The White Sun

The White Sun

    Legs moving swiftly through the afflicting heat waves of the dirt-trodden trails, Lavan navigated with the skill of an elder badger. Shouts filled the air as he pushed through the foundations of humanity, making tunnels under the noontime crowds that only one of his size could commit. His pursuers wasted no effort in etiquette, launching their obstacles into nearby walls and citizens of the streets.

    Another day dawned in Railez, and nothing out of the ordinary existed in the chase. The plastered faces of the oppressed paid no mind to the alorim, the city guards that tailed behind the small boy. Any sign of interest threatened the retribution from the men, therefore the boy’s fate lay beyond the peoples’ concerns.

    Nevertheless he did wind on, dodging punishing hands and wary of stomping feet. His size permitted him to ultimately outlast the large, well-built guardsmen, and their cries were lost in the ambience of the bustling Lower Quarter.

    Lavan made his way towards the Sun Gate that separated the slums of Railez from the merchant’s district, where the market-stalls lined the streets as far as the boy’s eyes could perceive. Roads were still laid out in dirt, but were larger than those of the slums, and more open to the occasional cart and wagon that sailed towards the harbors. The boy slowed his pace when he turned down his street.

    Yellow-painted stone reflected the sunlight in a way that brightened Lavan’s very being. His alabaster skin shone with the refraction: a stark contrast to his deep, black eyes. Feet pattered along the dusted walkway, well-spaced from the few figures that strolled beneath the sky. Lavan’s home sat above a small bakery, detectable even if his vision failed. The rich scent of fresh bread soaked in the batter of bold barley was prized amongst the residents of the Sun Quarter – one of the few delicacies that could compare to the towering estates of the Sky District originated in this very bakery.

    “Lavan!” an accented voice rang above the breeze, announcing the arrival of the small boy. Standing in the doorway of the establishment, the woman welcomed Lavan with a biscuit.

    “Aikan,” the boy greeted in proper fashion – she was his mother’s best friend, and since he was a babe he knew her as an aunt.

    “That bird has been sulking all day,” chided the baker’s wife.

    “I know! I will see to him at once!”

    A sturdy hand patted his bare back, giving a small push towards the stairs that led up to the apartment shared by the bakers and Lavan’s small family. Lavan took the stairs two-at-a-time, as much as his short legs could tolerate, before he beheld the warm sanctuary of home.

    The bakery’s air flew through the apartment easily, as the bedrooms and living areas were open, with spacious doorways and various windows. Multiplied was the scent in the hot sun that poured through glass. A soft voice sung a calming tune, and at once, Lavan knew that it was his mother: Mavet.

    “Aikan,” Mavet greeted her son before resuming her tune.

    “Aik-,” but an unexpected scene stopped the boy’s greeting short as he beheld his mother.

    Mavet was almost covered in an opulent, deep indigo – silk fabric draped over her nimble body, and a smile as rich as the smells that rose from the overs below illuminated her face. She held beauty as a river held its course, which was all that consumed Lavan’s thoughts in that moment. He came to when he realized what she was donning.

    “You are going to the rich place?” his tiny voice asked her.

    “I am,” confirmed his mother. “There is going to be a ceremony for all of the people.”

    “Can I come?”

    “No, child,” Mavet explained as water soaked her eyes. Lavan thought nothing of it, for his mother cried often even in times of happiness. Mavet cried especially in times of happiness. “It is a ceremony only for tall ones. You will stay here, with your aunt.”

    A childish pout protruded from Lavan’s lips, which led Mavet to ring pails of laughter at her son.

    “Another time, perhaps,” a gentle voice consoled. “I must finish, now – you know the rule, yes?”

    “Yes,” Lavan nodded, his pout replaced with a grin. “Do not let the nobles see our skin.”

    “Very good. We do not wish to insult them. Run along, now, and go play with your pet.”

    Lavan left his mother to finish, walking through the small doorways until coming to the only window in the apartment that held shut. In a small cage containing golden sunlight sat a raven. Its black feathers glistened in the blessing of day, though they rested still with the contempt of containment.

    “I am sorry to leave you here all morning,” the boy apologized. An irritated squawk! reprimanded his attempt.

    “I can let you out now, though!” Lavan cheerily affirmed, and soon he possessed the bird upon his slender arm. “Do you wish to go outside?”

    Squawk!

    “I know, Mama says we cannot go to the Plaza, but we can still walk around the Quarter.”

    When Lavan reentered his mother’s room, he found it empty. Her few cosmetics vanished, leaving the room to look as bare as it had every other day before. He skipped down the stairway, dodging customers that marveled over the intoxicating masterpieces. A mouth full of teeth was all his aunt received from him as boy and bird jogged into the streets.

    The Sun Quarter, however, lay deserted. All of the market-stalls that had previously held goods and wares from lands all around were closed, and the hordes of shoppers that moved down he boulevard were reduced to occasional walkers. Each headed uphill towards the Central Plaza.

    Forbidden to Lavan, the Central Plaza – where there was to be a ceremony of people.

    A squawk! from the raven assured the boy that it would not hurt to journey upwards to watch the gathering. After all, Lavan stood short, doubting that any event in Railez could be completely free of little ones.

    Climbing the winding roads that led to the acropolis saw the boy and his pet looking over much of the lower districts of Railez. They had entered the Sky District, where the dark-skinned nobility lived – the very place that was forbidden to all peasants that were marked by their paste-white skin. The peasants, however, had been summoned – and none refused the call of the alorim.

    A wall of bodies blocked the archways that led to the Plaza. All of Lavan’s efforts could never hope to see above the people that blocked his view. So, he tucked the raven amidst his arm and his side, and began to crawl through feet. Once again, as he had always done with the crowds of the city, he began to tunnel through the peculiar jungles. The towers he navigated were erratic, however, and many times was he struck with an unsuspecting person or an irritated sandal. Lavan finally saw a small ledge that seemed as if it could hold him. He soon claimed ownership of the land.

    What he saw rendered his mouth open and his dark eyes wide. Thousands of people, all with white-plastered skin and scantily-clad clothing, took up the entirety of the Plaza, which plotted itself large as it loomed in the shadow of the High Temple. Atop a large stage overlooking the gathered crowd dominated three thrones that shone more than any other being in the city; their golden frames lined with jewels, the gemstones set in the mineral spoke of considerable wealth even from afar.

    Roughly a dozen figurines stood before the thrones, all covered in the indigo garments worn by peasants when in the presence of nobility. It was there that Lavan saw something he had only seen twice before in his lifetime.

    Sitting upon the thrones, the alorim – skin as dark as night, and fabrics as expensive as Kings. Brightly colored and accented in luxury, their wealth was marked, and they sat worthy of it. One of the alorim spoke, his voice booming over the Plaza. Lavan could not understand the language for any of his schooling, for it was in High Tongue, and the only commoners who understood it were those that were educated to work and slave in palaces.

    As quickly as Lavan bean watching the monarchs, the speech came to a halt.

    One word shot through the air, so loud that it sent internal prickling down the boy’s spine. In the language of the poor, the word was easily distinguishable: Death.

    Figures emerged from behind the decorated chairs, all bearing great staves with blades on their ends. Cries of terror shut out the sun above as realization hung across the Plaza like a cloud. One of the citizens in indigo fabric was seized by a guard, and the large weapon cut through the robes. A head, covered by the cheap silk but distinguishable by its size, held high above the crowd. The alorim guard flung it into the Plaza. Rain began pouring down – instead of water that fell, it was the screams of the people as multiple projectiles smote them down – projectiles that were all that was left of the demonstrations of death.

    In mere seconds, the crowd did disperse as citizens ran from the scene. Another head soared through the air. It landed with a sickening crack, just yards away from the ledge that Lavan stood upon.

    Lavan all but fell from his perch. The raven sounded his disapproval of the noisy atmosphere, and ruffled its feathers to avoid being crushed underneath the boy’s meager weight. Lavan did not care – he did not notice.

    Broken before him, indigo fabric stained a dark maroon with sopping blood, lay his mother’s face. No realization hung in her gaping irises, and no smile lit her beautiful face. The lifeless orbs stared past her son.

    With a final caw, the raven rose into the air. As it flew, the bird’s black feathers flashed against the white sun.