In the early, early morning, when the kingdom was steadfast in slumber, Michael's things were packed and ready to go.
He'd swapped his pajamas for a long-sleeved, nude robe that stretched to his ankles. Made from a lightweight cotton fabric, it would provide ample air circulation during long treks under the harsh Yuhnayehn sun. The hood was draped over his back, golden inscriptions stitched along the rim—scriptures from Oshahe's Teachings. His bag was attached by rope, criss-crossed over his chest and ribs, and was stuffed full of clothing and other necessities.
Michael sat at his windowsill, just as he did as a child; legs crossed, body turned toward the glass. He had been stuck in that position for hours, lost in a daze, analyzing the blue planet which remained a dormant threat throughout the night.
Clouds of violet and indigo blanketed the orange, pink swirling skies. Yuhnayeh was known for its beauty—so enchanting it mesmerized its beholder. When Michael's memories faded, dreams of colorful skies were all he had to remember where he came from.
Only, his recollection had exaggerated the hues into a mystical vibrancy that only dreams were capable of. And on his return, he turned toward the skies and recounted each color that had lost their luminous grandeur—pinks, golds and oranges were drowned in blue.
Everything was lost to blue.
Knocking his forehead on the glass, Michael uttered a prayer, asking for guidance and success in his travels. His shoulders slumped. Sighing, he finally turned his back to the window.
From his robe pocket, he fetched his journal, a pensive frown taking to his features, as he observed the faded, well-loved spine.
Of the many material items Michael possessed, his journal—the one given to him on Earth—was among the most important.
He flipped through it, stopping whence finding a folded paper tucked in the crease of a blank spread. He opened it and traced faded words and sketches with a frown.
The lines on the drawing were blurred, words legible, but just barely so, and the off-white page was entirely smudged. Michael's English was far from fluent, even after the five years spent pouring over the few books he'd taken with him, but he greedily re-read the inscription with practiced ease.
When he found himself drifting, wondering if his ambitions were too ambitious, whether he was clinging too tightly to a future that might never happen, to a past that had long been abandoned in the dust, he flipped through his journal and stared down at the loose paper, down at the drawing his beloved made for him, and found the strength to keep going.
("Because of you, My Shining Star," she'd croaked, breath shallow, as she fought the paralysis spanning her chest, "I've flown high into the sky. I've touched the clouds, I've nestled in the stars, and I've reached heaven at last."
The paper crinkled in Michael's balled fists. He dropped his hands in his lap, fighting the chatter in his teeth, the agonized sob that was desperately clawing its way up his throat. He wanted to scream. To beg. To grab Monty by the shoulders and rattle her until she promised him everything would be alright, that she wouldn't quit fighting because he needed her and he didn't understand why she was giving up.
She had been a pillar of strength, keeping his frayed edges together. She embraced his ways and expected nothing in return. Beautiful and warm in a way he'd never witnessed and would never witness again.
Losing her wasn't an option. It couldn't be. Not after everything and everyone Michael had lost. To hell with Oshahe, Ehmowa or the world! What more could they take away from him?
But then her lips were on his. So gentle, despite being chapped. Her skin was always soft in comparison to his, for he was worn and tried, scarred and imperfect.
With her none of that mattered. He was whole. He was living, the past forgotten, the future an afterthought. He was present.
Then her lips were gone.
Michael gently guided her head to rest on his chest and kissed her hair, staring at the front yard, at the neglected garden, remembering the first seed they ever planted. All the days they spent sunbathing, pointing shapes in the clouds, laying side-by-side on the grass.
"Thank you, Michael," she mumbled.
Her head was drooping lower and lower, no more fight left in her system.
He stared out as lightning shot across the sky, the thunderous boom falling upon deaf ears. Michael focused on his heartbeat, felt it pounding in his throat, a ball of sick unfurling in his stomach.
He blinked.
Then she was in his arms, limp in his lap, the rocking chair moving to-and-fro, her ghost lingering in its stead. And he rocked her, back-and-forth, back-and-forth, held her until she took her final wheezy breath, which just barely grazed his neck.
With Monty, he was alive. He was whole. He was living.
But then her spirit was gone, and he was alone and his soul shattered into a million pieces. He was alone. He was empty. He was lost. And she was dead.
Michael's mouth opened, and he screamed.
It drowned in the next roaring thunderclap.)
He turned another page. There, a Polaroid was poised for the taking. A moment stuck in time, of him and his beloved grinning, drunk off of happiness.
Perched on the bed, Prince observed his father, who was staring at the photo like it would disappear if he looked away. The prince-ly persona he'd created and paraded around with in recent years broke down, expressing vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to acknowledge.
Many days mirrored this one—Father on the windowsill, lost in memories, turning to the journal for an escape. But there was something about this particular moment that was different from all the others.
Because Father was with a mission that gave him purpose. He had a chance to prove to others that the "folly" dreams of his that others thought ridiculous or impossible were anything but.
Such criticisms irritated Prince. His family—aunts, uncles and grandparents—didn't understand how important Father's dreams were. How they breathed life into his ailing soul, gave him the motivation to confidently stride through life without stumbling over his feet fearing each passing shadow.
They never witnessed Father's fear. When he'd flee to isolation and bury his face in his knees, hugging his legs and whispering prayers and affirmations. How he curled his feet in the grass, in the dirt, in his shoes, just to stay grounded because every color, every sight, every new person he met spiked his paranoia and discomfort.
They understood a fraction of who Father was and what he lost. How cruelly trauma had snatched his innocence and filled his head with darkness, with lies, convincing him it was all he would know and ever have.
They questioned his actions, questioned his "silly" plans for the future he sought to create. Father was an enigma. A mystery wrapped in a cloak of naivety and childishness. That's what they thought. But he was more than that. So much more.
(If only Prince's ghostly form was corporeal, then he'd shout to the heavens all the misconceptions his father had been made to listen to.)
For the past five years, hardly a day went by where Father wasn't on the receiving end of a disbelieving stare. It was easy to laugh at him. At his "impossible" romance with a mistress from another world. Others thought it destructive. That he was clinging to the memory of a ghost, digging his heels in the ground, unwilling to let the past leave him.
"You must move on, Michael," they told him.
And despite how much it hurt—because Prince knew his father and knew it did hurt him—Father smiled and held his head high and pretended it didn't.
It got worse when they found out he planned to stop Ehmowa himself.
They blamed it on his obsession with his Earthly mistress. Told him things like "Ehmowa cannot be stopped", reminded him how Ehmowa stole him away and tortured him for years, as if Father was capable of forgetting.
And how was it they found out about Father's plans?
Well, he told them of course.
(Something Prince definitely did not agree with. He'd practically spent the entire week prior to the announcement shouting at Father's pacing self, telling him how terrible an idea it was. But, of course, his words went unheard. And Father eventually convinced himself it was a fantastic idea to admit that he planned on taking down a god with his own two hands.
Prince loved his father, but sometimes...he wanted to punch him for his short-sightedness.)
Father had been shoveling handfuls of fish stew and rice in his mouth, satisfying his never ending hunger, when he abruptly stopped his meal with a dramatic, noticeable pause. Once receiving everyone's attention, he announced loudly and confidently that Ehmowa would be stopped in the near future.
It was almost comical the way the entire room halted at once to stare at him with matching bug eyes.
And how do you know that? they asked with equal amounts of exasperation and amusement.
Well, he'd responded, nonchalantly taking a sip of his water, toes curling anxiously beneath the table, safe from wandering eyes, I am the one who will kill him, of course, that's how I know.
Prince had never seen a group go from hysterical, practically spitting out their food from boisterous laughter, to worry, then disbelief so swiftly. It wasn't only Father's siblings and parents, though, it was the soldiers guarding the exits and entrances, the servants filling their drinks, his nieces and nephews, all cackling at the notion that Michael—naive, little Michael—could take down Ehmowa.
Father remained eating, stoic and unbothered, never wavering in his belief. It had been set in stone and he would see it through no matter how the battle ended.
Father was forgiving. While frustrated at his family's reaction (and the utter humiliation that came with it), he prayed that night, admitting he understood their perspective, but hoped one day they would see his.
Prince, however, was infuriated. He had forgotten what hard-boiled rage tasted like until his entire being was shrouded in white-golden flames, his wings standing taller than ever. He wanted to shout at them for their blatant disrespect, remind them who Michael Jackson was and what he was capable of, because apparently they had forgotten.
His father was loving, sweet and kind. Make no mistake. But he was also capable of snapping a man's neck with his bare hands, of tearing skin to ribbons with his claws alone, of staring a man straight in the eye before ripping out his still beating heart from his chest.
(That was a side Prince knew Father never wanted anyone finding out about. But Prince couldn't help but feel that perhaps if they did know, they would treat him, not as a hopeless child, but as the revered warrior and soon-to-be-king that he was. He deserved respect, yet never corrected anyone when they failed to show it. Father was too kind, too passive.)
In the end, it didn't matter whether anyone believed Father, for he was content with working by himself.
Being alone changed people—made them dependent, so to speak. They depended on ideals or beliefs or relationships to keep themselves going. For Father, faith was his most dependable weapon. Faith was the rope that he clung onto in times both gloomy and optimistic, which promised him a better world where he and his loved ones were whole again. Faith had brought him his family. Had saved him from Hanatbi.
Faith was what dropped him on Earth and carried him all the way to—
(Father hugged the photo to his heart and shut his eyes. Weariness plucked away at the little energy in his system.)
Prince witnessed all of this and then some.
His own living life had been unconventional—albeit incredibly short—but it did have its merits.
During a rare snowy day on Yuhnayeh, a baby Prince, just barely seven-months-old, was set upon a bed of dead leaves. The winter was harsh and unforgiving, and the crops and livestock suffered for it. The villagers were fraught with illness, unprepared for the cold and not with enough proper protection to keep warm. They prayed to many deities, but only one answered, with plumes of black and blue that darkened their fires and brought with it heat that thawed their frostbitten fingers.
Ehmowa had but one request: a child under the age of five, to be sacrificed for the betterment of the village.
They went through all of the children, but struggled to find one to give up. Children were made to work in place of their elders and keep the village functional. They needed hunters for meat, laborers who would handle the crops and the livestock once the winter was over. It was a difficult choice, at first, to figure which potential worker they'd need to hand over.
And then they found Prince.
Prince had been born with weak lungs, and his motor skills were behind compared to his age-mates, alluding to him being a burden to his people. He got sick often, as well, which was not helped by the raging winter.
Thus, he was chosen to be his village's sacrifice.
His mother passed him off like he was a disease she was glad to be rid of. And the villagers prepared a celebration at the prospect of having good health and an abundance of food once more.
Prince didn't remember what it was like—being murdered, that is. Only in fleeting flashes and phantom pain. But being Oshahe's right-hand man had its perks, and he'd gotten a firsthand account of what exactly happened that day.
They'd painted his shivering, pale and bare body with warm blood. And while they chanted and pleaded to Ehmowa, begging for him to bless their crops, their livestock and their people through the harsh winter, Prince screamed.
Then there was a dagger in Prince's chest. A single strike, which silenced his sobs and signaled the start of a new era for him and his assailants. It was too quick to be remembered, but the pain followed him to the next life, as did the weakness in his lungs.
(There were nights he awoke in a pool of sweat, clutching his chest while struggling to breathe. The dagger was piercing still, never having left. Still twisting and turning, lodged deep in layers of muscle. It was a never ending agony he wouldn't understand until after he died and got the answers he'd craved so long for.)
Once the blade was through his chest, Ehmowa accepted him as the offering, and blue flames engulfed Prince and stole him away, leaving nothing but bloody leaves behind. The deity said no thank you's, only took what he sought with a wicked grin that gave false promises to the gullible people he'd taken advantage of.
Prince had no recollection of his body transferring to Hanatbi. But his next gasping breaths were taken in a musty room, surrounded by children like him, forgotten, abandoned, sacrificed out of desperation.
Based off of what Father told him, he sobbed and screamed, having not the proper nutrition nor resources to be properly taken care of. His chest was covered in drying blood and his wound was slowly healing itself, but he was left frail from the attack. Father held his ill, tiny body for the first time, and prayed and hoped that he would keep fighting.
And miraculously, Prince survived. All because Father had faith that he would.
There were instances when Prince's pessimistic brain got the best of him. Where he wondered what would have happened had he never been found by his father—which was silly, since he already knew the answer.
(Ehmowa and his followers had a hankering for sacrificed flesh, especially children's. They would have prepared Prince for a grand feast—not the main course, for he lacked the fat or muscle needed to satiate a devil's hunger, but he would have been a tasty side dish. They'd devour the body, then the soul, strengthening Ehmowa—and therefore, Hanatbi's—endless appetite.)
Prince and Father did their best to save the other children, giving up their limited water supply, food and clean rags—well, as clean one can get without proper soap or water—to help them. But it was never enough.
After personally living through and witnessing Father's past, it enraged Prince when others laughed at him.
His father's disbelievers were ignorant, too young and naive to understand anything that combated their own narrow-minded beliefs.
Prince had witnessed and experienced more, and understood that anything was possible. He had lived a long life, garnering knowledge.
Well, sort of...
Technically, he'd lived for seven months on Yuhnayeh before being killed by his own flesh and blood. Technically, he'd also lived for seven years on Hanatbi before being murdered (again, he thought in morbid amusement) in front of his adopted father. Technically, he was still alive, just in a different form.
There was more to life than just being alive. For people like him, with unfinished business and loved ones in need of protection, life continued on well after death.
"Guardian angels," Oshahe told him while sitting on His throne. His ankle was rested on a knee, cheek settled on his fist in a nonchalant fashion—a pose that did not bode well with the newly dead Prince, who immediately spat "Hey, asshole, I just died, care to show a bit more respect?"
Being murdered tends to make one a bit more irritable.
Instead of showing offense, Oshahe bubbled with laughter (another thing that ticked Prince off), and told Prince he'd be a great guardian angel before he flicked his fingers and sent the boy careening into an empty abyss.
In the darkness, he saw life. Death. Creation. He witnessed universes burst to fruition, bringing with them planets of all sizes, colors and temperatures. Entire species were introduced and wiped out just as quickly as they came, from devastating plagues, climate changes, meteorites. He saw millions, billions, trillions of beings come and go; saw each of their experiences and the decisions they made that altered the course of their lives.
Knowledge was forced into his head all at once, and he grabbed his skull, screaming, fearing it would burst.
Hanatbi was purgatory; the minutes trickled by slowly. Days were like years. Years like centuries. But in the sweet release of death, Prince witnessed the entirety of creation in the span of a second.
And yet, in each planet, galaxy, universe, he never found someone like Father.
By the time he was a fully-fledged guardian angel, he was sure an entire millennia had passed. He checked on Father, afraid he'd find him old or dead.
Instead he found Father almost exactly how he left him, only gaunt and without the familiar twinkle in his dull, glazed eyes. He moved as if it pained to do so. Rarely spoke. Never peeled his stare from his feet. But he was still just a child—only nineteen. And he was all alone.
For Father, it had been five months since Prince died.
Prince wasn't sure how to feel about that. His own death felt so far away, yet seeing Father mourn made him feel guilty for not being more upset.
He'd stared, detached, at his own hands. They ghosted his neck, his chest, searching for the phantom pain that used to always be present. But there was nothing there. Accepting his new job as a guardian angel meant accepting that his own life was nothing but a relic of the past, that would live on in no one's memory, but Father's.
Once, Prince believed death to be the cutting away of the ties tethering him to his agony. But now he knew better. He'd given up on eternal peace after spending his last waking moments peering into Father's horrified, red-rimmed eyes. When he chose for himself to garner the wings that signified protecting a loved one above all else, even one's own happiness.
It was a sacrifice he'd happily make again, being able to watch over and be there for his father, even if he wasn't acknowledged for it.
Prince was shaken from his thoughts when Father moved.
He perked, watching his father with almost the same child-like energy as when he was back on Hanatbi. When he'd sit cross-legged on a makeshift bed of withered fabrics, observing Father get ready for a new day.
Except now Prince was on Father's king-sized bed, which was covered in clean, thick covers and sheets, all ordained in fancy patterns and colors. He leaned forward, eager to see what Father would do next.
Father set his journal down on his desk, slipping the Polaroid he'd been admiring into his robes, before heading downstairs, his steps swift and silent. Prince floated on after him.
He wasn't surprised when Father stopped in front of Mother and Prince's statue. Father always went there when he needed to sort his thoughts.
Fabric dug into Father's bobbing throat. His hand reached for the statue but paused midway, fingers bending with want, before they curled into a fist and fell to his side.
"I will defeat Ehmowa," he said, his words bouncing off the walls, loud and echoing in the silent foyer. "Your sacrifices, your loss and your pain were not in vain. I promise. I will see this through 'till the end. And your memories..." He nodded, determined. "You will be avenged."
Prince's wings fluttered whilst he levitated beside his marble counterpart, which he'd always felt was a bit too perfect to be him. "I know, Father," he said, even though he knew it was useless.
Father's head dropped. "I will stop Him."
"I know."
"You believe me right?" His feet shuffled. Voice dropped to a mere whisper. "I can do it. I know I can. I have invested so much time into this."
"Of course I believe you, Father." Prince's voice rose, as he tried getting through to him. "If anyone can do it, it's you."
"I'll do it. I promise I will." Sighing through gritted teeth, Father's shoulders drooped, dragging the rest of his body with it. "I promise." He turned around, already lost in his thoughts, no doubt searching for one of his hiding spots to conceptualize plans and daydreams.
Prince stared at the statue, his body glittering with golden white. His wings flapped faster, preparing to take him back to Oshahe. "I've never doubted you, Father. I hope you know that."
Then he was gone, with no one but himself knowing he'd been there at all.
**
"Bye, Monty!" the children exclaimed, piling into trucks and SUVs.
I laughed, waving back. "Bye. See you tomorrow!"
Once the final car pulled out of the parking lot, I went back inside, stopping short at the red and orange squared doormat. The scent of baked goods wafted from the kitchen, permeating throughout the entirety of the building.
I sighed dreamily, salivating worse than Pavlov's dog. I had our club's chef Amara to thank for that. She'd made baked goods for the kids, because Lord only knows how hungry they are after sitting for hours at school. The least they deserved was a little snack for some positive reinforcement!
I observed the club, the homely, little Sunny Skies for Haseul.
To the right were two, rectangular, blood-orange tables lined up against the wall, where the children worked on their homework or arts and crafts or anything else they so desired, as long as they were not bothersome to those finishing up their work. After all, the club's tutoring services were free and the best around town, and we worked hard to maintain that reputation!
To the left was our reading area, where bookshelves lined the walls. Lime green bean bags on a fluffy pink carpet. The kids often lounged and read or went perusing on their iPads and laptops. A little bit ahead, hidden behind another bookshelf was the kitchen area; the source of the delicious smell in the air.
Straight ahead was the staircase entrance, leading to the second floor, and beside it the bathrooms. Upstairs were offices and spare rooms for storage or other extracurricular activities.
Heading to the kitchen, I filled two mugs with coffee, tapping my feet and drumming my fingers to the whir of the machine. It was odd; one second the club was bustling with hyper children, the next, there was nothing but silence.
The machine switched off. I fixed the drinks, then headed upstairs to the office, opening the door with my pinky, so as to not drop the mugs, then kicked it closed behind me. Welcoming me inside was the click-clacking of a keyboard.
"Here ya go." I set the drink down in front of Eunja, who was slouched over her keyboard, squinting at the monitor through her square-rimmed, magenta glasses.
"Oh, thank you." She continued typing with one hand, using the other to grab her mug and sip, never ripping her gaze from the screen. She paused, just to close her eyes and sigh. "Fuck, that's amazing."
"Right?" I chuckled, palming the warm mug. The scowl between her brows deepened, as she worked. "With that glare, you're gonna burn a hole through the screen. What'd the computer do to you?"
She sent me a serious stare. "Everything."
I snorted, drinking to hide my smile.
Collapsing back in her seat, Eunja groaned, stretching her arms to the ceiling, her grey coat draping at her sides, revealing her business attire beneath. "I had to do paperwork. I fucking hate paperwork." She grabbed her mug and gulped a few mouthfuls of coffee.
I sat at my desk, situated opposite of Eunja so our backs were to each other, and clicked the mouse, turning the monitor on. "That all that's on your mind?"
A beat of silence. I glanced at her reflection on the computer screen whilst sifting through emails, replying back to a couple as best I could with my mind half-occupied.
Finally she answered: "There was a teenage mother and her kid in the office today." Her head fell on the back of the chair, as she swiveled side-to-side. Her voice grew thick with emotion. Her words were like syrup, weighted and uncomfortable leaving her lips. I stopped my typing.
"I dunno, it's stupid to feel this way, but seeing the way she held him while he slept made me..." She bit her lip. "It made me miss it, you know? Being a mother. I just started thinking and reminiscing and wishing, even though I should have stopped, and..." She stared at her mug. "I miss it. I miss her—" She choked.
I got up and embraced her, her arms wrapping around my waist. There was nothing I could say that would ever ease her pain, but I knew Eunja—a warm, wordless hug was enough. It had taken me a while to get used to her touchy affections, but they grew on me.
"Thanks," she sighed when we parted. Then she elicited a rather snarky chuckle, grabbing the bridge of her nose like she was fighting off a headache. "Sorry. I didn't mean to bring down the mood or anything."
"Nah, don't apologize." I went back to my seat, the two of us facing each other. "This is a judge-free zone." For emphasis, I pointed at the wall where a No Judgement Here! sign hung.
She chuckled, and as the tone mellowed out, us both sitting back in comfortable silence, she quizzed, "Family call today?"
Crossing an ankle over a knee, a smile stretched my lips. "Yeah. Mom was hyperventilating over the phone 'cause a customer bought over two thousand dollars worth of clothing from her store." We chuckled, then the mental image of Mom's eyes bulging at her computer screen made me laugh harder.
"Oh!" I added. "Lenny got second place in his science fair!"
"Really? That's amazing! I know he was working hard on that project. What was it about again?"
"Aquaponics. Donny helped him out with a lot of it. Lenny was so excited though—snatched the whole phone away from Mama to tell me."
Eunja laughed, crossing a leg over the other and relaxing in her chair. "I love your family." I snorted, to which she smiled and shook her head. "No seriously. I wish I had this type of relationship with my family, but I was an only child and my parents..." Her face pinched. "Well, you know them. Nothing was ever good enough."
Sympathetic was my smile. She smiled back, then switched gears, sitting up a little straighter. "Anyway, when's the family coming down? They gonna be here in time for the banquet?"
I drummed my nails on the mug. "We don't have any dates settled yet. The boys have school and Donny has college classes to attend." I exhaled, burying my face in my hands, letting out an exasperated chuckle. "God, that just made me feel fucking old."
"Trust me, that feeling only gets worse," Eunja joked. "Yesterday I was twelve, coming home from school to watch cartoons, and now I'm thirty-two with joints that crack every two seconds and I got a shit-ton of responsibilities I definitely did not sign up for."
"Who lied and said adulthood was something to look forward to?"
Eunja snorted, smoothing a hand over her bangs, her pristine, black hair pulled into a neat, tidy bun. "Dunno, but it was bullshit."
I raised my mug. "Ain't that the truth." Then took another sip.
We sat in silence.
Then Eunja bit her lip and quizzed, "How was therapy?"
The shift from joking to pensive was tangible in the air.
Heaving a sigh, I set my drink on the desk and crossed my arms, swiveling side-to-side. My head fell back and my gaze drifted to the ceiling. "Oh, you know, it was...therapy." I awkwardly chuckled, scratching my scalp. "I still need time to open up and get used to my new psychiatrist."
"Is she not good enough...?"
I waved my hands. "No, no. It's not that. It's just—you know me, I'm not good at opening up to people. With my last psychiatrist, it took months for me to really open up about my—" Delusions. "—issues. And I'm terrible with change. It's gonna take me some time to get used to things."
Eunja fiddled with the golden ring on her thumb, looking at me with so much understanding and care that I found myself overwhelmed. I dropped my head and stared at my lap, pretending to get lost in the act of picking at the dead skin fraying my nails.
"You know, Monty," she said, soft and kind, "I'm always here if you need someone to talk to." She shook her head. "I wouldn't ever judge you, you know that right?"
And damn it, not a trace of deceit was present. She meant every word.
But Eunja knew the me who was getting her act together, waning her use of the drink and realizing the extent of her delusions. She knew the minimum—the bare minimum—of my mental health issues, and although I knew she would never judge, there was a voice in the back of my head screaming:
"No, Monty. You can't trust her."
Despite myself, I listened to it. I was afraid—afraid of how her perception of me might change. Whether it made her think me crazy or pitiful; whether that meant every time she saw me, it was with worry in her eyes. That I might harm myself or someone else.
Mental health was a trending topic amongst younger crowds, but the prejudice was still there, especially with older minorities. I felt it within my family, how little they understood what I was going through, initially assuming my behavior to be exaggerated, before realizing when it was too late that there was a deeper issue at hand.
I had a clean slate with Eunja. She didn't witness my crazed, delusional episodes. The extent to which my alcoholism had driven a wedge between me and my family. How I'd kept myself caged in a house full of ghosts, hoping for a man to find his way back to me. That version of me—it was embarrassing. It kept me up at night knowing my loved ones saw me make such a fool of myself.
I didn't want to change my relationship with Eunja. She comforted me. Provided a safe haven from the past. Was it selfish to want stability at the cost of making her feel less than? Like I didn't trust her?
"I know," I finally told her, twisting a piece of dead skin clinging to my nail cuticle. With a swift movement, it ripped off, a stinging pain left in its stead. I looked up and smiled. "Thank you, Eunja."
She smiled back, but it was less bright than I'd hoped. "It's what friends are for, Monty. You've been there for me through everything. I want to be there for you, too."
Conversation ending, we turned back to our computers, Eunja's keys clacking and my hands hovering the keyboard.
One day, Eunja. One day I'll tell you everything, I promise. Please stay patient with me.
**
By morning, Rebbie was running on fumes, having gotten only three hours of sleep. Her brother's departure weighed heavy on her mind.
She nestled into her husband's arms while he slept, twirling her finger atop his chest, strings of his soul wrapping around her fingertips like string, shining yellow light. It was warm and comforting, working with her and not against.
Along the yellow threads were deep burgundy veins, created from the horrors of war. Each person born from Oshahe's hand was made with blinding yellow light. But with time and experience, the soul tends to develop chinks in its armor, which dim its luminescence. When one experiences an emotional event, they gain dark vein-like structures along their soul strings.
Few people were capable of manipulating their life's essence—the Jacksons (and Montgomery) the only known individuals with this gift (in the current generation). But Rebbie was capable of manipulating the soul itself—an ability only two of her known ancestors had been blessed with.
In handling the soul, a normal person would burn from the intensity of such concentrated power. Each neuron combusting, flesh and bones melting from the heat that was akin to a thousand suns—a fact Rebbie dug out from ancient texts. The heat personally never affected her. To her, it was warm and comfortable, like heat on a cold winter's day.
Focusing on her husband's energy, she admired its unwavering strength, how it reached out to her even when he was unconscious.
Rebbie paused. One of the threads curled around her finger throbbed, burning with burgundy pigment. Her husband's emotions—his fear—bombarded her senses, making her muscles tense.
Glancing at Nathaniel's pinched face, she took the thread and channeled into it, the pain and horror scorching her fingertips. Sweat dripped from her crown to her temples.
And then, as fluid as water, a memory slipped free from the thread and entered her mind. Her bedroom, her husband, disappeared, replaced with a battlefield.
Rebbie was on her knees during the midst of a war, but she was not herself. She was locked inside the body of her lover, reliving his past.
Her hands were bloody, pushing and pushing at the chest of a dying man. Tears streamed down her—Nathaniel's—face, as she screamed "Hold on Ray, hold on!" Then she turned her head and shouted, "Medic! I need a medic, please!" But with everyone fighting for their lives, she was ignored.
It was a losing battle. They'd been damned from the start, ignorantly entering enemy territory. They got caught in a trap, forced to hide and defend what they could, growing emaciated from the days spent without food. Their numbers were depleting, and what soldiers were left were too weak to continue.
Her arms tired too quickly while performing CPR, and she watched in horror as Ray stopped breathing for good.
She beat her fist against his chest and sobbed, uncaring of the soldiers that ran around them brandishing knives or swords. It was hopeless. They were outnumbered.
Ray wasn't going to make it home. He would never get to say goodbye to his family, his wife. Never meet his seven month old daughter waiting at home for her daddy. Nathaniel had failed his best friend.
It was hopeless.
Rebbie sucked in a deep breath.
"Oh, Natty," she sighed, planting a soft peck to his stubbled cheek. "I wish you never had to go through that."
The red veins faded away, the blemished thread now a shimmering gold. She let the soul threads go and watched them sink into his chest, spurring a content sigh from Nathaniel's lips, his pinched face smoothening out, as his turbulent dreams calmed.
Palm on his breast, she rested her cheek on his bare skin. His lingering emotions pulsed through her system and would leave a permanent impression on her heart, but it was worth enduring for him.
**
Sunrise came and went.
To no one's surprise, Michael was ready in the foyer, sitting before the statue of Montgomery and Prince. He greeted the servants with smiles, helping them prepare for the departure. They initially rejected his offers, but caved in after some insistence on his part.
With his presence, the busy, anxious mood dissolved. He cracked jokes and gave compliments, all the while chuckling at the blushes and stunned stammers he got in return.
People often got flustered in his presence—after five years he still wasn't sure why.
Eventually, the Jackson family along with their guest settled at the dining room tables for breakfast. Many worried, doubtful glances were sent Michael's way, and Joseph was particularly grumpy, glaring at his meal.
But Michael feigned ignorance, turning to Taj, Taryll and TJ—Tito's sons— to discuss his and Randy's recent development involving the portal. As always, they grinned and were very supportive of their findings.
His nephews were the best. They always kept him smiling.
After breakfast, Michael hurried outside. The servants led a pack of three-footed ungulates—camels, they were called on Earth—their way. Michael perked, patting his camel's back whilst conversing with the stable-workers about how wonderful the animals were.
Michael admired his camel's deepening green hump—a sign of its old age. On Yuhnayeh, animals come in different shades and colors, and with age, their hair darkens. They were colorful and beautiful in a way that reminded him of rainbows peeking through stormy grey clouds.
Prince appeared, settling criss-crossed upon the camel's hump. The mammal made a grunting noise, as if surprised by the weight (though perhaps that was Prince's wishful thinking since he was technically intangible. Then again, animals were known for being more receptive to the supernatural).
Pleased, Prince patted a ghostly hand on the green hump.
The next two hours were chaotic. People rushed about to ensure the leaving group was prepared for the journey and that their future king was comfortable. He insisted he was fine and that a meager two to three week trip was nothing to him, but thanked everyone regardless.
Michael was frustrated—this Prince knew from how forced his smile got with each question. He was frustrated and antsy, switching the weight between his legs, eyeing the horizon, the kingdom's exit, with a wanting gaze.
By the time Michael's troop was ready, his patience had waned. He hid gritted teeth with sweet smiles and compliments. Tried brushing the camels' fur to busy himself, but asked a different servant every ten or so minutes "They know we have a schedule to follow, correct?"
Fortunately, he needn't wait any longer. Led by the rest of the entourage, the Tevani boy walked out the front door. His bamboo hat fell off his head and flopped on his back, the necktie digging into his throat. He stopped short when noticing the crowded area of servants and shamans.
Noticing Michael off to the side with the animals, he scurried over, swift and skittish, like a mouse. "Why are there so many people?" he whispered, uneasily eyeing the crowd.
"They're preparing a farewell ritual," Michael replied. "It's Alafankehn tradition to pray for those leaving the safety of Oshahe's gates."
"You mean—" Staring down the strangers, the boy slid his way behind Michael's camel, bending his knees the slightest bit to hide. "—they're here for us?"
"Yep! Mother will give a speech, then the shamans will say a prayer and douse our heads with blessed water that will cleanse away our fear, our unease, and leave a fresh, new mind and body, free of ailments. That way we are at our most powerful in the face of danger."
The Tevani fiddled with his tan loose shirt, the material similar to Michael's robe. He was dressed in Alafankehn garb. "Am I allowed to stay or should I leave before you start? I would hate to impose on your traditions."
"Nonsense!" Michael ruffled the boy's curly, cleaned hair—a far cry from the oily mess he saw the day prior. "Of course you will be a part of our farewell parting. Why would we not include you?"
"I'm not sure. I guess I assumed you wouldn't want me here, is all. I apologize if I offended you."
"No need for apologies, little one. You are our guest, and if there is anything we Alanfankehn treasure more than bravery, it is hospitality."
A mischievous smirk flitted to Michael's lips that disappeared as quickly as it arrived. He crouched over and cupped the boy's ear, saying, "Although I would watch what you say near the shamans." He eyed the shamans standing a few feet away, chattering amongst themselves.
"What?" asked the Tevani, wringing his clammy hands. "Why?"
"Well," he whispered, grinning, "you wouldn't want to agitate them now, would you? Not when they are meant to be wishing you well on your journeys. They might perform a hex on you!"
The Tevani's breath caught. "They can do that?" Eyes darted around the place, widening at the implications.
Michael snorted, smacking the boy's back and jolting the kid forward. "I jest, I jest! I was ready to continue with the joke, but you have the most pitiful look on your face right now!" He received a glare, which did nothing to lessen his grin. "Jokes aside, I do think it is important to be courteous and respectful. Many of our citizens have less than...positive views of the Tevani, and while I personally have no issue, they may not share the same sentiments. Our shamans, included. They are imperfect as you and I, after all. It would be best not to be disrespectful at a time like this."
"Duly noted." The boy stared at his feet. "Thank you for the advice, Your Highness."
Waving his hand, Michael said, "It is no issue, little one. If you have any more questions, I am happy to answer."
Trumpets blared. Everyone gathered in two groups on either side of the castle doors, standing ramrod straight. Michael, the Tevani boy, a shaman and three guards, along with their camels, moved between the groups, in front of the castle doors, at the center of attention.
Off to the side, the trumpet players lowered their instruments, and the Jackson family stepped out of the castle, standing before the leaving entourage. Katherine was at the forefront, all attention on her. Everyone bowed their heads, showing their respect. (Michael had to grab the clueless Tevani boy and force his head down.)
"Today," Katherine started, "we wish our men well on their mission to protect Tevani from Ehmowa's influence." Her voice was strong, loud, but the redness in her eyes spoke volumes to what she was feeling. "I know there are many unhappy with this decision to help the Tevani after our broken alliance during the war. However, to those who feel this way, I remind you: remember what Oshahe has taught us. To love our neighbors, our brethren, and help those in need. We shall not act with hatred or vengeance. That is not what we, nor Oshahe, represent."
Michael's jaw clenched repeatedly, a hardened gaze cast to his sandals.
"To bless our courageous soldiers on their mission—" She glanced at Michael, faltering, before quickly composing herself. "—Shaman Athena will conduct a prayer. Please, bow your heads and open your minds. Soldiers, I request you please remove your headwear."
Everyone did as told. And the Shaman stepped forward, a golden shawl draped over her shoulders. Her prayer was long, each word enunciated. She asked Oshahe to lend the traveling men protection, courage and strength.
We pray these men succeed in their mission to save the Tevani. Whatever may come their way, we ask that you provide for them a safe passage back home.
As she spoke, six shamans approached each member of the leaving group and doused their heads with blessed water. It was refreshing in the heat, and smelled pleasantly floral. It dripped down the mens' faces, stray droplets seeping into their clothing.
Heads cleansed, the prayer came to a finish.
"We will see you all soon when you return," Katherine said. "This is not goodbye."
The men bowed. Michael stepped out of line to hug his mother and kiss her cheek. His siblings joined in and embraced the two, Joseph staring at his feet, stock-still beside them. A weary silence arose that not even Michael dared fill in.
They parted. Michael regarded each family member with a firm nod. "Do not worry. I will be back in no time. Have faith in me." A gentle, pleading smile. "Please?"
Katherine nodded, tucking her lips in her mouth. "Alright."
"Refrain from doing anything reckless, will you?" Randy punched his arm, making Michael squeal "ouch!" before rubbing it.
"Reckless? Me? Pssshh. I'm never reckless, big head!" Michael noogied his brother's head, cackling at the younger's annoyed shout.
Jermaine tugged Randy away before he could tackle Michael in public. Again. (Because yes, that had happened before, and the two received a rather long and loud lecture from Joseph afterwards.)
Janet snickered. "Okay, okay, time for you to go now, Doodoo Head." Then her smile faltered.
Michael nodded and turned to his camel. The other members of the troop were already mounted on theirs. Prince flew into the air whilst Michael climbed his animal's humped back, caressing its furry head.
"I love you all." He held the reins in his hand, grinning. "I will be back soon!"
The group turned their camels, preparing for the trip out of Alafankeh, which would take them down a winding road that descended the hilltop into town and through the kingdom gates. Before they managed a few steps, children squealed for attention. Rebbie's daughters Yashi and Stacee sprung forward.
"Wait!"
"Uncle Michael!"
An exasperated Rebbie tried keeping them back. Michael stopped his camel and turned around.
"Here, Uncle Michael," Yashi said, "for good luck."
In Stacee's hands was a glowing pink flower, its stem a special pattern of pearl and emerald rings. Michael leaned over and plucked it from her grasp with a choking noise, eyes wide in amazement.
"It's beautiful, girls." He put it to his nose, just as a mist spurted from a burrowing spout hidden in its petals. What followed was not only a familiar scent—of grinded coffee beans and coconut soap—but a chorus of music and dialogue.
"It's a special flower we learned about in our botany studies." Yashi was loud, grin proud. "Those who are in close proximity to it can smell and hear scents and sounds from their favorite memories."
"We thought you might enjoy it on your trip," said Stacee, whose head was tilted down, her toe twirling the ground. "To remind you of your goal, even when things may seem hopeless."
"And to remind you of home!" Yashi added. "Don't forget about us, 'kay?"
Michael jumped off the camel and took the girls in his arms, spinning them around. They squealed and giggled. When he put them down, he kissed their curly heads, smiling. "Thank you, girls. I will treasure this gift with my life. I promise."
Slipping the flower into his robe, Michael got back on his camel, signaling for the rest of the group to tighten their reins and head for the exit.
The Jackson family got smaller and smaller with each step they took before becoming but a glimpse in the distance.
When his family disappeared from view, Michael took the flower from his robe, watching it spew another waft of sweet smelling perfume. Prince was hovering beside him, wings a-fluttering to keep at pace, his curiosity spiked.
The flower let out another spurt. Prince was overwhelmed with smells of chocolate, mixed with Earthly soil and vanilla bean. Then there was sound: Michael's laughter, his soft lullabies in the eve of the night—songs extracted from harsh nights on Hanatbi, when the temperature dropped past freezing. Michael would sing to help him sleep.
And buried beneath that, Prince heard snippets of conversation from false memories. Memories he wished were his, that he'd seen in scenes from another life—the life they were supposed to have and which he'd dreamt endlessly about. Of his father and mother Montgomery giggling like fools in love. Of her reading him bedtime stories, kissing him on the head and whispering I love you's and I'll protect you's until the words ingrained in his psyche.
He wondered what his father heard and smelled. Did he hear Prince? Hear his childish, never ending questions? His smothered giggles when Michael pulled a funny face? Or had Prince gotten buried beneath new, more favorable memories?
Prince shook his head, sighing. He needed to stop watching Oshahe's tapes. They were making him long for things which were unattainable. The last thing he needed was to be distracted, especially by foolish questions that were better left unanswered.
**
The path exiting Alafankeh's impenetrable stone walls, which stood almost as tall as the Jackson estate, led through the forest. The camels crunched twigs and leaves, their pounding feet filling in the silence. No one had anything to say—keeping an eye out for any and all possible threats nearby.
The three guards Cicero, Javon and Lani were at the front, rear and middle, swords at the ready. Michael was set in the center of the group beside Shaman Okairo and the Tevani boy.
Michael's own lack of weaponry made him antsy. His skin itched, fingers twitched, and his mind sifted through every possible defense strategy in relation to his ever changing surroundings. He focused on the natural tools in their path.
Stones—jagged, almost as large as his palm—littered the forest. They were great for distraction, for blows to the skull that could either stun or kill. And sharp, thick sticks from broken branches made for excellent weapons, best for shanking vulnerable areas (e.g. eyes or throats).
Anything was a weapon if utilized correctly. Michael knew this from experience. In a scenario where weapons were inaccessible, he always had his bare hands, and those never failed him before. He hadn't been training as much compared to when he was on Hanatbi, but his instincts and muscle-memory had not waned. He refused to let that happen.
This paranoid way of thinking was the reason Michael was alive. He believed that whole-heartedly. So, it failed to reason why a kingdom like Alafankeh, that was built and fortified through battle and bloodshed, that boasted of its large and impenetrable military, would fault him for thinking this way.
He was thought of as delicate, in need of protection, but he had been surviving for as long as he could remember. There were things he needed—stability, yes, understanding even more. But protection? He'd gone to Hell and back and survived through it himself. What could anyone possibly protect him from that he hadn't already faced?
Michael spent five years relearning his role as a prince and soon-to-be-king, participating in etiquette classes (in which he was told countless times his table-side manner was deplorable and not at all suited for a king), in countless lessons on history and politics and language composition and speech and debate—and he enjoyed most of it, too! Even if it was mentally taxing, and he had years of work to catch up on in comparison to his siblings. There wasn't a day that passed where he wasn't studying something new, and it was a privilege he took advantage of.
He appreciated having his clothes tailored, the hours spent standing and getting measurements and trying on new fabrics that never squeezed too tightly or hung too loosely from his now slim, toned and healthy frame. Everyday he woke up in a lush bed to fresh new clothes and a hearty breakfast. Such things were luxuries and he savored each moment, ensuring everyone he encountered was given at least one please or thank you. It was the least he could do to truly express how grateful he was for everyone and everything in his life.
But it seemed Michael had a reputation.
He heard whispers in the halls, when others thought him unaware and lost in his thoughts.
They thought him a pathetic weakling, who'd only managed to escape from Ehmowa through pure luck. Who'd suffered so much, that he was left a broken, unfixable mess. (As if people were just things that could be fixed.) Who'd been on the brink of destruction before he was saved like a damsel in distress by a woman some suspected never existed in the first place. (That last part pissed him off more than anything, and he'd almost lost his composure and snapped at the rich noble who'd had the gall to say it.)
Although, he was the first to admit that there was some truth in those statements. He was, by all accounts, broken and had suffered, probably more than most.
But they didn't acknowledge how Michael was the one who clawed his way to safety. There was no talk of his own tenacity, but of how he had been saved. They didn't acknowledge how he spent most of his life living without clothes on his back, without proper foods and nutrients, starving most days and fighting the others. How food was a meager selection of raw flesh from rotting carcasses or skittering bugs that ate from the dead cadavers Michael helped cut up and serve.
He fought Ehmowa. He faced the devil, on more occasions than one. In some fights he was the winner, and in others he lost everything that mattered to him. There were so many skills and scars he'd garnered from battles nobody but him had survived to tell.
And yet, they treated him like a whiny, petulant child, incapable of protecting himself or anyone else.
If he was being honest, it was annoying. Really annoying.
Still, it was protocol. He needed to follow it, even if it meant ignoring his learned instincts and following the thumb of his three guards.
He almost scoffed. Were they supposed to make him feel safe? If so, Michael was vastly underwhelmed. He highly doubted they'd know what to do if Ehmowa came to abduct him again.
It didn't matter, he reminded himself. He needed to stop getting irritated. It was best he not defy his father's order after basically forcing his way onto this mission to the Tevani. He could celebrate the win, but mustn't push his luck further.
Speaking of his father, Michael was surprised he hadn't done more to make him stay.
Joseph had always been like a rock—or a boulder. Unmoving in his resolve. Unwilling to roll over when his mind was set. It was why they butted heads so much when Michael was a kid. Why Joseph was so disappointed when Michael showed no unique ability like his siblings. He convinced himself Michael was not suited to be a king—a role that had been chosen by Oshahe Himself.
(There was a stirring in his stomach. All his repressed anger rose to the surface, but he swallowed it down. It would do more harm than good to give into it. )
He remembered the day Joseph realized he was the odd one out. The one person in their entire family who lacked a power. There'd been a whole scandal, a period of time where Joseph and his mother—his sweet, kind mother who gave Michael warm hugs and told him that no matter what he was special and loved unconditionally—were constantly fighting.
Joseph thought that because Michael was not powered, Katherine had cheated on him. He began questioning if Michael was a bastard.
It got so bad that people started talking. People who pointed out Michael's features and whispered "He does look different than the others, does he not?" and "He is too dark" or "His nose is too large to be His Highness's" or "He is too soft and sensitive to be a true Jackson. The Jacksons are warriors. Their entire lineage is such. There is no way he is one."
It got worse when his siblings joined in. Mindless teasing, it was, but the effects left Michael hurting in a way that made it harder to resist his budding desire to leave and never come back.
And then Joseph started repeating those observations. When that happened, Michael would stare at himself in the mirror, picking at skin and glaring at his imperfections.
But all of that paled in comparison to when Joseph finally looked at him, acknowledged him, not with love or pride, but with contempt. Sometimes that one look followed Michael into his nightmares, leaving him hollow when he woke, like he had failed, like he wasn't enough and would never be enough.
Joseph's cold, hardened eyes stared at him, then through him, searching and searching for something that he'd never find—not in Michael, anyways—before he turned away.
What Michael remembered best from his blurred childhood was staring at the back of his father's broad shoulders, at the hands clasped behind him in a steel-like grip. The way his shoulders never slouched, always tensed and squared, preparing for a brawl. Always alert. Always in a constant state of unease.
"You are weak," Joseph had told him, like it was fact, or gospel. Like it was Michael's own fault he was different. "You will never be given the power that your siblings have, so it is useless teaching you what you will never need. I shall not waste any more time on you."
He didn't even face Michael when he said it.
It was his back that Michael saw, as he left him alone in a dark, empty training room with a too-heavy sword in his hands. Shock had rendered Michael immobile, and he sat there for hours in a heartbroken daze.
Joseph left him believing he was nothing more than a tool that had lost its worth and should be set aside.
The hurt that remained would only grow as the years passed, later becoming repressed, before reigniting high and large when he remembered the bittersweet memories of a father who saw him as a thing unworthy of attention.
(The healing abilities Michael had been gifted with would not show themselves until he was on Earth with Monty. Back then, his power was weak and far from what he was able to do now after practicing diligently for five years.
He very much wanted to snark at his father over that. Remind him of the false assumptions he'd made and rub his new power in his face. It was immature, though, which was why he didn't do it. In fact, he refused to show anyone he had the power, if only because of a deep-rooted resentment that reminded him he didn't deserve to have his power weaponized, especially by Joseph.
His focus now was on strengthening his abilities, so that another situation like Monty's would never occur again. Never would he, drained and out-of-breath, stare hopelessly at another dying loved one. Never would he call upon his abilities in a desperate plea only for them to give up on him.
Never again would he lose someone he loved because of his own inadequacy. That promise he vowed to keep till the day he died.)
Rubbing the colorful mane on his camel—Saphari, he named her— he threw his head back, enjoying the cool shade from the looming canopies while they were still available. Once they left the forest, there would be nothing but desert terrain, leaving them at the mercy of a harsh, blazing sun.
The very thought made him bunch his sleeves in his fists. He was reminded of unimaginable heat and long days spent outside, laying almost dead on dried sand; dehydrated, starved, and fighting off another migraine.
He shook the thought away. He refused to let it kill his spirit—and excitement. Yes, he was excited. More than he'd care to admit, for that would be another sign of immaturity, which was unacceptable for the normally composed Jackson family.
But it had been so long since he was able to leave the castle without being scrutinized by guards or staff or his hovering family. They were always waiting for him to get into trouble, always expecting him to get hurt or lost. It was a struggle for him to do anything without raising alarms. Hell, if he dared hold his breath for five seconds, they'd be ready to do CPR!
Be a little more understanding, a lovely, feminine voice told him. Michael sighed, twirling the colorful tendrils on Saphari's mane. They're just worried about you.
Well, he thought, they're overbearing. They act like I'm one step away from dropping dead.
She was amused. With you, I wouldn't be surprised, darling. You do tend to attract trouble wherever you go.
He almost rolled his eyes, but as he pictured her smirking and holding in a snort, he settled on a small smile. Hilarious.
I know, I know. I'm pretty fucking funny. Her mischievous expression turned gentle. But remember what I said. I know it's frustrating but they're your family and they love you. They hover 'cause they're scared of something happening to you.
He sighed. I know. But that doesn't make it any less frustrating. They need to stop seeing me as the same kid that disappeared all those years ago.
If he focused hard enough, he saw her smile—as bright and blinding as it was all those years ago. But the image was fuzzy; starting to lose focus, the shape of her face, the curves in her nose, the stretch in her smile. Certain features were off-kilter from what he remembered. It was only a matter of time before he lost her completely.
His chest tightened, making his breath hitch. It felt like his heart was being squeezed.
You can't get rid of me that easy, darling. And there she was again, and his stuttering breath was soothed. You always have our photos. Your journal. And don't you forget what I told you. I'll always be there with you.
He palmed his chest. In here, he reminded himself, breathing soundly and smiling.
He thought back to times spent on Monty's living room couch, a mug of hot chocolate in-hand, topped with large marshmallows that he'd watch melt into puddles of foamy white.
Monty would trudge down the stairs, yawning and dragging her feet, her hair large and untamable. She would get the mug Michael set out for her on the counter and fill it with the coffee he brewed before joining him on the cushions, curling into his side.
She'd sip her drink, sighing happily. "Thanks for the coffee," she'd say, and it would make him feel all fuzzy and tingly, as he drank his beverage, trying to hide his ridiculous grin.
She'd smile. And despite being tired, with dark under-eye bags and drooping eyelids, she'd kiss his cheek, muttering another thank you.
They'd both go coy afterwards. It was ridiculous, really. The way such innocent pecks and touches left them so flustered.
Then Michael would get even more embarrassed, for her ear was on his chest and she could hear his quickening heartbeat. A part of him waited for her to point it out and make fun of him, but she never did. She never used anything against him, because she understood. Because she was like him.
Together they were comfortable. Together they were home.
His smile slipped to a frown.
I wish you were here right now. He gnawed on his lip. I miss you.
She didn't reply.
He hadn't expected her to. It hurt, nonetheless.
"Your Highness."
Michael perked, letting go of Saphari's mane to face the Tevani boy, who was red-faced and fiddling with his shirt. "Michael." At the boy's confused face, he added, "Call me Michael."
Shaman Okairo, from where he was inspecting the inside of his cross-body satchel, sifting through spices and incense sticks, frowned. "Your Highness, it is not appropriate for the boy to call you that."
Exhaling slowly through his nose, Michael shrugged. "The boy has a name, as do I. We will be traveling together for well over two or three weeks, dear Shaman. Let us at least have a comfortable time in each other's company, yes? We shall call him—" He turned to the Tevani boy, almost slapping his forehead. "Oh, I forgot, what is your name, child?"
"Ahmed, Your Highness."
"Ahmed." He turned back to the shaman. "Yes, we shall call him Ahmed, you shall call me Michael, and I may call you Okairo, yes? As is normal for a group of friends." He put on a smile just to put the man at ease.
It did not work. Okairo shook his head—with more force than necessary. "It is not appropriate, Your Highness. We are not friends. We are your subordinates, and you are our prince." He went back to his bag, and that was that. The conversation was over.
The three guards said nothing, but their easing shoulders were enough for Michael to know they whole-heartedly sided with Okairo.
Michael sighed. He really needed to stop pushing his luck.
He turned back to Ahmed, who curled even further into himself after the conversation. A hint of guilt struck Michael. He hadn't meant to embarrass the boy!
"Was there anything you wished to ask?" he said, patting Saphari's back. "How are you feeling? Are you eager to get back home?"
"Ah, yes." Ahmed hesitated, eyes flitting to Cicero, Lani and Shaman Okairo before he hurriedly added, "Your Highness." He cleared his throat, focusing on his camel. "This is the longest I have been away from the village alone. It has been..."
"Lonely?" Michael sent him an understanding smile when the boy shyly nodded. "I understand. It is never easy to leave behind what is comfortable and familiar. Is there any reason you were sent to Alafankeh without company?"
Ahmed sat a bit taller, chest puffing. "I am our village's messenger-in-training, Your Highness. I import and export important information for our village. This was my first major assignment. Before this, I had been studying and learning under my mother, who is our village's current most reliable messenger."
Michael pursed his lips, impressed. "I see." His brows furrowed. "However, I do admit, I am a bit confused. I remember you mentioning being a part of the nightly guard."
"Yes, Your Highness." Ahmed grinned. "I volunteered for that job. Our village does not have many warriors. Most of our people are farmers and fishermen. So I am one of the few young men who can bear a weapon and defend our people."
"You have undergone military training, then?" Michael quizzed.
Ahmed nodded. "Training is necessary for messengers. It is dangerous to wield potentially confidential information. During the war, many of our messengers were murdered for their information or their inventory—beaten and maimed and left for dead when they had no more use. To this day, many of our people are missing because of it." He frowned.
(Unbeknownst to Ahmed, the rest of the group tensed at mention of the war. Michael observed, though said nothing.)
Ahmed continued, "One of the first things we train in is the resilience of the mind, body and spirit. We have to make sure if we end up in a position where we are being tortured for our information, that we can withstand it without breaking."
Michael blanched. Torture a child? He grew queasy.
(Michael was twelve. His knees were to pulled his heaving chest as he stared down the knife forced into his hands. There was a boisterous, loud crowd, demanding he kill, and a tall, slender vixen peering down at him with a sinister grin, her dress barely covering her thighs.
"You will kill him," she spoke in a deceivingly soft voice. "Or I will deal with you how I please."
She traced a long nail along his jaw. Part of him wanted to move away, but the stronger, touch-starved part of him relished the touch.
She grinned, all teeth. Then whispered, "Make me proud, Michael."
He went out, but was unable to cast the killing blow. She was infuriated, and made sure he never defied her again.
The next time he didn't hesitate. He drove the blade into his enemy's throat and didn't think twice about it.)
(He was sixteen, and he was with child. Little Prince watched with doe eyes as Michael wiped his bloody dagger clean.
Michael tried counting or humming to keep calm, but Prince kept asking so many questions like Why's there blood, Daddy? Did you cut yourself in the meathouse? Did someone attack you?
Michael begged him("Stop asking, Prince") because it was too difficult to bear his soul and admit to what he'd done, even if it was for their survival.
He didn't want his little boy knowing the blood on his hands was not his. He wanted Prince to stay ignorant—just stay a child forever, don't grow up and be like me. Please. Stay young, stay innocent.
Because children should stay innocent. It sent copper liquid and bile on his tongue when he thought of little children fighting to kill and dying in the process.
When he next fought, in an arena full of cursed souls, in front of Ehmowa Himself, who'd turned him to a weapon for His entertainment, Michael mercilessly toyed with and slayed his opponent, careless to the blood that splattered his body.
He'd sighed, turning to leave, when a head of white blonde hair stopped him in his tracks. A four-year-old Prince stood at her side—that witch—with wonder in his eyes.
Michael was certain his world had stopped.
"Daddy!" Prince had exclaimed, hugging Michael's legs before the teen had a chance to stop him. Blood stained Prince's pale skin, hair and clothing. It made Michael sick. "You're the coolest!" He looked up at Michael, grinning. "You're the best Daddy ever!"
Michael trembled with horror, with fear, with hatred, at himself and at her, as she stood feet away, grinning at his pain.
That was the first time he exploded at Prince, yelling at him to never smile at someone else's death or think of it as cool. Then he ordered him to never leave their room without permission because it was dangerous and he was too young and—God, why did he have to see that? Whywhywhy?
Michael would never forget the way Prince's eyes widened, glimmering with unshed tears, or how he shut down for hours afterwards, unresponsive and upset for doing something he didn't—and couldn't—understand was wrong.)
(Michael was nineteen, sobbing and screaming and begging, Please, I'll do anything, please. His head was being held down by a strong hand, forcing him to watch as his son, Little Prince, was struck to the neck—)
Michael's breath hitched in his throat. The world slowed, dragging, overbearing with its weight. He forced himself to breathe.
"That—" His voice failed him, but he cleared his throat, unwilling to let it happen again. "Is quite an important job you have. Although, if you don't mind my saying so, it is quite a...dangerous occupation for a child."
He gulped down the bile, that tangy copper taste and the memories that came with it.
Fortunately, Ahmed was unbothered by his comment. "I know, Your Highness. Trust me, I have heard all sorts of objections regarding my decision to follow my Mother's path."
Then Ahmed looked off to the horizon, that slouch of his becoming more confident, far freer than before. "But my job is necessary. Messengers were some of the most important figures in the war, traveling between villages and warring kingdoms and tribes. Delivering supplies and food and saving the lives of warriors and civilians alike. You were not there, Your Highness, to see the destruction the war made, but so many people lost their homes, their lands, their parents and children. So many people were stranded without anything to keep them going. Everything was hopeless. Our people were the ones who helped give them the start they needed to survive and build a new life for themselves."
There was a determined look in his eyes. "I hope one day I can make that much of a difference to my village and my people. I don't care how big or small. If I save only one life, then my life will have been worth living."
And with a gaze far too mature for his age, he looked at Michael. "Surely you understand this, Your Highness? If what has been told about you is true, then..."
Shaman Okairo and Lani whipped their heads to the boy, who immediately stilled, then slouched into himself, losing that strong, confident stance that had stunned Michael to silence. It was the stance of a leader.
Michael sighed. "At ease, men," he said, a sarcastic bite in his tone.
Truthfully, the thought still disgusted him. In a perfect world, children were children, and peace was absolute. But this was no utopia. There was no such thing. Not on Yuhnayeh. Not on Earth. And as much as Michael hoped one day the world would know peace, he knew deep down such a thing was impossible.
He twisted his head, managing to catch Ahmed's gaze, and smiled—a soft and understanding one, so unlike the grin he paraded around, that stretched uncomfortably at his cheeks and left his lips dried and chapped.
"I understand, Little One. Life is worthless if done for one's own selfish gains. There is heroism in your dreams and actions." He settled back on his haunches and took out the flower his nieces gifted him. "I wish you well in your efforts."
"Thank you, Your Highness." A glossy shine took to Ahmed's eyes. He turned his head and wiped his face. "That means a lot to me." His voice wavered. "Not many people have faith in my abilities."
"Then you must prove them wrong."
Ahmed grinned, nodding eagerly. "I shall. I promise."
Pleased, Michael tilted his head to the looming trees, inhaling the fresh scent of nature. It was not Earth—would never be. But it was still home. Still a comfort that eased his anxieties.
Prove them wrong, huh? uttered Monty, just as they reached the edge of the forests, starting their venture into the desert terrain. Isn't that what you're trying to do? Prove that everyone was wrong about you?
He caressed the flower's stem, mouth quirking. Amused, he replied, Why, yes, it is.
Won't it be hard, though? To have everyone not believe in you while you try to do something that's pretty much impossible?
He sighed. It won't ever stop being hard, Monty. But it motivates me. It reminds me that only I am the one capable of doing what is necessary.
Monty made an irritated groan. Why are you so intent on tackling everything all by yourself, huh? Do you ever think about what will happen if something bad does happen to you? You're insane if you think we're all just gonna sit back if you get hurt—or killed!
And that reminds me, she continued, why the hell haven't you told anyone what you know about that rat bastard Ehmowa? Don't you think it's important that the others know more in case something happens? You only just told your family about what happened to me—the gangrene, the paralysis—and it's been five years since you've been back! Were you ever planning on telling them? Or were you just trying to keep everyone in the dark, so you could act out this whole suicidal plan of yours and face Ehmowa alone without interference?
He chewed the inside of his cheek, fighting off a sigh. Monty, only I can stop Ehmowa. Or, at least, stop his current plans to hurt Ahmed's people. It does not matter whether or not anyone else believes in me, or whether or not they decide to help me. It might even do them better to stay away. By telling everyone more information, they may be inclined to meddle in battles they have no business partaking in. Too many people have been hurt because of me, and I refuse to hurt any more. So long as I believe and I keep on working to get stronger, then I know I can do what needs to be done. It's the right thing to do. Whether I get hurt or die in the process is irrelevant.
When she didn't reply, (though he knew she'd be fuming) he settled the flower back in his robe and secured the fabric further around his body. The first few minutes in the desert, completely vulnerable to the sun, already had him wishing for the tree shades.
But it was alright. He shut his eyes and remembered what he was fighting for. He was going to help Ahmed's people. He was going to figure out what the hell Ehmowa was planning and find a way to stop Him before he hurt anyone else.
It didn't matter if anyone doubted Michael could succeed. Michael knew he could do it—and would do it, regardless.
And when he got his hands on Ehmowa, he'd make the devil regret ever laying a hand on him and his loved ones.
**
A/N:
Alright! Michael has left for Tevani, Eunja is introduced, her and Monty's friendship is expanded and we officially meet Prince! Sorry for such the long wait. Frankly, this story is a bitch to write at times.
I don't know if you've noticed, but soft boi, melancholic Michael is one of my favorite things to write. Something about him lingering on the memory of his lover in the middle of the night, wishing he was beside her makes me weak. What can I say, I'm a hopeless romantic--and Michael makes me want to simultaneously write all the fluffy and angsty romance that I can.
This sequel is far harder to write than I thought it'd be, because I want to bring the story justice and expand upon a lot of what I enjoyed about the first book. There's also so much more in terms of plot and story and characterization, and it's difficult trying to figure out how things are going to play out. I just keep rewriting and rewriting because everything I make isn't good enough.
So when I see you guys enjoying, it genuinely makes me happy. I hope y'all enjoyed this chapter. <3 Thank you for reading and for all of your guys' love for my writing. I appreciate it very much.