Revolutions of Myrathra: Stained Glass Heart - Chapter 1

8 hours before the Flames begin.

On a sweltering end-of-summer afternoon, a young man sat on an air conditioned bus next to the window in the back. From the outside, a gaunt bronze hound leapt in a gangly stride, suspended mid-gallop in the bus' smatterings of blues and silvers.

“The Hound of Chullain, eagerly hunting your next destination!”

Outside the window, rolling plains cascaded into infinity as pillars wood rose out of the windwheat and goldgrass. Metal wire streamers danced and wove into patterns that sped by the glass, only repeating as the eye followed out of sheer habit to entertain the view.

Inside the window, Cassander stirred awake from the sunbeam cast on his stark white hair that fell around his shoulders and back, rubbing his eyes but keeping them closed as he sat up.

It had been 20-odd years since he was born in Circadia, 15 years since his family had moved outside of the Great Cities to the smaller town of Sandsprit, 5 months since he'd departed the City with a degree in nothing-that-would-get-him-a-job, 4 weeks since he'd planned to move into the city after working summer jobs, 3 days since he'd gotten the confirmation of his apartment, 2 hours since he'd gotten on the bus at the station and 1 minute since he woke up.

Cassander craned his neck to work out some of the stiffness from slumping over and trained an ear on the rest of the bus as he kept his eyes closed. The hum of the tires traveled up through the axel and into his legs, rumbling the floor with the occasional knick of gravel from the road 10-years-late for a re-pavement.

A wobbly voice gobbled in laughter over the phone, unable to believe the state their friend was in at her daughter's wedding reception. Air whistled through thin nostrils into a large chest and grinded into a low snore just behind Cassander. A monotonous check on a radio clicked from the front of bus, asking the terminal for an open platform. A nasally voice worn into rasp spoke with great remorse about the rager last night and the subsequent killer headache. Taking a deep breath, Cassander opened his eyes.

He almost immediately regretted this decision, and focused out the window to the infinite expanse of prairies, farmland and wire-pillars. Even out of the corner of his eye, the bus' old felt seats were stained with a garish ray of hues. Lavender emanated off of the wobbly gossipy aunt-in-law like a cloying perfume. Cassander's eyes stung and watered, and he blinked it away as best he could. The raspy hungover office drone bore a rusty grey into the back of his head, the hairs on his neck standing on end. It crept over the seat to reach for his shoulders, ready to wash over him at any moment.

The messy-haired pale man sprung up and gripped the bar in the middle of the aisle. With the lean of the highway, Cassander flowed into the pole and spun his heel toward the driver's seat. He swayed and stepped with each bump and shift of gear, trailing a hand over the overhead handles as he passed. The strain behind his eyes lessened as he walked and blinked, bracing for the front. A warm mote of orange hung in the air toward the growing city, with wisps of dark indigo and grey beginning to clear around the window. They briefly clouded over as Cassander meekly spoke, "Um...excuse me..."

A sharp look nearly stabbed him through the rearview mirror, bags more than eyes mustering whatever was left. Cassander briefly touched where the collarbone met the ribcage as he fumbled out, "Do you know which station the bus will be arriving at?"

The orange mote brightened, with a flicker into a more discernable shape; a well-fed cat that slowly blinked in the driver's direction. The driver's tone was level and tired, "Number 3 at Fortune's Bluff, downtown."

Cassander glanced at the feline vision and mirrored the tilt in the animal's head with a nod and a smile, "Thank you, I hope your evening goes well."

The clouded vision briefly lifted as the orange mote shone over the driver's face for but a moment. Cassander turned to leave and saw the smattering of colours down the aisle. A raspy cough followed by a groan came from the pallid businessman, wearily rubbing his left temple and the bridge of his nose. Cassander scrunched his prominent nose in a wince and quirked his mouth to one side.

Careful not to stumble, the pale man reached in front of his seat to a knapsack, with an unopened water bottle and extended it down the aisle. The hungover sufferer snapped his eyes open and looked between the water bottle and the offer several times before sluggishly taking it with an "mm" of gratitude. Cassander didn't bother with a "you're welcome" and swung back around to his seat once more.

It had been surprisingly quieter than other buses he'd taken in the past, though he knew it would most certainly pick up when he got to Circadia. Sandsprit had been well enough for a lack of noise, but he and his mother both knew there was little for him to do there. Certainly not at the hospital, anyway. Between the deafening clamor of the city or the maddening silence of the sticks, he wasn't sure which was worse. Two years in a degree and Cassander knew that his birth city would be an inevitability if he were to ever look for a place to stay away from Sandsprit in the long-term.

Gazing out the window, the rolling thunder lit through silvery-violet clouds. Drops began to hit and trail down the glass. The dark shadow of rain dissolved toward the earth in the distance, before Cassander noticed a shape move through the rain and up into the clouds again. And then it was gone.

He blinked and searched again, going back and forth on the horizon. Nothing. Resting his head against the cool glass, Cassander found himself dozing off again. He'd need the energy when he met his landlord.

Ozone ignited the air in a fuschia streak for the briefest of moments over the city skyline, as autumn rain began to fall.

The First Dream

I dreamt I was back in junior high school. My friend and I had stopped talking not too long ago, and Mom was still going by the hospital to visit Dad. She'd said there'd been a gas leak while he was trying to work on the furnace and he got blown through the window. The doctors said it wasn't likely he'd ever move like he used to after he recovered. Mom seemed to relax at that, but then it looked like she felt bad about it.

Since Mom worked as a caretaker, I usually just walked to school to save her time. I dreamt of those foggy fall mornings where the roads vanished into the grey horizon amidst blankets of orange, yellow and brown. Then I would hear the whispers.

It was always around this time of year, so usually I tried wearing earbuds to tune them out. Unfortunately, I'd lost my previous pair a few weeks before Dad got hurt, and money was tight while we were figuring things out. So that year, I felt the cold at the edge of my ears with no music to distract me.

At a crossroads, I dreamt about that bright red squirrel with the golden-furred tail. It would always store nuts in the same tree, but the town cut it away when it started to touch the phonelines of some older man's house. Said it "got in the way of his teams".

Then for the following weeks, the squirrel would just sit at the corner of the sidewalk and stare at the man's house until someone tried to shoo it away, and then it'd come back. It didn't starve, it didn't leave, it sometimes ate what people left it. No birds or dogs or cats ever bothered it either...I liked to leave it some granola and some raisins.

Today though, I didn't see the squirrel. The phonelines were down on the road and there were barriers blocking it off as construction workers ushered people along. A tree had fallen onto the old man's house. The obituary in the paper was a bit delayed, as it seemed like the old man didn’t have anyone nearby who knew or cared.

When a FOR SALE sign graced the house’s front lawn later in the year, I’d sometimes see the squirrel sitting perched upon it as I walked by - judging those who might approach the house.

That old house never sold.