Un jour, à Paris... [narrative] [part one]
If there was one thing that Samuel loved more than learning about the ancient texts, it was seeing the world first-hand. It wasn't Jerusalem, but Paris was still amazing to be caught in the middle of. And as much as Father Eli repeated aggressive phrases about prostitutes and damn-nation within the city walls, the acolyte boy still saw Paris in all her beauty and near erotic nature.
The Arc De Triomphe stood towering above the religious duo, shadowing them from the brilliant light of the mid-day sun. The cloth chatter of the giant blue, white, and red flag snapped and whipped in the air above them, currently entrancing the pre-teen with its magnificence.
Samuel knelt before the base of the monument, pausing to fix the unclasped bobby-pin that held the hem of his pant leg together and to retie his shoelaces. They had walked from the hotel, which made his legs ache, but every step deeper into Paris made him that much more excited to see the world around him, however much it battered his shoelaces.
Before the boy lay the gravestone that honored the unnamed soldiers of the First and Second World War's. The eternal flame at the head of the massive slab of darkened marble fluttered in the breeze, sending ichor black smoke to dissolve into the air. Though no material fuel spawned the amber flame, a slick crackle emmitted from the brass dish. Odd...
Maybe it was the fire, or perhaps it was the scent of the heated metal, but the boy found himself lost to the element. Keen brown eyes remained with their gaze glued on the relic tomb, letting its path roam over the lines of engraved letters. ICI REPOSE UN SOLDAT FRANÇAIS MORT POUR LA PATRIE 1914-1918.
Those words soaked him up like water to a dry sponge. It held him, keeping him from even the sounds of the grumbling priest standing right beside him. The traffic, the people, even the sounds of nature was made into a hollow silence. The only thing he could hear was his own breath, slowly living inside of him. In. Out. In, shaky and shallow. Out, quick and defined.
In. Out.
"The dead need space to rise, my son." Cold, almost disturbing speech from just above him. Samuel let his gaze lift, finding the rotted face of a mortal man. Or what was once a mortal man, he hoped.
Still caught in the clout of the tomb frozen in time, the boy breathed his fear out, as he had no use for it in a mind already taken by the monument's eerie calm. "...what?"
Like out of a dream, the boy returned to the realm of the now, starting at the sound of a car horn just to the East. When those earthy eyes came back to the figure behind him, they saw no death or rot or any sign of corruption to the soul. A man, probably in his mid to late thirties, stood over him.
Half of his pale face lay shrouded behind fading brown hair that swept down to his chin. A dull stare met Samuel's own, made by a pair of grey-blue eyes. And even with the deadpan expression and rather boring attire, there was something there from before, something that the boy didn't feel around the normal kind of man. It was very similar to the feeling he had when he was with Eli. ...Safety.
"I said, 'Move it, Tiny. You're in my light.'" That odd voice was not found this time. Instead, it was coarse and damaged. This man was a smoker, which was obvious even without the heavy smell of cigarettes and cheap cologne.
The Arc De Triomphe stood towering above the religious duo, shadowing them from the brilliant light of the mid-day sun. The cloth chatter of the giant blue, white, and red flag snapped and whipped in the air above them, currently entrancing the pre-teen with its magnificence.
Samuel knelt before the base of the monument, pausing to fix the unclasped bobby-pin that held the hem of his pant leg together and to retie his shoelaces. They had walked from the hotel, which made his legs ache, but every step deeper into Paris made him that much more excited to see the world around him, however much it battered his shoelaces.
Before the boy lay the gravestone that honored the unnamed soldiers of the First and Second World War's. The eternal flame at the head of the massive slab of darkened marble fluttered in the breeze, sending ichor black smoke to dissolve into the air. Though no material fuel spawned the amber flame, a slick crackle emmitted from the brass dish. Odd...
Maybe it was the fire, or perhaps it was the scent of the heated metal, but the boy found himself lost to the element. Keen brown eyes remained with their gaze glued on the relic tomb, letting its path roam over the lines of engraved letters. ICI REPOSE UN SOLDAT FRANÇAIS MORT POUR LA PATRIE 1914-1918.
Those words soaked him up like water to a dry sponge. It held him, keeping him from even the sounds of the grumbling priest standing right beside him. The traffic, the people, even the sounds of nature was made into a hollow silence. The only thing he could hear was his own breath, slowly living inside of him. In. Out. In, shaky and shallow. Out, quick and defined.
In. Out.
"The dead need space to rise, my son." Cold, almost disturbing speech from just above him. Samuel let his gaze lift, finding the rotted face of a mortal man. Or what was once a mortal man, he hoped.
Still caught in the clout of the tomb frozen in time, the boy breathed his fear out, as he had no use for it in a mind already taken by the monument's eerie calm. "...what?"
Like out of a dream, the boy returned to the realm of the now, starting at the sound of a car horn just to the East. When those earthy eyes came back to the figure behind him, they saw no death or rot or any sign of corruption to the soul. A man, probably in his mid to late thirties, stood over him.
Half of his pale face lay shrouded behind fading brown hair that swept down to his chin. A dull stare met Samuel's own, made by a pair of grey-blue eyes. And even with the deadpan expression and rather boring attire, there was something there from before, something that the boy didn't feel around the normal kind of man. It was very similar to the feeling he had when he was with Eli. ...Safety.
"I said, 'Move it, Tiny. You're in my light.'" That odd voice was not found this time. Instead, it was coarse and damaged. This man was a smoker, which was obvious even without the heavy smell of cigarettes and cheap cologne.