperor, but for my
safety, so that the bloodshed of the war would not reach me. He wanted to
keep me safe.
I had never considered myself lucky. I had been blessed with many good
friends, and loved ones, but they all died and left me alone. The old man that
took me under his wing introduced me to many of his friends, including an old
lady that love me like a grandchild, nearly like a daughter, for she could not
bear children. She had died soon after the old man did; died of heartbreak of
her own tragic life. The friends I made on my travels have died too; famine,
sickness, starvation. They weren't strong enough to live, to continue the
continuous struggle of survival. Nobody cared for them but me. And it was me
alone that mourned their passing. I had long ago vowed to continue living for
their sakes. I would not give into death without a fight.
It was another month until my lover was expected to return. The war
was over. It never had the chance to reach out borders and never had the
chance to reach me. I hoped with all my heart that he was unharmed and
alive, that my abysmal luck would not take away another that I cared about.
That I loved. The Emperor, hearing much about me and my stories, requested
my presence to entertain him. The honor this brought upon a no name woman
such as myself! I would finally be doing my mentor honor. His student, a
woman, performing for the Emperor! It was my dream, and I achieved it.
The Honored Emperor was impressed by me and more so by my
performance. I had given it my all. My drive, my passion, my need to make my
mentor proud. It all went together and created something so spectacular that
the Emperor offered me a place on his court. Not even my honored mentor was
offered a place on the Emperor's court. I accepted graciously, what else was I
to do? One did not refuse the kindness of the Emperor. And despite me being a
woman, I finally felt like I was good enough for my lover. I was no one before.
But now I'm someone. I have a name, a place in this world.
I performed for the Emperor twice after that, and in return, he gifted me
with the finest robes to wear and the finest rooms to rest in. I was his prized
entertainment, and I thought day and night for new stories to tell him, ones he
might not have heard before. I did not want to disappoint the Emperor. I got
whatever I wished for. The first thing I requested was parchment and ink to
which I could finally preserve my mentor's finest stories. My writing was not
the best, but with diligent practice in the privacy of my chambers, I quickly
grew proficient enough. It was my lover and my mentor that taught me. I loved
them both for it.
I do not know if the stories I worked so hard to preserve are still safe
where I hid them. I hope they are. I want future generations to read the genius
that is my mentor. Mentor. I recall he never wanted me to address her as
Master, because it made him feel old. That was another thing I loved about my
mentor.
When my lover finally returned from the war, I was overjoyed. Of
course, I didn't show it until we were able to sneak into each other’s company
in private, but the passion we shared together was nothing compared to before
he left. It felt like I was soaring above the clouds, flying free with my lover by
my side, over the land and seeing all. It was nothing short of magical and left
us feeling like we couldn't get enough of each other.
I continued to entertain the Emperor with my stories and songs, always
impressing him, always receiving the honor of being in his company, talking of
many things. It was an honor to entertain him, it was an honor to advise him,
it was an honor to speak with him, but none can comprehend the honor it is to
stay near him for many hours and just talk about everything and nothing. To
be able to relax in his company and not be afraid of being sentences to treason
for saying my mind. None can really feel how good it is to be appreciated the
way the Emperor appreciated my friendship. Just for me to be there.
I was so happy. I was somebody. I loved someone just as much as they
loved me. I had the highest honor anyone could receive. I was revered nearly
as much as the Emperor, and honored just as much. My stories reached the
farthest corners of the Empire and even beyond. Everybody knew who I was. I
cannot convey how happy I was with my life.
But I knew that my luck would run out. I never had much of it to begin
with. I knew my end was coming, swift on wings and hard on hooves. It was
with a grim certainty that I met with my lover for one last bout of passion, one
that dwarfed all others. At our peak, we were discovered. My lover had a clan
that protected him from the wrath of the Emperor. I had no one. The friendship
with the Emperor I had was spurned when it was discovered I was with a man
with high honor. There was no mercy for me.
I know not if my lover is alive. I hope with all my being that he is. I
could not bear for him to die for my stupid mistakes. Death would be a mercy
to me if he did. Everyone I cared about to this point has died, except for the
more recent people in my life. I cannot give words to how much pain I am in,
just thinking about it. I cannot imagine how much pain I would be in if they
killed him and I knew about it. Perhaps not knowing is a mercy too. But I
couldn't bear not knowing either.
For the first time in my life, I feel the trickle of fear course through me. I
feared not for myself, but for my lover. Fear of what may happen to him if his
clan does not protect him, and if they do, what they would do to him. This fear
is not what I have told about, but more like a vice that grips my chest and my
throat. It does not allow me to breathe. It does not allow me a moment of
peace. It is slowly driving me crazy.
As per my last request, more than I am told I deserve, I receive
parchment and ink to write with. I write my story today, before my imminent
death. Today is my birthday. And just like the day of my birth, the leaves are
falling. It is so beautiful. So peaceful. I'm not afraid to die. I was never afraid.
And today, I am going to die. The Emperor informed me that I am to die when
the sun sinks below the horizon. He told me that he was allowing me a final
sunset. He thought he was being generous. I think he was being cruel. I never
liked the sunset. Sure, it's beautiful, it's always beautiful. But I prefer the
promise of a new day the sun brought when it rose. The assurance it gave me
each and every single day of my life when it rose and I was still alive. Still
breathing.
I can hear someone coming. Most likely to fetch me for the sun is
starting it's descent into night. I love him with all my hearth, my lover, the man
that I would marry. The man that I cherish. The man that deserves more than a
no name such as myself. He is my everything. It is to him that I pledge my soul.
I never uttered those three words to him, nor he to me, but I know with my very
being that he loves me as much as I him. It is my biggest regret that I shall
never have the chance to say them to him. To convey how much he means to
me.
I shall die with that regret. It is what I deserve.
Scarlet tore her eyes away from the scroll, breathing heavily. A lump
was lodged in the back of her throat and it made her eyes sting something bad.
Bringing her tanned hand up to her throat, Scarlet was surprised to pull her
hand back wet. The redhead was even more surprised to find that she was
crying. Hot, wet tear tracks traced her faced from her eyes to her shirt, which
was quickly becoming soaked. She hadn't cried since she was a child, since
she felt that it was a waste of time and tears for mediocre things. They didn't
accomplish anything. The only thing they accomplished was a headache, sore
eyes and throat and a runny nose.
But the sheer emotion she felt from reading... she had never
encountered... she brought her hands up to her slightly feverish face and took
several moments to composed herself. There was still a little bit of the scrolls
left, though it looked like it was done in a different hand.
She thought back to how many more similarities they both shared.
Scarlet despised sunsets, but loved the sunrise, though sometimes she cursed
the sun rising on Saturdays when she wanted to sleep in. A lot of people in
Scarlet's life had died too. A lot of her friends died in accidents from not being
careful enough or from suicides because they thought their life sucked.
Scarlet's godfather was still alive, thankfully, but each day the redhead feared
for her health. She didn't have many people left in her life, and she treasured
the time spent with them, treasured them. The people she met in her relatively
short life took the people in their life for granted, took almost everything for
granted. Scarlet had to fight for the things she has. She took nothing for
granted, because without the things she had, she was nothing.
Scarlet didn't fear dying like a lot of other people either. Her philosophy
on the whole matter was exactly the same as the writer's was. People died
every day. It was a fact of life that no one could change. She only feared death
for the people she loved. Not death itself. Call her depressed, but that's what
she thinks. Nothing else.
Finally calming and wiping her eyes, face and neck of the slowly drying
tears, Scarlet unrolled the last of the page of parchment. There were still
another couple of inches of parchment, but the redhead felt that those were
other stories, written by other people. The table next to her was already filled
with pages of parchment. Scarlet kept them in order, so that they were each to
put together later. Her slightly puffy, red eyes returned back to the parchment
at hand, reading what was written after the writer's own story. She was sure it
was someone else that was writing the last little bit, because the script was
much more refined, more noble looking, if that was at all possible.
My lover did not die with regret in her heart. She did not die with her
head down in shame. She died with her head held high, her eyes reflecting the
brilliance of the very sun, but the sun dulled in comparison to her beautiful
blue eyes. It was not the guard that my lover anticipated when she finished
writing. It was me. She told me that she loved me, that her soul was mine. That
she loved me beyond even what a human being is capable of. She gave me
what she wrote, begging me to keep it. She did not want it to be burned, like
she believed it was going to be. She wanted future generations to read it. To
know what she accomplished. She did not want to fade into time and forgotten.
It was her greatest wish for everyone to know her stories. To know what
happiness feels like, even for a little while. Happiness is fleeting, she once told
me, and that if ye didn't catch a little for yerself, it would be taken away from
ye, ripped away. I cherish these words. I cherish her soul. To those who may
read this, I implore ye to remember my lover as she was. A storyteller. A best
friend. A lover. A mother to all orphans, far and wide. A sister. She was my
everything as I was to her. It is my greatest regret that I was unable to save her
from her fate, though she told me it's her greatest honor. To die for me.
I implore ye to find happiness and catch a little for yerself. Or it will be
ripped away from ye too, and ye may never find it again.
Scarlet set the scroll aside gently, wiping away any fresh tears. It was
amazing that a simple little, misleading scroll would bring about such
emotion. She never had any reason to cry. Even when her friends died. She
would mourn on her own, for their families never wanted her around, as grief
ridden as they were, but she never cried for them. Sad yes, cry no. Such a
simple little scroll brought out emotions she preferred stayed far away. But
after extensive thinking, she came to the conclusion that she really didn't
mind. Crying, that is, over something so simple.
Checking the time on her watch, she jumped right out of the chair and
hastily but gently put the scroll back together and laid it on the table, along
with the black ribbon for when she had the time to come back and read more.
The oil lamp was burning low, and Scarlet suspected it was almost out of oil.
Shrugging, she eased it off and, mindful of the shelves and the potential of
running into something, she carefully made her way from the strange corner
and back to the front of the library.
The redhead couldn't believe how long she had been reading. It was just
about closing time, eight o'clock during the end of summer, and soon it would
be pulled back to six during autumn (and the Falling of the Leaves festival
around this time of the year) and finally back to five during the winter. She
had fifteen minutes to get back to the front, wish Marianne a good night before
high-tailing it out of the library before she locked up. Marianne was an
awesome old lady and all, but when she locked the front doors, she did not
open them up again until opening time at nine o'clock. And she had the only
key. Once, she was locked in with her because she lost track of time while
exploring the whispering books and shelves and had to spend the night on the
cold floor with nothing but a blanket and a pillow.
She didn't want to repeat the experience.
So lost in her thoughts, the redhead did not notice the whispers that
followed her as she made her way through the maze like interior of the library.
Well, Archive as it's called nowadays. But she will always call it library. It
sounded so much better than Archive. She barely noticed that she was nearing
the foyer and it wasn't until Marianne's stern voice carried across the large
entrance and reading den that Scarlet snapped out of her thoughts.
"Dear me, child. I thought you lost in there, like my last helper. She
never returned you know. Sometimes, I can still feel her presence among the
bookshelves." Marianne said teasingly, aiming a thin smile at the redhead.
Scarlet offered her a grin, scratching the back of her head sheepishly,
"Forgive me, Madam Marianne. I lost track of time reading something
interesting."
"Oh? I would ask what it was that captured your attention so thoroughly,
but it is nearing closing time, and I'm sure you don't want a repeat of what
happened the last time you were in here when I locked up, hm?"
"No, ma'am!" Scarlet grinned. "But that reminds me. I was fired from
my job again."
"Again? Dear girl, what is it that you do to anger your bosses so?"
"I don't know. I guess they don't like me much." She thought it best not
to mention how flaky she was towards them. It wouldn't help her any. "But
besides that, I was wondering if you wanted to hire me or something. I have
the basic training. You trust me enough... well, I think you do anyway. And
you know how well I treat your books. Besides, you aren't as young as you
used to be, Madam Marianne, I could do the majority of the dusting."
She dodged the tell-tale swap to the head at the jibe to her age, before
gauging her reactions. It was hard to, sometimes, even after all the years she's
known her. Sometimes, she was exactly like a book. You couldn't see what
was in the book until you open the covers, but until then, you can gleam little
of what it is about. Right now, Marianne was a closed book. And it irritated
her to no end.
After a few moments of deliberation (they took forever in her opinion,
she could feel every single second pass by with a deliberate slowness)
Marianne nodded, "Alright, my girl, I'll give you a chance. If you can show
me how hard of a worker you are for the first month, I'll let you keep the job
and give you double the pay. After the first month, if you have shown me how
good you are, I'll keep your paycheck coming, even if you don't work as hard.
But that does not mean you are allowed to slack off at any time, do you
understand me?"
"You are the best, Madam! Seriously, no one can compare!" Scarlet
crowed, giving her a hug out of happiness. Marianne gave a brief gasp in
surprise, but regained composure quickly and returned the prompt hug.
"I know, Scarlet. Now, get going before I lock you in. I know you have
school tomorrow, so be here around four, and I'll give you a list of your duties,
along with your pay information and some paperwork to fill in. Have a good
night, my girl."
"Night Madam! Sleep good, I'll see you tomorrow!" Scarlet yelled over
her shoulder and fled the library.
Once outside, Scarlet stopped a moment to breathe in the fresh air and to
observe the last of the sun disappearing into the horizon. The angle she was
standing at allowed her to see it beyond the surrounding buildings and the
small break in trees that led to the gate to the city. A brief flare of loathing
flashed through her; she didn't like sunsets, never did. Turning on her heel,
Scarlet turned smartly in the general direction of her apartment but instead,
bumped into something solid. She would have fell to the ground, her bottom
meeting the hard concrete with a painful greeting, but the arms that snaked
around her waist kept that particular meeting from becoming real.
Her hands came up to grip the owner's upper arms tightly, feeling a
touch of vertigo for some reason. Recovering quickly, the redhead looked up
angrily, insult on the tip of her tongue. But as soon as her blue eyes met with
piercing black, the world fell away until it was just the two of them. Black and
blue. A spark of electric fire passed between her and the familiar stranger
staring back at her that tingled along her nerves and alight her body in a way
that was so very strange, yet so very welcome. Her knees felt like jelly. She
thought that if the strange, yet familiar man had not been holding her that way,
she would have fallen to the ground in an embarrassing heap. And despite how
her mind was trying to tell her body that it was strange to react to a stranger
this way, her body said differently.
When I first lay mine eyes on him, I felt time stop. There was an
unspoken fire between us, that only we shared. One look from his black eyes
and I felt my knees go weak. I couldn't believe what kind of power he had over
me. How my body betrays my mind. It is wrong to love a man of his caliber. It
goes against nature itself, but when we met the second time, I didn't care. I
didn't care how wrong it was. He led me to the privacy of his bedroom and
there we made love. We were in love.
That writer's words floated back to her, almost mocking in the way it
presented itself. But before she could further ponder on it, the man loosened
his arms from around the redhead's waist and steadied her before pulling back
completely. He took a few steps back, running black eyes up and down the
redhead's body with an emotion in gleaming in those fathomless depths Scarlet
could not identify. Then, he spoke. A deep, smooth voice that washed over the
teenager and once again set fire to her nerves, leaving tingles running up and
down her spine.
"My apologies for bumping into you, I was not paying attention. Please,
forgive me for my mishap."
It took a few moments to register that. "Ah, n-no problem." Scarlet
cursed her stuttering. Scarlet Levesque did not stutter damn it!
"May I inquire your name?" She asked, those deep black eyes piercing
Scarlet's own crystalline blue ones with such ease. The redhead felt like the
man could see her very soul. It was creepy.
"Scarlet, Scarlet Levesque" Scarlet managed without stuttering. The man
in front of her was sinfully gorgeous, and the redhead felt like an utter, ugly
fool for even talking to him. Men like him did not talk to people like Scarlet. It
just wasn't done. "And you?" Now she felt like the even bigger fool. The
redhead inwardly cursed herself for being stupid. Why would a man like the
one in front of her want to give their name to her? She wasn't anyone special.
The man studied her for moment, and Scarlet felt uncomfortable under
the scrutiny. Never had anyone really looked at her like the man was now. It
made her feel inadequate. It made her feel-
"Alex Zephyr."
-even more like a fool. It was Felix's older brother! Man, she had the
worse luck. The redhead wondered what kind of material Alex was going to
give to Felix to tease her with. Man, her life sucked sometimes. Just her luck
to literally run into a gorgeous man, make a fool out of herself, and find out it
was her best friend's older brother! Her life was over.
Alex gave the redhead another once over before moving to go past and
on his way. Scarlet breathed a sigh of relief, partly glad that the black haired
man was leaving. The other part... well, she didn't even want to know.
A firm, glove covered hand arrested her chin, and a pair of lips covered
her own in a heart stopping kiss. Blue eyes widened in surprise, and her mind
completely shut down from the overload of sensations. She didn't even
consider pushing the man away from herself. She just stood there and enjoyed
the kiss? Her first kiss!
 Before Scarlet had the chance to recollect herself, a nip to her bottom lip
resulted in a small gasp that allowed a large enough opening for a searching
tongue. Shivers of pleasure raced through her being, engulfing any logical
thought. Azure blue eyes are hidden from the world and her arms reached up
to wrap around the man's neck, pulling her closer; deepening the ever
passionate first kiss. It was beyond any words that Scarlet could procure from
a dictionary, if she had one on hand. It was beyond anything she has ever
known. It was beyond incredible.
Slowly, the kiss ended, but Scarlet was still on Cloud Nine from the
sensations. Alex slipped something into the redhead's pocket and whispered
huskily in her ear, "Call me."
And like that, he was gone. Like the wind, really, but at this point, all
Scarlet could think about was the kiss. Later, she would not remember the trip
home. She wouldn't even remember how she managed to get into her night
clothes and into bed, not to mention the shower she must have had upon
returning to the lonely apartment. Her mind was entirely on the kiss.
And it would be for the following month.
I implore ye to find happiness and catch a little for yerself. Or it will be
ripped away from ye too, and ye may never find it again.

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