The Elder: Lights of the Seven Kingdoms

By Phillipa Albion

Meet Aurora. A human born into ruin, forged in brutality, on the poverty-stricken streets of London. Skilled foot soldier and expert at gang warfare. A trained killer.  Tragedy strikes, a series of strange occurrences leads Aurora to cross over into the forbidden lands of the Immortals, to save her sister. Encountering a vampire, who saves her from certain death, by sharing his infected blood and turning her. Destiny whispers from the shadows and Aurora hears its call. Prophecy comes into being, The Elder return and vengeance comes for those with no soul to call their own. The Elder - Lights of the Seven Kingdoms Series begins.

Trained to protect the innocent and kill from an early age, Aurora has accepted her life of brutality on the poverty-stricken streets of London– to Fight or Die. An unfortunate accident takes place. Strange occurrences begin, starting a sequence of events that see her cross over to the Outer Realms; Lands of the Immortals, to save her little sister.

Her sister has been taken as part of an ancient Rite to uphold the Clandestine Agreement, sacrifices must be made to appease Earth and the rest of The Seven Kingdoms – to prevent war. An Agreement was made between humans and immortals, that divided civilisation, a long time ago, separating those with magical abilities from those without. The magics, called Immortals, left Earth, and migrated to the outer dimensions of the Seven Kingdoms, establishing a planetary system of home worlds for each of the immortal tribes.

 

This happened a long time ago, humans have forgotten their history, the Clandestine Agreement, includes a pact of secrecy, the details are just only becoming known. But this is no fairy tale and Aurora knows Happily Ever After doesn't happen for people like her, people who have lived a life of violence. The best she can hope for is making these worlds safe for others and gaining some semblance of control over her dark demons, in the process.

 

Aurora learns, a little too late, monsters and immortal beings are real. Polluted by the ancient curse of the vampires, leaves Aurora immortal and conflicted. Aurora must learn all the secrets of the ancient Rite and solve the riddle of The Elder, to save Earth and return home, with her sister.

 

 If that is what she is destined to do. . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pip
• Release date: Jun 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227995216

Book preview

PROLOGUE

There is a place. A strange place, on the outer edges, where time and space behave differently; multiple dimensions converge at a single point in time here, drawn, by the immense pull of power. A grouping of seven planets circle this part of space.

The immortals govern the planets that makeup part of the Seven Kingdoms. Six of the Kingdoms belong to the race of Immortals. Each one is a home world – a realm, of sorts, to one of the immortal tribes.

The significance of the naming of each of the planets has been lost in the midst of time now, but most are believed to have been named after conquering warriors of old. Let us start with the names and tribes that inhabit these other worlds, which are so vastly different from the Earth that we know. First, the Kingdom of Vulldune for the Vampires, fearless and cunning. The Kingdom of Attraides for the werewolves, loyal and fierce. Nimbuu for the witches and warlocks, symbiotes of nature and protectors of the balance of the universe. Tylerine is the home world for the High Elf Lords, lovers of treasure, and culture - longing to be rulers of all. Toova the lands of the Celestial Guardians of Time and Space, clever physicians, and masters of Lore, - too inward-looking, to care about the others, - now ruined, lamenting for times long past. Then, there is Pericullious, a world that divides the immortal tribes. Integrated, it is the pinnacle of all the home worlds, uniting the tribes, to an extent, under one banner. Governed by one king of the Immortals, at a time, a steward king – an elected Ruler sits on the Amber throne. Pericullious is the very heart of the universe, it sits at the axis point of the Seven Kingdoms, – the point of all creation. Abundant in resources and the core of all magical powers – highly prized indeed. The last and the most complicated of the Seven Kingdoms is Earth. Lands of the humans, once the Immortals lived alongside us and we shared the planet, Earth.

Most humans are unaware, blissfully oblivious of the other worlds circling them, just at the edge of their own reality. Humans are left alone but observed from a distance. They are a plague on the immortal’s minds, where war is coming soon, - to take back what is owed.

Earth is named as a part of the Seven Kingdoms because it is located in a stretch of space known as the Inner Dimension. The other six home worlds reside in the Outer Dimensions. These dimensions are separated by a kind of disillusionment, a fracture in space called The Void.

It was not always this way, centuries ago, the immortals lived amongst humans and humans had a kind of magic of their own. The Immortals became very powerful and were, eventually, brutally persecuted on Earth.

It was a violent time, not any different from the rest of Earth’s history, until the immortals became organised, coordinated, and begun to defend themselves against human hatred for being different.

The humans declared civil war on the immortals in 2036 BC. The magical folk were too few in number back then and were easily overrun. A great many were slaughtered.

Immortal leaders had conceded, at the time, knowing they stood no chance of winning, and the Clandestine Agreement was created between the immortals and Earth. All to protect their own people and keep magic from being erased, from stopping everything they held dear from moving forward into the oblivion of extinction. A deal was struck and the Immortals agreed to migrate, with magic, to the outer dimensions of the Seven Kingdoms and created the six home worlds separate from Earth and in truth, from each other.

History was made and history was forgotten. Things, that should have perhaps remained remembered, were lost in the mists of time and space. Only pored over by the celestials, who look to the past more than the future and find great comfort whispering over ancient history. A case of once upon a time, a long time ago. . .

Before all of this unsettlement, an ancient race of celestial beings, immense in power, called The Elder, held The Seven Kingdoms once, - before the immortal and human wars, and the first grappling’s for power.

I am only learning about this history myself.

Once upon a time, I was a human, but now I am something else, something that the immortals fear to name.  A prophecy there is, of one that will come to walk between the Light and Darkness, with the ability to break space and time – to restore the universe. To unite the Realms. A new order, a new pattern will emerge to take forward life across the universe. The Elder will return when The One comes forth, to restore all.

Chapter One - The Sacrifices Well Made.

A black background with a black square Description automatically generated with medium confidence I am sat here, and while I waited, I picked up a brittle, plastic pen, rolled it between my hands, and let the smooth outer casing slide through my fingers, it bounces a little when it hit the blunt surface of the table, in the police station. Making a small ‘puck,’ sound.

I watched the pen lazily, through eyes hooded in concentration.

How do I explain my story to this police officer?

He won’t believe me, what’s the point?

"So, Aurora, that your real name or your gangland name or somethin’? Either way, sounds stupid and made up to me. Not the right sort of name for a wanted killer," The police officer scoffs, with a toothy grin. He’s trying to get a rise out of me.

I responded with the sharpness of a withering look. Debating whether or not, to levitate the pointed end of the pen into his neck. My eyes flicked towards the door. I could do it, y’know, and it would give me a chance to make my escape, as well as some pay back for the insult about my name too, but I take a second to pause and realised I didn’t want to. I sighed, wondering if I had lost my nerve.

Glancing around the room instead. I’m looking for something that’s making that weird buzzing sound, or is it a sensation, rolling round the inside of my head – a sense of déjà vu is growing upon me, perhaps.

I sigh and lean back in my chair. There is no one here on Earth, who could come to help me in a situation like this. I have no one. I am alone in these worlds; it makes me feel like I am far away from the place I once called home - Earth.

I fear nothing. I have nothing except for my freedom; a freedom from being human that is.

I drew in a tight breath; my two hearts are pounding out a symphony in my ears. Building up the nerve, getting ready to tell my story to this irritating Police Officer. He will be shocked but what else is there to do?

I’m tapping the plastic pen on the table while I clear my throat. Oh, what the hell. Here goes nothing.

"It didn't start out this way for me. A human I was in the beginning, but I lost my humanity a long time ago before I had left Earth if truth be told. With a sometimes mother, a little sister I’m desperate to protect; and no father that I can remember or no father that is memorable to me would be a better way to describe it, you would too. To hear my story is to listen to a fable. To speak of something that is unimaginable, too spectacular, too unreal. But to speak of the unimaginable, the unthinkable, we must.

There were years before the beginning, there always are, no? But sometimes they are too mundane to bother to describe, but this is sadly not the case for me. Recalling my beginning would be a waste of my thought, a waste of words to me now, but I fear that’s what I am going to have to do. My beginning was miserable, but still, I don’t hold it accurately in my mind anymore. To my expansive memory the past is but a blot in time, now I am immortal.

Maybe my beginning is even too tragic for your ears to hear; to those of you who have no experience of a hard life. For those of you who are more accustomed, well, my beginning is no different from your own, my dear friend. Too painful for me to speak of at times, I must admit. I am the storyteller, and I get to decide what gets left in, please give me that much, at least. To decide how to tell my own story. It is my very last dignity."

The Police officer is not listening, he’s scribbling away on a form, not quite ready yet, so I lean forward and make a point of grabbing his attention, You will want to know something about my early years that will explain my character, I suppose?  Very well.

I stir, sitting in my orange plastic chair, rigid, hard and unforgiving on the curvature of my back. My injured dog, Poppy, sat on my lap – recovering from her ordeal, thank goodness. I can’t help but keep fidgeting, trying to find a comfortable spot. I needed this police officer to believe me, but I can’t seem to find the right words to begin, so I start looking around the place that seems so dull and ordinary to my eyes.

The police station we are in is rather barren and austere. Made that way, by the environment, but also, by the dead of eye humans, who work in this place. Losing their souls, wading through the human condition day after day, just to police these cesspits of streets, riddled with poverty and crime.  

I take in the flaking white-washed walls, the blinking strip light overhead and hide-all-the-stains, cheap, brown carpets – all reek of despair. But I sit in this plastic seat, and I am embarrassed, made painfully aware that I have become too unaccustomed to such brutal furnishings.

The Lands of the Seven Kingdoms, I inhabit, affords me nothing but luxury these days.

I am fidgeting quite wildly now at my disgust for the primitive plastic seat, while the detective inspector's cigarette smoke, curls upwards into magnificent, transparent whirls. Drawing my eyes to the beautiful ribbon of smoke, which announces pending death and disease to these humans. Not to me, not anymore.

The police station is in the backwaters of London somewhere.

I squint under the glare from a torturous, raw spotlight aimed at me, in the hope of intimidation – it is unsuccessful. It is, however, lighting up the small translucent hairs on my face. Each follicle prickles, flexing, testing the environment to feedback information to my senses.  My inner eyes are tormented by the harsh light, but I do not blink nor look away, showing grit. Determination. Instead, allowing dots to swim like gnats over the surface of my eyes.

The detective inspector is sitting before me in deep shadow, the outline of his tall frame folded into a plastic seat like mine. He is bent over writing. His name is Lloyd, he introduced himself when he walked into this little box room. Lloyd is under the misguided belief he can contain me in here and that makes him feel safe, but I’m afraid he is wrong. Very wrong.

I can keenly hear the scratching of his bitten-down pencil on the small pages of a rough, cheap notepad. Uniquely attuned is my hearing to my hunting environment – casually looking for a feast.

He is distracted, not paying attention again.

"I said... you will want to know something of my early years that will explain my character, I suppose. Perhaps, why I am in this mess? Hmm. he does not respond, nor look up, but curtly nods, in a bored fashion. Very well," I say.

A sudden screeching of the police officer’s chair legs sliding across the floor, announced his desire to pay more attention now that the paperwork was done – he takes his time to make himself comfortable and shuffles under the desk. The oblong table was positioned between us. His large face pushed forward into the light of the lamp, to join mine. Facing me he says, Tell it ‘Ow you want to, and I’ll ask questions along the way.

Now he’s near to me, I closed my eyes and deeply inhaled the sweet scent of his skin, deliciously close to mine.

My eyes glinted dangerously, with the luminous, glow of the predator I really am inside. My pupils expanding out to take in every dimple, every line on the officer’s face. Glowing, my eyes shine bright when I pulled my head back into the dimness of the shadows left by the flare of the spotlight –- taking refuge in the darker corners of the room. His smile slipped a little from his face. With the brief blinking gesture from me, he had caught a glimpse of my true self. Fear drenched his glistening face. I smiled.

He glanced at the door momentarily, gulping in his disbelief. But he knows something is not quite right, looking in alarm between me and the door, searching for an exit, after seeing the cold one within me for the first time.

I watched his reaction, I enjoyed it, but I did not want to reveal myself just yet, so I set about adjusting myself to my best advantage. Making a point of sprinkling a softness to my next words - all honey and saccharine - quite sure my words will snake out and whisper to him of tranquil summer meadows. Easing him, befriending him, caressing his ears, coaxing him with a familiarity, until he is defenceless. That is what my kind do, after all. The creature in me like a rattlesnake shaking its tantalising tail. I licked my lips and then I began.

"So let us start at the very beginning. Let’s say that I was forged in the brutal backstreets of London. . . right here.

Aurora is my human birth name. Named after some forgotten screen siren my mother had admired. The 1980s is where I will start my tale. I was living where the poor of London were shepherded by the wealthy to the low-rent districts; to share damp holes and live in cramped, warren-like spaces.

Multiple breaths, in the same room, where dank, fetid black mould builds up in corners. I used to see the mould as large black, bloated spider nests, as a small child growing up in those places, - the mould was allowed to feed on the weak. Forcing the poor to breathe in its ruining decay.

Poor families, and the decrepit, and the villains of the world, and whatnot, who can’t afford to stop the spread of the black mould, as it seeps through the ramshackle houses - consuming the poor and taking their young in the bitter cold winter nights.

Those people who can’t afford to use their heating or dry their wet clothes anywhere more suitable; you know the ones I mean. While the wind continues to howl on, whistling through bones and making teeth chatter, all the while ice forms on dilapidated rooftops, as punishment for not having any money.

Six to a room at least. No privacy for mum or dad or lovers. Everything is seen. Then everyone pretends to have not seen the truth in their comrades in arms - in the futile defence against a life of poverty.

The mind-bending violence, and the addicts, and the invasive misery, not to mention the assaults. The embarrassment of being done in, done over and the exuberance of being the alpha, the winner for a night - the power taken from others in the same situation as you. You know something, it doesn't last that long, that type of power - taken from the weak. Even the desperate rise up against the oppressor in the end. I noticed that even in my younger years. That type of power, taken from the vulnerable, turns to a greasy, queasy feeling that whispers in the perpetrator's ear telling them: that they are no good. So, I watched with a distant stare as the perps and the victims all kill themselves slowly; with drink, drugs and screwing; just to not be that person anymore. While bits of their soul abandoned them a piece at a time. They only wanted to escape the putrid person they had become to survive. It happens to all of us who remain in places like that, even if you have just been a helpless observer, like me.

Needless to say, I grew up where crime was rife. Even the do-gooders’ were afraid. Primary school teachers and volunteers and the like, who did find the stomach to venture into the interior of this urban hell to help the young and innocent; either were broken down by developing the same mental afflictions as us or ran as fast as they could the hell out of there.

Oh, I didn't blame them; I would have done the same thing given half a chance. So, there you have it. Got it? My childhood wasn't the best. I don't want your pity. Grateful I am for that beginning and you’ll see when nearer the end of this tale – my witness statement after the facts.

A cold skin slowly grew over me. It hardened and I floated further away from my own surface as a child. Plunging into my darkest depths. Hidden, I was suffocating inside, could only peek out through my large, hazel eyes. Watching the horror unfold around me.

I didn't have any friends growing up. I was described, and, shown, in a multitude of different ways, that I was someone who was thought of as antisocial. Sometimes it came out as I was ‘quiet’. Other times ‘withdrawn’, ‘a little odd’ and my personal favourite of them all was ‘In my own world half of the time’. People can silently show you what they really think of you too - the recoiling arm was always a dead giveaway that they thought I had a screw loose.

I escaped into my own brain whenever I could. I wanted to live there.

In actual fact, I was resigned to a life of chaos, of poverty and I wasn't letting anyone in or get close enough to break me - I was determined to survive.

Let me tell you a secret. Come closer.

Do you know how I kept myself in that state of unbreakable resolve? I’d made a pact with myself as a little girl; to get to the age of thirty years old and if my life had not improved by then, well, I would end it, and on my own terms. That’s tragic, you say. Yes, but also no, it’s a very practical way of looking at things. This was the reality of my life - abysmal.

This promise I made to myself, was a curse, of course, keeping me in a state of waiting. I unknowingly cursed myself that day because I didn’t understand the power I had back then. My power and abilities were nestled inside of me, incubating. Waiting for the right conditions to be released, but I’ll come to that in a bit. Everything changed for me, you see, and I want you to know can change for you too. You’ve just got to hang in there.

Now, where was I? Oh, yes, I was withdrawn back then. The only thing that roused any type of loss of control or emotion in me, was the thought of my little sister being hurt. Anyone, and I mean literally anyone, even looking at my sister sideways would get my knife in their belly and my fists pummelling their face.

My little sister was the sweetest, most gentle being that ever graced this foul earth. Sometimes, I just sat there and watched her playing on our threadbare rug, which covered the dusty, unvarnished, termite riddled floors – she didn’t deserve the desolation of poverty.

Through all the tough times, my sister remained unaffected. She would glow like an angel; singing and smiling, and I would see that she belonged somewhere else, somewhere better.  Inside a fairytale, where good triumphed over evil - always. Not in our grim reality of a life, where we shared one meal a day of unheated, jellified luncheon meat from the tin and a plain, stale piece of mouldy old bread; where our ‘uncles’ regularly turned from saviours to sinners overnight; and my mum would drink away her sorrows until we were so poor again. She’d spruce herself up and go out to find another horror story waiting to emerge. All for a bottle of drink. The scientific community say alcohol is used to remove the essence of something from another form of matter. This is exactly right. I watched my own Mother’s soul removed one unit at a time until there was nothing left but a dead eyed stare – wiped away. Gone.

On the good days when we were left alone, me and my sister would sit down peacefully for hours, her making dolls from old wooden clothes pegs, and me practising throwing with knives – both in our elements.

Unrelentingly, I protected my sister because she was good and pure of spirit. Not cut out for the world we found ourselves in. Sacrificing myself, I became what I needed to, to protect her - it was all for her. Not really caring about what happened to me in the process – but even I was shocked at how dark I would eventually become.

I collected comic books and became fascinated with heroes, the ones mostly dark themselves and used their shadows to dispense justice. Turning their disappointment with the world into a light of hope for others. Altruism, a teacher once said to me, Revenge, had been my reply.

I mentioned that I grew up in the 1980s, later referred to as the decade that style forgot. I started dressing my tall, lanky gamine frame in shapeless black clothes. My long dark thick hair greased down into a ponytail, which sat limp at the base of my skinny neck. My intense, death-wish eyes, were rimmed with a black kohl pencil, stolen from a nearby chemist - on the regular. The cashier not daring to show she was a witness to my theft.

My outfit and my scowl were all carefully put together to warn others off. To not draw attention to my frail femininity. Too hardened on the inside of my scrawny body, to be seen as soft.

So now, I have set the scene; best to get on with it and tell you about the journey to the outer dimensions of the Seven Kingdoms. What’s that you’ve never heard them? Oh, well, you soon will because the immortals are coming and there is nothing humanity can do to stop them.

Me and my sister used to spend hours on a Saturday morning combing the flea markets at Whitechapel, with our dog, Poppy - a stray just like us. Now, Whitechapel is best known for the brutal murders committed by the notorious Jack the Ripper. The area still carried a menacing quality because of it; like he was hovering over us, lingering, still there somewhere watching us all. Me and my sister loved looking around the market at all the things we couldn’t afford.

On one thunderstorm of a godless grey day, between the leaking plastic sheeting of the market stalls, I saw something that stirred my heart, but also, jolted me to pay attention - a sense of déjà vu stole over me. It was a memory from a long time ago, that I couldn’t recall in my lifetime or make much sense of.

But what I did know, the déjà vu had been brought on by something that had caught my eye. A long, battered, old tan leather trench coat, with dull golden military buttons - it had all of them still stitched in – a small miracle in that second-hand marketplace.

Mesmerised by the coat and the imagined armour it would provide me. My frozen fingers flexed involuntarily, to touch the soft leather – I was strangely drawn to it.

My sister kept looking between me and the coat, recognising the longing on my face, while we stood semi-covered, under the plastic roofing of the tarpaulin.

Freezing, slanted rain hit us hard, finding every entrance point onto our frigid cold bodies.

Clear off riff raff or I’ll choke your mingy mutt, snarled the street trader, leering at Poppy. He covered up half his face with a cloth cap pulled down over his pock-marked skin. He had an ill look about him and a horrifying sneer, - he terrified us. We wanted to escape his glare, so we decided to leave. As we did so, I touched the sleeve of the leather coat once more, with a subtlety, breathing in the leather then I let go and we moved on. I hadn’t wanted to leave it behind, but what could I do? I couldn’t afford something as beautiful as that fine coat.

The rain was torrential, driving down as hard as hammers, beating on our flesh. Drenching every item of clothing we had on.

Walking further on, we looked in the window of a Chinese restaurant, steamy and warm from the cooking inside, where fragrant smells of garlic, ginger, fried onions, and exotic pastes made its way out onto the pavement, making our mouths water. The requisite Peking ducks strung up by the dozens, on display, in the front window.

My pockets were empty; save for a crumpled and pitifully damp one pound note, in the same sorrowful state as my sodden black jeans.

I turned to look at my sister. Hand stretched out to offer the money to her – gifting her the purchase of a tub of rice to fill a small hole. When I looked down, just past my shoulder to catch a glimpse of the smile that was sure to be there - I was in fact, staring down at a space absent of her glow. Where was she? She must not be left alone in this neighbourhood, where devils lurk around every corner.

My heart started hammering in my chest. A sickness slid inside my belly as tight as a clenched fist.

All the warmth from the fragrant spices gone, in an instant. Replaced with a taste of bile from the heavy, restricting sickness, growing in my chest.

I called her name and ran, darting in and out between the market stalls, while the torrential rain got even heavier. The bounce back of that rain, hitting the pavement - leaping two feet in the air. The roar of it was deafening, I was barely able to hear myself think. The wind blew unabated into my face. I held my frozen hand up, protecting my searching and beseeching eyes from the onslaught of the gale.

I screamed her name and kept on screaming it. I threw-over stalls and pulled plastic sheeting down in my frantic search for her. A gaggle of people followed me, shouting at me to ‘Clear out. Get lost’. I was already lost, until I saw her shiny face come darting out from between the bones of the metal stalls of the market.

Running, she was running towards me - thick and fast. And with each heavy step, her feet exploded in the pools of mucky, black water collecting on the pavements. Loyal Poppy at her heels, tongue lolling playfully. Barking with joy, in the thrill of that moment.

In my sister’s arms, a flash of that tan leather coat I’d admired. She had stolen it.

Her mouth wide open, screaming at me with a huge adrenaline-fuelled grin on her face, while she was crouched low, dashing forward quicker than the pitter patter of the bullet-sized rain.

Come back ‘ere with that coat, ya’ repulsive little street urchin.

Looming behind her was the very tall, exceptionally large, and very red-faced bellowing market trader. His rheumy eyes, and belly protruded, with too much beer drinking, on the regular, but it was something else that made him sinister in appearance. He caught my eyes and started darting towards me, aiming to head off my sister - fist clenched over a wooden bat.

I knew straight away what he intended to do to us. The look on his face said it all. Not to call the police but hand down his own form of punishment; with his fists and his steel-toe-capped clobbered feet. He lunged to punch her in the back of her head.

"I don’t think so Mister, not my sister, you don’t," I spitted out.

Racing forward, I came at him. With a forceful momentum of my own, I leaped through the air and landed my fist on his leg, at the outside of the knee joint. Cracking the bones, which splintered and pierced through the skin - it only takes two pounds of pressure at this point of the human body to annihilate and break a leg. Did you know that? Well, I did. The school of hard knocks taught me every dirty trick in the book. I learned them all a little too well.

The street trader howled and collapsed in on himself. Down he fell on his back, flailing about. Surrounded by filthy rainwater, and even murkier looking Eastend passersby.

To the crowd he began appealing, wheezing out his screams of pain. The crowds gathered around him for the sport. Casual pity was offered but no practical help - they were only glad it wasn't them this time laying helpless on the pavement.

All I could hear when I picked up my sister in my arms and run with her towards safety, Poppy in tow, were the screeching of the police sirens, coming after me in the background, accompanied by the odd screamed out, No, it was those shitty girls, feral they are, I tell ya’.

Now, the dizzy excitement of the theft made me and my sister giggle out loud - eyes glistening from our shared ordeal being over. I smoothed down the back of hair making sure he hadn’t landed a punch. The streets of London darkened. We slowed down to a gentle jog, the nearer we got to the place we called home. Not drawing attention to ourselves was drummed into us from an early age. We had learnt early on in life; the more people took notice in my neighbourhood, the greater the risk you found yourself in.

We came to a stop at the corner of our street. My sister took the opportunity in this quiet moment to hold out the coat in her little freezing hands,

For you, she had proudly said – holding up the coat like it was a trophy, like she had won that day.

Leaning down to face her, my eyes travelled downwards to admire the coat and I gasped out my astonishment,

But we can sell it and buy some decent food for once, I tried not to gaze longingly at the long trench coat in her outstretched hands. She gently moved a sopping wet tendril away from my forehead, leaving behind rivulets of water to drip down my skin, unencumbered, and off my long aquiline nose.

Not this time. This is for you and when you wear it, you will remember me.

She touched my cheek with her tiny frozen fingers, which felt raised and wrinkled at the tips, then pulled my chin closer towards her. My gaze looked at the tiny little face of my sister. A sad ache settled in the pit of my stomach. I did not move my hazel eyes away from her aquamarine ones, currently so very bright. Framed by her wringing wet blonde hair. Our breath was frozen together, mingling in a mist in front of our faces being in close proximity to one another. We listened to the whistling of the wind, crushed together like that for a while. There were no other sounds apart from our own breath keeping us alive. I wanted us to remain that way forever – frozen together for all time. We were safe together like that.

Three heart beats past, while we looked at each other tenderly. Her last words had settled and caught in the back of my throat,

That’s a really bloody odd thing to say, I managed to choke-out angrily, my eyebrows as heavy as my words, but all I felt was a deep sadness. Lifting up, shrugging the moment off, scared of losing her. I finally moved away. Not wanting her to see me as I grabbed at my tears with