Ministrations: of the Brave

chapter one

Life Went On Every globe renowned war had its heroes. Their names can be whispered from generation to generation, read in history books, watched on the silver linen screens, even monumented. When was there ever a time that the ending to a notroscious battle forged the villain atop? In the naturals’ world (people of original soil) this will be unheard of for the rest of its years. Maybe even written as an entire myth. For the illusionists (people of evolved genes) it called for full power sources to keep the shell of this star from crumbling under their feet. Except it already happened, life was rolling on as the sun continues to chase the moon. As for heroes that recover after such monstrosities. It can go one of two ways, good or bad, how they make it to be will be its defining rule. The whispers still carry from street to street as she tried to refine the good in herself. A mere four years had passed, the good had taken its time to show on her face. Lyra Migorin, a purebred illusionist, that is petite with a slight busty outline, pulled her hood over her lengthy, straight raven locks. Tuning strongly on her oldies playlist to ignore these whispers. “Is that, yeah it's her.”, “Should she even be out?”, “I wouldn’t think she’d travel on foot anymore.”, “Did the imprints heal?”, “She will always be my hero.”. Her destination was a particular manor in an exclusive neighborhood called; Luno Maro. Sectioned off along the lakefront, in North Side Chicago. It was one of the oldest mansions to be stationed in North America, by one of the fewest clear gene (the strongest and most elite form of illusionists) families to sanction this planet, the Migorins. Its grand demeanor laden of detailed brick, iron work, with a fading spanish tile roof sitting above. Amongst the front a bay of rounding windows, to the left of the two cherry entries, that glinted stained glass. One door has many shades of a blue and green peacock and the other a cascading weeping willow over a quarter moon. Three stories with many bedrooms that aren’t needed for a family of six. It's decor inside maintained its crystal clear, angelic greek columns, stone floor, and the nostalgic three bowl fountain. Just in the center of the carpeted spiral staircase. A sleek statue of Athena holding her staff centered on top, began the waters pouring down the following slanted rings. Held up by a circle of peacocks that have crumbled over the years. When she filled her lungs with its atmospheric lavender her nerves completely settled. Her haven from every watching eye outside. “Dinner is about ready.” A familiar voice came from around the stairway. “I was really gone that long?” she asks, placing her jacket onto their servants outstretched arm. “You made it to all the meetings today. That is a great mark.” The voice then carries its owner. A scruffy older man in a mess fit teal sweater and straight black pants, with light cool brown curls appeared. A gleeful perfect smile curled to his ears. “I thought we agreed to stop bringing it up as progress.” Lyra nags, shoving her fist into his under belly. He exhales from its slow impact laughing. Her oldest brother, Medus Migorin, was now head of the house after their parents passed from the wars. The pedestal to all glory clear gene illusionists, not that the role was ever crossed in any of their thoughts. Looking at him would be the first thing to think, he was pictured too angelic to appear human. These days when he’s not managing an entire bureaucracy, he meddles in servant work at home, keeping busy. Still scornful of the war's losses, he at times couldn’t trust the vigorous lengths of his influences. “Where are the other brats?” she asks searching past him. “Thought they’d be home before me.” she assumed with her brow furrowed.“We’re in here!” yelled the second oldest brother from the dining hall. The two siblings shake their heads at the whining like a bird brother. Following its call to a miniature version of a feast, spread about an ivory sleet table. Fane Migorin, almost identical to Medus if not for the smear of gold in his tantalising gaze and longer wave hair. His form is more slender compared to Medus’ broad shoulders and bulk thighs. He was already in his bed attire, short cut sweats and a clean white shirt. Next to him near the end of that side of the table sat the youngest of all of them. No more than eleven was Jac Migorin, his hair was somber as their mother’s, full golden orbs that twinkle the dimmer the light was in any room. He was still in his training uniform, azure jersey with sea green outlines, tucked into platinum joggers stained of tree sap. Unlike the three of them he was more reserved, most likely due to the traumatic involvement of the war. He was only seven when it all started. “Did you get lost? Food is almost cold, meathead.” Fane teased, fixing himself to be seated properly. Jac smiled at that remark sitting still. “You could've started without me. Not a problem at all, you know that.” She said walking around the other side to her seat. Jac then gave her a disagreeable frown to which she acknowledged. “Unless, that bothers any of you?” She gave him the opportunity to speak his opinion. Only he sat still focusing onto his plate of roasted meat and steamed veggies. “I mean I don’t mind the wait, what about you Jac?” Medus sat himself fixing a napkin to his lap. The next moment they stood still awaiting his response. It wasn’t that he never spoke, Jac just stuck to what he did and if people changed it. He was too prideful to accommodate. He was as firm as the statues around the manor in and out. The other three have been trialing ways to get him to crack back out of that air tight seal. “We can wait.” he states hastily, eyes still on his plate, picking up his utensils to begin scooping food into his mouth. They all began to eat as well in an unspoken agreement, it was progress. After the plates were cleared they sat mingling on their days, waiting for their desert to be served. Medus and Lyra added it onto the menus for summer, all for the reason of Jac. During the school year he would be across the sea in Greece. To the most pristine school of illusionists studies; Murkwan Prepatories, where all degrees of bloodlines learn together to master whatever energy they possess. Eight long years to purtain what an adolescent acquires to adulthood. Never would a natural born human be gifted with extraordinary powers; and be expected to wield them properly in just a few years. For most illusionists those years are the most life long memory making ones. It was those years that Lyra attentively escapes every waking moment of her life. Not that she never finds any happiness, her inner glow was just blown out as a candle on the sill. As Medus and Fane quarrel about leaking discoveries, Lyra peered at her youngest brother. He sat patiently in his chair, silent as the calm before a brewing storm. She envied his strength to get through everyday a little farther than her. Given she was no longer the age of fifteen but twenty-two. Grief wore her youth to the bottom of a mucky barrel. Though she was positive her baby brother would want her to try as well. But before she could begin her own conversation a name swats through her ears, one she swore to never hear of again. Though she speculated Medus and Fane lowered their voices for a reason, the color of the room shifted menacingly. Lyra felt the air thicken in her lungs, her heart frenzied in a fit, she turned slowly.“What did you say?” she asks through shaky lips. Medus and Fane instantly remorse their decision to not wait and discuss it in the rug room. Fane sits back chewing on his lip nervously, Medus fixes his collar and clears his throat. “Audric, came by.” he starts steadily, examining her stature. “He dropped something off. Hoping you’d be here, Jori put it in your room she said.” There was a hefty silence.Medus twisted his hands over the other, Fane eyed Lyra from his side, whereas Jac remained oblivious to the situation all together. The following moment rolls by gradually, as did another, and another. If it weren’t for the cool of the manor beads of sweat would’ve slid off the brother’s temples. If it weren’t for the saving grace of sharply matched waiters, Lyra could have shifted the room upside down. They lay out pound cake parfaits in front of each sibling at once. Though the positions of each of them hadn’t inched a bit. Lyra waited until the room was only filled with them and spoke.“He’s back in Chicago?” she asks through gritted teeth, her nerves firing on end all over. The shock of calmness that expelled through her gave the boys their breath back. “Uhm yeah, I heard he’s been back almost a month. He was just able to leave his manor now that it's all fixed up and clean.” Medus explained stammering a bit over his words. Fane kept his composure digging into his frozen delicacy. “Did you all receive gifts?” she slows wording her question just right. They all shook their heads in unison still spooning their deserts. Lyra suddenly had no further interest in eating and excused herself from the table. “Bath then straight to bed saver.” She kisses the top of Jac’s head and speeds out the door. When the coast was clear Jac lifted his head from the cup. “She knows she cares.” he commented and returned to finish, causing Medus and Fane to choke.Travelling amidst the halls in a slight panic. She barges through the door to her moderately decorated bedroom. She walks past the wainscot outline with wine color wall above, parts of it littered in photographs. Two dressers of coordinating color to her storage bed frame of vermillion wood. Her bed cloaked with a plush tint grey comforter and navy blue pillows. Among the comforter was a single yellow chrysanthemum. Gleaming under the last burning rays of the summer day. She wouldn’t have to bother with wondering if he really gifted this to her. He was always one to leave formalities of love on her bed. She didn’t bother to pick it up physically, she effortlessly used her energies to the tip of her fingers, she flicks up raising the flower up to eye level. No note. Suppressing any sort of reaction she drifts the yellow beauty to her nightstand. Her insides coil into tight knots of mixed emotions. When she took a seat on the edge of the bed, a barricade collapsed, tidal waving a memory straight through herself.As Mount Arima Sends it’s rustling winds across Ina’s bamboo plains, I will be just as steadfast And never will forget you.Lady Kataiko, 11th century Her wrists flip the parchment over, no culprit to be found. A thirteen year old Lyra loosens a groan to the air. Never had she received something so intimate. Its contents were properly organized, neatly written, and folded as so. It was initialized so professionally that her admirer could be anyone. Especially to have received it on the most iconic date to gift love. Valentine's Day. She flops onto her dorm bed, too exhausted from the days work to ponder any more. Staring up to the ceiling she smiles swiftly placing the poem to her chest. Mouthing the words ‘thank you’. Returning back to reality her eyes flutter. That was just what she needed to ruin a perfectly knitted day. A man she had run away from hadn't even glinted his face to her. The very thought of him. No, the actuality that he so intimately hoped for her to accept an 'I miss you' in a most non verbal way. Lyra refused to even visualize how this encounter may have even transpired. Refusing not to filth another moment, she slings her robe from the closet as she walks back to the door.Molting under an acid hot shower, she was fighting any urgency to remember anything about Audric Voltrin. Reminding herself as to why she casted him out of her life. The reason they aren’t one in the first place. In the aftermath of the war she deemed it fit that they weren't meant to be together. Much to her distaste she did recall that once, everything about them was of purest energy as their own that flows to sustain their own bodies. No, she had to stop before it was far too late than it already is. Audric Voltrin has been out of her life. She needs to keep him that way or else it would be dangerous. Was it really dangerous anymore? Her tantrum just under the surface began to wriggle out. This panic wasn’t from heartbreak, no, she’s far too durable to even let that unhinge her. This was premeditated, a sunken bolder that had already slid off the mountain side. The memories are too agonizing to know why. She fell to the floor hugging her knees, pressing her face to her thighs. Maybe she was farther from okay than she previously had thought. This overwhelming sensation wasn’t as potent as it was the first year after the war. After everything about herself had fallen apart and stitched back together anew. When she felt the familiar drag into that abyss she fears to fall in, the one she worked so hard to fill up, she physically panicked.“No!” she wails, her energy instantaneously pulses out of her vessel. Shattering the glass door to the shower. When it went unnoticed by anyone else in the manor. The shower stays pouring onto her backside, masking the whimpering cries of Lyra Migorin, facing what after war heroes call, trauma.

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