An Elegy of Fate Read online

  "Sure thing, boss." She smiled.

  When Arlen arrived at the school he made certain that the limousine occupied the reserved space, centered at the school's entrance where the kids were picked up. Twenty-seven escorts were arrayed parallel to one another: thirteen in front, thirteen in back, a single escort at the head of the accompaniment. He imagined the panic of the principal, clutching his chest between his hearts as the Arch Ganton closed the limo door and strode through the front entrance.

  The principal's assistant hurried over to Arlen. "E-excuse me!" She said. Six men in black suits immediately got between her and Arlen, folding their hands in front of themselves. She reeled backwards.

  Arlen stopped and looked at her. He liked to think he had that effect on people in general; that he was an astonishing sight to behold — when he wasn't dressed as Arch Ganton. "Yeah?" he asked her.

  "My — m-my — Ganton, sir. M-may I ask wh-what brings — you — here?"

  "Marqisian Aylariun Malyth, what classroom is he in?"

  She pointed down the hall behind him. "Homeroom th-thirty-five."

  "Thank you." He tucked his arm under his stomach and bowed at the waist. He noticed her office mates poking their heads through the door.

  Homeroom thirty-five had parents. All of whom were present and paired next to their child, except for a little blue-green eyed auburn-haired boy, who instead of listening to one of Arlen's subordinates talk about how important organization, communication and following orders precisely is for the job, especially when he didn't like working underneath Arlen, rested his head on his folded arms and looked on with a let down face.

  "Huh."

  "Sir?" said one of the bodyguards.

  "I didn't know Ryginald had a daughter. Or that he despises me, too." Arlen waited, listening through the door. "Well, he can find a new boss." Finally the sound of applause filtered through the door.

  "Marqisian Malyth, will you come up and tell us about your parents' careers?" The teacher motioned for him to come up front.

  Marqisian felt a fluttering sensation in his stomach as he stood in front of the teacher's desk and faced his classmates. The faces of the parents were bright, but the kids were sneering.

  "H-hi." He barely waved, cheeks flushed. "I-I know I've told — a lot of you that… I'm the son of the Arch Ganton… But my —" He swallowed and looked out the window. "My — my dad is too busy to be h-here and… M-my mom works a lot as a doctor. But, I'd l-like to be a Ganton, like my d-dad when — I grow up."

  "And never show up?" A kid shouted from the back of the class.

  Marqisian lowered his head. He started for his seat. Shame loomed over him. It was so heavy that he did not notice the gasps and stammering, garbled whispers.

  "To the contrary a Ganton is a man of impeccable timing; he is precisely where he needs to be, when the need calls for him. And as opposed to running the country I much rather be here —"

  Marqisian had almost sat down when the sound of Arlen's voice filled the room. "Dad!" He ran across the room and threw his arms around his father, hugging him tightly.

  "On behalf of my son," said Arlen.

  He smiled broadly, gazing up at Arlen. "I thought you wouldn't make it," he said.

  Arlen knelt down, making himself level with Marqisian. "I would rather die than let my Marqster down." He kissed Marqisian's forehead.

  Arlen carefully contemplated what he wanted to say. No doubt there were hungry minds, what wanted to delve into sensitive information. An opportunity to openly address the head of a country without regulation of audience and press presented more problems than it did freedoms.

  "I have been many things throughout my life. I understand the thinking behind the man on top always being born in a golden cradle. That's not true. I'm poorly trained for my life's calling. Being Arch Ganton is a walk in the park — but being a dad?" Arlen chortled.

  "All the books in the world could never have prepared me for Marqisian. I mean changing diapers, and getting up four in the morning to feed this screaming, tiny half-me?" He noticed some parents smiling, chuckling. "It's not the most relaxing career in the world. But watching Marqisian grow — seeing his first steps, first words, and now his being nine — wow…"

  Arlen shook his head. He looked down at Marqisian. "Being a father has to be the most rewarding thing I have done in my life. I love it. And I would unquestionably do it again. There you have it. Arlen Marqees DuShaffte, Arch Daddy."

  The hushed, small crowd looked on with awe. Arlen motioned for Marqisian to get his backpack and his homework. Just as he had arrived, the man departed with the boy jogging up to his side. Finally the school bell rang. And the parents along with their children sat there, awed, still.

  Arlen poked his head in and pointed at Ryginald. "You're fired."

  Lellayla held the limo door open.

  "Lelly!" Marqisian ran up to her and hugged her tightly.

  Their smiling faces brought a fragment of peace to Arlen's mind. He lingered on the pathway to the school entrance. Seeing them hug, he only wondered if he was doing the right thing. His son watched him.

  "Dad?"

  Arlen looked at Marqisian. "What?"

  "Are you okay?"

  Arlen snorted. "Of course I am!" He was faintly trembling. Finally he got in the limo. Marqisian sat between he and Lel. The boy almost hopped out of his seat, arms waving about as he divulged the very wisdom given to him by his third grade teacher. And Lellayla listened intently, questions abounded. Arlen did not notice when they stopped.

  He had not said a word, and they were almost to the Embassy.

  "You're not okay, are you?" Marqi frowned, pushing into his father's lap.

  "No, not really." He wrapped an arm around his son and ruffled Marqi's hair. He glanced at the boy. Marqi's brows were up. Arlen knew that look: he was expecting an answer before his bedtime. "Marqster, listen." Arlen seated Marqisian. "I'm going to give you a choice. A big, fat, important choice."

  "O-okay," Marqi said, anxiously.

  How to explain a complex situation to a nine year old, Arlen had not the faintest idea. Arlen took a deep breath. "Marqster, do you want to live with your mom, or your dad and Lel?"

  He narrowed his eyes and cocked his head.

  "I'm not trying to come between you and your mom, or be out of your life… but this is your choice, and whatever you do, I'm behind you one-hundred percent. Marqi, I just don't want anything to do with your mom anymore." Arlen balled his fist. His head hurt trying to keep tears from flowing over his eyelids. He could not bear the thought of Marqisian living with Sara. Because he knew what that entailed.

  Marqisian smiled and leaned on Arlen's side. "Dad, I want to live with you," he said.

  Arlen nodded. "Okay," he sighed. He knew he should be happy. But that feeling from the Blackland followed him. As if someone was scrutinously watching his every move, all his decisions, his motifs. And that man — up until the moment Sara unearthed that man, Arlen had never returned from his ventures in the Blackland feeling as he did. He reached for his cell phone. Sara needed to know Marqisian's whereabouts tonight.

  The cell was set to silent, no vibration, in her pocket. Sara kept tapping a pen to her lips. She focused on the readings of the display that tracked the man's neural patterns. He had lain there all day as if exhausted. Yet his mind could be compared to a bee hive of activity; he wasn't sleeping.

  "Doctor Malyth," The gerontologist knocked on the door frame. "You are going to want to see this."

  Her head twitched. "Come in."

  The gerontologist stepped in. He held a tablet in his hands that displayed data from a series of DNA, scans and radiology tests. He handed the tablet to Sara.

  Her brows furrowed and she gawked at the screen, sliding the graphs along with her finger. "This suggests that he's over sixteen million years old."

  "Yep." The Geron-nurse nodded.

  "That's impossible." She shoved the tablet back into his hands. "He can't be older than the d
awn of mankind and still be human." She glanced back at the neural monitor. "Get the harness on him. I want to probe his brain." She snapped her fingers. There had to be logical explanations for all this.

  The nurses had fit the harness around his head when Sara entered his room. The man lay there in the bed, calm and respiring deeply. She was about to connect the harness to the Graphic Neural Exposure and Imaging Machine — GNEIM — when the nurse jumped back and screamed.

  The man sat upright and glared into their faces. He glanced at his hands; then ripped the pads and monitor wires from his skin. The drip needle ran deep into his vein. And he noticed his blood. It flowed black but pooled fluorescent silver. This was wrong. His hands trembled as he palmed his arm where the IV was. His fingers were covered in his blood.

  "You're okay, calm down!" Sara pressed gauze to his arm. She looked at him oddly.

  'Sara~' His unblinking gaze allured her. 'Sssara…~' He said, yet his lips did not move. Slowly he canted his head to one side. 'Finally I get to meet you.'

  She could not look away. The rings of gold swimming in bright pools of pearl — brighter than any oculars she had ever seen — captured her attention and refused to release her like a cold blooded constrictor.

  'You've kept me waiting, Sara.~'

  "H-how do you know my —"

  'I know a lot about you, Sara. More than anyone knows — even you.'

  "What do you mean you know about me!?" She clenched his arm, voice escalating.

  He lifted a finger to his lips. 'I'm elated you want to know — but I cannot tell you here… Take me home with you.'

  Sara regarded him: tall, slender, and able to project his thoughts into her mind. She reached into her pocket for her pen. "How am I able to hear you?"

  'We share a special bond, Sara. Something no other person on the face of Dyjian will have with you. And to prove I am not your enemy…'

  Hot, wet euphoria rushed through her. She gripped the rail at his bedside, crumbling to her knees, panting, her every cell tingling intensely. A sensation remarkably like an orgasm ripped all throughout her body. Any longer and Sara would be on the floor, quivering, unable to make heads or tails of the world around her.

  The sensation stopped. He sat there, eerie little smile on his lips.

  "Wh-who are you?"

  "Yonathael," he said. 'And you will not regret knowing me.'

  Sara signed the discharge papers. Soon she was in her car, and Yonathael was wrapped in a long coat sitting beside her. The apartment complex she resided in was not far from the hospital. With the scan of her hand and the confirmation of her voice, the door opened.

  She had a small place with bleached white walls. She hung her purse on the rack by the closet and motioned for him to sit on the couch. "I want answers." She crossed her arms.

  "You should." Yonathael sat down, peeking around at her immediate things.

  "Now." Her voice cut through the air.

  But where should he begin? He laced his fingers together and placed them on his knee — crossing one leg over the other. He leaned back thoughtfully. "I am the reason Arlen kept coming to the tower. I was drawing him —"

  "Impossible —"

  "Let me finish." He cleared his throat. "Drawing him, because I knew he would bring you. Your love-loathing relationship is thicker than mere actions. Arlen knows you're too meticulously controlling to have Marqisian —"

  Sara stared in disbelief. "How do you know —"

  "I said: let — me — finish." Yonathael's stare made Sara shiver. "He knows that you would not allow yourself to get pregnant for no good reason. But Arlen can't remember the sex that led to his son's birth in the first place — no. He keeps seeking closure with you; subconsciously wanting to kill you — and what better place than out in the Blackland?"

  Hardly anyone visited the Blackland. And no matter how a body had come to know death, no one would question it. Because the onus of death deterred the living. The ruins were not natural.

  "But, his most beloved treasure — Marqisian — what would the boy think? Knowing that he would have to tell his son that he shot his mother in the cursed place. So he brought you, to put you to death, on the day that my awakening came full circle. That lizard had been coiled under that tower for years, waiting for me to come back."

  "Back from what?"

  Yonathael smirked. "You humans ought be grateful that you can't be broken." His thoughts strayed from him, an aloof gaze rolling to focus on nothing. His head bobbed, like a cat judging its prey. "I possibly deserved it."

  He dislocated his jaw, it popped, then he moved it back into place. Finally he focused on her. "I was held prisoner for a long time, Sara. I did everything my masters asked of me, only to be torn down and discarded; ripped from my proper form, alienated from my power of aelyth…" He went quiet. "What irony, the very thought, that Destiny himself can be adversely 'destined'."

  She furrowed her brows, and sat on the couch, perplexed, that he referred to himself as Destiny. She was not sure if she understood him right. "They break you… so that you're easier to kill?" But how does 'Fate' become 'Broken'?

  "You're smarter than I give you credit for." He grinned. "That ufeidan was there to kill me. After it succeeded, it would have died. But you and Arlen were right on cue." He watched her face contort into a grimace. "You're disturbed."

  "Yeah, I am." Her head bobbed. "This is scary."

  "As well it should be." He said, softly, sweetly.

  "I'm going to take you to the mental ward —"

  "Sara, no." He gripped her arm. "Trust me, Sara, I mean you no harm. You wanted answers."

  "I didn't want to know all this was —"

  "Orchestrated?"

  She huffed. "Yes."

  "That's what you humans call 'Fate,' is it not?" He chuckled. "You all want to believe everything happens for a reason, rejecting choice and free will. Then when someone sits down and explains it all to you, you cringe."

  She sat there quietly.

  "Is there a room I can have for the night?"

  "Marqi's room." She pointed at the stairs. "First door on the right."

  He got up. "Thank you, Sara." He bowed, then headed for the room.

  The deadbolt on the door was operable only from the outside. The room was empty, as if no one lived there. The white sheets on the bed were pressed to perfection, the windows barred and in the closet the clothes were meticulously arrayed. Not a toy to be seen, exactly the way Yonathael expected it. Straps were hidden under the bed and the only thing that looked out of place was a necklace dangling from the ceiling that featured the talons of a Kyusoa's foot.

  Yonathael drew the covers back and laid down. He wasn't trying to go to sleep, even after he heard Sara turn off the tele, headed down the hall past his room and shut the door to her own.

  Ysiliad.

  Alekzandrya city, Capitol of Alekzandrya, in the heart of the desert of Khaz;

  Melvas, the 11th day in the month of Korec;

  What occurred during the 451st year into the Seventh Epoch of the planet, Dyjian.

  It wasn't a particularly hot day in the desert, just a cool and breezy morning. The Prince, Rollond, was aware of the importance of his role in specific duties. He started for the Executor's chambers. The Executor-Prefect, Anileon, wanted him present, but hadn't told him why.

  Rollond tentatively knew: It was a matter of inspection. He hated inspections. Anytime his mother intended it to be a surprise, he was never caught unawares. The more they kept it hush-hush, the better he knew. He sighed, taking his time with each pace, shuffling along the hallway. He stopped to feign interest in an automated snack kiosk when his ears started ringing.

  A burst of hot wind hit his face, and his muscles tensed. In an instant, the halls of Nexus vanished. Like a beast his hands treaded sun-heated sand along with his feet, and his body twisted and bent with an unreal fluidity. It was foreign to him, and yet utterly familiar.

  "Sir?" A man tapped Rollond's shoulder.
/>   He jolted. A line had formed behind him. He had gotten a creme-filled Konstanian pastry, but crushed it while he was — out in the desert? More than that, why was he sweaty? Rollond shook his head. "Sorry," he said.

  The man offered Rollond a paper towel. He took it, wiped the creme off his hands, and ducked into the men's room.

  The faucets weren't automatic. He touched the top of the faucet's curve and slid his finger to his right. Cold water flowed from it. He cupped his hands and splashed his face several times, glancing up into the mirror.