Paragon

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

It is almost time . . .

The thought alone made his hands begin to tremble on the dirty gray windowsill where feeble fingers traveled along the edge from one hand, while the other held a folded letter that seemed as aged and brittle as he. A crease formed on the center as his thumb pressed against it, keeping it firmly held with the strength he had left, and it seemed as if he became weaker and weaker by the day. With every passing moment, it seemed even harder for him to carry out the most important parts of his daily routine: read the letter and wait.

As he looked out into the dry summer atmosphere, wisps of white hair fell in front of faded aquamarine eyes that had seen so much in his time. A blood-red sunset streaked the sky as waves of heat made the land bend and sway like the beginnings of a mirage. How he wished that was all it was–just a dream to awaken from–but he was always disappointed to see that the scenery never changed each day he stared out the glassy pane of his worn old home. In fact, it always appeared to be getting worse as time passed. The picture would remain the same, revealing a barren land of dying and diseased trees that surrounded the house that was hidden from view, the ground consisting of mostly dirt with a few patches of dying grass, and the skies painted like inky shadows from years of pollution and destruction. Paragon was dying, and he knew that as each day passed, so was he.

Lost in his own dismay, he was distracted by a glimpse of his grandson through the dull reflection in the window, a boy no older than fifteen. He always reminded him of a smaller version of someone he once knew and admired, a tall and thin youth with skin that was lightly stroked with a medium tan and dark blonde hair, almost a brassy tint when in the right light. It was as if time had been reversed and he could see the man from years ago whenever he looked at him, but the boy’s eyes were different, of a lighter blue and filled with a blind hope that the sadness in his grandfather’s eyes would one day be removed.

“Grandpa Herault?” the teenaged boy said with concern.

Herault slowly placed the letter back into the inner pocket of his cinnamon-colored jacket and released a long exhale through thinly parted lips. He turned once the boy moved far enough so that his phantom image in the window was out of sight, casual, calculated steps leading the aged man closer to the edge of the sofa that sat only a few feet away from the window. The same hand that once held the letter smoothed itself over the faded cream upholstery stretched over the arm while his mind drowned in a pool of distant whispered voices, familiar voices that overlapped and echoed from the past.

I’d like to become a Senator.

That man is a danger to the Chancellery!

The Book of Paragon must not be forgotten . . .

Take care of him for me . . . and give him this.

My task is done.

Kill him! Kill him! . . .

“Grandpa…Grandpa?”

The boy’s voice rang from the base of Herault’s right ear, and the other voices disappeared. His grandson was waiting for an answer, curiously watching him with worry overshadowing his visage. Carefully, Herault moved around the sofa and sat while at last he responded, leaning back wearily.

“Paragon was so beautiful once, so pure, refreshing . . . calm,” he said with a deep cracking voice.

Puzzled by what he heard, the boy stared closely at him to analyze what had provoked this sudden change in demeanor, having never heard him speak in such a way in his lifetime.

“But that was before your time, Luno,” he continued, folding his wrinkled hands in his lap and looking up at the ceiling.

“It was too long ago for anyone to remember, over two thousand years ago where history becomes lost in time, and the past is gradually forgotten.”