Resentment

“This isn’t what I expected, to be honest.”

“No?” Sebastean laughs with uncharacteristic good humor. “What kind of place did you picture me living in? A cave?”

Evan grips the railing of the Silverleaf and looks down on Whitewall Grotto, the relatively hidden beachfront where Sebastean has made his retreat. White sands emerge from a crystal tide, running all the way to an ivory cliff, which towers above the open-air carribbean style buildings joined by raised walkways.

Most impressive, however, is the transparent barrier of rainbow coral, a half-circle protecting an acre of beach from the open ocean. Filtered through the crystalline structure, Fallen’s white sunlight splashes a multicolored palette across the beach and cliff.

Far below, people are actually swimming in the ocean, something Evan was told doesn’t happen on Fallen, owing to the population of monsters. Whitewall is truly a unique place among unique places, a sanctuary in the truest sense.

In short, it is among the loveliest sights of Evan’s life, and he just can’t imagine the place belonging to such a dark and brooding person as Sebeastean.

“I don’t know about a cave, exactly. Maybe a…manor.”

“Like a vampire. Sebastean Dracula.” Sebastean chuckles.

Evan flinches. That’s exactly what he’d been thinking. In retrospect it comes across as hurtful.

Sebastean seems to read his mind. Perhaps he really does. “Nah, I can see the similarities. Tall, pale, sharp teeth, flight… it’s an image I cultivate.”

“What do you mean?” Evan asks, truly curious, as the boat settles into one of several docks. “You want people to think you’re a vampire?”

“Not exactly.”

“So…”

Sebastean looks around, stretching his arms and Channeling, eyes lighting up with blackness. His white skin darkens to a deep tan, almost an olive tone, and his hair becomes short and sandy with a shake of his head. In seconds, he looks like an extra in a Sugar Ray music video.

He regards Evan with his odd inverse eyes, the only unaltered aspect of his appearance. “I don’t like the people out there knowing who I really am. There’s more to me than the menacing half-breed, you know? But if people thought there was a nice side to me, they might try and get close.”

“And get drawn in to this nonsense.”

“Exactly. On the other hand, the people here already are involved, so why not put a smile on?” He turns, distracted. “Hey, Loren! Missed you!”

Joining Aelia and Kari, they descend a ramp onto the smooth wooden deck of Sebastean’s home, met by several friends. Evan, having only briefly met some of these people before leaving on the Gantrillian, hangs back and simply enjoys looking around.

The docks are nestled against the cliffside at the southern end of the cove, with a walkway that hugs the wall for about a hundred feet until meeting a larger collection of thatch-roofed stilt houses, in varying sizes and on various levels. Ladders are everywhere, along with staircases and even one zipline.

Tilting his head, Evan notices that some of the round buildings are pressed up against the cliff, and in fact extend inside in the form of man-made (or Sebastean-made) caverns. Apparently, this small town was designed to house more than a few guests, despire being Sebastean’s “secret” home.

“Evan!” A reedy voice calls out, over the general buzz of reunion, and Evan turns to see two Halfmooners he recalls fighting at his side. Of course at the time, it was them fighting, and him basically watching.

Tyrone is a dark-skinned, whip-thin teenage boy, with short braids in his hair and a piece of fruit in one hand, who Evan knows to be a Sky Elemental. Capable of manipulating air currents at will, Tyrone is one of few humans capable of true flight.

And Sylvia, a pleasantly curved woman of about twenty-five, wears a wreath of flowers in her brown hair that may or may not have actually grown there. Evan doesn’t know what her Manifestation is, but it somehow allows her to control plant life and transform her own body accordingly. Evan greets both of them gladly, having last seen them during a brief fight where he’d had his abdomen sliced open.

“You look good, both of you. How long has everyone been here?”

Sylvia frowns. “Almost since you left. Seraph boats came storming in the next day, they started scouring the village for you guys, so we started sneaking people out.”

Joining the entire group, plus Oden, who’s emerged from the Silverleaf after locking down the controls, Evan heads towards the collection of stilted buildings that is Whitewall Retreat. “Did anyone get hurt?”

“There were some scuffles, but nothing bloody. Just general bullying. Still, it seemed like we should be here when you got back, so we could get started as soon as possible.”

“Get started-?” Evan looks to Sebastean. “Is there once again something I don’t know?”

Sebastean growls. “What, you thought we’d just keep everyone here and say forget Halfmoon? No. We’re taking it back. Obviously. But there’s going to be a meeting, we can talk about this later. In the meantime, I feel like a swim, how about you?”

* * *

Evan climbs a spiral staircase towards a small, multi-tiered set of platforms set a ways above the majority of the Retreat. Pausing to admire the dark sky, filled with its panoramic vision of celestial wonders, he sighs deeply. This morning he was fighting for his life above a monster-filled ocean and hurling bolts of destruction at vengeful mercenaries. This afternoon he was swimming in that same ocean, floating carelessly in the freshwater surf, laughing and playing volleyball with the kind people of Halfmoon.

A busy and peculiar day. And now, having enjoyed some of Sebastean’s magnificent cooking, Evan heads to his assigned room to change for tonight’s meeting. Although the specific purpose of this meeting hasn’t been explained, he suspects it’s going to be a sort of war council. Also, he’s heard whispers of some kind of trouble in the far northern areas, fighting between Seraphs and some unnamed force.

He can see it now. Sebastean will laugh about how the Seraphs must have pissed off another settlement and now they’re paying for it. And then some crowing about how it’s a perfect time to go fight, fight, fight and kill and retake some ground.

And the whole thing is a cycle, just like most conflicts. Evan’s seen it before, in his own family. He shudders at a memory of one of his endless screaming arguments with his mother. However they started, on whatever topic, they all ended up being about everything. If he’d forgotten to wash the dishes, his reprimand became a litany of his every sin for the past twelve years. Every poor choice, every mistake, every wrong she could remember. And she could remember a lot.

This war seems the same. Entire societies being drawn in to a single family’s “shameful” indiscretion. A boy, innocent at one time, being made the centerpiece of a planet-spanning clash. Or perhaps the scapegoat.

And like Evan, Sebastean had grown up at the center of his conflict. He’d never lived away from it, and therefore had no idea how to escape it. He just kept on fighting, escalating the scale of the fight until, now, he’d become a war general for one side and a war criminal to the other.

Nothing, apparently, can stay small. Evan muses that perhaps war is like any disease: infectious. It spreads and grows, regardless of reason. And consumes everything that can’t figure out a way to stop it in time.

Emerging onto a circular platform under a wide, thatched roof, Evan is surprised to see Aelia, lacing up the front of her canvas vest. Apparently they’ve been assigned to the same room. How typical of Sebastean to go ahead and make that call.

“Guess I just missed the show.”

Aelia turns from her mirror, which shimmers and becomes a general-purpose wallscreen. “Oh hey, Evan. Yeah, that’s what you get for taking your time. And to think, you could have had a glimpse of my skeletal self. What a shame.” She laughs sadly. “Hardly anything on me to glimpse, anyway. Don’t feel deprived.”

Evan crosses the room, picking up his pack and pulling its contents out onto the single low, circular bed. Rifling around for his poncho, he shakes his head. “Don’t say that. You’re beautiful. You’re certainly nothing like any girl I’ve ever met, and that would make you attractive even if you had a face like a warthog.”

“A what?”

“Nasty pig, big teeth. My point is,” Evan continues, pulling the loose-fitting cloak over his shoulders, “It’s not up to you to decide how pretty you look to me. I’ll be the judge of that, thank you. And I judge you to be lovely, no matter how skinny you are. You’re certainly not frail.” He remembers her fighting on the deck of a Seraph warship, all white hair and black leather, glowing eyes and spinning knives. Somehow the image fits with this pale, hesitant woman in a gauzy skirt, standing barefoot on the smooth wooden floor of a quiet bedroom. For the thousandth time, Evan mentally admires the way she can mirror the ocean; monsters and mayhem one minute, a pleasant afternoon with friends the next. “You look like an angel. I didn’t believe in angels before I came here.”

Aelia, halfway through wrapping a long scarflike cloth around her midsection, concealing the jagged scars there, pauses, regarding Evan with pale blue-gray eyes.

Lost in the inertia of finally expressing himself, Evan plows ahead with his speech. “There’s people with wings, here, and yet you’re the only one who seems… divine. It’s like you stepped out of a dream and rescued me. Literally! You were there when I woke up on Fallen, holding my head up. I really thought I’d died. But the truth is even better than that.”

The scarf falls from her hands, revealing her imperfection again, forgotten. Her lips are slightly parted, as though drinking in Evan’s stumbling serenade.

“The truth is I’m alive again, and I feel like the only reason I’m happy about that is because of you. I know you said I should love life instead of loving people, but I’ve thought about it and you’re wrong. Life is only worth living if you’ve got people to share it with.”

She doesn’t make a sound when he gathers her in his arms, pressing his face to her snowy hair and whispering. “Every night I go and look at those stars and lights and shapes up in the sky… the whole time, I’m wishing I could be watching you sleep. I’m wishing I could be listening to you breathe. I’ve been a room away from you every night and it’s been too far.”

“Evan,” she begins, but he places a finger to her lips.

“I don’t want to rush you, of course. I know I shouldn’t be saying all this because it’s too much, too soon. That’s fine. But this morning I almost got eaten by ten different monsters, and I realized waiting for things just doesn’t work for me anymore. I’ve died often enough to know, you don’t always get a chance to do what you want.”

For a few minutes they stand, arms around each other, quiet, Evan breathing deeply of the scent of her hair, like flowers in a deep, cool autumn mist. Finally Aelia squeezes his waist, and sighs.

“We’re gonna talk about this, later on. You ready for that meeting?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be. Are you… I’m sorry if I upset you,”

Aelia shakes her head, stepping away from him very slightly. “I’m good. I’m great. I… ne selae, I wish I could… articulate myself, like you can. I need some time to put my thoughts together.” She looks him in the eye, takes his hand, smiles. “Don’t worry, though. They’re good thoughts.”

“Oh, good.” They laugh together, for the moment just friends again. Comfortable. Then, hand in hand, they leave the dark room and walk along the fire-lit paths, ready to face the future.

For the moment, it looks as bright as the trillion stars, as many possibilities as the myriad points of light in a silent, watchful sky.

* * *

Far away, or perhaps in the same place in a different way, a heart is busily breaking. A young woman, a girl really, kneels with legs straddling a steel trash can, watching endless drafts of letters never sent turn to ash.

One by one, she unfolds each declaration of love and desire and reads it, silently, then strikes her lighter and watches the flame consume her heart’s outpouring, graphite promises evaporating and crumbling and falling to join their sisters in the bin.

Erin McAllister is once again alone. It hurts.

Really, she realizes, choking back a sob, she was never not alone. Really she was just wishing and waiting and wanting… never quite hoping. Hope is reserved for those with a fighting chance.

He was never going to be hers. She knew that from the first. But it was nice to dream.

Until this afternoon, coming home from school, walking because she has no close enough friends to drive her, and there aren’t any school buses in a town of three hundred people. St. Nahamston isn’t a place of crowds.

Until this afternoon, Erin had listened to every word of her older sister’s sagelike advice, devouring every morsel of seductive experience, hanging on every syllable of instruction.

“Turn your head like this,” “Flutter your eyes like this,” “Walk” “Talk” “Move” “Think like this,” so many little things to remember, but all came with the assurance of “He’ll notice you.”

All she wanted was to be noticed. It didn’t matter if he ever took her out in his car, she didn’t care if they ever became something. But to have someone sit with her and listen, really listen, not the way her parents and sister do… oh, how wonderful that might have been.

To feel important, or even just real. To have someone look at you on purpose, never thinking you were someone else, never just asking for directions because they aren’t from here…

Nobody’s from here.

Another note, consumed by the fire. Another insane notion of self-delusion purified, made in image what it is in reality: smoke and ash and nothing.

How nice it might have been, to have his eyes fall on her with approval.

Instead of an embarassed laugh.

How nice it might have been, to go home to her sister, the only person she admires, aside from him of course, and say “Carol, I talked to Him today, He said He likes me, He’s taking me to a movie! Help me pick out an outfit!”

Instead of opening the door of their shared bedroom and finding her sister, impaled upon her object of adoration, naked from the waist down and straddling Him and seeming to dance upon the bed in an obscene hula.

How nice it might have been to be warned. It might have hurt to find that her sister, educator in all things romantic, had decided to take the boy she’d been teaching Erin how to catch. She wished she’d found out some other way instead of… that.

Another letter torched. Silly, wishful thinking. Life doesn’t work that way for Erin. It never has. Life is dreaming and being heartbroken to the point of tears when you wake up and it wasn’t real. Life is being betrayed by the person who you’ve placed all your hope and faith and trust in.

Life is a heart that keeps on beating despite the profound wishes of its owner. Life is a misery that ceases at the worst possible times, never when you wish it would.

Wish in one hand… and a knife in the other.

Oh, Erin never entertains any notion of suicide. She hasn’t the courage for it, really. It would take real guts to draw a blade across your own skin, she’s sure of that.

But someone else’s?

Might be a little easier, she supposes. There’s only one way to find out.

Erin waits patiently by the door.

They’re coming home soon.