The Tales of Andora

"The Guardians" by Chesnie Keeler-Chapter One

I wasn't born a princess. Gorgeous dresses and pomp and circumstance were never attractive to me. The wood is where I've always longed to be, to train, and my father knows that all too well. He doesn't want me following in the life that he leads, but nothing—nothing—would be more honorable than becoming a guardian of the Lapuz Lazuli stone.

The saccharine sea salt smell of the ocean rolls from the aquamarine waves and filters throughout this city near the sea. Although the horizon is the most beautiful from here, the effervescent leaves that dance amongst their branches, waltzing to an invisible tune the zephyr orchestrates, obstruct the view of what I yearn to gaze upon. The city of Pyrésea. I've marveled at its magnificent majesty for years, never allowed to enter, to become encapsulated within its wondrous walls. And although the city is foreign to me, in my heart, my home is within the hearth of the Symphony Hall as a guardian of the beloved cryst.

"Miriam!" Gabriel calls. I stand erect on the branches waiting for him to come near the tree. He followed me here! "Miriam!" He calls once more, only louder, more forceful with a tinge of anger simmering in his voice. He never calls me by my full name other than when he's upset; he knows I hate it, but why now? I retract the thought of pouncing on him and slip down from the tree, burrowing my boots into the loamy soil. It coats the leather with a thick film of mud. As I straighten myself upright, Gabriel comes towards me and clutches my arm into his crushing hand. I try to jerk away, but he holds steadily.

"What are you thinking?" He growls through his teeth, his virescent eyes plowing into my heart.

"I'm always here and you know that!" I yell. He covers my mouth, but I smack his hand away. "What is wrong with you?" I ask, searching his face for answers, examining his visage for the origin of his anger. He pulls me into the thicket of bushes nearby and we conceal ourselves here. Lucky me, I wore the hunter green to blend in and hide, but I'm still not sure what we're hiding from.

"Today is Sunday. We don't meet on Sundays. It's the day before Pedeset," he scolds. The worshipping of the spirit of the Goddesses, Nôrsyleus, Sôlyeus, Eœota, Wéslyeus. I remember; I knew this day would come. Tomorrow at dawn, on the shore of the pristine ocean, I only hope to be named a contender for the Trial of the Cryst. Tonight, I will dress in my gold garb that represents of our village, Vigera, showing reverence to Wéslyeus. Gabriel won't wear the same. He's from Alta who worship Nôrsyleus. The garnet would wear beautifully against his olive skin.

"Did something happen?" I whisper, the words viscously coming from my tongue. Gabriel's eyes focus on the path illumined by the distant, glimmering sun, but his auburn hair hides his face from me. I didn't care about hiding, I'm more worried about him—my father's aid. Did something happen to my father that he needed inform me of? Couldn't have. My father's the best guardian ever. Nothing will ever rob him of life, but I'm anxious to know. "Gabe. Answer me."

The earth trembles beneath our feet, and I rise to inspect the chaos, but Gabriel pulls me back into the bushes and I fall into the moist grass.

"This isn't the time to play games, Miriam," he whispers as he glares at me and then turns his focus back to the seemingly thousands of horses approaching the city. "You're not supposed to be out here. You deliberately disobeyed your father and came here anyway. We are town kids, we don't belong here to mingle among the affairs of the city. It's a dream and dreams get people killed," Gabriel says, his voice hard and dark like the deepest obsidian.

"Don't you just dream, even for once, that we could be part of that? We deserve it, too!" I say.

"It doesn't matter what we deserve. The world won't be so forgiving to you if you come across any of the army. Forget what Pyrésea has to offer," Gabriel says. He drags his eyes back to my face and looks down at my dirty hands. He grabs them and wipes them with the handkerchief tucked into his pocket. I hated my father for making him watch over me like this, like I can't do it on my own. He didn't trust me to be responsible—not that I blame him. But for once, just tasting the air of Pyrésea would be satisfying to me—the air from the sea was too diluted with impurities of the world. The putrid air of the town was enough to make anyone gag.