1 Prologue; The Gift

Don't rely on people because even your shadow leaves you in the dark - Ivan

It isn't very hard to make a mistake, even when you wanted to make one seem like the victim, it's frighteningly easy to give your intentions away even then- because at the end of the day, we're all just humans acting like experts when we're nothing more than newbies in a world too big, in a universe to wide to actually matter. But then it makes our lives interesting even when all the mistakes others made when with us hurt more than those we had made or even been said to us. Not always-mind. Sometimes we'd brake, like fragile porcelain dolls, pushed to far off of the high oak wood shelves in which we had placed ourselves, falling,

falling,

falling until we shatter beyond repair, or so we believe. I stared blankly at the far white so very white wall's of the hospital hallway, this was supposed to be an emergency, bleeding out from several wounds isn't a fun experience. But then every hospital in New York was overflowing with kneeling patients and wounded people, but then this was probably what the terrorist group had desired having flown the airplanes into the New York City towers, it could, of course, have been a mistake, but I highly doubt it, two planes crashing at nearly the same time couldn't possibly have been a coincidence. There was a lot of blood, nurses-since the doctors were all in surgery rooms at that moment- bustled around the hallways checking the wounds of those splayed out on cots brought out from the basement, frantically trying to keep most of us from dying. Meanwhile causing more panic than they had probably intended, a simple mistake but one that put a lot more lives at risk. Family members of those injured were shouting names and profanities at those lying in the hallways- there weren't enough cots for them to lie on like there wasn't for me either- adding pressure to the already crowded hallway, the little girl that had been near me at the time of the crash was out cold against me, and although I wished I could do something my body was already numb, paralysis was a bitch. But at least I wasn't in pain like so many others were. Then again perhaps that wasn't quite accurate, because at the way everything was slowly dimming and blacking out I'd be stupid to think I'd survive this night. The nurses were far too busy to realize one of their patients was dying and those wide enough awake were too shocked and aggrieved to notice someone on the floor bleeding out, the images of what had transpired earlier far too fresh for nothing less. Not even a moment later- or at least I think it was a moment- I was surrounded by ghost-like figures that moved so very slowly up an old eery gobble stone pathway that winded in spiraling circles up-up-up-up-up until the path isn't even visible anymore, nothing but pitch blackness surrounded the path, behind us laid an intricately designed gate that stood wide open every second a new ghost-like apparition would step through them, twisting and twirling around to inspect their surroundings. A haunting dong-dong echoed throughout the silence of the abyss, words in bold gold woven like silky spiders web on to the path-

THE GIFT HAD BEEN GIVEN AND NOW IT HAD BEEN TAKEN, WALK-WALK AND FIND ANOTHER GIFT ONCE MORE-

A warning, my mind supplied. As well as a promise. I turned back towards the path as a strong tug led me to continue my journey. We marched forward like an army on a warpath, stomp-stomp-stomp. Like a constant beat against the ground, our feet resonated like a bell in the empty, empty abyss. The path got thinner the higher up we went until we strode one by one higher and higher as we went. Soon the near constant dong-dong of a great bell drowned out the silence and our echoing feet, spruce doors blocked our way, as one by one and after each resounding hit of the bell we disappeared through them.

Dong!

I entered hesitantly, 42 high stone-like thrones circled a room made of pure blinding gold. They were hidden in cowls of pure obsidian black, casting long shadows on their faces. They were a sympathy of voices, no one male, no one female, every one a unity of emotions and tones of lovers and enemies alike. They spoke not out loud nor in whispers, neither did their voices echo, yet they did. They spoke as one, and not at all. It was disorienting, yet sent a spark of excitement coursing an unfamiliar path through my body.

"ELIAS TRISTON,"