Underneath the cotton clouds, the White City glistened.
It was named as such for the glorious state of the area. Even from a distance, the splendor was apparent. There were tower-like buildings that were spacious and clean, each one a pure white that was carefully cared for. The colorful banners waved to the citizens from the top of each, as an ensign of status and merit. The cobblestone streets were free from filth and degradation.
It was a matter of pride for the citizens. Judgement was placed upon the families for the cleanliness in which they lived. The rumors of their gloried streets were enough to persuade each family to keep their houses and streets as such. For without their splendor, you see, they would not be the White City.
It was a dazzling place to walk through, as outsiders often did. The marketplace was a bustle of flurried actions and captivating objects, which were made even more alluring by the honeyed voices of the sellers. Sweet fruits and candied treats were on display for sale, as well as the city's latest advances.
But up on the hill with the white marble stairs, the most valued building sat smugly upon its columned perches. A golden plaque was engraved with an elegant script, reading, "The House of All Knowledge." One would have been led to believe that inside these hallowed halls were only the greatest of minds, but this was not so. For at that very moment, in one of the rooms upstairs, a shattering sound had filled the air.
The stout, balding man that was Professor McFilligan was immediately enraged. "Laticcy, the followers of Naiyae curse you! Foolish boy! Sweep up my beaker immediately!"
The mumbled apologies of the boy were overlooked entirely. This spectacle might have amused his peers, except that this occurred at a startling frequency. They had learned to ignore the various mishaps of the student and dismissed him as simply clumsy.
This was wrong.
Although his fingers were rather long and thick, thus not entirely graceful, this was not the cause of these occasions. One would have to be paying attention to the boy to see what it was precisely. In fact, they would have had to watch close enough to see his shadowed green eyes glaze over like fogged glass, and his mouth turn upward in a tiny carefree smile that was far too content to be suited to the classroom.
Now the smile had been wiped off his face, and he hurried to correct the damage. Mundane though the procedure was, he found himself relieved to go through the motions, for they required little thought and therefor left the door open for his mind to wander.
By then, his thoughts were in the mountains in the distance. As he wiped up the chemicals, he flitted from detail to detail is his head. These were not the mere daydreams of an uncaring schoolboy, oh no. These were scientific expeditions of the most inquisitive kind.
How tall, he wondered, was the highest peak? Had anyone ever taken care to measure? What kinds of wildlife made their homes in that colder environment? What was the lowest temperature it even reached up there? And what gave the Red Peak its unusual name?
This, you see, was what had earned the boy the title, "Curious Phoebus."
He was known to question anything and all things, even the most insignificant of matters. He was fascinated by small details, captivated by tiny discoveries, and excited by new information. Some say his questions spouted from ignorance, others said he was simply an irritation. Whatever the cause, it was constant and the cause of much exasperation for those close to the boy.
There was only one who did not mind Phoebus' fountain of inquiries - his best friend, Titus McGinnon. Friends since first-level classing, the two were inseparable, unstoppable, and oftentimes somewhat frustrating.
It was Titus who was enjoying this scene the most, much to Phoebus' chagrin. He was well used to such scenarios and yet never lost his amusement at Phoebus' mishaps. "Here," he said, with the air of a great martyr who was sacrificing great things, "I'll help you catch up. Come on, hurry, and quit daydreaming."
"I'm not," was the automatic response. But Phoebus did as instructed, and slipped a new beaker into the holder. The experiment was a relatively simple one, and it wasn't long before he was caught up, with Titus' assistance.
There was a catch, however, to Titus' help. It was obvious that he was waiting for Phoebus to finish, for upon reaching a point where the beaker was placed aside and replaced with a paper for recording observations, he leaned over and whispered in a volume too soft for their professor's old ears. His navy blue eyes were excited. " How is your father enjoying his new post?"
"Well, he's proud, of course," Phoebus responded, his eyes on the colored puffs of smoke that were beginning to fog the lenses resting on his nose. "And it has brought honor to our family." A crease formed between his brows.
"But?"
"I don't see how it makes a difference." Ink splattered the page as Phoebus jabbed his quill against the paper. "It's still the same job, no matter what title you give it."
Titus pushed his paper away and shrugged. "They do a good service for our city."
"What service?" Looking up, Phoebus quirked an eyebrow. "No one knows what their purpose is anymore."
"You speak treason," Titus warned, lowering his voice. He sent a flash of a glance at their professor, who was still out of hearing range. "You know what their purpose is. Them."
"But why?"
"You kn-"
"Boys!" Across the room, the old man was glaring at them. "Clean up your area and quit jabbering about!"
Scurrying to put away their supplies, Phoebus sighed inwardly. What good was having an opinion if it was treason to express it? The thoughts he was entertaining were certainly questionable, but that was no reason to take drastic measures. Certainly, it was punishing him for thinking, the very thing that he was being taught to do.
He could tell that Titus was trying lighten the mood, as was his usual tactic. " Word is, there's going to be a street ball game today! Are you in?"
It was with great reluctance that Phoebus responded, "I can't. My family is celebrating tonight."
"Oh." Phoebus tried not to notice the disappointment in Titus' face. "Er. . . tomorrow, then?"
"Definitely." Mustering up as much excitement as he could, he smiled in return. It would feel good to play street ball again. Like it was the only importance, and no other concern could weigh upon his shoulders. And it was worth it, to spend time with Titus like in the old days, and to see his boyish grin dance across his face.
Slinging his bag over his shoulder, Phoebus exited the room with his head bowed low. He didn't want to see the jealousy or the excitement for him in their eyes. How many of their fathers had been ranked up? And how many stayed caught in the web of the lower ranks?
So he quietly escaped out the large doors and into the sunshine. The climate of Caelaus, the White City, was often brillianced by the sun and cradled by the warmth. The nights were chilled, with eager breezes wafting about. This stayed true almost throughout the entire cycle of the three seasons - Wind, Flame, and Frost, wit slight changes relative to the name.
They were currently in the season of Wind, and so the evenings were much more bold in their boasting gusts. The air carried on it the scent of pine and honeysuckle, weaving their delicious way through the maze of the city. The sound of the bustling streets and dulled to the hollow song of the wind, both peaceful and eerie to the listening ear. The sun was edging closer to the horizon as though attempting to slowly set the sky aflame.
But the city was dim, cast in the shadows of the towers and buildings that brushed the sky. One would have to feel tiny in Caelaus, when compared to the soaring architecture. Carved delicately along the outside of each one were each family's insignia. They told the story of the residents inside - their triumphs, their heartaches, their occupations, their lifestyles. Each tower and its surface was a matter solely of pride.
Winding his way through the near-empty streets, Phoebus came upon a tower marked with the tales of many battles and victories, and many bitter losses. These were the stories of a warrior, with a history of bloodshed. His fingers rested on the wooden door while a longing look pooled into his eyes.
The door was painted crudely with scarlet paint. The mark of a warrior.
The colors of the wooden doors in Caelaus were important, for they told of the duty of the family that dwelled inside. Brown was for the regular citizens, the ones without a certain call. Red was for the warriors that were required to leave the city every morning and night to meet with the night-runners. Yellow doors were the sign of established philosophers and intellectuals. Green doors were for the inventors, and other less common colors were set for other lesser jobs.
Phoebus had often passed through into the threshold of his tower with a slight hesitation as his fingers pushed against the smoothly-refined wood, looking at the blood-colored finishing and allowing himself for the smallest moment to dream that it was golden instead.
His father, however, had earned the red marking many times over with his service. His status was a warrior, a large man with a rich, dark brown hair that he kept cropped elegantly short and thin facial hair covering the area of his jaw. Beneath his heavyset eyebrows were two deep green eyes that were hardened from the sight of bloodshed. His manner was gruff and often distant, although in the areas of warfare he excelled. His mind was specifically-trained to think like a warrior.
That was most likely the reason for his latest advancement, to the rank of Commander. It was a rare opportunity to be able to achieve so high; more often than not, many men stayed merely in the rank of common warrior. The honor behind the new title was grand, or so Phoebus was taught to think.
He pushed inside and noted that his father was not home yet, which probably meant that he was in the House of Healing. This was a vague concern for a few seconds, but he brushed it off, reminding himself of his father's skill in battle. He would not have been cut down this morning, on the dawn of his rise in the ranks.
So Phoebus instead made his way up to his room by passing through the kitchen and making his way up a winding set of stairs. He preferred to be at such an altitude, for the vast landscape beneath him was a pleasure to view, especially when the sun was setting. It also allowed for some solidarity. He liked it.
His room had a large, almost dome-like ceiling, with a window at the top to let in the sunlight. The walls were white, plain, but the room was adorned with golden and scarlet drapery spun with thick thread and intricate patterns. The walls were half-hidden by large bookcases, crammed with wide volumes and smaller pamphlets, novels and encyclopedias. Some books were worn from excessive overuse; their pages had been folded in the corner, their margins filled with notes, the inside covers marked with cross-references to other pieces of literature that had been marked up just as much.
In the corner was a large desk, covered with open books and papers sketched with diagrams and observations. One curse that befell Phoebus was his lack of organization; the papers were scattered and of little relation to one another. His hasty handwriting pointed at other notes and illustrations for quick references, although any other person would be confused as to what Phoebus meant in his quick scrawlings. Phoebus sometimes was himself.
In the adjacent corner was a black chair, with a rumpled golden blanket lying in a heap beside it. The chair was made of a fine cloth and was almost circular, with a low seat and a couple of cushions. Next to the chair was another bookcase, although this one was smaller, and the edges were more roughly cut and unrefined, for Phoebus had taken it upon himself to make this one himself during a period of fascination with carpentering. On its shelves were thin, leather-bound books that all looked identical, being brown and worn, with thick pages. Their sides had been scratched into with black ink by Phoebus himself, and they all bore titles relating to their subjects; from "Astronomy" to "Weather" to "Behavior" and more. Inside these books were contained the studies and observations of Phoebus on each one. He had one for every topic that he had ever passionately delved into, crammed with his findings or the enlightenment that others had shared with him.
He paused for a moment to take in the surroundings of his room. This was not the room of a warrior. There was a lack of weaponry, books concerning battle tactics, and armor. His father would not have had a room such as this at his age.
The fact unwillingly reminded him of the fact that his father desired him to be become a warrior, as well. The very thought made his stomach curl unpleasantly - he was not a killer, nor could he ever be. He would much rather be a scholar, sailing on the borders of new discoveries. Something his father did not yet understand.
Noises downstairs alerted him to the fact that his family was now home. His lips widened into a smile, despite his feelings only seconds ago. Trotting downstairs, he greeted his mother and father warmly and immediately scanned his father discreetly for any injuries. Noticing none, he relaxed.
"How was school?" his mother asked with a kind smile. She was shorter and plump, the product of her amazing cooking abilities. But she had a warm face, with eyes that crinkled up every time she smiled. Her light hair fell in curls, bouncing slightly when she moved.
Phoebus brushed off the question lightly, more concerned about his father. "It was fine. The same as usual. How was the battle?" This was the same question that he repeated every day, praying that perhaps someday the news would change.
Today was not that day. "We're gaining ground, but that is all," his father responded, taking off his boots. His mother bit her lip gently with a worried look. She disliked her husband's occupation as much as Phoebus did, but unlike the boy, recognized the need for the warriors without complaint.
"I don't think we should talk about that today," she said sadly, her hands clutched together. "We're supposed to be celebrating." With a chuckle, his father ruffled her hair affectionately.
"Alexandra, you shouldn't worry. We'll eat together before I leave tonight. A proper celebration." They moved into the kitchen together, and Phoebus followed, his mood conflicted.
Surely he was supposed to be proud of his father's advancement in the ranks. Surely he was supposed to rejoice that such an honor had been placed on his family.
Surely, he wasn't supposed to care that people were dying, and that his father was risking it.
But he did care.
And that made him a treasonist.
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Comments
this is an amazing beginning. i liked your old beginning too but i like this one better because it sets up Phoebus's character a lot more strongly.
can i pleeeeeez steal Phoebus and put him in my closet so i can hug him like a teddy bear? he is so cuteh
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broken hearts hurt but they make us strong
See, that's more what I was aiming for. I wanted to take a step back and really introduce both of them before I fling them together, y'know? 8D Do you have any critiques?
<3<3<3
WELL, SURE, GO AHEAD.
I'M SURE HE WON'T MIND. 8D
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yes.
my critique is:
I WANT MOAR D:
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broken hearts hurt but they make us strong
I will write for you, Alice! I will write like the wind! D8
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broken hearts hurt but they make us strong
But I'll figure it out. 8D
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010010110100111101001100001000 000100101101001111010011000010 000001001011010011110100110000 100000010010110100111101001100
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broken hearts hurt but they make us strong
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010010110100111101001100001000 000100101101001111010011000010 000001001011010011110100110000 100000010010110100111101001100
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broken hearts hurt but they make us strong
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