The Destined

by E. J. Mellow

  My announcement.

  Tomorrow…

  I swallow. “Who’s this Dreamer?”

  “He was a son of a politician.”

  I frown. “How will that—”

  “Lay back.” She tilts my forehead to rest once more on the chair’s headrest. “Now, take a deep breath and relax. We’ve done this before. You know there is nothing to fear.”

  Even so, it had never been in conjunction with my memory retrieval before. Surely there’s some protocol to follow? I watch Elena’s practiced movements. She hooks up the new Dreamer memory, swirling colors that lap inside a large, clear box. The Navitas within pulses and calls to me as it snakes through a clear tube—its destination the memory grid she snaps over my face, holding my head in place. I bite the side of my cheek in protest. I’m not ready. My mind is sluggish, sore, and tired. But none of that seems to matter as the glass over me pools with the reflective liquid, blocking my vision. And all too quickly two spots directly above my eyes drip down and force them open. It’s a frostbite grip as my mind suddenly fills with white and then bursts open, painting a new world of color.

  — 22 —

  I hurry through the streets of Rome, the yellow dust from the cobble-paved road kicking up at my sandaled feet as I try to keep pace with my father. The air is uncharacteristically cold for summer, and I pull my wool wrap closer to my body. I am a young boy named Vibius, in my twelfth year, but I am also Molly looking out through Vibius’s eyes at what I assume is ancient Rome. I—Molly—want to gaze at the bright painted frescos covering the buildings, but my head is dutifully facing forward, following the broad-shouldered man guiding our way. His cloak gleams the color of the purest milk under the early morning sun, the purple stripe down his right side vibrant in contrast. One must always display his position proudly, he would often say to me—to us—as our servants dressed him for the day. This of course made sense, him being part of the Senate, which in these times was made up by an elite group of the wealthiest men in Rome. It was a time for powerful growth from within these seats. After the assassination of Emperor Severus Alexander two years prior, Vibius didn’t need his father to tell him how our great city would change. You could hear it being whispered in the kitchen, along the shops, and among the men who visited our home, not paying attention to the child who played in our atrium’s far corner.

  Vibius and I can’t help shivering—the details of how our emperor’s brutal end came by the hands of his own troops is not something a young boy would easily forget.

  But now we are no longer a boy, at least not in our father’s eyes. We are to be groomed to be like him. When born into noble blood, into a family with two decades of Senate lineage, your path has already been paved. We would do everything and anything to make our father proud.

  Turning a corner onto one of the main market avenues, we pass tented stalls, the array of products showcasing Rome’s far-reaching trade. Fine silks from the East, mosaics from the South, and painted pots are willingly made ours for a bartered price. But we are not here to shop, and civilians respectfully move out of the way to accommodate our father’s confident strides. They know who he is—he’s made sure of that—and as we pass, he smiles at each and every one of them.

  Even the smallest ants, when grouped together, can move impossible things, he is fond of reminding us. You never know where your strength will come from.

  So we study the way he nods and shakes a few merchants’ hands, addressing them by name as we make our way to the Senate assembly. The citizens stand tall at his acknowledgment, and our father steals a glance our way. Yes, I’m watching. Always watching, learning, for we’re to be him someday.

  Time jumps forward, and we now know of two worlds, of Terra and Rome. The vision of our father by our bed, eyes rimmed red, swollen, and filled with relief once we finally awoke after the storm that left us asleep for days, asleep but living in another place, one filled with shooting stars and people who say we must protect them. Vibius and I resent this new world though. We don’t want to accept this other duty when we have a more important one here. Our heart contracts, recalling the love our father showed in that moment, the emotion he usually kept locked away.

  We will make him proud.

  We will support him in every way.

  We will be like him.

  The room shifts and changes. Vibius and I now stand by our father as he gives a speech to part of the Senate. He booms about how we must support our agriculture, pay attention to what we have to trade, nurture it, for the prosperity of these commodities will make us more powerful than any army. We stand tall, mesmerized by his words, and narrow our gaze at those in the room who dare challenge him. His belief is not popular. It is considered weak in the eyes of many, but they are all fools.

  A movement by the back door of the hall catches our gaze, and our stomach flips, finding the tall blond man who is supposed to remain in our dreams. I—Molly—can feel Vibius’s heart pound faster, a mix of anxiety, resentment, and excitement to see him now here.

  The Vigil’s green eyes, set against tan skin, latch on to ours, a small smile barely touching his lips, and we stare at those lips for a beat too long.

  “Julius,” we whisper.

  Years pass, and Terra is taking up too much of our strength and time, time we wished we had here, at home. Vibius’s desire to call forth the power found only in our sleep grows daily as more and more members of the Senate are heard muttering against our father. We want to end them the same way we do the Metus, for surely the same nightmares must be festering in the hearts of these corrupt men. Julius is there beside us, a staying hand to our shoulder, a silent word telling us to ignore them, to be calm. We listen even as our pulse jumps at the contact. He is our Vigil guard, but we—Vibius—wish he could be so much more. With the warm looks we catch Julius giving us, we know it could be possible, if we were brave enough.

  Vibius’s memories keep coming, days turning into weeks and then months, but unlike the other Dreamers I’ve acquired, I stay with Vibius mainly on Earth. The nights of Terra are few and far between, and I can only assume Elena, or whatever engineers are responsible for gathering past Dreamers for me, have clipped these out so I pay attention to what Elena deems more important.

  The time without a proper emperor has now gone on for a decade, and Rome is suffering two wars, agricultural failure, and political chaos. The taxes are high, too high, and the people are angry. But our father, always so careful to take care of the ants, has finally found himself in a popular seat in the Senate. They know of the persuasion he has among the working backbone of our great nation.

  Remember, Vibius, when victory is closest, so are our enemies.

  We are more alert now, for our father is running to be one of the two elected consul—those who will now rule our empire. And after the years of following and watching, we have cultivated the tongue of the serpent and the wit of the owl. Easily we flirt in this game of social graces and seamlessly walk the lines of the sticky web, eluding the spider. But still, we fear for our father. Already the few consuls before him have not sat long on their seats. Lies, deceit, and murder fill our everyday, death now a constant, both asleep and awake.

  In an uncharacteristic moment, we find ourselves alone, sitting on a bench hidden away in our peristylium, the back garden of our house, while our father holds a social gathering for his cause. Wine, music, fine foods, and ornate clothing adorn our guests, Tonight we are too tired to smile and nod and engage in the usual conversations. For once the politics of it all is draining rather than providing us the usual rush of accomplishment. We feel lonely and overwhelmed, this life leaving little in the way of true friendship. Is this to go on forever? Our thoughts are interrupted by the sight of a tall man, beautifully dressed in purple silks and gold trimming, walking out into the garden. An entourage of people follow him, and our heart quickens as we take him in. Julius’s blond hair is pale under the moonlight, his angular cheeks and strong jaw clean and smooth. We watch as t
he crowd of men and women are equally as charmed by whatever he is saying. One woman touches his arm with a laugh, and a spike of jealousy goes through us. We turn away.

  Time jumps forward. It’s late. Low candlelight flickers on the table before us, the only illumination in the political chamber of our father. We sit back with a sigh and rub our forehead, staring at the crisscrossed mosaic floor that stretches out into the darkness. We stayed up to organize the notes from our father’s latest meeting, for he is now one of the two elected consul.

  Even the smallest ants can move the most impossible things.

  While those ants didn’t have a vote, they surely had a role in our victory. We’ve dismissed the scribes early, wanting to be close to the parchments that have our father’s words scratched across. Our fingers linger over the etched-in symbols, the wisdom collected for all those in the future. A sound beyond where our light reaches brings our head up and our body to stand, but as we watch who steps out of the inky darkness, our mind calms while our skin grows warm.

  Julius stands silently regarding us, his green eyes, made honey-wheat under the candle’s glow, never waver from ours. His white toga is simple tonight, easily displaying the strength of his arms, and it’s not only Vibius who is under the spell of this man. I too take in this Adonis of a creature and understand his appeal.

  Slowly, Julius winds around the table until his sandaled feet hit up against ours. He removes the scroll that was tightly grasped in our fingers and, without looking away, places it on the desk. Vibius swallows, his heart wanting to jump from his chest, while I—Molly—feel guilty to be witnessing such an intimate moment. We glance to the lips in front of us, the way the bottom looks heavy, weighted in its fullness, and I can sense Vibius’s desire—strong, consuming, desperate. How long we’ve yearned for this moment, waited for our bravery to surpass our duty. And I, Molly, understand Vibius’s fear for the possibility of happiness in a world that is so often wrought with peril. But life is short, often unfairly so, and in this moment with this man, Vibius suddenly cares very little for any of those things, and finally, with a new strength, leans forward and claims Julius’s mouth with ours. It’s soft yet urgent, and as he responds to our kiss, pulling our body closer until we are no longer two souls, but one whole.

  The weeks that follow are filled with maneuvering political spiderwebs, exchanging secret Senate deals, and collecting intel on the quiet murmurs of a possible revolt among the Roman people. Famine has hit hard, the crops not responding well to the uncharacteristically cool summer, and two wars are being fought—on Earth and in Terra. It has been the toughest time we have ever had to endure, but it has also been the happiest. Taking Julius’s hand, we give it a quick squeeze, a smile shared between us, before turning the corner to the back entrance of our family home. The usual sounds of life, of servants and guards, are absent as we walk through the doorway, the atrium strangely deserted. The cool night air stirs the drapes that hang as separators to our garden, the few burning candles in the corners setting the space in a golden haze. The only noise comes from the trickling of rain water as it falls into the pool that rests in the center of our atrium, where the statue of Janus, our household god, juts proudly from its shallow depths.

  Something is wrong.

  We sense it even before Julius steps in front of us, attempting to shield our gaze that has already noticed something on the floor beyond the statue. We push past him, knocking away his arm as he tries to hold us back. No no no! Our heartbeat thumps in our head, and time slows as we lock on to what we refused to believe would happen. Instantly Vibius’s world, my world, collapses to dust.

  Abruptly I’m torn away from the scene, and I—Molly—gasp as my eyes blink open, released from the liquid that held them. I squint into the brightness, back in Terra, back as me, strapped into the Dreamer Memory Chair. It takes a moment for my body to fall into itself again, but once it does, it still holds the chill of the last image I was given, the last memory, and my stomach turns over in anguish. Glancing around, I find Elena’s puckered brows by my side, her lips pinched tight in silent frustration. I have a feeling I wasn’t supposed to see that last part. I swallow, the metallic taste filling my mouth like it always does after receiving a predecessor’s memories, but this time it mixes with the bile that has climbed its way up my throat.

  “Why did you show me that?” I ask, my voice hoarse and sounding odd after living

  through such a different person, in very a different time.

  “It was the closest experience we could find amongst our Dreamers that could prepare you for what you might experience after your announcement. What you and Cato might deal with.”

  Memories of the public gatherings with my father, Vibius’s father, speaking to the people, winning their favor, float before me. But so does the betrayals within our own Senate, the lies, violence, and never knowing whom to trust.

  “When was that?”

  “It was around 240 CE, as humans have deemed it.” Elena returns the memory to the library of many along the wall, the glowing blue box enveloped as it fits snugly back into its place. “What is also known as the Crisis of the Third Century,” she explains. “Where the Roman Empire nearly collapsed.”

  “Well, they certainly named it accurately.” I rub a sweaty palm over my pants. What had happened to Vibius? To Julius after that day? My heart grows heavy at the thought of the likely outcome.

  “Was that to warn me?” I ask. “That last part?”

  Despite Elena’s next words, her features stay their usual blankness. “The engineers messed up in their splicing. That wasn’t something you were supposed to see.”

  “But I did.”

  “Yes.” Her blue eyes hold mine. “You did.”

  “So what now?”

  She takes in a slow breath. “Do what is intended after these sessions. Learn from it.”

  Learn from it.

  I frown.

  My mind easily brings forth the last vision with Vibius, starting with the square stitched mosaics pattered across the floor, the pristine stone shining under the low light of the candles. Our eyes travel the length of it, stopping when it met a pale hand. Following the arm, we slowly walked around the statue that blocked the rest of what was hidden, our skin numb, disbelieving. The man’s robe lay in violet waves around his body, his other hand draped across his chest, where a chalice seemed to have dropped from his fingers, rolling a few inches away. Red wine marked its path, a stained pool that flowed under his body, dampening his toga and drawing attention to the bit of crimson snaking down the side of his mouth, mixing with white foam and purple lips. His eye stared up at nothing, and we fell to our knees, wishing we could share the same blindness. As tears streamed down our cheeks, we silently yelled for him to blink, but he never did and never would, for the fate of all those before him had found its way to us. No matter how well we played the game, despite our honorable intentions or our belief that goodness conquers all, we still found ourselves there, staring at our father—poisoned.

  Gone.

  — 23 —

  Sitting on the zipline platform of Dev, Aveline, and Tim’s building, I study the stars shooting overhead in their constant stream, trying to count how many souls must be sleeping. Tucking my knees to my chest, I lower my gaze to the lit-up metropolis that expands before me. The skyline glows blue and white and is cut by the crisscrossing hairs of zipline wires woven between buildings, the stillness of the city interrupted every so often by quick dark spots of citizens flying by. No one was home when I got back from my session with Elena, leaving only Hector and me. While I sit up here, he’s sprawled on the couches downstairs, book in hand. I was happy to get a moment alone. Despite the meditation after Vibius’s memory, my mind still twirls with too many thoughts and worries.

  Strands of my hair, which is pulled into a ponytail, brush across my face as a breeze passes by, and I push them back. The air is warmer than normal, reminding me of summers at my parents’ house, of my backyard and
the fireflies that flash between the grass. I used to think they were fairies dancing. Despite my melancholy mood, the memory has me grinning, and I decide to manifest them here. With my energy growing warm to cool in my mind, I imagine their yellow glowing bodies twinkling around me. In an instant the space I sit is lit by dozens of winking lights. They hover around me, the beginnings of an impressionist painting, and as one comes to float in front of me, I lift my finger, and it lands on the tip. Its black wings flutter as its backside pulses with light, sending a soft sheen to my skin.

  “Hello,” I whisper, and as if it understands, it winks in response. I smile.

  “Am I interrupting?” A deep voice comes from behind me, and I sit up with a start, glancing over my shoulder. Despite my sensitive hearing, I hadn’t noticed anyone approaching, a testament to Nocturna stealth. Dev slowly walks forward, his Arcus strap barely moving across his broad chest, and my heart kicks into a new beat seeing him.

  His eyes sweep over my tiny blinking friends as he sits beside me. “What are these?”

  “Fireflies.”

  His head jerks back as one comes close to his nose, and I bite back a laugh.

  “Fireflies.” He studies them suspiciously. “You have them on Earth?”

  I nod.

  “That’s a bit dangerous, don’t you think? How is that one not burning you?” He frowns to the one on my finger.

  I wiggle it, and the bug jumps into the air, mixing with all the others. “They don’t actually have fire inside,” I say, amused. “That’s just what we call them.”

  “Hunh,” he says dubiously, watching as I slowly bring the bugs to shimmer out of existence. With the last one’s disappearance, Dev looks to me, his blue gaze holding a bit of wonderment. “You know”—he pulls one of my hands into his—“you’re not supposed to be out here alone.”