THE ARCANE VOW

For the mind, my soul, whose unpredictability will never end in its
meandering ways
For the Hunch that tells me the morality of my things,
If morality exists
For myself.

"For if the modern mind is whimsical and discursive, the classical mind is
narrow, unhesitating, relentless. It is not a quality of intelligence that one
encounters frequently these days. But though I can digress with the best of
them, I am nothing in my soul if not obsessive."
-Donna Tartt | The Secret History

I'd like to say before you embark on this adventure, a couple of truths, and
lies.My story in itself is simply a theory on personality. It is nothing else. My
identity is something I choose to disclose to myself, not to any other
organism.

If you request a listless, stereotypical trope, then you are the fool. For those
who search for typical meanings in typical things. For these, they are the
ones at fault. For those who are searching for the truth within us all.For
those who do not search beneath the darkness.For these are in truth, the
intelligent.

★
 EPILOGUE
Does such a thing as Personality belong in our existence?

I used to think everyone could be described within a few, simple adjectives.

That the person down the road is cocky, ignorant, and rude. But I've
realized, that's my view on them. That is not, actually them. That is not the
real, them.

But, our 'personality', derives from our experiences, correct? So this cocky,
ignorant, and rude being, I'm sure they have the same routine. That they
wake up, eat, and get dressed. If so, that's the truth. Then shouldn't they be
just like me? Shouldn't we all be the same?

But we're not. We're not all the same, we don't have the same ideals or
morals.

From the day god molded us from clay, and let the strong, ancient winds
touch our frail skin, was where our personalities awoke. That, I argue that
our personalities are long-living beings, infused into us at our birth, waiting
to be discovered. Calling us with their lust, and wanting. Telling us their
names, and who they were.

And who we are.

Because even the greatest beings to roam on this planet, could never
simply express themselves in a few simple adjectives, and too, couldn't do
the same with those of their surroundings. That even the monks, who sat
by the wall, pondering for eleven years who they were, that they never in
fact gripped a stable enough reality.

That we have never unlocked ourselves, and who we are.

Now, I do think that our personalities and souls are different. But we cannot
in fact distinguish this difference. Are we the soul? Are we the personality?
Or are personalities, and souls, two beings? Fighting over dominance, and
so, blurring us?

Well, I think my personality is this:

CHAPTER ONE

My name is Odysseus White. I am sixteen years old, blond-haired, with blue eyes, 5'8,
and a supposed image of perfection, as my friends would say. I'd suppose you now are
under the impression I'm an old man stuck in the body of an Adonis. That, ill tell you
isn't true. No, that isn't true. It isn't.

I was raised in the United Kingdom, in Oxford specifically. In a large, big white
mansion, flourishing with red flowers from the outside. Unlike others, I was born lucky,
as an aristocrat, but, in truth my I don't resemble any Astriocrat at all. No, not at all, I
am perhaps far from what you'd think of an aristocrat. My parents are rich, wealthy, and
prosperous. Magnificently made, beauty and money written all over their smug faces.
They were creations that were placed above on a pinnacle of grace, far above any normal
being, they are perfections of god. Eternally influential figures written in history. My
mother for her unparalleled beauty, and my father for his mountain worth of
intelligence, and knowledge in all subjects.

I am a product of both. So, I am, supposed to be beautiful, and Intelligent, to fit in the
mold of a perfect being. I believe that I am this, but, the nameless black void, an enemy
to the soul within me tells me I'm not, that I'm nowhere near this pinnacle of glory, I'm
supposed to achieve.
It is a cold, and gloomy awakening. That I am plunged out of an eternal black well of
darkness and blindness, like the prey on a hook, being pulled out into the new world of
colour and harmony. The first words to erupt from my mouth are a flurry of ill coughs,
spitting on my white covers. These coughs force me back onto the surface of my hard,
and cold bed, till I am once more, face to face with the bleak black canopy of my bed.
My head sinks into the cream, satin covers, and I beg for sleep to take me under its wing
once more. I wish, not to go today, I can introduce myself tomorrow. Within my mind,
an alarm calls for me to follow my routine, to do my every day, and an ideal schedule,
before heading away to my new second home, I suppose. And so, my legs and arms
move like one of those new war machines made to fight the Natzi’s. Mustering my
strength, I bend upwards and move towards the bathroom, stumbling across the
wooden floorboard, and carefully across the piles of leather-cased books that infest my
room. They pile outside the bookcases, outside my bedroom, and outside the bathroom,
they are the insects of my world. But not in the sense, I disgust books, no, I desire a
man-made world with hundreds of pages. I abruptly move out of the way of a large,
half-finished canvas, adorned with oil paint, supposed to represent a greek man holding
a doppelganger, a statue version of himself, fairly sexually, his lips all smothered over his
own stone neck, and his legs curled across his model. It was, simply...Something I'd
scratched up in my year's worth of ennui. I should have hidden it by now, but my
parents never venture into my room.

The bathroom welcomes me with my own appearance. And like that of Narcissus, I am
attracted to it, approaching it with great fascination. My hands drape over my soft,
porcelain skin, and move upwards to the blond curls of my hair, passing my straight,
high brows, and my soft, yet sharp eyes. I feel the curves of my cheekbones, and my soft,
plump lips. I was a product of perfection. Yet, why did I not feel perfect? With precise
movement, I check for any splotches on my face, pulling on my skin, but there are none,
so, in response I move away, and pull away my clothing, entering the shower.

The warm water patters against my skin, and rolls across it, embracing me with warmth,
and familiar love. My wan, veiny hands move across my skin, rubbing it with soap. After
I am finished with my shower, I drape a towel over myself. I leave, but before this, I
brush my teeth and wash my face.

I enter my room naked, my body parts out. I rub my eyes, and I have little to no care in a
single word if anyone came in. Who would come in, and why should I care about what
they think? Are the careless thoughts that sprout within my head. I move towards my
wooden wardrobe, almost tripping over a book. I pause in embarrassment, quickly
ignoring that it had ever happened.

I pull out a pair of freshly fitted clothes. I'd chosen a white shirt, some tan trousers, and
a brown coat. It was new fashion. Swiftly, I pull these clothes on with great care.
Afterward, I take out a womens locket, opening it, and admire the picture inside. The
locket is warm, and I hold it tightly. I’d say, it brings great peace to the secret being
within me. So strong, That they usually – that they bends my words, and my actions to
such an extent. But, I've learnt that whenever I wear this locket, I can shut them out.
They seemed to be soothed when the locket is dangling on my neck.

A strange emotion washes over me when I turn to look at my room. It’s strong, and
perhaps could be described like when you miss something dear to you. In a sense, it’s
true, I do miss my room. I'll miss it when I leave today. I’ll end up feeling homesick, and
then be waiting, counting the days down till I can see my room again. It’s like my nest,
where I can brood, and just be with myself, and them. Softly, I shake my head, and rest
my head on my hands as I sit down on my delicate, richly patterned vanity chair. My
servant will send over the things anyways, my artworks and such…My eyes turn to the
half-finished oil painting.
I can’t just leave that there, what if the servants, or even my parents do actually venture
inside? They’d think I was indecent. And at once, that sensation of carelessness vanishes,
like a flower getting crumpled, bringing me to a world of order, and rigid standards. The
flower’s petals have been crushed to bits, resembling the marred flower Dorian Gray
crushed within his palms. And its petals flutter to the floor as if a butterfly. Instead it’s
not a butterfly, it’s an ephemeral flower. And my emotions are ephemeral too.
Temperamental, and changing, like the emotions of a river.
I stand up, the collar of my coat bending upwards. I flatten them down, and approach
the painting. My hands move across its surface, to the statue, to the man, to where the
lips meet the neck, and then it trails downwards, gripping the sides of the canvas. I move
it to the inside of the wardrobe, hiding it beneath the clothes that I'd planned to leave
behind. I would only bring the newest pairs from the shops. And what else would I
bring? Yes, I would bring some canvas, all my paint supplies, new ones too, and books,
yes, new books. The list that I’d given, yes, I am sure it was fulfilled. Room decoration?
No, no, the dorm would already be decorated for me, my parents requested that nearly a
month ago. A naive curiosity fills me, like water being poured into an empty glass. I
wonder what the room would look like, what theme was chosen for me?
But, I became more curious.
Who would I share it with? I was told, I was told that your dorm is connected to another
dorm…I wonder-

“Odysseus White! You are requested, now!” It’s a shrill voice, belonging to a female. I
recognise it. In fact– I had never heard my mother shout like this!
Without warning, or without hesitation, I ran out, pushing the wooden door open, and
bolting to the main room through the upper floor hallway. The wooden floorboards
were cold, but too seemed freshly washed. Impeccable, with no dust whatsoever. My
hands are trailing across the railings, and I move down till I reach the centre stairs that
lead into the main entrance. The stairs curl downward.
My eyes catch the identity of my mother. She was fair, pale. With the lightest blond hair,
that shape into gentle curls who rest on her small, womanly shape. A straight, defined
nose, and a sharp, toned face. She was beautiful, but eerily beautiful. She didn’t radiate
the aura of a gentle flower nowadays, but she was more of a prickled rose. They say in
her days, she was the most beautiful woman in England, that men bent to her for her
innocent, daisy-like youth. That she was worshipped, aligned to be Aphrodite in human
form. Yet still now, she was worshipped. When she walked, she walked with her
shoulders up, she walked with a cold gaze. That people knew who she was, that they
moved out the way for her. Even the queen was jealous of her divine beauty. Her waist
curves in, and is enhanced by her crimson dress. Her cold, baby blue, almond eyes gaze
upon me. She had the longest eyelashes, arched, refined lips. High cupids bow, plump,
red lips.
It’s fair to say that all my unparalleled beauty comes from her.
“Oh, my beautiful son, Odysseus is here.” It’s a soft tone, and her eyes relax as she drapes
her hands over my shoulders despite our large difference in height. She ruffles her hands
through my blue curls. I glance at the other person within the room. He was tall,
brunet, old and wrinkly. He wore them tartan suits, with the whole tie and everything.
It was every old man's attire I suppose, every rich, white man's attire.
His complexion I'd describe as being cold, and refined. Stone cold rigid. A gentlemen.
That was my immediate view on him. Scary. In his hands was a black walking stick, and
he wore one of those spectacles.
“Odysseus, this is your headmaster, he’s travelled all the way here to visit you, and take
you to your new home.” My mothers tone infantilizes me, and I nod. Simply observing
him.
“My name is Mr.Taylor, the headmaster of the male- only private boarding school King
Richard…You are Odysseus, correct?” He raises a brow. His tone is straightforward, and
down to earth. He’s expecting an answer.
“Yes sir, my name is Odysseus White.” I say.
“What a strange name, but it suits you after all.” He turns to my mother. “I just had to
have your son in my school afterall, I've just heard about his brilliant accomplishments
at age 16. So many paths for him to take, and they would all be absolutely perfect for
him. Now, White.” He looks at me. “Tell me about yourself.”
I’d planned for this.
“I'm the son of Mary White, and James White, and a pioneer in the arts. I play multiple
instruments, like the violin, or the flute, each of these being graded perfect in. I've
written countless popular books, and most importantly, I've published some of the
greatest artworks within British history. Such as the painting ‘Swift-footed Achillies’, or
most famously the painting that goes under the name ‘Gentle Movement’s. Notably,
I've trained the skill of the gun, and the hand-to-hand combat technique Judo to a
lengthy extent that I've entered national competitions for it. I hope this is enough, Mr.
Taylor, to get a detailed view of me.”
“Perfect.” Mr.Taylor remarks “Perfection, the perfect student. Now, before I take him,
any questions?”
It’s silent for a while, and just before Mr. Taylor begins to talk, my mother hastily says
something. I turn to watch her, and I notice a strange discomfort in her eyes. It’s unlike
her.
“You won’t enroll him as a soldier, I trust that you won't.”
“Of course, that is why many parents are sending our children to our boarding school,
so they don’t need to follow the warlife. That life belongs to the dirtiest peasants. Those
whose fate are already dirtied. We wouldn’t allow a innocent student like him to be
mixed with filth.” As Mr.Taylor says this, I feel an unconventional shiver. It was like two
forces were colliding in front of me. And Mr. Taylors was stronger. Filth. Those words
repeat in my head, over and over again, like the lyrics of a song. I’m safe, because I'm not
filthy.

My mother sighs.
“Of course, I do trust you – hmph, then I suppose I'll say my goodbye. And tell his
father of his leave once he returns back from his commanding.” She approaches me, and
places a hand on my shoulder. I’d of expected her to say something like, be safe, or, stay
strong. But she doesn’t. She only waves her hands, and enters into the depths of the
mansion, leaving me with Mr. Taylor.

“What a formidable woman your mother is.” The headmaster sighs as he turns around
urging me to follow, as the large doors of my own house are pushed open by servants,
signalling that the prince has left. It feels awfully dramatic, yet, at the same time, it
doesn’t actually feel like reality at all.

And from here, my life changed. As my foot hit the dirt of the outside world, as it
rubbed against its surface. I left my old life behind.

But not alone, no, that void within me, they were coming with me too whispering ideas
into my brain. Unspeakable, dangerous ideas. I hold onto the locket, wiping away the
thoughts, and solely focusing on the present.
The sky was a bright blue, and the birds chirped softly. The tree’s danced, and the winds
were cradled to an end. I remember admiring the scenery that day with great pleasure.

Three, white cars park outside, and I pass the lush gardens with the headmaster whose
hands seemed to be tucked behind his back. A couple butlers carry my things, putting
them in the rather larger car. It was filled with canvases, suitcases, everything id needed
and wanted for my new life. The other two cars were to take me and Mr. Taylor. I guess
that the strange, old headmaster will be on his own, while I'll be in another.
Mr.Taylor throws his hands around, and the door is pushed open for me. I hesitate for a
second, looking back to my white mansion.
I'll miss it–
What will I actually miss?
It's a new life, I won’t miss you at all, only my room, I guess.
And so, I enter the white car, making myself comfy on the leather seats. I sit down, and
rest my head. Goodbye, old me.

CHAPTER TWO

“At your destination. King Richard Academy.”

My first greeting is the gentle Zepherus, and he meets my face, awakening me from my
dazed state. He hovers around me, smiling, providing blessings for my day ahead. His
breezes twist and turn around me, gliding into the car by the open window. I inhale the
clean, fresh countryside air, and at last exhale.
It was a component of three, massive buildings with amazing architecture. The trio were
old, but still radiated an aura of sovereignty, and pristine magnificence, with large pillars
supporting the building itself, and all three of them being nearly four, or five layers tall,
in the sense they were wide too. A towering gate guards the premises, and as the cars
park outside on the rubble road, they are pushed open by a couple identical servants
who without message begin unpacking the bigger car, and taking the suitcases to the
building farest on the right. Most likely the dormitory.

Gingerly, I pull away the seat belt. The door is pulled open for me by the driver, who
doesn’t mutter a single word, only gazing at the buildings itself. Mr Taylor is also
outside, not a single, readable emotion on his wrinkly, haggard face.

“Let me take you to your dorm White. Your room is one of the best within the
dormitory adapted to your standards…” He rambles on about things I do not care
about. I follow him while he guides me through the gardens and such, passing the
buildings. A couple students who were strolling around, laughing, watched me with a
big deal of what seemed to be excitement in their eyes. They hurry around, whispering
to others like bees. Of course, I'm fairly nervous, hearing their whispers. I notice that
there were no females. It was a male only after all, but, I’d just, you know, expected it? A
little context if you care to listen. This was where i’d be, for probably three or four years
of my life, maybe even more.
I scratch my hair, and straighten up, following him.
On the way, I notice a trio of tall, lean males. They were leaning on the Dormitory
building.. All three of them were glaring intently at me. The one on the left was a curly
haired brunette, with thick brows, and a slim exterior. This guy was also slightly tanned.
He wore a white shirt. He was probably most peculiar out of the three, skinny fingers,
and old fashioned, wearing thick, ugly silver rings on his fingers. He could have been
more handsome if his face wasn’t so sharp, and scary.
The one of the right, was the smallest, but not by much in all honesty. Rosy, cheeked,
and resemblant of those sporty boys, who always chewed something. Dirty blonde hair,
different from mine, more darker. The boy’s arms were bulkier, and his whole, well
exterior was wide, but not in the sense that he was fat, or anything like that. He had a
more square face, and seemed like he played Rugby specifically. He was doing that thing
– where your tongue was rolling around in your mouth, and out of the three, he was
paying less attention to me and more on just fiddling with a lighter.

But I was more interested in the one in the middle.

Because he didn’t seem like he was from Britain at all.
The third boy was the most noticeable from the set, angular, and tall. Not too sharp, yet
not too wide. His whole face was unique, and perfect in a way that wouldn’t really be
described as perfect considering English beauty standards. With monolid eyes, that
curled round, shaping upwards, adorned in a pocket of eye fat under his eyes causing a
line to also point up. His skin was slightly tanned and olive ish. He didn’t have any
eyelid lines, but his brows were dark, and high-raised, radiating a sense of power. His
nose was straight and pointed, and he had plump lips, yet unlike me, not a noticeable
cupid's bow. His cheekbones were defined, and his unruly hairstyle was precariously
strange. I thought ( ironically) that it reminded me of a ruffians, since it was a mullet. It
came to my attention that yeah, he wasn’t white at all, he was probably from Asia. Out
of the tree, he was the tallest at probably 6’3. He could be best described as being half
lanky, half muscular, with a thin, curved waist, but also had some sort of muscled biceps
and that. His eyes glowered the most, narrowing at me. He was the scariest of them all.
One of the boy’s veiny and thin hands were in the pocket of his black leather jacket,
while his other held his cigar. The puff of smoke formed a ring, and he wouldn’t break
eye contact with me. Again, he narrowed his eyes very slightly, and then grinned. I
couldn’t understand why he grinned, and neither could that void. But in a sense, I felt
that he was the leader of the group.
I look away and I gulp.
The headteacher also notices them.

“Hiro, stop smoking, or I'll be contacting your parents! This is already your ninth
warning this week!” The head teacher yells. I look once more at the intimidating boy –
Hiro.
“Sorry, I won’t ever do it again” He sarcastically says, rolling his eyes as he carries on
smoking the cigar. He crossed his legs. Once more his eyes meet mine, and that cruel
snigger curls across his lips. I make a slight face of disgust, glancing away for the second
time. I didn’t want to ever see these three ever again, but, like they say, fate always brings
torment. For it is fate, that is the true guide, pulling us across the string of life, and
introducing us to new experiences. Fate and that void, they seem to hate each other. The
headteacher grumbles something under his breath, and the pair of us enter the towering
building. The smell of cigars and smoke infests my nose. I hated it, I hated this place
already. New life, what was I thinking?

I enter a reception, wiping my shoes on the mat. It was fairly decorated from the inside,
with tall, towering plants, and a wooden desk that had some old man at it. He was tilting
his head, resting it within his palms. At the sight of the headteacher approaching, he
seems to abruptly stiffen up, completely ignoring my presence all together.
“The keys to the new room, 5th floor.” The headteacher presses his hands on the
wooden desk. It must have been literally seconds till the key was given from the dingy
old receptionist. He slid it across the table, yet, not towards the headteacher, but me. I
hesitantly accept it, tucking it into one of my pockets. Before being able to even have a
breather, the headteacher set off once more at a horribly quick pace, I groaned quietly,
tagging along with him. We passed many students of all sizes and sorts, new faces, new
people, new smells bombarded my senses. So much to adjust to, I just want my old,
simple room life back.
“A new key costs a pound, and you’ll receive a detention if you lose it…Taking at least
two clubs is compulsory…I've put you in Art and Martial club…Must go to clubs after
school, each is hour long…Classes for you start tomorrow…Classes end
4pm…Detentions are two hours…After class be in School premises….Dont leave school
premises….We have a gym…Swimming…Swimsuit for PE…” I glanced around at the
classical paintings that hung on the wall of the hallways, ignoring almost half the
information provided by the headteacher. I wasn’t too fussed about being put in Art
and Martial arts club, I just hope that the people in that club are decent. And for my
classes, I beg to God that I will not have any bully of some sort, like the ones you read
about in books.
After a long while of walking, I figured that were on the fifth floor, since he was slowing
down to a door with a gold plate of the number ‘150’ on the centre. He stops outside
the door reminding me of a ghost that lingers around, a bad warning to my future.
“Like I said, classes start tomorrow.” Mr. Taylor then begins to fumble within his
pockets pulling out a wrinkled piece of paper, almost exactly identical to him. Purely
because of this, I felt the urge to burn it, and watch it grow into a wildfire. Well, this
urge never originated within me, but them, who luckily I believe had fallen asleep, since
they weren’t acting all too stingy, or ticklish with ferocity. The other being, was really
just the materialistic reflection of the contrasting soul, or maybe.
“And, 150 is connected to another dorm room, the other dorm is…” He pauses,
thinking. “We saw him when we were walking, but I cannot remember his name.
I take the paper, and nod, watching the headteacher walk away, till he fades away into
the shadows of the hallway and like I said, seemingly like a ghost. I ponder who exactly
will join me. Which man did we pass by? The people in the hallways, or?

I push the key in the door, twisting it, and then, automatically the door moves open. I’m
suprised.
The first room met was in fact the living room. Spacious and large, clean too. Two
brown leather sofa’s on top of a detailed, patterned red rug, clearly expensive. There was
a painting with a gold frame around it. The painting seemed to not be any sort of
european form though, it was more traditional, picturing a man with long, white hair
who stood beside the moon, leaning on it. It was rather beautiful, and could be a great
reference some day. On the left, was a kitchen connected to it, fufilled with all sorts of
foods. But, there were many plates stacked up within the sink, all freshly washed. The
living room has two large windows, with crimson, silk curtains. On the left of me, near
the enterance itself was a basket full of shoes of all appearences. Sandles, to slip on
sandles, to leather boots, to just leather shoes. The man i’d be sharing my dorm with was
probably a dandy, and a clean freak. Hung on some sort of pole, next to the basket was
many coats and jackets. Leather jackets, tweed jackets, there must of been at least
fourteen on there that were all unique. Scattered around the room are a couple plants,
real ones. What caught my eye was that they were either bonsai or bamboo, or flowers.
It was actually, decorated very nicely. I thank the guy who lives here for not being like
any of the smokers outside.
I take my shoes off, and plop them in the basket. As I began to move through the living
room, noticing the softness of the carpet, I push open one of the doors-.....
I shut the door.
And I breathe in, and out. That did not match the living room at all! At least it was
clean, but, the amount of just, things. The fighting gloves, the desk with funny looking
drawing attempts, the black wall. Yowzers, I thought. And I was beginning to dread
who it might be. But don’t worry White your mind always plays tricks.
I then, finally, pushed my own room open.

My new, dorm room was actually reasonably large, not as large of mine at home, but it’ll
do. And the theme of the room was different too, they’d made it all whiter, whiter in the
sense of, the colours were lighter. White and gold were the shades, with cream covers
under a nice looking canopy bed. A white fluffy rug welcomed me, alongside too – more
paintings. They were also themed classical, my parents probably requested this. Pretty
lamps stood within the room, and too book cases dressed with all the books i’d asked
for! My desk was clean, and the chair was comfy. The dressing room was just flooded
with new clothes, fresh smells, perfumes, shoes, and so on. Ah…Then, that ‘perhaps’
strung into my head, perhaps I’d ordered too much. And in the corner of the dressing
room was all my new white canvas, big and small.
I took my jacket off, pulling it over my hands before then slinging it across the room at a
rough manner. It landed on top of the bed, creasing the bed, and giving it wrinkles that
spread across like the veins of ones arm.
Afterward, I’d follow the jacket, landing onto the bed itself with a large bang. Countless
curls of blonde hair blind my vision and I yawn languidly, crossing my legs.

Within me, cold fingers grip my heart, and then my mind. The pinkies tap twice, and at
once, an inevitable wave of fatigue washes over me. At first, the fatigue was rather weak,
only causing a sort of heaviness at my eyes. Yet, soon I felt completely submissive to the
tiredness. And finally, I sunk into the black void. Their words called for me. They were
waiting.

I fell asleep.

“What a fucking joke, can’t he fight or something? ” Strong, deep, annoyed,

irritated,bored, alone. The voice was muffled. It could be described as rather rough, but,
at the same time also to an extent youthful and rich. Notably, it sounded almost, in a
sense…The door was shut rather agressively, and from outside my bedroom, was a ripple
of groans. He then seemed to stop in his steps. I yawn, but too tired to even order a
single movement within my body. So, I stay, the covers draped over my chest, and my
hair still blinding my sight. The sunlight showered over me, and my arms glistened in the
light of it all.

And then the door is pushed open softly.

The unique boy, the one who was eerily beautiful, yet at the same time, indulged in an
aura of such arcaneness. Of an aura so horrorfingly charming.
And then, his name came to me.
Hiro.

He gazed at me for a consecutive minute. Just watched me. An unreadable fog in his
eyes. My emotion could too be described as a doppelganger to this.
In this exchange, I felt the noises vanish, and the surroundings be turned to black, the
shadows overpowering. It was only, me and him. A euphoric emotion, dancing,
twirling, and free. An emotion that manifested the both of us.
And I glimpsed at those eyes of his. And each of those midnight shades shone and
glistened, transforming into unique pigments that represented a deep, dark endless
sea-like void when the moonlight came over them. His eyelashes glistened. And his skin
was almost perfect to me. The moonlight brought a comforting beauty to it all, as it
travelled through the night with graceful ease, meeting to his figure, and lighting it this
platinum blue. Despite, many imperfections, or little small spots that hid in his corners,
somehow, he seemed, so contrastingly different to me. Beside him was my window. And
in this window, Into the black heavens, upon this clear night, comes the grace of
white-gold moon. The moon in his beauty stood, ever in perfect radiance. And in
monochrome musings, the moon was a deep silver prince, standing in his stoic
stance, only to be shocked when the dim lightings of the night were from him, and
not the ever-so perfect sun he admired.
We were waiting for the either of us to say something.
But at last, I broke the silence.

“Could you please leave?”

My voice rang out softly, echoing throughout the room. Yet, speaking, awoke him.
Awoke the other being. And that arcane thing within me, at being awakened, replied,
stating my voice was disgusting. That, I was embarrassed.
Perhaps, that is why I hate speaking.
I held onto my locket, almost unconsisciously.

And I think he noticed this, as his eyes flickered to the movement of my hands. And he
stumbled a step back, before looking left. I noticed that at this moment, he looked as if
he’d lost a certain something. And then he gazed back at me and leaned onto the wall.
The corners of his mouth were poisoned to quirk up, giving a slightly lop-sided grin to
be dressed over his countenance.
That same grin.
“I’m Hiro, but I suppose you already know–”

“I told you, to leave my room.” My mouth was waddling on its own, spitting forceful
replies quickly, out of instinct. To leave, me alone.
His brows drew together, and his smile quickly grew to a sign of disgust.
I thought he was going to argue back, or something.
The being was ready to fight within me.

But then once more, his face changed. Into something more calm and collected, while
now seeming a tat embarrassed.
“Sure, sure, sure.” He repeated, as if he was also talking without control. And then, and
then, he shut the door. And I heard him walk towards his room, spitting unreadable
mumbles from his mouth.

I suppose I could say I was awoken by this encounter. So, after just three-or four-or even
five minutes of just simply gazing at the walls around mindlessly, I got up myself. The
moonlight had formed some shape in the centre of the room. I didn’t enter it, instead I
walked around. Without thinking, I began to prepare some things for the next day. But,
eventually, I found myself creeping back to bed, readying myself for whats to come.

I had a dream.
It was nearly midnight, and the night sky was picturesque. A black to navy gradient was
the backdrop for a full moon; the night sky so clear you could almost see every crater.
The moon, a glowing yellowy white, loomed large, surrounded by an ethereal glow.
Millions of stars were sprinkled behind it, a few large ones but mostly a multitude of
little white pin pricks. Every now and then, a twinkle caught my eye. This was an
unfamiliar sight from my home or anywhere, where the obstacles and tree’s towered on
tall hills, perpetually hiding the beauty of the nighttime sky. The ocean waves lapped
lazily at the shore, a jumble of navy and royal blue that glistened in the night. White
foam crested the top of the waves as they approached, spilling onto the sand like a net
being cast. The foam bubbled over the sand and the shells that littered the beach. The
shore here was so unlike the beaches in paintings; the shoreline in paintings had no
personality, and was always portrayed as big and bright with people everywhere,It
offered no more surprises. Here, it wasn’t populated. In fact, I don’t think anybody was
here, perhaps it was only me. The gentle sound of the waves hitting the beach sounded
almost like a lullaby. I closed my eyes, nestling deeper into this chair I sat on, taking in a
deep breath of fresh ocean air as a small breeze blew by my face and tickled my nose. But,
this strange calling, this strange calling told me, to look. To gaze at what stood before
me.
I saw somebody.
An arcane figure stood in the domain of the shore, his feet being met with the riptides of
the sea and he stood beneath directly where the moon and the moon’s beams. He was a
beautiful man, who owned a figure of somebody, I think I know. I didn’t wish to
disturb him, no I didn’t. I did not disturb him, instead, I watched him, aware of my own
breathing, and the locket that dangled on my chest. And it slowly came to my
realisation, that being that always haunted me, the demon wasn’t here, I couldn’t feel
the being. That, In this realm, the only two people who existed, were me, and this —
man of the moon.
His name was, the man of the moon.

CHAPTER THREE

I awoke.
Light blinding the corners of my eyes, itching my skin, pestering my body all over. It was
a cruel light, but it served it’s purpose, I suppose – which was of course, waking me up
in time for my first day of school. My covers rested over me, crumpled like the scrunched
paper the headmaster handed to me earlier. When I put my hands in my pockets, I felt
that papers presence. It was probably triple times worse than before. I groaned.
There was no noise that resonated within the dorm, other than mine. It reflected the
stillness of a bored lake. But with this silence, came a silence to the beast, and perhaps,
myself; I am fall leaves under frost. I felt the chill in my blood, coldness bringing the
synapses of my brain to a stand still. But then I heard it. The demon walking out it’s
den. Anxiety flooded my heart.
A quiet feeling of doom echoed within me. Something terribly wrong was going to
occur today. I could feel it.

And then my body set into it’s routinely actions. From getting changed into a simple
attire that consisted of a cream shirt, and trousers, to doing my hair carefully. Although,
frankly, even the slightest breeze could break apart the statue my hair. There was a