Anaran sat atop an Ashuran tree’s top analyzing the dying orange sun. Its last vibrant rays reached like panicked arms, frantic to grab ahold of the forest canopy to prolong its inevitable dip below the horizon. Anaran loved sunset. Actually, he loved the blue sun, which could be first seen at sunset each night. It glowered a washed-out blue, but otherwise practically identical to its daytime counterpart.
He stared at the blue sphere for another moment, admiring its beauty. He’d actually proposed to it once. They’d known each other for a long time, so he felt it was time to move to the next level. On one knee, he proffered to her the ring he’d paid good money for, which had mustered a solid orange zircon ring. Anaran thought it’d go well with her blue hair. Contrasts were perfect together.
To his dismay, she turned him down for another. The orange sun. Anaran should have known such a dismissal would be unavoidable. She had been chasing her lover for millions of years, so there was little comparison. Still, it broke Anaran’s heart in three places. He could feel the cracks whenever his heart pumped.
He breathed a sigh with a smile. Deep blue cloth, Nesset, was draped over Anaran’s body with the most prestigious, but most useless, embroidered patterns. Loose shirt and pants with matching cloak. A king’s attire. And he hated it. Nesset was desert sand pressed together and processed until it formed a silky-textured garb—a Warden’s garb.
As a Warden, he was required to wear the wealthy clothing as an example to the people that he was better than they were. He wasn’t, of course, but that wouldn’t stop the Wardens placing themselves in such a position. All people loathed the Wardens, though none would openly admit it. They pretended to worship the leaders simply to avoid execution.
Anaran rarely got a break from the formalities, so he took to the treetops prior to his banquets. “Banquet” practically summarized his life. It was one banquet after another. The Wardens’ jobs were to keep a pristine image of themselves in peasants’ heads, and somehow visiting them, demanding a festival thrown for themselves, and then leaving for a year kept the people revering them. It was some sort of code that Klianory—the head and founder of the Wardens—set in place to install the chain of command.
A faint song sounded from below Anaran, voiced by a child.
Without pain, without harm, eternal life in Gallore’s arms
We should not fret or be alarmed, eternally safe in Gallore’s arms
The words were sung so beautifully it put Anaran into a trance, yet it was a simple nursery rhyme. He strained to catch a glimpse of the singer, but she, for the voice was clearly female, was obscured by the green canopy. As he attempted to stand, before descending, his footing failed him. He fell from the tree quickly. His expression remained emotionless as he reached out for branches to break his fall, though none grew close enough to grab.
He slammed head first onto the ground between two tree roots. The singing didn’t falter, so the child must have been oblivious to his fall. Anaran lifted himself and readjusted his cape which had nearly been unclasped in the wind. As he stood properly upright—but not proudly—Anaran began approaching the girl.
She was tall for what he suspected was seven, with blond curls that neared her elbows. Heaven-colored eyes were set around a small, smooth nose. She was pretty, but it was her perfect voice that reminded Anaran of his daughter. Sweet. Innocent.
Gone.
Anaran’s smile turned sour before he knew what had happened. His daughter and wife were both gone. He shrugged off the guilt that flooded him, approaching the girl. She was in the center of a small clearing drawing water at the well. Her small hands yanked the wooden dowel back and forth, up and down.
