The Menyarian Project

HARLOT:

I wake to blinding pain.That, and the fact that I killed my family. That's the thing that keeps resounding in my head - you killed your family. I realize that a huge rock lies on top of me, and as I move it, my leg burns from the numbness the pressure of the rock caused. Someone lies beside me on the other half of the broken rock - a boy. A young man with short, slightly wavy blonde hair that's also slightly messy.

His face is almost angelic - he looks perfect. The only thing that makes him look entirely human and real is the small X-shaped scar on his lower jaw. That, and the small scar a couple inches below his left eye. But even those seem to be perfect. He has long eyelashes, I notice, and perfect skin - but paled from the lack of sun in the Plains. He's muscular, from what I can see, and he clutches a bow in one hand, a quiver resting on his back. I'm not sure how they remained intact during the fall.

I then see something that disturbs me - the black ink of a tattoo on his neck. I turn his head gently to see it better, and realize that my suspicions are right. 002, the tattoo reads. He's an experiment. The second. I brush his hair back from his eyes to discover the tell-tale teardrop gem on his forehead, right below the hairline.

All experiments have a gem - all different colors. His is blue. Blue eyes - all gem colors match the eyes. My gem is green.

He groans and shifts his body slightly toward me, making his shirt slide up a little to reveal his Sïgkil. It's just like mine, I think as I touch my cheek that was scraped earlier. Miraculously, the wounds are healed, leaving no scars. Which means that you still have the Sïgkil. Damn. I thought there was some good to having my face scarred. Turns out, it's not scarred and my Sïgkil is still there.

The boy begins to stir, rolling over so his body rests against mine. The heat from his body warms my very core; Menyaria becomes freezing at night, and now the cool air nips at me through my thin black clothes. I shiver and realize that I have involuntarily moved closer to the unconscious figure beside me. A wolf howls in the distance and fear chills my bones.

The Wolves here are but one way to die in the Plains. Experiments have left them feral and rabid killing machines. They will destroy anyone or anything in their path. The Wolves didn't used to be like that. They were once intelligent, majestic creatures, and many loved them. Now, all Wolves are feared for this one simple fact: If they find you, they'll kill you.

As another wolf howls, the young man beside me sits up with a start, nocking an arrow and drawing his bowstring faster than I've ever seen anyone do before.

"They're outside. We're... kinda in a hole," I say. He cocks his head to the side as if noticing me for the first time.

"Who are you?" he asks quietly. His voice is deep and matured, yet has a softness to it that leads me to believe he's no threat to me. At least, not right now. "Hello? Are you still there?" He sounds almost scared, as if I'm going to attack him.

"I'm right here," I say, waving my hand in front of his face, "Can you not see me?" He ignores the question and asks his own.

"Are you an experiment?"

"Are you?" I want to see if he will be truthful.

Instead, without warning, he puts down his bow and reaches for me. Even though I'm right in front of him, he completely misses, and we end up falling backward in a tangled mess, his head resting on my shoulder. "Sorry," he says sheepishly, sitting up and rubbing the back of his head. Yet he reaches for my face again, touching my forehead.

As he brushes my hair back gently, his fingers ghost over the gem that rests just below my hairline. His lips part slightly at his discovery, and a small smile appears at the revelation.

"You are...," he whispers, "What... what number?"

"Sixteen," I say quietly, ashamed of being an experiment.

"And... do you have the... Sïgkil?"

"You don't see it? It's right here, on my cheek." He lets out another sheepish smile and chuckles nervously. "Right. So it is."

"You... can see, right?"

"Oh, yea. It's just really dark in Menyaria. It's not that easy for me to see in dim light. But I can see."

His face is still extremely close to mine, but he doesn't seem to notice. I squirm under his weight, and he sits back up, blushing slightly. "Sorry," he mutters.

"What is your name?" I ask, curious.

"Ember Magnus. But call me Phoenyx. Please." I repeat the name in my head before he continues. "What's yours?"

"Harlot Mærwynn."

"Myur...win?" he asks, sounding out the name slowly. I nod. "That's different," he comments.

"So is Magnus. Actually, no. I think I've heard that name once before. When I was at Rokoni."

"Um, yeah. You may have. It actually is popular." He sounds almost nervous, and it sparks my curiosity. I don't act upon it, though. Instead, a sudden tremor hits me, and I long for a fire. I imagine it in such detail that I can actually smell the smoke, feel the warmth, hear the roaring of the flames.

"H-Harlot? There's... um... a fire." Phoenyx's voice cuts through my dreams, and I open my eyes to see those dreams a reality. It's true - there is a fire. But it isn't on the ground.

It's in my hands.