The Prophesied Era

"There I was. Sitting underneath a long bridge whose reach could connect to continents. The weather was damp and cold, even the birds were wearing sweaters with money borrowed.

But me? I am a legend. I was shirtless at that time. Enjoying the gazes as the beautiful women passed, looking at me as they licked their plump lips and gesturing to their other friends but none approached. Unfortunate.

And then I saw it. The book falling from the skies above like Lucifer falling from heavens. It had an eerie glow. Calling and calling to my heart.

So I ran to it. Caught it in my two hands. I caressed it like a little child and breathed life upon it and it yawned.

I swear!

What? You don't believe me?

See! That was my exact same reaction bro. I was dumbfounded too but I am telling the truth. It even had wings."

"Oh for fuck sakes! Shut up and take my money. Now please for the love of Christ. Stop your rambling – my ears are bleeding."

This was the situation of a classroom. A classroom that had cameras on the corners of the plastered wall– painted just a day ago.

And the one whose narration attracted the attention of even the most boring people in the room, was the 16-year-old Zamian Silver.

Zamian had the capability to camouflage in with the walls due to lack of blood for he had anaemia– making him pale like those twinkling vampires in fiction.

Though truth be told, his face and presence was like a magnet, so he couldn't be ignored no matter how much he tried to blend in.

Hair as rich as umbra and eyes as the deepest shade of brown. In short– he was charm personified.

And right in front of him was his friend. Sandie. The captain of the school's football(soccer) team, who looked at him with veins crawling up his rugged physique.

As his blue eyes crackled with electric rage and the wind ruffled his short blonde hair.

He took out a fresh bill from his breast pocket and shoved it into the the hands of Zamian, who had a triumphant smile.

"See I told you. I could make you angry with my storytelling."

"Fuck off, you introvert."

Zamian chuckled, as he gazed at his best friend– who was angry yes, but still had a smile on his face.

Sore loser

Zamian thought as he rolled his eyes, his eyes briefly going to the substitute teacher who was kind enough to give them a break.

A stout man, who was a maths teacher but also chill. Didn't give them extra work or so. This was why Sir Brown (his mother didn't have creativity left in her. Sir had twelve siblings in total. The late father of sir had a lot of stamina.) was one of his favorite teacher in this academy amongst others.

Though in this academy, his attendance was quite low due to his health conditions that were as swirling and turbulent as a tornado.

Not only this academy. I have low attendance in every academy that I studied in, during the past days of childhood.

Must be why I never developed good communication skills. Only knowing storytelling due to internet. And also having confidence in front of this jock only.

Otherwise I usually become like one of those dark mages in games.

"Sometimes. You know. You are like one of those obsessive stalkers show in TV. Who go blank as they think and think."

Zamian bit the inner right cheek, as he turned towards Sandie, with his right eye twitching. Sandie at that time was smirking.

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"You didn't have to beat me so hard, you know. What will I tell mother?"

"Tell her, that Zamian did what she wants to do but can't due to her love for you– spoiled brat."

Both the friends laughed as they went together, on the sidewalk, watching how the birds hiding underneath the bushy trees. As the sun glared– aiming to melt every ice glacier in existence.

Zamian took out a pack, and from the pack emerged a white roll– which was soon lighted up and placed between the slightly dark chapped lips.

The fumes were swiftly inhaled and blown out, as Sandie coughed out harshly, still not used to the strong vapour of tobacco.

While the other pedestrian didn't even give the young boy smoking a glance.

First reason was because of his well endowed height and second was, they were all to busy with their life to care about others.

'Others should go to hell, one should only care about oneself' That was the common ideology in the minds of everyone in this world.

"Uhh. God fuck. When are you going to quit?! You are killing yourself day by day. Who the fuck even introduced this, to you?!"

Sandie groaned with a roll of his eyes as he frowned while Zamian simply chuckled. It was highly amusing for him, to see someone care for him. No matter how close one might be to another. Betrayal ran in the veins of human beings.

No matter how much one denies it.

Well,

At least according to me.

"Uff. Don't worry. I am not going to depart any time soon. Who would take care of your dumb self? And second I am not going to quit any time soon. Sorry.

Also don't worry, the one who introduced me to this, is long gone. May he rest in peace."

"Oh. How did he die?"

"Cancer."

—————————

The sun slept as the moon embraced everything in its crescent, as the owls of various hues left their abode, and made sounds to alert everyone.

Bats made sounds to alert them of any obstacle, going towards their prey as they fulfilled their fate as insect controllers.

Zamian plucked the keys of his home, from his pocket and unlocked the entrance door of his well-maintained two storeys home– inherited from his late parents.

He entered and closed the door behind. He locked it from the inside and pulled away the blinds, basking the darkness with the glow of the moon and then the lights were turned basking the great room(on the first floor) with warmth.

For those who don't know. The great room is a open space that combines the function of living room, dining room, and kitchen together.

The more you know. Gosh I sound like a nerd.

Zamian placed his bag on the couch and loosened his tie, and in just a matter of minutes. He was dressed in a comfortable housewear consisting of loose grey trousers and white shirt with no special symbol.

Just blank....

Like my life.

Lame joke.

He went to the second floor by ascending the steps, and he was in the hallway– separating his bedroom, an additional bathroom and library.

Just like him, his parents too were an avid reader of fiction.

He traversed the barren tiles and entered his library, a smile present on his face. Surrounding him were two to three large shelves filled with lots and lots of books.

He could've opened a bookstore but he didn't. His belongings were his. No one not even after death will have any ownership over it. Not even his children.

I am quite selfish.

He took out another roll and started to smoke yet again. The pain of headaches and past terror memories, long gone after this addiction of his.

Zamian wasn't here for any book. He was here for the so-called [Book Of Prophecies]. Rumoured to be an angel in disguise, when in reality it was just a family heirloom.

Though due to its intricate and peculiar design, one could confuse it, as something oddly divine and at the same time unholy.

He took the book out and gazed at the hard cover– which was more whitish than any snow ever and more brighter than the fire that burned in holy places.

There were drawings of beauties, and warriors of great old, each dancing. Dancing to the strings something that couldn't be perceived.

Something beyond.

In bold black letters that seemed to glitter, the name was spelled out and adoring it like serpents, were two wings. Without any feather. Just ethereal in nature.

The drawings and the font. Everything was handmade. Nothing was made from machine as per the knowledge of Zamian.

"The book cover was most seemingly made by a man with no wife or kids. Failing in life. Only having his ambition beside him to guide him through the cactus fields.

No one can ever make such a beautiful cover. Ever. One must be struck with madness to make it.

But I always wondered.... The painting could have been done in a broad white canvas. But so then why? Why did the painter make this brilliant piece just for this book?

I mean this is just a single edition that was in the family's safe for years to rot. But hey! Antiques are antiques. Especially one as good as this."

For there was no one, Zamian could talk aloud without a hitch of someone thinking he was mad.

He placed his slender fingers on the corners of the hard cover, staring at his nails that had became short due to his bad habit of biting his nails constantly.

Zamian opened the book– the yellow pages fluttered as they turned, leaving a crisp sound that wafted through the air, like aroma of a delicious cooked food.

Other than the yellow pages, the book was still in pristine conditions, no tears or wrinkles.

I am such a good caretaker.

Zamian patted himself on the back with his thoughts, as he instead of praising the book's endurance and durability, was praising himself.

[Chapter 1: The Eruption]

The chapter that started it all. The chapter which first introduced the hero. But just as he was about to read it. His cigarette fell from between his lips, down upon the center of the page.

He stared with horror, as he thought it would burn a hole– it burned the whole page and the other pages after that.

What the fuck? How's that possible?!

Zamian thought as he tried to back away, but he couldn't move. His soles were stuck and he felt the perspiration happening inhumanly fast.

He was becoming tired as immense warmth overcomed it, everything was happening too fast. But his eyes remained steady.

The pages were burning and so was everything around him, as darkness enveloped him. The darkness of the black fumes.

Shelves fell upon him yet there was no pain, only discomfort, all due to that warmth that was gnawing and gnawing like little sharks who had tasted his bloods.

The palace burned down, as the prince remained, the prince couldn't scream nor could he beg.

He simply sat, the pages of fate turning into ashes – and he released a gasp.

Thoughts known yet scary started to emerge and he fell silent. Darkness took him, motherly in her embrace.

Whispering and whispering but not in words that could be understood.

The eyes widened as he remembered the quotes, the quotes which acted as the foundation of the hero's growth. But why couldn't he remember further about the quotes and the later pages of the book?

Why the fuck am I thinking such thoughts right now?!

He screamed and then he fell. Crashing into the abyss.....

————————————————————–

The beast, severed was he into dices, by the great warrior of God.

God who had lamented soon smiled. A wicked gleam in eyes as pure as crystals.

Then he spoke out, the angels of the beast hid yet they fell and the gates of utopia was locked forever.

The beast had met his end from fire but his awakening was destined always to be from fire.

The fallen cheer and the dragons roar out, swearing vengeance to the deity ruling above.

The one they call all powerful and good.

"He was not true" screamed the beast and then he fell silent as the last of the dices fell and the great game of fate had begun yet again.

———————————————————-—–

True was his words.

He wouldn't spare even a single belonging for others. Everything must go away with him.

His home burned into ashes. The mortal ties broken.

Yet he had unknowingly left one friend.

A friend who cried out until his very own death. A friend who didn't dare leave his side till the day of his own demise.

Such was his love for Zamian.

That couldn't be understood by the eyes of men of ordinary stature. A love that transcends the minds of even the most mad.

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Happy New Year, everyone.