A faint light flickered through the beams from Argos' left. Illuminating the dark insides, his heart jumped.
"Prince Elijah!"
He started for the light promptly. The maze of rusty posts proved to be an obstacle, with too many to count and pass. However, his freshly medicated eyes saw everything crystal clear, performing like a pair of prescribed lenses, making it easier for him to evade. As he cruised through and around the row of posts with ease, the pathway became narrower as he continued. His wings got tangled here and there, and a handful of feathers got plucked out, trailing behind. Dotting the floor like breadcrumbs to follow back, he glanced back, still moving on. Not paying attention, looking at his feathers, he ran into a stud. It trembled while dust trickled on him, itchy to his scalp and face. Still, he persisted with a smile.
"It's reunion time!" His voice cracked in excitement, a lost feeling since sadness had become a City-transmitted feeling, like a virus. Now that Prince Elijah was found, they would surely be saved. Feeling hopeful, he imagined holding in his hands the Chronicles of Light. "Its pages are like the Balm of Gilead, healing the deepest wounds of the heart, mind, and soul." His eyes turned sentimental. "If only Mother could grab hold..."
The faint light turned solid as he closed in. His sad eyes twinkled. Already, he could imagine Prince Elijah waiting for him in the other room, ready for a heart-to-heart talk. There, they would share what happened, chat about what they missed, and in the end, Argos would have the Chronicles of Light, with Prince Elijah returning home with him, soaring through the skies to save Shadow Lights.
"How did you grow old so fast in this slow time?" Argos asked casually, yet with a mystified face. "Not that I'm interested in Evergreen! I mean, you left Shadow Lights my age, and now your daughter's older than me!"
Reaching the spot, he was greeted by the twinkles of the chandelier hanging over the dining table, the country-styled dining room empty. It held an oak table with eight chairs pushed in, the flooring like mismatched squares. A mistake by the builder, he deemed.
"Aren't you tired of playing hide-and-seek?" he ranted, rolling his eyes. "You're already a grandpa!"
Dark shadows flittered inside the living room.
Recognizing them as Prince Elijah's grandchildren, his eyes ran fast to them, racing along and pretending to be a good uncle. The idea made him feel iffy, so he dismissed it with a smack on his head. In his eyes, the dividing wall between the living room and the dining room disintegrated. He followed the silhouettes of the two boys as they ran back and forth aimlessly, as if lost in their own house, running over another odd type of flooring that seemed to be made of bristles and twine.
A cheer came from the little girl.
"Oh! There's your audience!" he ridiculed, pulling his head back in disbelief.
Their father let out a yawn.
Argos pulled his head at him, feeling the man's yawn was a dig at him over his contempt. "C-Can he hear me?" he stammered, only to shake his head, not wanting to encourage the thought. "No. You're just a human!"
There was a flight of stairs on the right side of the house facing the door, which took his disdain too. It was so little, compared to the stairs at the Omniscient Gate. "That would be my once-in-a-lifetime moment," he swore, referring to his time climbing it. "While you," his lips pointed to the stairs, "always use that."
The owl hooted from a distance.
His pulse quickened. "The sun's up in Shadow Lights! Come down now!" he demanded, shifting his face back to the stairs. "Bring the book!" He blinked repeatedly, bragging about his clear eyes. "We can read together!"
A tick, followed by another, reached his ears; the second hand moved, and with it, the minute hand.
"The clock moved! We can't lose another second!" he shouted angrily, only to regret his outburst. "I don't mean to disrespect you, Your Highness. But please! Come down now," he begged with praying hands. "I'm appealing to you, as your page, on behalf of the remnants, let's go!" Waiting for the ceiling floor to squeak, he listened for feet to tread toward the stairs, Prince Elijah appearing as he descended. No one moved.
His hopes started skidding. A lonely bookshelf pushed at the base of the stairs saved him. He quickly checked the shelves, his eyes zooming over to inspect from afar. "Children's books, a black leather Bible, the kids' drawings, and bundled keys," he itemized, still browsing, hoping to find the Chronicles of Light. "I'll take it home myself if you don't want to go back," he said, wishing for Prince Elijah to say something in objection, voicing a desire to go back. No one responded to him. Looking over the shelves a second time, he glanced over the children's silhouettes with contemptible eyes.
A thought came to him, bringing his face to light up. "Did you disguise the Chronicles of Light to keep it safe?" he wondered, quickly sorting the books and looking into the pages, starting from the thick, dog-eared Bible, down to the children's books. Words swam up in his eyes, skimming over each page. "Angels, devils... Nephilim." The last brought him to a smile. "My ancestors!" He moved on to the next book, a book on animals, and skipped it fast, dreading the image of the snake that showed up right on the first page. A small light flashed below him. "Shhhhh. I don't want to remember," he told his memory stone, stopping it before a scene replayed. Resuming his browsing, a colorful book took him captive. "Prince Charming? Do I know a prince by this name?" Curious, he read a paragraph of the flying words quietly, taking it in. As he went down each line, his forehead began creasing till his lips tugged into a frown. "Unbelievable! This prince is searching for love!" He slammed the book shut through his eyes, finding the story trivial, and moved on to the next book.
Soon, the living room turned dark. The shadow of night crept in, like a black-colored flood, bleeding in through the bay windows and spilling all over the walls, floors, and ceiling. In a blink, the entire house was engulfed.
"The night is here." He quaked as the flood started breaking inside his hiding space. Unprepared and not knowing what to do, he used his feet as a door stopper, but the darkness managed to sneak through. Next, he rolled his shoulders forward and swooped in his right wing to block the floor slits, like sandbag, to no avail. Unable to stop the invasion, it flooded his tiny space. Submerged, he flapped his arms and wings desperately to float.
"Umbra!"
His feathers fluttered. It didn't sound brittle to his ears, frozen with ice and cracking apart with the slightest movement. Rather, it sounded fluffy, completely free of the debilitating cold that arrested him back in Shadow Lights. He stopped struggling, brought back to his senses. His memory stone stopped blinking, done with the flashback.
A male Lucere stood in front of him.
His heart jumped.
"Prince Elijah!" Excited, that joy turned into bewilderment when he grasped what stood before him. "A mirror?" He stood stiffly, staring at his own reflection for a while, studying his face. His skin was darker than he remembered, but it wasn't a bad look on him. Impressed, he touched his smooth cheeks. "I got a tan!" Beaming, he started gliding his palms against the mirror that hung horizontally. "A two-way mirror. What a smart tactic!"
The second hand moved again.
His leafy ears stood stiff. He waited for time to freeze, but the second hand took a while. It held him up in suspense, while the trees in the backyard clapped, anticipating his next move again, testing his courage this time. Taking the challenge, he gave in to their whim. One jump and he was out. The second hand moved right after; a late signal. His face crumpled, weirded out by how long it took him to step out. For some reason, he felt there were invisible hands stopping him.
Humid air slapped his face, blowing in from the busy kitchen. He snorted; it smelled of food, not death. No one was hanging dead outside from the trees. Rather, the trees' faint smell in the air, from the open window, was fresh and leafy, mixed in with the smell of the mother Gris' cooking. Her spatula continued to whir dully. He wondered when the Gris would finish drifting, shaking his head at the idea of serving burnt soup.
Unfiltered noises came to him all at once: the sizzling stove, whistling wind, clapping trees, and clanking. The last just emerged from the living room, similar to the sound of sparring swords, only much weaker.
"Toy swords," he figured, glancing at the plaything shadows raised up in the air.
The boys grunted, doing a mock battle.
Observing their sluggish movements with no real practice behind them, Argos sneered. "Even with real swords, you won't—"
Their father yawned, louder and longer this time.
Argos silently bid his memory stone to replay the man's yawn over and over, searching for ill intent. His piercing eyes narrowed, holding a glint of revenge as his right hand reached for his sword, but he released it the moment his hand made contact; in the split of a second.
Be glad I'm not looking for a fight. Even if you challenged me, you wouldn't win. I'm a Lucere!
The little girl elicited a row of hurray, tickling his ears like a sweet music banned from playing inside the City. He recorded her voice, planning to play it for the sad children of the City on his return. "This will lift their chins off their hands," he predicted, amused by the little girl's cheering, though unclear which brother she was rooting for.
Going back to his search for the Chronicles of Light, he spun around the table in a flash of light, checking under each chair for a book, finding none. Suddenly, he stopped; his back against the mirror. His skin prickled, and his pulse quickened, sensing a strong presence behind him.
I was followed!
Slowly reaching for his sword, his right foot began to pivot. Facing about, his eyebrows furrowed. No one stood behind him, but there were other objects he didn't understand. "What is this?" he asked, baffled by a collection of pictures resting on a rustic sideboard, pressed against the same wall as the mirror. "Dead memories in tiny coffins," he continued, referring to the glass frames. His right hand drew away from his sword. "No wonder it took me a while," referring to when he stepped out, "I stumbled onto memories... again." The memory stones belonging to the grassroots came back to him, his eyes mellowing, while the gem of his ring blinked.
"I don't want to go inside these memories," he protested, partly disgusted and partly nervous. Waiting impatiently to get sucked in, expecting it to happen anyway, the dull whirring noise played nonstop in the kitchen, like a broken record; his cue that he didn't enter the memories. By then, he was sure the soup was burnt. He panned back to the pictures. "I'm glad I stayed in the present." He grinned, touching his chest, making sure. His face started to relax.
The photos pulled him in, unbeknownst to him. Moving forward, his eyes were fixed on the frozen faces staring at him pointedly. Perturbed, he looked away, only to pan back, unable to resist it.
One by one, he browsed the pictures with utmost care, hoping to find the book sitting in the background, tucked away from those humans' reach. There were none, other than baby books read by the Gris to her seeds when they were even younger. Each book was pint-sized. Colorful too, and made of cheap covers. He doubted any of them were the Chronicles of Light.
One photo showed the Gris and her husband on their wedding day. Others were of their children's birthdays, baptisms, and milestones, such as their first haircuts, first school trips, and other events. There were stolen shots too, mostly of the children. His heart tugged, understanding one emotion expressed in all their pictures: happiness.
"Everyone's smiling," he observed, missing the feeling that had seemingly taken a permanent vacation. "They froze these moments to see every day. That's brilliant."
The little girl giggled, making his heart twitch in glee. His lips too, as he practiced how to giggle again, wishing to experience happiness, even blindly. "Silly, too," he determined, halting his attempt.
An old man in a charcoal suit, hugging his wife, took his eyes. There was something about him that he couldn't put his finger on. He looked straight from the book description of an aged human: salt and pepper hair, tired, honey-wheat eyes, and crumpled skin that looked like condemned valleys. Worse, it was riddled with age spots and black moles of various sizes. Digging into his memory, the face was familiar, resembling something: a leopard. The man was a beast under his skin; his real nature, Argos deemed, but a beast he could easily beat, even in a fistfight.
"Should be the man's father," he guessed, comparing their eyes. Dull and dark brown, unable to take in light, he would describe.
About to check another picture, he caught sight of the old man's diamond ring. It was too familiar; a grim feeling swept over him. "He has Prince Elijah's memory stone!" he cried in a controlled voice. "It means, Prince Elijah is... dead!" Thinking back to the Omniscient Gate, the time Prince Elijah's form finally showed up, he realized what it was. "The witness stones showed me who crossed last," he deduced, his wings hunching in grief. In an attempt to protect himself from added sorrow, he resorted to insult the old man, treating him as inferior. "But this human," turning to the picture, "stole Prince Elijah's stone. You don't deserve it. You're just a human," he mocked, pointing an accusing finger. "Your earthly mind wouldn't be able to handle its power. Do you know how many stones his has conquered?" Stopping briefly, he caught his words. His irritation was soon replaced with greed, realizing what it meant. "This ring is a treasure chest of memory stones!" He eyed the picture, wishing he could enter it now. Though he tried to will it, it wouldn't allow him. Much to his regret, he stayed in the present. "If only," he fretted, sighing. "Who would've thought I'd be getting a windfall for doing the forbidden? His memory stone is here. That's why Prince Elijah put up that shield."
The clock ticked.
Time didn't stop! He gasped in horror, while gripping his sword's hilt, just in case. Searching for Prince Elijah, he scoured the pictures, but the Gris' shadow appeared from the corner of his eye. In a flash, he went back to his hiding space in the inner walls, behind the mirror. On his way in, there was a loud thud from the living room.
"Be careful, Eli!" admonished the father.
"Eli?" Argos repeated, baffled and thrilled to hear the name. He's here! Twisting his body to his right, he followed the trail leading to the living room. Thanks to his hasty movements, dust trickled, and he barely avoided the beams. His cheeks itched, and so did his scalp, the dust like pestering dandruff. He slapped his face, finding the pain better than the itch. The dust scattered in the air; confetti in his eyes; a celebration, and his vindication too. "I found you..."
Eli. Eli.
In his mind, he could still hear the name being whispered like a prayer inside the City of Refuge. As he closed in, a smile formed from growing excitement. Passing through the wall of the stairs, which faced the dining table, ducking here and there to not hit his head, he proceeded to the foyer; its size barely able to accommodate his wings. Gingerly, he stepped out, sneaking into the opposite wall, separating the living room. An old, sleeping fireplace welcomed him in. The spot, convenient it was, gave him a good vantage point. A vintage, high-back chair was pressed against the window to his left, kept company by an oak side table. His smile turned bitter. Prince Elijah must've sat there, reading from the Chronicles of Light. At day, using the natural light from the window, and at night, the room would be illuminated gently by the flames of the fireplace. It was a vivid picture that he could see happening.
The owl hooted outside.
He followed its call, though a part of him told him not to. On the contrary, the owl didn't sound terrified. "The night in Evergreen is kind," he lauded, yielding.
Through the bay window, he could see the herds of dark clouds running peacefully, as if in a theater, with the lead performers being ushered in on cue: the moon and stars. After they all found their spots, he blinked wistfully, waiting excitedly for the main attraction: rainbows.
"We flew every night. The sky was our playground," he remembered with a pained smile. His leafy ears wiggled, hearing in his spirit the nightly serenade; strumming guitars and wind instruments, their cue to rest from their air games.
The wall near his face reverberated, interrupting his reminiscing.
Dust trickled.
He clamped his nose, stifling a sneeze.
"I tried and I'm already tired!" cried the stout boy, wanting to drop the stick in his hand.
"Aw." Argos held his ears. "You're really loud!" Behind him, beams trembled; the boy's raucous voice penetrating through the walls.
"We were racing—now this!" The boy's words boomed loudly, bouncing inside the walls.
His skinny brother sneered. "You were losing in our first game anyway!" he replied, implying his brother's weight, which he grasped, but did not deny.
"Who gave you the right to change the game?"
"I'm older than you!" he insisted in a stentorian voice; his back facing the wall.
"Only by a year!" The stout boy stuck his index finger in the air for everyone to see, as if he was in a courtroom defending himself.
Argos yawned exaggeratedly. Not sleepy, just bored; watching their mouths move slowly while forming words, he finished their statements before they actually did themselves. "I don't want to be the jury to this!" he refused, turning away, only to look back, unable to control the urge to watch. "Because it's my first time seeing Grises in the flesh," he reasoned, defending himself to his stone. "Glad this wall lets me talk." He shrugged in a devil-may-care way. "So," he continued, turning back to the brothers, "here's what I think; if you really fight, the younger brother could easily pin down the older."
Scanning them from head to toe, their clothing encouraged his contempt again. The younger brother wore a skin-tight shirt, which gave him red marks on his arms; the sleeves were like restraining cuffs. Meanwhile, the oldest swam inside his oversized shirt, which flapped like a banner. "Your last name fits you," Argos commended, scoffing. "And why did you swap clothes?" He made a facepalm. However, their copper-blond hair and sun-kissed skin stopped his poor appraisal. Made insecure, he felt that his tan, compared to theirs, was anemic.
"I don't want to play anymore, Eli!" the stout boy declared as he switched spots with him.
Argos' jaw dropped. "Y-You can't be Eli!" he refuted, glaring at Eli's eyeglasses. Remembering the silvery haze around the boy's face, he frowned. "The boy named so well has poor eyes!" He clawed his fingers against him, wanting to strip him of his honor.
"Can't hit me, eh!" Eli bounced, like a rock star. His long bangs hopped too, on his wide forehead.
Argos narrowed his eyes at him. "Prince Elijah never rested on his birthright! He never let the red-carpet treatment get to him!" he ranted. "If the black book hadn't intervened, he would've been king! But you, a dark shadowed, mixed blood counterfeit, with your weak eyes and skinny body..." He paused, tasting the words he just spilled. They tasted bitter, which he deemed was only appropriate. "It's the truth. My eyes are clear and there's light watching," he defended, briefly turning to the moon.
Eli halted from his bouncing. Standing pointedly, his hollow chest protruded, breeding arrogance. "I'm OLDER than you!" he repeated, now stern.
"I heard you the first time!" the younger brother fired back.
Argos took in every word that Eli spoke. It resonated with him, but he hoped he heard it spoken in the past, by Prince Elijah. "If only he insisted on his inheritance like you," he began, glancing at Eli briefly before lowering his face out of sadness, "then, Shadow Lights would have its proper king."
"Eli wants to be a knight," the little girl told the father, interrupting Argos' hopeless pondering. She spoke in a whisper, but managed to stir up the man, dead on his feet that he was, since she spoke with emphasis, as if passing on vital information.
"A knight?" he repeated, intrigued by the word.
"Harold wants it too."
Argos sneered, doubting their capacity. "No, no. Neither of you has what it takes to be a knight," he taunted, laughing unkindly. "However, Harold can be a herald because he's loud. Harold-Herald. It rhymes."
"You're a knight too," the man told the little girl; the words came out of his lips smoothly.
"He meant every word," Argos approved, sensing the man's sincerity, much to his doubt. "But no! The boys aren't good enough. Especially her! She was only their audience! What can she do other than clap her hands?" He mimicked her clapping, giggling sarcastically along. "Will this," he continued, clapping, "kill?"
"I won't!" she refused, shaking her head.
Argos moved his head too, but to nod in approval; his point being proven.
"I don't have a weapon!" she added.
"Exactly," Argos approved, sticking a thumbs-up.
"You do. Your eyes," the man answered, causing her brothers to chortle.
The little girl crossed her arms across her chest and grumbled.
Argos looked on, confused. "What does that mean?" he asked, gesturing to his own eyes, then to his sword. "She's mixed blood. What can she do?"
The man kissed her on the head to calm her down. Her grumpy eyes softened.
"Mom!" Harold called out, twisting his body toward the kitchen. His flab mounted.
Eli shushed him fast. "Why do you have to tell everything?" he rebuked in a controlled voice, not wanting their mother's meddling.
"Harold's a tattletale!" The little girl placed her right hand over her mouth and made a bird beak with her fingers.
Harold faced her and pointed his toy sword at her elfin face. "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but your words will never hurt me!" he declared, his puppy eyes squinting.
Argos snarled at him, interfering. "Not in Shadow Lights! Our words can hurt! The king read a spell from the black book and brought in the snake!" He clenched his fists, shaking in anger. His words didn't reach them past the wall, but Harold's easily came to him. Though he was interjecting with his truth, they continued anyway.
Eli took a weak fighting stance against Harold. "Hit me if you can!" he challenged, spinning his toy sword in the air.
Harold walked away, uninterested. "I give up!" he lamented, lowering his toy sword.
"When you come to the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on," the father lectured Harold.
"Who said that?" Harold stopped walking.
"Franklin D. Roosevelt."
Their sister yanked their father's sleeve. "Who's that?"
"He's the thirty-second president of the United States."
Eli scowled. "Dad! You're bringing up politics over our family game!"
"There's politics everywhere. Even in families."
Argos nodded hard, pain streaming across his face.
Harold roguishly snuck up behind Eli.
Argos' eyes grew big, seeing what Harold was going to do. He leaned forward, feeling a sudden surge of adrenaline. His wings geared up, opening his lips. "I went to your nest to give you a heads up," he confessed, talking to his memory of Prince Elijah, "but you already left."
"What the..?" Eli flinched.
"Yaaaaaay! I just hit your HEART! I tied the score, but I won!" Harold jumped, rejoicing. The floor squeaked under him.
Argos pulled back. "Yesterday and today, I'm still late!" he said, referring to being late in alerting Prince Elijah; and here, the offspring bearing his name.
"That's a cheat!" Eli reached for his poked back, turning around.
"No! It's a trick!" Harold contested.
"That isn't right!"
Argos rallied to his point. "Tell that to the king!" he ordered, pointing to the window on his left. "He invited the Umbra to cover up his crime!" His palms itched, partly because of the dust, but more of wanting to snatch Eli and fly him to Shadow Lights so he could speak the truth to power. Imagining him as Prince Elijah, wearing his purple, silk coat, tears welled around Argos' eyes. "Tell him again," he begged, his arm dropping weakly. "Tell your... brother."
"You can't fight me anymore," Harold said, flashing a sardonic smile. "I just crushed your heart. GAME OVER!" He dropped his toy sword and danced his way to the couch.
The floor squeaked again.
"You'll destroy this house!" the little girl reprimanded.
Harold stuck his tongue out at her.
Eli stood his ground. "Where are you going?" he barked at Harold, handing him a death stare. "The game's still on!"
"Nuh-uh! I killed you already!" Harold slammed his body on the couch, much to his sister's dismay. "What? Did you just REINCARNATE?"
Argos glared at Eli, but with interest. "Because of your name, you're Prince Elijah's reincarnation," he agreed, still holding resistance to the idea. "But you have bad eyes!"