The Fallen City

|Chapter XI: The Truth Hurts

"Dad?" Alban asked, his voice was still slightly echoey. He was starting to shake him gently. "Dad?"

"What." Gale groaned, batting his son's hand away. He brought his arm back, covering his eyes from the creeping sun. "Be useful and shut that curtain..."

His head rolled forward, eyes still closed. "What are... you... doing here?"

"Cory said you had a fight, that you needed looking after." Alban stated as he did as he was asked. For a change, Gale noted.

"It's clotted already, 'Al', go back to work." He grumbled, he examined the gash on his hand with keen interest, he could see small reflections amongst the thickening scabs. They were welcome to stay. He suddenly lowered his arm, locking eyes with his son. "When did you start being called Al anyway?"

"When I started seeing her, Dad." Alban said simply. Gale put his head in his hand, he could feel the dried blood crack against his forhead. "She said you cut yourself, and you had a heart problem, aswell as a CPS episode..." Alban took his place on the footstool. "Not a good day..."

"She's five years younger than you Alban. Get someone your age." Gale grumbled, pulling his hand away and reaching for his whiskey bottle. He needed alcohol, it was the only thing that made sense... Or made things make sense.

"Dad. Do you need bandaging?" Alban asked flatly, taking the topic back to where it needed to be, away from his father's stinging judgement.

"No, I don't need banging." Gale grumbled, raising the broken bottle as something thudded to the floor. "You're doing enough of that already."

Alban was silent. Gale took a mouthful of the burning liquid before looking at his son curiously. He too was looking at something, fear and what looked like wonder in his eyes. It reflected back at them, like it was speaking to him.

"Dad. What is that?" Alban asked, nodding towards the object.

Gale cocked an eyebrow, and followed his son's gaze. He thought he might've dropped his pocket watch, or the bottleneck.

In his kingdom, Gale held many treasures. Things that meant a great deal to him, or to someone else. Like a warden at a great museum he was their keeper, even if he did a foul job at it...

But there was not one thing, not a single heirloom or trinket on this Earth that now held as much meaning, as much promise as the little pebble sized crystal lying softly on the floor.

"Dad?" Alban could barely find words, his father couldn't at all. He just starred, his eyes were transfixed on the small rock. Light bent in mysterious ways, it made the carpet around it glow and sparkle. It shattered the light of the still creaking sun into its component essences, scattering them unnaturally across the room again and again. The longer the light rested on it, the brighter it seemed to glow.

It did not belong...

Alban reached towards Gale's bottle of whiskey. Gale wordlessly held it out to him, both were gripped by this... thing's presence. Alban cringed as he took a large mouthful before handing it back. "Dad. Where Did you get this?"

Gale tried, he really tried.

He tried to explain this peculiar stone, yet there was nothing else that could come close to bringing about its existence. He watched as its surface began to cover with tiny cracks, each one splintering through it's cast rays of light. The facets on its surface wore away into a fine dust that scattered in place of all those colours on the stagnant air of the flat. Each spec sparkled in a new light, like each one had captured one colour for its own.