Those Who Shatter

Chapter 1: Ready or Not

Do you remember how those words tumbled from old Mariamne's weathered lips and exploded right into us? They left a crater, and I tried to jump the divide like the game of hopscotch we would play in the Orbs Hall. One time, you drew the chalked boxes too large, and I rolled my ankle trying to force my legs to grow as long as yours so that I could make the leap. We nearly destroyed all of those lives on the shelf that day.

But I forgave you.

And I'm trying to forgive Mariamne for placing that testament grenade into your hands.

I was twelve, and you were fourteen; she called us children. You hated that. You would flick your neatly cut blond hair from your forehead as if that was the thing that irritated you.

"Come, child," she whispered, wringing our hands between her darker ones. You wrinkled your nose when her iron curls tickled the palm of your hand when she leaned closer.

"Children," she persisted; her words smelled like spiced licorice and coffee, "do you wish to hear what has been foretold?"

Both of us knew that a Diviner's prophecy was not to be trusted; that the only truths we were taught to accept are the ones read in the Orbs. That is our truth: only Seers can read the Orbs. Diviners only read minds, and minds are liars of emotions. Still, that daring glint flashed in the depths of your amber eyes as you tilted your head and wordlessly challenged my apprehension.

"Ready or not?" I mouthed, thankful Mariamne's warm hand hid my shaking one.

Your reply was instantaneous, filled with the promise we had made two years earlier. "I come."

Together, we turned to look back up into the old Diviner's toothy, sagging smile. Your fingers brushed the back of my hand, drawing familiar patterns there: Lies, you wrote into my skin, only fun lies.

Out loud, you said, "Go on and tell us then, Diviner."

The impact of her prophecy still rocks me backwards, causes my outstretched hand to recoil into emptiness, a tangible nothing that acts as a barrier, and I'm caught between the empty wall at my back and the unknown that lies outstretched beyond my fingertips.

Back then, there had always been something behind me that I could grab onto.

You.

Mariamne's eyes met mine, her pupils blown out in proportion, and her prophecy became spiders that crawled down my spine. "There lives within you a secret you know not," she said, her words slow like molasses, but her stare burned with the explosions of stars when she turned to face you. "My child, your past is a ghost that haunts your steps, but a power rumbles the very bones of you that will fracture this skeleton."

I think you laughed.

We were young, and we did not know. I had never met a Diviner before, had never even witnessed one within the Orbs Hall. They had always been cloaked figures, an absence in the Shelves that always exhaled their presence in voiceless whispers and enticing mysteries.

It's a mystery I wish we had never unmasked.

O * O * O

When I look into the eyes of others, their secrets crumble into my hands, and I squeeze them into fists, forcing them to bleed into me.

Hidden in the depths of their pupils are words left unsaid. Mysteries. Hushed murmurs that drift through the clogs and wheels of their minds: she's our threat? but her arms are so thin—weak girl—looks nothing like her mother except those eyes— hasn't been Settling for months. They are chinks wedged into the gears, halting the thoughts from forming. From taking shape completely.