Jethran collapsedJethran collapsed onto his cot as the weight of the day pressed down on him. He fell, not into sleep, but into a hot, gray void that held no peace. And in that void, a vision found him. He found himself standing in a misty wood. The air was hot and thick as a mist obscured everything around him. In the distance, he heard a soft melody. A song seeming to come from everywhere began to sing. The song was singing itself. As he looked further into the mist he began to see the words of the song playing out directly in front of him.
_____
Upon a once before,
From the war torn, battered shore.
_____
Soldier burning deep within,
Trapped in anguish of the war.
Quiet settles on his skin,
Standing on the ruined shore.
Mists born of the summer storm.
Offer quiet in its form.
Shedding all the bitter tears.
Silenced screams and silent fear,
Replace terror of what's lost.
Voices speak but you must hear,
Forget pain at any cost.
_____
Ling you know will come again,
Whispers truth from way back then,
Pulling the connected thread.
Memories caged in your mind,
Forget so you remember.
Leave the bitter dark behind,
Cerulean's burning ember.
_____
Pain unraveled brings the tear,
Watch the shadows disappear.
Discover you are alive.
_____
Jethran’s eyes flew open. He leaped from his cot, his body dripping with sweat, his breath coming in panicked pants. He was in his room, but the hot mist of the vision still clung to him, damp against his skin, receding only as the weak light of morning pressed inward. He felt the echo of the soldier’s terror. The fear of being pulled back.
______
That day was an exercise in tension. Jethran moved through the tiny apartment with the careful step of a deer walking on glass. He was shaky, his eyes fixed on the floor that was now a shocking lilac. When he brushed his teeth, he noticed for the first time his gums and his tongue were now lavender.
“Why is it lavender?” he asked the reflection looking back at him. “The floors are lilac, the wallpaper is aubergine. My tongue is lavender. But they're all purple. How do I know these words?”
Regale emerged from her room, her face was composed. Then she looked up and noticed the walls, the purple background of the wallpaper and the lilac floors. Then she looked at her son. He felt her, as if she was studying him, looking for a difference, but he avoided her gaze. She placed his bowl of chalky mush silently before him on the lilac table, and sat down. She never took her eyes off of him.
“Jethran,” she offered. “We need to have a conversation, my love.”
He lifted his spoon, and saw the ring of purple on his palm. He couldn't talk to her. He knew she would send him away. He shook his head, and grabbed his satchel, then immediately headed for the door.
“Later. I'm late already. We can talk after work,” he said hastily, before pausing at the door. “ I love you, Mother.”
“Dear heart,” she spoke with the warmth that he needed. “I love you, too.”
_____
On his way to work, he realized the colors were not confined to his apartment. The trees were all lilac. Their bark, which had always been various shades of gray, now was undeniably stained. Then he looked up and was frozen where he stood. He saw the Seven High Reach. What used to be seven distinct shades of Gray covering the mountains, had changed. Only six were gray, but the second tallest peak was now the same shade of indigo that stained his skin.
His shock was interrupted when Pethel, a fruit merchant, let out a cry of alarm. A whole crate of his stone-hued pomemarbles, harvested just yesterday, were now a deep purple. This scene caused by a fruit merchant soon caught the attention of the nearby Big Aught Police. The BAPs presence caused the growing crowd of onlookers to quickly disperse. Jethran watched as the police bound the distraught Pethel in chains, arresting him for Public Emoting and Attempted Distribution of Vibrancy.
After placing the hereman into a squad car, they turned on the lights that sat upon its roof. The lights, which before had always been two distinct shades of Gray, now caused a wave of shock to pass through the market square, as one of the lights now held a vibrant violet hue.
The flaw which had once been contained to a single boy had bled into the world. It started as whispers, then fearful murmurs that spread through the market like a contagion. Everyone was staring at Jethran. He pulled his collar up higher than ever before. The Turtle Game was now a game of survival as he continued on his way to the Rock Sorting Facility. At work, he focused only on the grit of the stone. He kept his head down, focused entirely on the dust-caked surfaces.
He heard the radio as it crackled another news report over the speakers:
...the Uncrowned King and the TriAught demand that any and all acts of Vibrancy be reported immediately to the Big Aught Police. Now for a reminder on Civic Duty: Don't ask why. Just comply.
He knew it was a matter of time before he was reported. He managed his way through his workday and returned home.
____
He entered to find Regale sitting at the small lilac table waiting for him. As badly as he wanted to, he knew there would be no avoiding this conversation tonight.
"Welcome home, dear heart," she said, her voice was a balm.
He didn't speak. He locked the door and headed to the washbasin, but Regale stopped him.
“Jethran,” she said softly but sternly. “Sit with me, my love. Let me look at you.”
He joined her at the table. Finally, he looked up and she saw it. The strike of purple color that now shot through his irises sitting next to the pink. She looked at him, not with fear, but with understanding. He looked back at the table.
“Dear heart,” Regale began. “There are some things we need to talk about.”
“What is there to say?” He looked back at his mother with tears in his eyes. “I'm a freak, Mother. A monster. I know you want to send me away.”
Her brow furrowed at his words. She had always done everything she could to make him feel loved and wanted.
“Jethran, why would you think that?” She assured him, “This is your home, and I will always protect you as long as I'm alive. But there's something else… something you need to know.”
Before she could continue, a sharp knock came at the door. Jethran gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. But she had no choice. She opened the door to find Martier. His presence oozed the warmth from the room. Regale instinctively stood between them. She tried to act as a shield. Jethran refused to look him in the eye, trying to hide his secret new color. But Martier never saw Jethran, instead his gaze went across the apartment to the lilac wood of the floors and doors. He saw the wallpaper with its deep aubergine background.
“Strange things are happening,” he grumbled. “The Uncrowned King is searching for answers. It's those fairies out in the Wilds, if you ask me.”
“I wish you wouldn't use such vulgar language,” Regale pleaded. “I wouldn't want Jethran to pick up such words.”
“Whatever you call them,” Martier explained. “Silvarii or fairy… They're winged demons, Regale. They eat lings…” he paused, as he looked at Jethran. “It's a shame they never leave the forest.”
Martier looked up at the shelf and the jar of tokens from Jethran's pay. He took it down, shook it, and poured the tokens into his hand.
"This is it?" He scoffed, "This is all the little flaw makes?"
"He works hard," Regale pleaded, her voice trembling. "It's an honest wage."
"He doesn't work," Martier chided, stepping around Regale. "Not a real job. Not according to the TriAught ledger. But I have a way he can finally contribute. Pay his way. Use that... condition... for something profitable."
"What are you talking about?" Jethran's stomach clenched, cold sweat prickling his temples.
Martier’s gaze settled on him, but the boy looked away. He didn't answer Jethran, addressing Regale instead.
"Your son is a drain, Regale. A liability,” the hereman said. “But he’s a spectacle. There’s a tavern, The Gray Mug. The heremen there get bored. They’ll pay good money for a diversion. For something… different to look at.”
The meaning landed on Jethran like ash. He understood completely. He was to be exhibited.
“No,” he said, the word a choked whisper. “Absolutely not. You want me to sit on a stool and let people stare at me? Like an animal?”
“You think you have a choice, boy?” Martier’s voice dropped, gaining a chilling menace. He stepped closer, forcing Jethran to look up.
“You live under my authority. You eat the food I provide. Your flaw is the reason your mother can’t work. It’s the reason you’re a drain on the Order. This is you paying your debt.”
“Mother, please!” the boy begged, “Don't let him do this. Not today. Not after… everything.”
“Martier, you can’t,” Regale pleaded, stepping between them. “He’s just a boy.”
“Regale, you must comply,” Martier turned to her, with a coldness. “You’ve been warned. What has gotten into you two? Would you rather I file a report? A Flaw this disruptive, this non compliant… the Council has protocols. They could take him for re-education. You’d never see him again. Is that what you want?”
The threat landed with a crushing blow. It was the only threat that mattered. Jethran saw the terror annihilate the fight in his mother’s eyes. Her spine seemed to dissolve. He saw her shoulders slump in utter defeat, her spirit broken by the words. She didn't have the strength to fight for herself, let alone him. Jethran witnessed the loss of his linghood protection. He knew the fight was over before it began.
“I’ll do it,” he said, his voice flat and dead.
“Good. Get your tunic. We’re starting tonight,” Martier said, as a triumphant smirk spread across his face.
_____
The walk to The Gray Mug was a parade of public shame. Martier’s hand was a possessive, heavy weight on Jethran's shoulder, steering him like an animal.
"Don't slouch," Martier ordered, his voice laced with satisfaction. "They should see the shame on your face."
Jethran forced his head up, eyes stinging, acutely aware of the blank, gray faces they passed. He was an exposed nerve, walking through a world determined to silence him.
The tavern was dim, smelling of stale ale and pathetic compliance. As they entered, the low murmur of conversation stopped. Every head turned toward the signal of Jethran's Blush. Total silence was the first violation.
Martier froze when he entered. Jethran looked at the tavern realizing it had been stained with the color he had released. The wood of the tavern was just like the wood of his apartment and the trees outside. Every table, every chair, the bar itself, and the floorboards beneath their feet. It all had been transformed from the dull gray grain into a soft lilac.
He knew that once he showed his face, they would know it came from him. Martier ignored the vibrancy of the tavern. He shoved Jethran onto a stool near the bar, then slammed the token box onto the floor with a thud that cut the silence.
That's when Martier noticed the dust from the sorting facility still covering the boy's face. He went to the bar and grabbed the damp rag that was sour from wiping up ale and vomit from the patrons.
“Clean your face, boy,” Martier spat, as he threw the rag at Jethran. “You know why we're here.”
Heremen with hollow eyes and lavender-hued gums watched, as Jethran slowly began wiping away the layer of dust coating his face. The patrons gasped when they saw that the pink blush had a ring of indigo within it. He ran the rag over his hair, revealing the streak of purple amidst the pink wave at the front of his hair.
That is when Jethran saw that one of the Heremen had purple eyes and a jagged scar on his cheek that the shade of amethyst. He circled the boy slowly, inspecting Jethran’s face, his hair, his hands, taking his time like a farmer assessing livestock. He leaned in, his breath sour.
"You did this to me," the hereman spoke with a tone that sounded more like a threat than a statement.
The humiliation and fear intensified as others joined in. Another man, older and stooped, stood far back, watching with pity that felt like a different, heavier form of shame. Jethran was no longer a person; he was a thing to be cataloged, judged, and dismissed. He saw them slowly beginning to realize that he had to be responsible for the changes everyone had noticed.
The pink and the purple on his face and palms glow in the dim tavern light. He retreated inward, becoming a stone in his mind. He stared at a knot in the wooden floor. He needed an anchor, anything to keep him from fracturing under the hostile pressure.
And he remembered the soldier's vision. He thought of how the mist pulled the soldier and lifted him out of his pain. He closed his eyes, focusing on the core of that vision. He built it like a fortress in his mind. He thought of the silence that enveloped the soldier. He didn't hear the crowd's jeers softening to confused whispers.
He remembered how the soldier was able to heal his wounds while he stayed disconnected from the world. He didn't see the new streaks of impossible color that was bleeding into his hair, swirling like smoke. Nor did he realize silver in his irises was being consumed by an new light. The purple on his palms was being drowned by a warm new shade. The heremen looked on in terror as the colors of his cheeks deepened as a new ring of strange color spiraled from the center.
The tavern had become quiet. The patrons were no longer jeering; they were staring with a terrified awareness. Martier was talking with the barkeep, whose skin was now a wild lavender. He glanced and the conversation stopped. He saw the impossible new purple color. He saw the light of this blue forming upon the boy. His eyes widened with a flash of genuine fear. He slowly stood and began to walk toward Jethran.
“Look at him! He loves it! Being a spectacle!” A hereman shouted from the crowd, “He is vibrancing right here in public!”
Jethran was oblivious. He remembered the hereling in his dream, unraveling the soldier's thoughts so that he could heal. He whispered the words the ling had said.
“Forget, so you can remember.”
In the very moment that those words left his lips, a second pulse issued from his body with the hollow sound of an exhalation. It was an eruption of pure cobalt energy. The heremen in the tavern were unmoved, as the blue light washed over them. The ale in their mugs turned a pale shade of azure.
Jethran opened his eyes just in time to see as the flames in each of the lanterns shifted from pale almost white, now burning with a bright cerulean. The sight of this happening caused all of the heremen to recoil, a few of them falling to the ground as they tried to get away. The wave passed through the lilac hued walls of the tavern, as it spread out touching the entire world.
Jethran stood panting, his Blush now blazing with two vibrant new colors. He noticed four silver lights with one glowing indigo and another cobalt. They swirled in place and then darted out the window. The room was chaotic. Heremen were screaming, scrambling for the exit, slipping on spilled drinks. The hereman with the purple eyes screamed as his tunic was now a bright blue like a pumpkin. He ripped it from his body.
The barkeep yelled out in agony, his entire body already stained with lavender, but now his hair was a deep shade of navy blue. A wem in the corner fainted as she stared at her reflection in the window, her hair and clothes remained untouched but her entire body was now cyan. The indigo and the cobalt energies had touched everyone, staining them and the world with vibrant hues.
"What... what did you do?" Martier stammered. "What are you?"
Jethran didn't answer, he simply shook his head. He turned and fled. He ran from the tavern into the monochrome night, the sounds of panic fading behind him.
He ran through the gray streets, his heart pounding, his mind screaming. He was running from the horrifying realization of his power. He burst into the apartment, frantic.
"Mother! Mother, we have to…" He stopped.
Regale was asleep in her bed. The exhaustion of the previous night, of years, had finally claimed her, pulling her into a deep sleep. He couldn’t wake her. He couldn’t bring this terrifying chaos to her.
The wood of the floors and the kitchen table now held the same soft, pale lilac as the tavern. The wallpaper, with its deep shadowy aubergine background and tiny smoke-hued vines and now it had little blue flowers. Even the light in the ceiling had a soft bluish tint.
He thought of the BAPs finding the evidence of his crime, of finding her protecting him. He had to draw the fire away, to become the sole target. He ran to his small room, his mind splintering. The violation of the pill. The shame of the tavern. The terrifying, beautiful eruption. The lilac wood. The cyan skin. It was too much.
He caught his reflection in the cracked mirror. He reached up, touching the foreign colors. His reflection had changed again. New streaks bled into his hair. Leaving him with blue, purple, and pink. The silver in his irises now had three strikes. He lifted his hands, and the mallow on his palms had a ring of indigo with a ring of cobalt on its inside. He stared, breathless, at the impossible new reality.
"I didn't... it just happened..." he breathed, his voice thin.
He heard the radio broadcast from the other room, its monotonous drone cutting through the silence.
...A reminder of civic duty:
Gray is the only way!
Martier. The heremen from the tavern. They were coming. They would find his mother. The evidence of the lavender skin and lilac wood would be damning. He couldn't be here when they came. He couldn't tell her because they would know if she was lying. The thought was a shard of ice in his gut.
"I can't stay here," he said, his voice cracking. "They'll punish her."
He grabbed his small satchel and stuffed it with a spare tunic and a loaf of ashen bread. He scrambled to the window, his movements frantic, as he pushed the flimsy frame open. He was climbing out onto the narrow ledge when the apartment door slammed open. Jethran froze.
"BOY!" Martier was standing in the doorway, his face was twisted in disbelief. He stared past Jethran, fixated on the purple stained walls, the impossible blue flowers, the lilac cot, and the haze of the blue light.
"You..." Martier stammered. " You can't run, boy. Wherever you go… the Uncrowned King... he will find you!"
Jethran looked back, his small room a terrifying tapestry of his strange power. He looked at the hereman who had made his entire existence torture him.
"Goodbye," he said.
Then, he leaped from the window onto the thick branch of a tree. He scrambled down its trunk and fled into the darkness of the Evenhere Forest.