Memoirs of A Broken Cedar

And it went Boom

One simple breeze, a mere whisper.

"Ashtar," the abnormal presence murmured. Its throaty, inhumanly guttural voice penetrated the agonizing silence that would usually conquer the Prince's room whenever he would fall asleep.

"Ashtar," it repeated, this time louder. "Beware."

***

The fifteen-year-old kid woke up, panting and sweating after the strange dream he had that night. Trying to brush off the words which were still playing in his head, he got off his bed and marched towards the balcony.

Moving the curtain a fraction of an inch with his right hand, he let the first few sunbeams fall on his face, illuminating his blonde, curly hair and making his icy green eyes blink, not yet prepared for that blinding assault on his poor little figure.

Parting the magnificent cardinal red, almost purple velvety fabric apart, he stepped forward, and onto the terrasse that spread in front of him.

Just like every morning, the splendid Sour—or Tyre, as some called it-- shined in all its glory, the dazzling blue waves of the Mediterranean crashing on its shore, reaching once in a while the nearest wineries, murex reserves, or dye production facilities.

From afar, the crows of the roosters, the muffled sounds of the wooden boutiques' doors opening as well as the uplifting and energetic greetings echoing in the various streets brought a smile to the child's face.

As his father the King would so insistently tell him, the time had come now for the beautiful city to wake up and maintain the circle of life.

"Oh, how right you are, Father," Ashtar thought. And laughing to himself whole-heartedly, he continued: "I have yet to see one time where you're not."

Glancing one last time at the white terracotta houses that bespeckled the area around the royal palace, he sighed, uttered a small prayer to Melqart, God of Sour, and headed downstairs to meet his educator.

"Good morning!" he exclaimed excitedly as soon as he entered the little office his father had consecrated for his studies.

The walls, unfortunately, did not greet him back.

Frowning, he turned around, looking for Babel, his teacher, but couldn't spot him anywhere.

Being more of a restrained guy and not one too fond of words, Ashtar decided to look for him instead of calling his name.

Passing through the ballroom and the guests' lounge, he then turned right and walked through "The Golden Corridor" as his mother liked to call it. For it had nothing but gold ornaments on both its walls, swirling around and filling their plain, white-painted surface, once in a while meeting a shiny emerald or a stunning sapphire that fitted the ensemble perfectly.

Finally reaching its end, he pushed the double door of the small salon with both his hands and dashed inside.

No one.

Sighing, he retreated, turned on his heels, and left. He would've happily asked his father for his educator's whereabouts, but being the busy King that he was, one couldn't disrupt his schedule without suffering the consequences.

Not wanting to admit his defeat, he continued his search, asking the servants that passed by him if they ever saw Babel this morning. Alas, no positive answer fulfilled his wish.

"I don't have any other choice now," Ashtar mumbled. And, mentally preparing himself for a ton of supplementary work or 100-pages essays, he took a deep breath and headed to the throne room.