━ phelix hale // d4 FIN
Jul 4, 2017 5:18:08 GMT -5
Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Jul 4, 2017 5:18:08 GMT -5
Happy family. As warm as a hearth. Marigold light and laughter reverberating against stale walls, turning them golden. The air always smelled like cinnamon and freshly-brewed mugs of dark coffee kissing the sleepy lips awake. Freckled features shone as if they were a surface of stars that clustered to form constellations. Their ginger locks, fiery and wild, and they were said to be visual metaphors for the hearts within their statuesque frames. Glints of gold shown from behind their dark lashes, hinting at the lion buried in their souls; deadly and golden. The Hale family was a chivalry without any chinks in their armors—only kindness and compassion. Since then, he should’ve wondered: how did they earn the word ‘chivalry’ when the flowers in their curls replace the swords in dusty scabbards?
First son. Only son. Phelix Hale; it was a title and an alias of loyalty, mother murmured before pecking his forehead and switching off the lights. But, there was no profound darkness for the stars’ glow filtered in through his window, a pool of luminescence in the middle of the room. No monsters under the bed, no creatures in the dark that went bump in the night. Nothing to fear; no wonder fear became something so foreign and bizarre to him. There were streaks of red and gold on the walls: crayon doodles on paper, images of knights, damsels trapped in towers that pierced through the clouds, lions, white-horses, golden empires, faraway kingdoms where the tides were gentle and the wind was kind but not one implication of violence and bloodshed. Since then, he should’ve wondered: how was he going to slay dragons and exchange blows with savages if holding a sword or knotting a fist felt like stones tied to his feet, dragging him down and down to copper-bottomed depths?
Since then, he should’ve foreseen the incoming test—an inevitable one at that—and should’ve prepared himself for it. It’s like waddling into an exam room, a skull filled to the brims with trivial information and devoid of the essential ones that guaranteed a pass on the paper. The theme of the test was ‘courage’ and failure meant cowardice. And, for a boy who saved kingdoms from peril in his reveries and dreams, he’d never gotten a taste of cowardice on his tongue.
Maybe if he had, he would’ve known how to conquer it.
“Go get some eggs from the market, will you, dear?”
Mother was brewing magic in the pot; after all, she made the best soups. Hastily, she reached into her pocket for some coins and Phelix, with a nod, curls his fist around the silvers. During that moment, he should’ve sensed how fragile his fist was; one swing and it would’ve shatter like glass.
He leapt over the threshold, dropping the coins into the silk-lined pocket of his shirt.
The market was a diverse place—merchants, fishermen, loiterers, thieves—all together in a few acres of barren soil. It was also his least favorite place. Threadbare tables and greasy cloths held baskets of goods—overripe fruits, little bottles, condiments. Dangled from wooden hangers were baggy clothes and flies buzzed in his ears, a frantic wave of his hands separating them from his locks. A woman called for him, her tone crafted to sound mellifluous. “A bottle for that dried skin of yours, dear?”
“My skin’s not dry.” He retorted, a mild rage building in his core.
“Everyone’s skin is dry in this district.” Truth spilled out of her words like a waterfall, yet he didn’t accept it. Doubtfully, Phelix brushed his fingers against his left cheek; taken aback when he felt its crispiness under the pad of his fingers. It was like touching golden sand specks—there was a rigidness he loathed in the texture. And there was a saline taste in his mouth, like he’d gulped down several cups of sea water. Sand in his pores and salt on his tongue; a shared feature throughout the district. He was just like the rest of them, he realized with terror, a commoner whose steps were looped and scripted, destined to return to this market again. A glimpse came to dilated pupils, an image of a man—tattered and terminal illness in his lungs—with dirty ginger locks, grime and soot in his nails, peeling skin and a fish net in his grasp, the sea surrounding him like a fighting ring. He saw himself reflected in the eyes of this man: a dying essence of a quixotic fool who thought he was meant for grandeur and greatness.
Briskly, he fished the coins out, silver and gold gleaming in his hands. “I’ll take two bottles.”
With an unsettled paranoia in his knitted brows, he made the trek back home, trailing behind silhouettes. He’d spent all of his coins on the two bottles, returning home bare without the eggs his mother had sent him to purchase. Above, the sun had recoiled back into the line of the horizon yet streaks of color lingered in the skies: yellow, hot red and warm marigold. Inky shadows ascended upon the symmetrical line of houses and small crowds were starting to form in dark alleyways, their indistinct chatters planting a discomfort in his throat—he gulped it down. He caught a glimpse of something silver from a man’s sleeves and instinctively, his feet picked up a steadier pace.
How did Phelix Hale dream of being a formidable warrior when the sight of an armed man was menacing enough to send him into a sprint?
He followed the path, every blade of grass trampled beneath his shoes and every crevice in the land a familiarity to the eye. It was his playground, nature and his laughter folding together like kindred spirits, a wooden stick that father fashioned into a sword a perfect fit to his tiny fingers. He scraped his knee and had gotten his first bandage in this meadow. And his family didn’t have to be anxious about his whereabouts for Reid’s father liked to look at them play from his window—‘them’ being him and Reid, self-titled as his best friend. As he rose his chin, he could see it right across the road: the house, whitewashed and fenced, like a small castle lacking a sesame.
“Mr. Rey—.” Phelix was nostalgic all over. Words tumbled over one another and dispersed as two dark figurines in the building caught his attention. One stiff; and the other giving off an air of ominousness. It was like watching a predatory animal who’d cornered its prey, right beside the window. He peered into the darkness behind the figures and only saw indistinct outlines—furniture, perhaps. There was something about the figurines—an angle as something silver caught the light, something deadly. There was another silvery gleam from it and the light gave a quick glimpse of it, a switchblade pressed against the trapped man’s abdomen. If his memory served his right, Reid’s house was wreathed with a grotesque glow of fluorescent lights at all times. He liked it there, under synchronized lights dangling from the ceiling.
Tension grew in his muscles and he made a sharp intake of breath. Then, he was running the other way, and he was sprinting, over the mud and onto the cobbled path that was said to lead to the peacekeepers, the house fading into a faraway white castle behind him. And, he found them, remorseless faces, their plain-white uniforms a visual metaphor for their hearts—white and frozen. There was a symmetry in their feet when they marched towards the house, guns held within their gloved fingers. A man burst out from the backdoor of the house; however his speed didn’t rival their wide strides. A few steps taken and they’d him surrounded. The roles were reversed—now this hysterical man was the prey in a ring of predators.
Mr. Reyes was escorted to a clinic, a few gashes and cuts on his face, neck. The other’s fate was much worse. Punched and beaten into a pulp. Phelix’s vision turned slurred and distorted as the tears coursed down—white hot on his cheeks. He could hear the heavy bones being crashed and disjointed, crimson spilled on the scrubby grass, fists swung ruthlessly and in the end, no mercy was given—he was left as a pile of broken limbs on the road, branded and called a thief, a mugger. There was no attempt taken to rehabilitate this broken man, only sledgehammers and fists to add more cracks to his collection until he was a hollow corpse, sprawled out on the grass, fingers loosely wrapped around the switchblade he’d used in order to survive.
It feels wrong and unfair, he thought as the sun dispersed into streaks of lilac on the horizon and the moon took its place, a crescent grin casting its silver glow onto the Earth below. Shadowed at one edge, it shone a guiding light over the path he was sauntering on. On the stones, he saw the blood of the man again, crimson and scarlet mixed into a deadly shade. Fingers reached into his pocket and he pulled it out, surreptitiously, its steel surface distorted into a wicked silver gleam under the moonlight. The switchblade felt cold and like a weight; the blood on it had dried into a thin crimson crust—the blood of a man who only needed aid and didn’t have the nerve to scream out a plea, thus resorting to a coward’s way of begging.
That night, mother didn’t scold, but she did keep one of the bottles, saying it was hers to claim. They quaffed down the soup—all except Phelix, who fiddled with his spoon idly, staring into the succulent contents of the bowl as if it were something alien. Silence wasn’t welcomed at the Hale dinner table; his father’s gaze on him felt physical. “What’s wrong, son?” His tone was half a curiosity, half a plea. The tension surfaced in his muscles again and this time, it rooted itself into his joints and tendons. He exhaled, air shaking out of his lungs and he sent along with it, the cowardice that’d begun to fasten together a lodge in his innards.
“I want to be a Peacekeeper.”
“What—.” Mother broke off when she met his gaze, the smolder of sincerity bringing a depth to his golden eyes.
“There’s a Peacekeeper Training Academy. I heard it was once the most sought after academy, even better than the one in Two. And, it’s making a comeback.” There is persistence in his tone, and a plea. “My entire life I’ve wanted to help people—.”But my mind is too weak for violence.
“What about your dyslexia? There will be lessons, son. Academic classes, harder than school. Studies of the law, those kinds of things.” He knotted his fingers into fists, nails sinking into the flesh. “I can work through it. I’ve never failed any classes in school.” The fists loosened, marks on his palms like red crescents.
“I want change in this district. I want to be a Peacekeeper that does exactly what the name says: keep and maintain peace in this district. Not through barbaric and savage ways—through compassion and love.”
“You are sixteen and a half. You can’t possibly think that we are going to allow you to leave home—.” Mother started but Father interrupted,
“Wait till’ the day you turn eighteen.”
A lot of things occurred in the two years—; a family slowly tearing itself apart. Sobs of his two sisters echoing throughout the hollow walls and thin mortar of the house. The gurgles from his father’s throat, the violent series of coughing. He'd caught him red-handed several times; outside and near the coast, flicking ashes from his cigar to the sand. He remembered that day in the market—seeing a man; terminal illness in his lungs. He never would’ve guessed the man was his father. They told him his days were numbered and within a blink of an eye, he’d perished to the acrid smolders of his cigars.
Death came in pale colors. The quilt pulled up around him was gray, the tangled linens of the mattress were white. His face was white. The only color in the room was his ginger locks, looking stiff on the snowy expanses of the snow. He turned to face him, carrying a slack and gray expression on his dying features, eyes devoid of their usual warmth. Mr. Hale was a strong man, cocked shoulders and clenched teeth. But when he smiled, it was like watching an explosion of light in a dark horizon. And he did when Phelix seated himself next to the bed. All of them surrounded him, like mannequins, holding his hands as his last breath pushed past gray lips and expelled itself: the last embers of dead flame.
He passed the entrance exam with flying colors.
They packed a bag for him, his two sisters folding the shirts and trousers neatly in a case and his mother, her touch like a delicate kiss of a butterfly, brushed her fingers against freckled cheeks. He rose his chin to meet her gaze and the tears welling in it; it’s a cry of pride, she said. With a finger jabbed at those fantasies, his mother turned to him, “These are going to become a reality, my dear.”
And just like, he stood in front of the white chapel, feet planted firmly to the ground and fingers knotted into fists. Just like that, he ambled out of the walls of a loving home in order to expose himself to the elements. In order to grow stronger. In order to be the hero he’d always yearned to be. And he carried the oath he’d swore like a totem on his shoulders—that he would never engage in something as barbaric as violence; that he would be of aid to others without having to swing his fists.
That way, he’ll never have to confront the truth he’d been running away from.
The
Truth
That
First son. Only son. Phelix Hale; it was a title and an alias of loyalty, mother murmured before pecking his forehead and switching off the lights. But, there was no profound darkness for the stars’ glow filtered in through his window, a pool of luminescence in the middle of the room. No monsters under the bed, no creatures in the dark that went bump in the night. Nothing to fear; no wonder fear became something so foreign and bizarre to him. There were streaks of red and gold on the walls: crayon doodles on paper, images of knights, damsels trapped in towers that pierced through the clouds, lions, white-horses, golden empires, faraway kingdoms where the tides were gentle and the wind was kind but not one implication of violence and bloodshed. Since then, he should’ve wondered: how was he going to slay dragons and exchange blows with savages if holding a sword or knotting a fist felt like stones tied to his feet, dragging him down and down to copper-bottomed depths?
Since then, he should’ve foreseen the incoming test—an inevitable one at that—and should’ve prepared himself for it. It’s like waddling into an exam room, a skull filled to the brims with trivial information and devoid of the essential ones that guaranteed a pass on the paper. The theme of the test was ‘courage’ and failure meant cowardice. And, for a boy who saved kingdoms from peril in his reveries and dreams, he’d never gotten a taste of cowardice on his tongue.
Maybe if he had, he would’ve known how to conquer it.
“Go get some eggs from the market, will you, dear?”
Mother was brewing magic in the pot; after all, she made the best soups. Hastily, she reached into her pocket for some coins and Phelix, with a nod, curls his fist around the silvers. During that moment, he should’ve sensed how fragile his fist was; one swing and it would’ve shatter like glass.
He leapt over the threshold, dropping the coins into the silk-lined pocket of his shirt.
The market was a diverse place—merchants, fishermen, loiterers, thieves—all together in a few acres of barren soil. It was also his least favorite place. Threadbare tables and greasy cloths held baskets of goods—overripe fruits, little bottles, condiments. Dangled from wooden hangers were baggy clothes and flies buzzed in his ears, a frantic wave of his hands separating them from his locks. A woman called for him, her tone crafted to sound mellifluous. “A bottle for that dried skin of yours, dear?”
“My skin’s not dry.” He retorted, a mild rage building in his core.
“Everyone’s skin is dry in this district.” Truth spilled out of her words like a waterfall, yet he didn’t accept it. Doubtfully, Phelix brushed his fingers against his left cheek; taken aback when he felt its crispiness under the pad of his fingers. It was like touching golden sand specks—there was a rigidness he loathed in the texture. And there was a saline taste in his mouth, like he’d gulped down several cups of sea water. Sand in his pores and salt on his tongue; a shared feature throughout the district. He was just like the rest of them, he realized with terror, a commoner whose steps were looped and scripted, destined to return to this market again. A glimpse came to dilated pupils, an image of a man—tattered and terminal illness in his lungs—with dirty ginger locks, grime and soot in his nails, peeling skin and a fish net in his grasp, the sea surrounding him like a fighting ring. He saw himself reflected in the eyes of this man: a dying essence of a quixotic fool who thought he was meant for grandeur and greatness.
Briskly, he fished the coins out, silver and gold gleaming in his hands. “I’ll take two bottles.”
With an unsettled paranoia in his knitted brows, he made the trek back home, trailing behind silhouettes. He’d spent all of his coins on the two bottles, returning home bare without the eggs his mother had sent him to purchase. Above, the sun had recoiled back into the line of the horizon yet streaks of color lingered in the skies: yellow, hot red and warm marigold. Inky shadows ascended upon the symmetrical line of houses and small crowds were starting to form in dark alleyways, their indistinct chatters planting a discomfort in his throat—he gulped it down. He caught a glimpse of something silver from a man’s sleeves and instinctively, his feet picked up a steadier pace.
How did Phelix Hale dream of being a formidable warrior when the sight of an armed man was menacing enough to send him into a sprint?
He followed the path, every blade of grass trampled beneath his shoes and every crevice in the land a familiarity to the eye. It was his playground, nature and his laughter folding together like kindred spirits, a wooden stick that father fashioned into a sword a perfect fit to his tiny fingers. He scraped his knee and had gotten his first bandage in this meadow. And his family didn’t have to be anxious about his whereabouts for Reid’s father liked to look at them play from his window—‘them’ being him and Reid, self-titled as his best friend. As he rose his chin, he could see it right across the road: the house, whitewashed and fenced, like a small castle lacking a sesame.
“Mr. Rey—.” Phelix was nostalgic all over. Words tumbled over one another and dispersed as two dark figurines in the building caught his attention. One stiff; and the other giving off an air of ominousness. It was like watching a predatory animal who’d cornered its prey, right beside the window. He peered into the darkness behind the figures and only saw indistinct outlines—furniture, perhaps. There was something about the figurines—an angle as something silver caught the light, something deadly. There was another silvery gleam from it and the light gave a quick glimpse of it, a switchblade pressed against the trapped man’s abdomen. If his memory served his right, Reid’s house was wreathed with a grotesque glow of fluorescent lights at all times. He liked it there, under synchronized lights dangling from the ceiling.
Tension grew in his muscles and he made a sharp intake of breath. Then, he was running the other way, and he was sprinting, over the mud and onto the cobbled path that was said to lead to the peacekeepers, the house fading into a faraway white castle behind him. And, he found them, remorseless faces, their plain-white uniforms a visual metaphor for their hearts—white and frozen. There was a symmetry in their feet when they marched towards the house, guns held within their gloved fingers. A man burst out from the backdoor of the house; however his speed didn’t rival their wide strides. A few steps taken and they’d him surrounded. The roles were reversed—now this hysterical man was the prey in a ring of predators.
Mr. Reyes was escorted to a clinic, a few gashes and cuts on his face, neck. The other’s fate was much worse. Punched and beaten into a pulp. Phelix’s vision turned slurred and distorted as the tears coursed down—white hot on his cheeks. He could hear the heavy bones being crashed and disjointed, crimson spilled on the scrubby grass, fists swung ruthlessly and in the end, no mercy was given—he was left as a pile of broken limbs on the road, branded and called a thief, a mugger. There was no attempt taken to rehabilitate this broken man, only sledgehammers and fists to add more cracks to his collection until he was a hollow corpse, sprawled out on the grass, fingers loosely wrapped around the switchblade he’d used in order to survive.
It feels wrong and unfair, he thought as the sun dispersed into streaks of lilac on the horizon and the moon took its place, a crescent grin casting its silver glow onto the Earth below. Shadowed at one edge, it shone a guiding light over the path he was sauntering on. On the stones, he saw the blood of the man again, crimson and scarlet mixed into a deadly shade. Fingers reached into his pocket and he pulled it out, surreptitiously, its steel surface distorted into a wicked silver gleam under the moonlight. The switchblade felt cold and like a weight; the blood on it had dried into a thin crimson crust—the blood of a man who only needed aid and didn’t have the nerve to scream out a plea, thus resorting to a coward’s way of begging.
That night, mother didn’t scold, but she did keep one of the bottles, saying it was hers to claim. They quaffed down the soup—all except Phelix, who fiddled with his spoon idly, staring into the succulent contents of the bowl as if it were something alien. Silence wasn’t welcomed at the Hale dinner table; his father’s gaze on him felt physical. “What’s wrong, son?” His tone was half a curiosity, half a plea. The tension surfaced in his muscles again and this time, it rooted itself into his joints and tendons. He exhaled, air shaking out of his lungs and he sent along with it, the cowardice that’d begun to fasten together a lodge in his innards.
“I want to be a Peacekeeper.”
“What—.” Mother broke off when she met his gaze, the smolder of sincerity bringing a depth to his golden eyes.
“There’s a Peacekeeper Training Academy. I heard it was once the most sought after academy, even better than the one in Two. And, it’s making a comeback.” There is persistence in his tone, and a plea. “My entire life I’ve wanted to help people—.”
“What about your dyslexia? There will be lessons, son. Academic classes, harder than school. Studies of the law, those kinds of things.” He knotted his fingers into fists, nails sinking into the flesh. “I can work through it. I’ve never failed any classes in school.” The fists loosened, marks on his palms like red crescents.
“I want change in this district. I want to be a Peacekeeper that does exactly what the name says: keep and maintain peace in this district. Not through barbaric and savage ways—through compassion and love.”
“You are sixteen and a half. You can’t possibly think that we are going to allow you to leave home—.” Mother started but Father interrupted,
“Wait till’ the day you turn eighteen.”
A lot of things occurred in the two years—; a family slowly tearing itself apart. Sobs of his two sisters echoing throughout the hollow walls and thin mortar of the house. The gurgles from his father’s throat, the violent series of coughing. He'd caught him red-handed several times; outside and near the coast, flicking ashes from his cigar to the sand. He remembered that day in the market—seeing a man; terminal illness in his lungs. He never would’ve guessed the man was his father. They told him his days were numbered and within a blink of an eye, he’d perished to the acrid smolders of his cigars.
Death came in pale colors. The quilt pulled up around him was gray, the tangled linens of the mattress were white. His face was white. The only color in the room was his ginger locks, looking stiff on the snowy expanses of the snow. He turned to face him, carrying a slack and gray expression on his dying features, eyes devoid of their usual warmth. Mr. Hale was a strong man, cocked shoulders and clenched teeth. But when he smiled, it was like watching an explosion of light in a dark horizon. And he did when Phelix seated himself next to the bed. All of them surrounded him, like mannequins, holding his hands as his last breath pushed past gray lips and expelled itself: the last embers of dead flame.
He passed the entrance exam with flying colors.
They packed a bag for him, his two sisters folding the shirts and trousers neatly in a case and his mother, her touch like a delicate kiss of a butterfly, brushed her fingers against freckled cheeks. He rose his chin to meet her gaze and the tears welling in it; it’s a cry of pride, she said. With a finger jabbed at those fantasies, his mother turned to him, “These are going to become a reality, my dear.”
And just like, he stood in front of the white chapel, feet planted firmly to the ground and fingers knotted into fists. Just like that, he ambled out of the walls of a loving home in order to expose himself to the elements. In order to grow stronger. In order to be the hero he’d always yearned to be. And he carried the oath he’d swore like a totem on his shoulders—that he would never engage in something as barbaric as violence; that he would be of aid to others without having to swing his fists.
That way, he’ll never have to confront the truth he’d been running away from.
The
Truth
That
He
Was
