Incite, page 31
He is here, he is here. She says over in her mind to drown out the people talking around her. He is here somewhere in this city right now. It has been months of her searching, sleeping on the ground, and participating in placing bets on herself in alehouse fights to earn coin to feed herself, all to find him. He is finally within reach. Somewhere in this massive city, he is alive and well.
She stops at the city gate and takes in the view of the ocean. To the southeast.
Tiles clink and threaten to crack as Stirling sprints across the roofs, dragging his gaze along the shop fronts. He must find her. He can’t let this opportunity disappear like a precious shell in the tide.
He leaps over a narrow alleyway. A couple holding hands looks up at Stirling’s shadow cross over them.
“Was that?” the girl starts.
“I think so.”
Landing on the other side of the ally the shingle beneath the weight of his foot comes loose and shoots out from under him. With his footing taken out from below, he slides landing hard onto his side with a loud, “Humph.”
Palming the roof like a gecko, Stirling slows his momentum. His feet pop over the lip of the roof as he slides to a stop.
“Hey, you all right?” he hears called up to him.
Pushing himself back up he shakes off the pain from his elbow. “I’m fine, in a hurry,” he says back and takes off.
Amiria’s beloved boots crunch the crushed stone path along the city streets. This city is impeccable. She has noticed the cleanliness of the cities often built of this solid stone like material, bricks, they called them. This city though, makes even those appear second class.
She walks up to a man adjusting the shutter of his home’s window. “Excuse me, have you seen a young man with curly blondish hair?”
The man scratches his stubbled chin. “Can’t say that I have. Try asking at one of the shops.”
“Which one?”
“I don’t know, whatever one you think your friend frequents,” the man says before turning his focus back to his window.
Amiria scans the signs hanging from the shops along the street. None of them jump out at her. None of them have a target saying check here. What would Stirling even be shopping for? He made and provided everything he needed back in the cave. Who knows what he can make now that he isn’t secluded in the mountains anymore?
Maybe she doesn’t know him as well as she thought. If she was really his best friend, she would know the answer. Unless he has changed these past months. She clenches her fists preparing to hit herself as she passes shop after shop.
She halts mid-step and pivots back to a woman she had just passed.
“Ma’am, may I ask where you acquired that?” Amiria asks, her heart thumping as she sees the gingerbread sitting in the woman’s wicker basket.
“Oh, there’s a baker that specializes in sweets up that way,” the woman answers, pointing Amiria in the right direction.
“Thank you!” Amiria nods and speed walks down the path.
Scanning left and right she finally spots the bakery. With the sweet aroma of fresh bread and honey overpowering the salty harbor air, she stands hesitant in the doorway. Giles suddenly crosses her mind. How he is doing all alone in Wyverna without her there to check in on him?
“May I help you?” An elderly woman who can be everyone’s grandma asks as she sprinkles shaved almonds onto rolled-out dough.
“Yes, hello, do you sell gingerbread?” Amiria asks, suddenly nervous.
“Of course! It’s my signature,” Amata answers with a homely smile. “Do you want me to wrap some up for you?”
“Actually, I’m asking because it's my friend's favorite. He went missing almost 7 months ago and I’m still searching for him.”
“Oh, that’s terrible news. I’m sorry to hear that hun. What does your friend look like?”
“Tall, curly blond hair, hazel eyes, and a stupid goofy grin,” Amiria describes.
Amata nods as she racks her brain. Too many girls have asked her about Stirling, “That description does bring someone to mind, but those are also very generic traits.”
“Well, he has scars over a tattoo, like this one on his arm.” Amiria holds out her arm exposing her own insignia.
‘Oh!” Shocked, Amata knocks over the sack full of almond shavings scattering them across the natural stone floor.
“Are you okay?” Extending her hand out, Amiria steps forward with concern.
“Your name isn’t Amiria, is it?” Amata asks with her withered skin turning white. Amiria takes a step back as if a battle ram has struck her in the chest. She smiles inward, her voice soft as if it’s only for her to hear, “You are Amiria aren’t you? His little knight has arrived.”
Her pulse begins to race as she asks, “Do you know where he is?”
The wrinkles around Amata’s eyes crinkle as she closes them, her cheek raised and rosy from her smile, “He left not long ago, you barely missed him. He’s out running some errands. But he lives in that small village on the other side of the mountain. You might be able to catch him at the gate, otherwise, that’s where you can find him.”
A flood of relief washes over Amira like a tsunami, she sways and leans her hip against the table to brace herself. He really is here. Finally, finally, the search has come to an end. The compass has stopped spinning and is pointing to her destination. If she doesn’t see him in this city, Patu is there, on the other side of the hill. Patu, the village he had chosen to live in over the cities is so small it isn’t on any map.
Hooking his knees on the open pergola-like structure of the floral shop, Stirling can see the arching entrance of the city gates. They loom past the last layer of roofs covering the shops surrounding the gate’s plaza.
He leans back flipping upside down into the shop. The florist running the stand turns around to see Stirling’s floating face only a step away.
“AH!” The florist yelps, grabbing his chest. He bats playfully at Stirling. “You scared me half to death. Why can’t you walk up like a normal person.”
Stirling’s eyes point at the group of girls shimmying their way closer in a huddled pack, “I’m not a big fan of crowds.” His eyes skim over the flowers, “I need a small boutique. Preferably purple, nothing too fancy because she’s probably going to destroy it anyway.”
The group of girls begins to multiply. “He’s buying flowers for a girl,” they whisper.
“Who do you think it can be?”
“AWWW! I wish it was me!”
“Ugh, it’s probably for that girl he is always with.”
The florist understands. “Ah. An apology bouquet.” He whips around his shop, compiling an arrangement primarily of Aster accompanied with statice flowers and myrtle for greenery. He hands the purple bouquet up to Stirling. “Here, it’s on the house, I don’t know what you did, but I wish you luck.”
“Thanks, I really need it. This is long overdue,” Stirling admits before pulling himself back up to the rooftop.
“THERE HE GOES!” a girl squeals.
“QUICK, FOLLOW HIM!” another cries pushing her friends along.
Stirling stands at the top of the last roof overlooking the gate plaza. The vibrant-colored shop stands encircle the plaza. The decorated tile starting on the outer perimeter spirals into the quetzalcoatl dragon and racer fountain in the very center. The city folk bustle from stand to stand like buzzing bees in a flower patch. Several clumps of people surround the massive fountain talking as a few kids lean over the wall and splash their hands in the clear water.
He searches the people’s faces. He knows from Ignis she hasn’t left yet. His best hope is to ask the guards and wait for her at the entrance. She made it this far; she must know where he lives. She’s a hunter, a persistent soldier tracking him down.
What will he say to her? Dread fills him. What will he say to her! His fingers hanging by his leg begin to tap nervously. No, don’t overthink it. She’s one of your best friends. Shaking out his entire body, he leaps down from the roof landing with a tuck and roll. Using the momentum, he stands up to all eyes on him.
“Is that Stirling?”
“Uh.” He shrinks into himself, his fingers returning to their rhythmic tapping. Staring at the ground he watches his feet as he marches forward. “Please ignore me.”
The news is an electrical charge spreading out through the conductive people. The mention of his name causes a ripple in the group, and it begins bringing them to him like water filling a hole.
“Excuse me, pardon me. I need to get through,” he mutters, trying to cross the plaza with fans closing in on him.
“It’s Stirling!”
“STIRLING!” they cry out.
The people have become erratic. They surround him. They push and shove each other trying for their chance, their opportune moment to get closer to him. They are no more than animals at feeding time. This is the very situation he wanted to avoid. He can feel the air getting thin around him. His mind, growing fuzzy.
“Please! I need to get through!” he begs, his feet tacked to the ground unable to take more than half a step forward.
Girls reach out over each other’s shoulders grabbing at his sleeves and the back of his jerkin.
“STIRLING!”
“STIRLING!”
“OVER HERE STIRLING!”
Stirling holds the flowers up above his head to keep them from getting crushed. Being a head taller than the average height of the crowd he is in full view over them.
“STIRLING!”
“BAKER BOY!”
“STIRLING!”
Everyone’s voice is drumming in his ears. Then the world stops. Baker boy? Did he hear that correctly, or is his mind playing a cruel trick on him?
“BAKER BOY!”
There it is again. The name he’s waited for so long to hear. He looks up from the swarming faces that have melted into one, their voices now only a muted muffle. He stares over the mob to a girl standing alone above the others on the fountain’s wall.
His heart skips a beat. There, above everyone else, is the one person in this world who truly knows him. The single face he’s dreamed of seeing, and the voice he’s wished every day to hear. His face and body go slack. It’s her. He can’t hear the people around him. He can’t see the people crowding and waving for his attention. All he knows is Amiria.
Through Opaque Eyes
Warning: This story contains topics including substance abuse, depression, and thoughts of suicide.
Dark opaque eyes roll in their sockets. Strands of pale hair hang feather light as the head they grow from rests on the back of his chair. The boneless body flows down the backrest to legs sprawled out, reaching across the room.
It’s the beginning of the year and as a way to start the year on an elevated note, Leucasia has prepared its city for the annual games. The privacy curtains that make up the fourth wall of the primary room in his home are pulled back exposing the room to the natural light and ambiance of the world outside his sanctuary. The faint sounds of festival music carry in along with the gentle sea breeze through the opening adding a layer to his empty space.
Barefoot and in his undershirt, Quilan stares at the ceiling with an undisclosed expression.
“Sir Quilan,” a maiden sets a tray of freshly chopped fruit and cheese on a small table beside him. She eyes a nearly empty mug on the corner of the table closest to him. “I believe I saw your mother exiting the estate. The possibility she is on her way is high,” she tells him while switching the placements of the mug with the plate of fruit, so the drink is no longer within reach.
Quilan doesn’t remove his eyes from the ceiling, the soft curve of his jaw barely opens to say, “Is— “
“The door is locked, sir.” the maiden finishes for him.
“Good,” Quilan reaches out blindly to the table where his mug had been. His fingertips tap the edge of the plate. They curl into his palm, surprised. Hesitantly the fingers uncurl, settling with the loss, and plucks a piece of cantaloupe from the tray. Bringing the cubed melon to his mouth, they drop it onto his tongue. He chews unfazed as the front door to his home holds firm to the attempt of someone outside trying to open it.
“Quilan dear, it appears your door is locked. It’s okay, don’t fetch the help. I have a key,” a high-pitched female voice calls from behind it.
Exhaling sharply through his nose, Quilan pulls his mouth into a taut line. He drags out his blink, wishing his eyes wouldn’t open, but they do and roll over to his maid.
“I’ll look into changing the locks sir,” she bows her head and removes herself from the room as the front door swings open.
“My beautiful boy!” a woman in an array of silks draped around her like the end of the rainbow holds out her arms as if to invite someone in for a hug. She drops them quickly, raising her lip to the sparsely furnished room barren of ornaments, “You still haven’t decorated? You really need some color besides white and blue, at least it’s a bright blue.”
“Hello, Florence.” Quilan slumps forward in his chair.
“Are you still in that phase of yours? I’m your mother. Call me, Mother.” She puts her hands on her hips.
Quilan doesn’t reply as he lazily pushes himself up from the chair and walks out through the open wall onto his balcony overlooking the city of Leucasia below him and out to the harbor.
“Are you just now eating breakfast?” She reaches down helping herself to several grapes, “You really shouldn’t sleep in this late. Quilan? Are you listening? The festivities for the Games have begun and you're in here laying around. Quilan?”
He leans his elbows on the solid stone wall ignoring his mother talking to him from the room. He pinches the brim of his nose. Leucasia’s Skylit Endeavor. The Games. The same games every year. The same outcomes every year. The excitement, the rush of the competition, had been lost long ago.
Dropping his hand to hang over the edge, he scans the homes on the lower levels filled with people living lives below his. He should be grateful for having what others see as everything. A lavish home mostly occupied by servants. Talent that allowed him to earn the fame he was born into with his father being the prior undefeated elite racer.
A beautiful face—he touches the soft pink lips he hates to force into the shape of a smile—he never wants to look at.
“Quilan!” A group of girls clumps together on the walkway below his balcony. They squeal and wave their hands frantically to grab his attention. He hangs his head. He doesn’t need to smile. He doesn’t need to wave. They will follow him regardless.
“We love you!” they shout up to him in unison. They lean into each other giggling with the high of their confession.
They don’t love him. They don’t even know him. No one knows him. They know and love the Quilan of Leucasia that has been hand tailored by his mother. The one smiling on the stage is the Quilan she sculpted for the masses to admire. He is her one true masterpiece.
What's the point of life if there is nothing more to live for? What do you do when you’ve already obtained everything?
Maybe...I should...He leans forward, his weight shifting dangerously over the railing. His mother’s voice breaks his train of thought.
“Quilan. Stop teasing your fans.” She stands in the archway with her arms crossed. He shifts his weight back onto his feet. “Did you hear anything I said?”
He sighs up at the clouds, “No.”
She clicks her tongue, annoyed, “Have you even signed up yet? You shouldn’t be so lazy, it’s bad for your image, the Games won’t wait for you.” She snorts a laugh, “Who am I kidding? Of course, they will.” She turns back to the main room. “Come on, let’s get you ready. I bet people are dying to see you down there.”
Quilan steps back from the rail, away from the edge, and follows his mother inside the open room.
“I had your maid get it from your room while you were flirting on the balcony,” she hands him the thin folded fabric of a navy blue top with tightly buttoned cuffs, flowing sleeves, and a loose swooping collar.
His eyes drop down to the fabric in her hand then back up to meet her gaze. “I hate dark blue.”
“Oh, don’t be foolish,” she dismisses, thrusting the fabric into him. “It matches your eyes.”
“I know.”
She talks over his comment. “Come on, slip it on and get your shoes. Your father has already shown face, but—” Her voice turns to a sing-song. ''He's not what they’re waiting for. You are!”
Quilan begrudgingly tugs off his undershirt and drops it to the floor. Silently cursing in his mind, his face reveals none of his true self when he reaches out and takes the navy top from his mother’s outstretched hand. Slipping it on he trails her toward the front door.
He stops at the doorway where his shoes lay. Turning over his shoulder, his eyes land back on the balcony. He will participate in one last Skylit Endeavor, then afterward, afterward, it will finally be over.
Reference to Chapter 5
“Will you be wearing your signature light blue with the number one?” the girl at the registration stand smiles, batting her eyes flirtatiously.
“Yes,” Quilan continues to scribble the information on the paperwork.
The girl rests her chin on her hands, “You excited for the games?”
Quilan signs his name at the bottom, only his eyes raise up to acknowledge her. She raises one shoulder playing bashful, oblivious to the disinterest in his emotionless eyes. He pushes the paper across the table back to her cutting off the unwanted eye contact.
“Can’t wait to see you at the opening ceremony!” she calls out to Quilan’s back as he makes his way toward his dragon. He raises his hand as his only response.
He lets out a prolonged sigh. Bystanders crowd his quetzalcoatl, Aether, knowing their beloved Quilan of Leucasia will have to return to it when he wants to fly them home to his parent’s estate.
How did their obsessed eyes not see him standing at the registration tent? He wonders to himself. They see everything he does. Every movement, every breath, is under their gaze. His first word, his first step, his first flight...his first kiss. They have witnessed it all, there’s no personal life when your life is an act on stage.
