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"Illustro" by Jotam Torres
SUMMARY: A chapter in the midst of my fantasy adventure. The story of a young man, who's destiny is not in his hands, but written in stone. In what you read now, he is merely discovering another of his uncontrollable powers. Enjoy, and please, comment.
The ground shook as a shockwave crossed the land. Seosamh grabbed on to the edge of the fence, steadying himself, letting the quake pass. Looking out towards the river, he could see the origin of the blast. In the far distance, he watched as a thunderous rain of rocks and stones fell from the tops of the Qidron waterfall. The rocks were huge and still visible though far away. Something had happened to the river.
Once the earth ended its shifting, he lumbered over to the edge of the Gihon, passing his large figure through the gate in the fence. Before his aged but keen eyes, the waters hastened and surged forward as if a massive tidal wave had hit somewhere along its path. Soon the flows settled, the river calming once more. "Hmm..." he grunted to himself. He was a man of few words, allowing his eyes and strong hands to do most of his talking for him. Speaking of talking, where was Cien? Today was the day of his return, though it waned on, there was no sign of him.
Oh, his good boy Cien. How overjoyed he had been when Seosamh had told him the news, the so called change in power as his Dara liked to put it, a secret joke between the three of them. Seosamh had made sure that the staff was sanded and sealed, a new coat of beeswax covered its surface. He wanted to be sure that the news would be taken seriously, allowing your oldest to tend to the herd unwatched was a proud moment for any father, blood or not. And when that moment had come, Seosamh needed to use all of his willpower to keep back the smile and laughter that he so dearly wished to share with his boy. Cien had accepted the staff sincerely, only to barely lift Seosamh off of the ground, nearly spraining his own back, in the most crushing, warm hug Seosamh had ever felt. In fact, Cien tended to be quite warm, sweating often, no wonder he was as lean as he was.
He remembered the day he had found him, the boy that is. In the midst of a withering tree, the child lay asleep, wrapped in the foliage, as if nature blanketed him, keeping him warm. Cautiously, Seosamh picked him up in his big hands, the tiny child was very warm, a sign of good health. It didn't take much for Dara to take the boy in as her own, as did he. From that day, they had given birth to four more sons, each a year apart except for the twins, Cien being the eldest.
No one spoke of that quiet day, Cien was treated as their own. So much so that Dara denied the tree, the boy's brilliant violet eyes, even the blades of white that were combed through out his hair, Cien was as much her own as any of the other four.
That was how it was and how it had remained, to this day they lived as one family, to be broken by none. The boys looked up to Cien, they always had. Though other children would tease and poke Cien, his siblings were nothing of the like. They banded together, standing up for their oldest brother, for unlike Cien, his brothers were quite muscular and strong. Their tempers as short as their height. It had been many a days that Cien's skin had matched the purple of his eyes.
The sound of his Dara's squeal broke Seosamh from the daydream of the past.