Colors; Chapter One by Emcaw Eeaton

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And that is why I have decided that we should enlist help in The Ones."

"The Ones," the crowd whispers back as though for emphasis on what the hag has said.

"The Ones," the boy repeats, again unconvinced of the hag's sanity.

"Aye, The Ones," she snarls. "Must you all repeat everything that is said?" At that snappy remark, I let out a silent snort of laughter into the hole. Suddenly a scream sounded out, and I freeze as I recognize the squeal of a Seer. In a second, I leap up and start running as the Seer speaks so slowly I almost don't catch the words.
"I smell," she began, and I am spreading my legs out further and further as I allow my legs to stretch out and let me fly across the grass that seems to be trying to grab on to me and never let me go. Suddenly the ground started moving slowly, almost as though it is a hellshake, and I am thrown to the ground as the Whites begin to pour out of the ground in an effort to find me. I rise again, quickly, stumbling on.

I run for as long as I can, allowing my legs to continue when I can no longer feel them. Behind me, bewildered Whites are running around, trying to find me and I can hear the Seer yelling at them.

"Come on, don't be lazy! The Black's getting away! I can barely smell it anymore!" Ahead of me, I think that I catch a glimpse of the river in the distance, one that if I cross will make me even harder for the Whites to find considering that I will be in Red Country. Not that the fact that I would be in Red Country would help, considering that it is rumored that Reds and Whites are joining forces. Besides, Red Country is in the mountains, and I am used to the hills of Black Country. The flatness of the plains in White Country makes me nauseous.

But why am I here anyway, when I so love the hills of my country, my world? Why am I where the trees did not grow whether on hillside or on flat ground? Purely the job that I took when I was twelve. Or at least I agreed to take the job when I was twelve. I became both a spy and an assassin for my people when I was thirteen. I shake my head. I had been so naïve then that I almost miss those feelings of warm solitude.

I had not cared about eavesdropping and killing then, and to be truthful I still do not. It is work, and when I am home I forget about it and act like all of the other fifteen year olds there. I never stop to think about whom I kill and who would be waiting, lonely at home for a person that was never to arrive alive on their doorstep again. Just like the Whites are not going to think twice about killing me, a filthy Black in their opinion, for listening in on their Council.

As I continue to run, the river comes in definite view, and a few of the Whites behind me are still in close pursuit. Suddenly two young men leap out of the ground in front of me. I immediately stare at them, hard, and they look at my vicious face and relax at how young I seem with my pressed black hair falling crudely and choppily over my face and my heaving chest. I smirk. Their mistake.

The two of them smile thoughtfully at each other, and despite the fact that I might be caught by the rest of the gang of bloodthirsty Whites who would probably torture me by "sending the wrath of God upon my wicked soul" for months on end before burning me at stake with common criminals, I make up a story.