Ark of the Light

ONE: Angel of Soul

(To my dearest friend and sister, Darci, thank you for helping me create these wonderful characters and tell their story. May our story never end.)

Manhattan streets were warm, but the people were cold despite the turn from winter into spring. May had come around the corner, promising a bright summer. Yet, Christopher tugged his jacket closer as he made his way up the sidewalk. Near the University, the streets were alive with music and art and stressed out students trying to make finals. Christopher blended naturally with the scene. At twenty-one, wearing skinny-jeans and tying his black hair back, he looked the role of a university student—though admissions would never notice his tuition was unpaid. Similarly, his apartment land lord would never notice that his rent was never paid. All the privileges of the world played to his song, but he couldn't hold back his grimace.

The voices were loud today. The loudest of them hissed lowly into his ear. It begged for him to reach out, to break things, to hurt others. That day, it had been particularly insistent. Christopher crammed his clenched fists further into his jacket, avoiding looking at the passerby's. He pushed them away, as if physical distance would shut the voice up. Most days, the voice would faintly whisper here or there, and he only had the thoughts of others to decipher away from his own.

Part of him wondered if others shared his experience, if there were other people tormented by the mere thoughts of others, if there were other people twisting the perception of the people around them. After five years however, Christopher had yet to meet another person sharing his powers. Telepathy felt like a strange word when he rolled his tongue around it. Mind control felt even stranger.

'See, you're alone. There is no one left for you,' the voice seethed.

Christopher shook his head. It would do no good to try and argue with the voice. Last time he tried that; he was left screaming on the corner of the sidewalk at two in the morning. He turned the corner to his apartment. Tall glass windows created a modern look to the architecture. Taking out his keys, he let himself into the building.

'You've driven them all away. Your friends, your loves, your family. There's no getting them back. Why not burn it all down?'

"It's better when I'm alone anyway," Christopher muttered, pushing back memories of his parents. How long had it been since he had last seen them? Four years ago. Seventeen years old, but with one stupid sentence, he had forced them away forever. Then, slowly, he began pushing everyone else out of his life.

He opened the door to his apartment, but as he slipped inside, he left the lights off. His headache hummed in the background. Dragging himself to the bedroom, he reached for pill bottle on his dresser. Painkillers were easy to get when you don't have to pay for them and the doctor prescribes them. Without counting, he swallowed them dry. Finally, silence washed over him, leaving a dull thrum. He closed his eyes and sunk to the floor. At sixteen, he could drown the noise out with music and movement. At seventeen, he turned to self-harm, hoping to bleed out the noise. At eighteen, he thought alcohol could drown it away. By nineteen, he realized that if he couldn't feel, couldn't think, then the world would finally fall silent. With his powers, it didn't take much to convince the doctors to prescribe him anything he wanted.

In the muddle, Christopher felt his body grow lighter. A softness filled the edges of his drug induced haze. Sluggishly, he cracked open his eyes, a breeze tickling his face. Frowning, he turned his head to the window, squinting at the now setting sun. The window was closed, and his AC wasn't on yet. There shouldn't have been a draft. Brows furrowing, his gaze moved to his lap. Laying on his outstretched legs sat a sealed envelope.

Christopher pushed himself upright, stretching his abilities outward. How long had he been out? By the looks of it, only a few hours. But if that were the case, who had been in his apartment. He couldn't sense anyone beside the elderly lady next door aggressively grooming her poodle. He snapped his attention back to the letter. Gingerly, he picked it up.

The parchment seemed old, yellowing at its corners, but the black ink on the front addressing him was fresh. Christopher leaned forward, folding one leg under the other as he opened the envelope. Inside was a single piece of paper folded in thirds. Pulling it out, Christopher scanned over the letter.

Christopher Young

Do not be afraid. This letter finds you in confusing and trying times. The world is darkening as the time approaches. The Prophecy of the All-Seeing Eye foretold your coming. Seven Angles of the Earth shall join in the ashes, forming the Ring and the Key to ending a princess of darkness, a Shadow of a Queen. These seven shall be the Ark of the Light, for it is their duty to protect the Light. As the Angel of Soul, it is your duty to the Ark to serve against the darkness. If the Shadow Queen and her army prevails, surely you will face demise. Enclosed is the location of your haven. You fight not alone.

Fellow Angel,

M.

Christopher balked. It couldn't be real. It sounded insane. The location was no-where, Michigan. Plugging it into to google, he came up with a spot somewhere in the middle of a forest. It sounded like a good way to get murdered. Standing, he prepared to crumple the letter up and throw it away. But, as he got to his feet, he stopped. The drugs had worn off, and while the thoughts of his neighbors were a little louder, the voice had yet to return. There had been a warmth in the haze. It made his heart ache. He looked back at the paper, at the coordinates. If he went, he could always just leave. As a telepath, not much was keeping him anywhere. Besides, the city was bound to get boring with the college students out for the summer.

Grabbing his duffel bag, Christopher packed as much cash and clothing as he could. He could always get an apartment somewhere nicer if the landlord actually cleared the place while he was gone. As he put in some toilet-trees, he stopped to glance back to his dresser. Biting his lip, he stared at the little orange bottles. Caving, he grabbed two and tucked them carefully within a spare pair of shoes with socks as cushioning. Throwing the duffel bag over his shoulder, he picked his violin—a gift from his grandfather—and locked the door on his way out.