Altar

“I can’t sleep.” Lange complained about 10,947 times. 

“Well I can’t read for 5 minutes straight without a five year old named Lange Wolfskin yapping at me but I’m keeping my damn mouth shut, aren’t I?” I snapped at her brother, annoyance clear in my eyes. 

“But this place is so… empty.” Lange said tearfully, looking around at the room they were at. 

“Don’t be silly!” I snapped, but in fact, the room was empty. Except for the huge, soundproof door and two bunk beds, and four kids sitting there. They weren’t alone, though. The building they were inside used to be a hospital, with complicated twists and turns, filled up with rooms and well, more rooms, filled with people evacuated from hand of the Soldiers.

“Lange, look,” I began, my voice softening, “there’s like, half of the population here.” But not really, I thought to myself, most of them died in the bomb. “Go to sleep, look, even those two are sleeping now.” I said, deciding to change the subject, pointed at two kids in another bunk bed opposite from us.

Lange sniffed loudly once before turning to his stuffed rabbit and curling up under a thin wool blanket, his unhappiness clear in his hardened eyes. In that moment, his eyes flashed the color of a prism under the bright sunlight. I almost flinched- I could never get used to that otherworldly look of his. Should a five-year-old’s eye have that kind of look? Maybe what people say is true. Altar Bomb Generations are special. 

“Hey,” I hushed, “Stop that.” 

Lange blinked slowly once, and his eyes are back to the springy green it has always been. 

Generation Altar, messengers of the sun. Do all children born under the black sun have that look? 

Regardless of my wander, the boy pouted at me. “I like it better when it’s like that, though.”

“Remember what mom said?”

“The one about how the sun fell in love with the moon?”

“No.”

“Oh,” Lange’s smile slowly fell. “‘Secret is a thing for one.’”

I grab him by his arms and stare at his wide, scared eyes. “Yes. And do you know what it means? It means that secrets are best when they're kept as a secret.”

He nods frantically, and I realize how hard I was grabbing him. I let go, and spread my share of blanket over the boy’s frail body, and watched him until his breathing was rhythmic before slowly getting up, scared to wake him up. I slip outside the door, closing it with extra care. 

Just as I stepped into the empty hallway, a voice startled me.

“Jasmine,” Goosebumps crawled up my arm. Feeling that might have been dread washes over me, and I slowly turn, finding… Oh. Was this feeling relief? Who was I expecting? 

“Jasmine,” Jack repeated uncomfortably, his transparent body shimmering on the edge. “I thought you were asleep.”

I blink out of my thoughts, looking at the boy in front of me. Jack Willow, my friend, is standing in front of me. “Just came out for a walk,” I start, suddenly feeling defensive.

The boy grins. “Have you seen the rooftop?”

Annoyingly, Jack was right. The Roof of the hospital is not only quite intact, but even has trees. Half broken, but still trees. Jack floats above me, obviously waiting for me to spill out my problems.

“Stop looking at me like that, Mr. Willow.” I said, clearly trying to stop myself from rolling my eyes. 

He grins mischievously. “Like what?”

“Like I have something I want to tell you about.”

“Do you, Ms. Wolfskin?”

“Damn you, Jack.” I murmur. “Do you have to know everything?”

“Well, with 1,093 years of knowledge, no. But as a friend, sure. Obviously.”

We are silent for a moment, before I blurt out; “What is Generation Altar, exactly?”

Jack’s grin fades away. “Does that have anything to do with Lange?”

I snap my head toward him. “How do you…” Of course he does. I should have known. Jack Willow, the collector of knowledge. Generation Memoir. If Jack knows anything about it, it is a clear red flag, because he is not just a normal Generation Memoir, but Red Memoir, born under the red moon. 

“Share your knowledge.” I demand. 

“You don’t want to know. If your mom kept it from you, that means—” 

I look into his eyes, “I need to know. Don’t you get it? He is different. I heard my mom talking about it—” Jack frowns at this.

“Here I was thinking you were a nice little daughter.”

“Stay on topic.”

The contempt to share the knowledge is clear in his eyes. I count to 10 before he opens his mouth. 

“Fine,” Jack began. “At the beginning of time, there’s six guardians protecting humans, sent from the Great Solistar herself; Crow, for forgotten souls and midnights, Elephant, for memory and lost things, Rabbit, for growth and farming, Ox, for strength and balance, Turtle for longevity and calm, and lastly, Fox, was sent for wickedness and power.” I frown at this. I have never heard of Fox. Jack, seeming to understand my confusion, carried on.

“Yes, yes, Fox is not one of the guardians anymore. He was kicked out for bringing imbalance and chaos. But he was never gone. So the five guardians decided to create a new, powerful guardian — the Altar, to protect the humans when he did come back and that—” he bowed dramatically, “Is the end.”

I jumped up from my seat on the bench, revolting. “What? What are the Altar Generations capable of doing?” 

He simply shrugs, “No one knows, the first one since the Broke Dawn was five years ago, and as you know, they are—“

“Stolen by the Soldiers.” I finished the sentence. I dwell on the thought. Does that mean they have some special ability? 

But my thoughts are interrupted as hell breaks down. 

I saw the bright light, heard the noise, but still was too slow. I am thrown off my feet.

I must have blacked out, because when I woke up, the day had broken into a painfully sunny sky, covered with dust. I wipe my head, and feel something clammy stick onto it. Blood. Lots of it.

I stumble forward. Lange. I have to get to— Scream breaks through the morning chill. I stop mid-walk. Footsteps. Screams. All the pieces jerk onto place. Soldiers. Altar. Altar boy. Lange. 

My foot suddenly feels light as feathers as my determination flares on. I jerk off the ground. Bodies are everywhere. The boy that slept across from me is lying in the cold ground, dead. My eyes search the crowd. Sea of dead bodies, one scream. Lange. 

He is struggling against the hand of the Soldier with a navy uniform and golden medals. He spots me, sees what I am doing, and shakes his head. Don’t come, don’t. I heard that from someone I knew before. Who was it? I am in full momentum now. I raise my head, and with no plan and no control of what I am doing, I crash into the Soldier, watch Lange fall out of his grasp, and don’t miss the second when the gunshot fires. 

I fell to the ground with relief. Lange will be safe and away by the time the Soldiers kill me. He will run, and he is a fast runner, so I pray that he can run as fast as he can, never looking back. 

But when I open my eyes once again, he is still here. In front of me. I must be dreaming, or dead, because I watch as the Soldiers fall silently to the ground. Lange doesn’t even have a scratch on his body. 

He turns to look at me, the prism of his eyes shimmering under the rising sun. Altar. 

“Solange.” I muttered.

He smiled and mouthed; Good night.