children’s toys flying. 1200 and first block, 1200 and first block, 1200 and first block … Hopping over fissures in the long thin road that leads to his house, Wick keeps repeating the address to himself, forcing it to memory.
If only he can make sure his sword-happy dad won’t think to wake him for more training tomorrow night.
000 7 Athan
The Lifted City is quiet and serene, the cool light of morning pouring in and painting the walls. He’s pressed against the glass of his window, looking down at the perfect, perfect view. It isn’t a view likely anyone else would desire in the Lifted City, but he loves it to tears.
It’s a view of the slums below … expansive and webbed with complex streets and marketplaces, buildings poking up everywhere in the most fascinating shapes. Oh, he loves studying it at night through the smog that rises from it … all the lights and colors, the whole city seeming to explode in hues of red and blue and green, a starry nightscape to mirror the less exciting one in the sky. Athan pushes his nose against the glass and stares and dreams and smiles himself drunk.
If he lived down there … Oh, wow. He can’t even fathom the thrill he’d have, how much excitement his life would hold. A new adventure every day. Curious people with complicated, beautiful lives … Every moment on the spur, every friend is made for life, every brother and sister … Athan always wanted brothers and sisters.
Well, other than the ones he has.
His servant knocks lightly on the door, and Athan announces he’s decent, though he really wouldn’t mind spending another hour or two dreaming about the slums below. The servant enters and helps Athan into his clothes for the day, dressing him smartly from neck to foot. Athan fusses a bit with the shirt; they can never find garb that properly fits his short yet muscular figure, broad-shouldered and all, his top hugging him tight. His sister mocks him for it, but he loves working out at the Eastly Gym every evening; the area with the weight machines catches the setting sun in such an appealing way, he’ll stop his exercise just to watch it burn the heavens. A fuss is made of his head, the servant’s hands working to remedy Athan’s permanently disheveled gold-yellow hair. Despite its short length, it all seems to thrust to one side, strands poking about, little rebels they are. Nothing less than industrial-strength gel can tame them.
He’s finally brought downstairs, ushered to the grand hall where the long blue-white breakfast table overlooks the sky and the morning sun, more servants ready to serve today’s delicacies. When Athan’s seated near his sister Janna, his mother and father comment again on Athan’s lack of posture, which he quickly corrects, then smiles for their approval. His sister smirks, but it doesn’t bother Athan much; nothing can douse the flame last night’s excited city-watching ignited in him.
And nothing ever will , he beams proudly.
Janna complains about the temperature of her first course, having the plate sent away for correction. As the server walks by, Athan tries offering compliments, but his mother scolds him hard. “Athan. You will not address them directly. Must I tell you this every morning?” And Athan is reminded yet again that servants are not people.
But when he wanders into the kitchen later, he finds the nice server he’d given compliments to. The server even looks the same age as Athan, seventeen about. He’s got a handsome face too. Gentle in the eyes. “I just wanted to say, I thought it tasted really great. You have to forgive my sister, she’s … hard to please.” The server is too timid to smile, can’t even meet Athan’s eyes. “Here.” Athan presses a gold coin into the server’s palm. When their hands touch, his heart gives a jump, and he wonders for a moment if the gold coin were somehow electric. “No, please, take it,” he insists as the server tries to refuse, “as
If only he can make sure his sword-happy dad won’t think to wake him for more training tomorrow night.
000 7 Athan
The Lifted City is quiet and serene, the cool light of morning pouring in and painting the walls. He’s pressed against the glass of his window, looking down at the perfect, perfect view. It isn’t a view likely anyone else would desire in the Lifted City, but he loves it to tears.
It’s a view of the slums below … expansive and webbed with complex streets and marketplaces, buildings poking up everywhere in the most fascinating shapes. Oh, he loves studying it at night through the smog that rises from it … all the lights and colors, the whole city seeming to explode in hues of red and blue and green, a starry nightscape to mirror the less exciting one in the sky. Athan pushes his nose against the glass and stares and dreams and smiles himself drunk.
If he lived down there … Oh, wow. He can’t even fathom the thrill he’d have, how much excitement his life would hold. A new adventure every day. Curious people with complicated, beautiful lives … Every moment on the spur, every friend is made for life, every brother and sister … Athan always wanted brothers and sisters.
Well, other than the ones he has.
His servant knocks lightly on the door, and Athan announces he’s decent, though he really wouldn’t mind spending another hour or two dreaming about the slums below. The servant enters and helps Athan into his clothes for the day, dressing him smartly from neck to foot. Athan fusses a bit with the shirt; they can never find garb that properly fits his short yet muscular figure, broad-shouldered and all, his top hugging him tight. His sister mocks him for it, but he loves working out at the Eastly Gym every evening; the area with the weight machines catches the setting sun in such an appealing way, he’ll stop his exercise just to watch it burn the heavens. A fuss is made of his head, the servant’s hands working to remedy Athan’s permanently disheveled gold-yellow hair. Despite its short length, it all seems to thrust to one side, strands poking about, little rebels they are. Nothing less than industrial-strength gel can tame them.
He’s finally brought downstairs, ushered to the grand hall where the long blue-white breakfast table overlooks the sky and the morning sun, more servants ready to serve today’s delicacies. When Athan’s seated near his sister Janna, his mother and father comment again on Athan’s lack of posture, which he quickly corrects, then smiles for their approval. His sister smirks, but it doesn’t bother Athan much; nothing can douse the flame last night’s excited city-watching ignited in him.
And nothing ever will , he beams proudly.
Janna complains about the temperature of her first course, having the plate sent away for correction. As the server walks by, Athan tries offering compliments, but his mother scolds him hard. “Athan. You will not address them directly. Must I tell you this every morning?” And Athan is reminded yet again that servants are not people.
But when he wanders into the kitchen later, he finds the nice server he’d given compliments to. The server even looks the same age as Athan, seventeen about. He’s got a handsome face too. Gentle in the eyes. “I just wanted to say, I thought it tasted really great. You have to forgive my sister, she’s … hard to please.” The server is too timid to smile, can’t even meet Athan’s eyes. “Here.” Athan presses a gold coin into the server’s palm. When their hands touch, his heart gives a jump, and he wonders for a moment if the gold coin were somehow electric. “No, please, take it,” he insists as the server tries to refuse, “as
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