|The Power of Six
Author: mythomagic PM
The curse has been broken. Alannah-Number Seven-must journey to find her fellow Loriens. Once the remaining six unite,the Garde may have a chance in defeating the Mogadorians-but will they find each other before the world as we know it goes up in flames?Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Adventure/Tragedy - Chapters: 2 - Words: 5,394 - Reviews: 17 - Favs: 3 - Follows: 5 - Updated: 06-23-11 - Published: 06-17-11 - id: 7091963
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Hi guys! As some of you may know, I'm mythomagic, author of the Book of Ra (a Kane Chronicles fanfic.) I had to write this for a term reading project, so I thought I'd continue it. It's basically what I think the next Lorien Legacies book will be about. This fanfic follows Seven, aka Alannah, and her journey to find her fellow Loriens. Once the remaining Loriens unite, the Garde may have a chance in defeating the Mogadorians-but will they find each other before the world as we know it goes up in flames?
The Power Of Six
Based on Pittacus Lore's "I Am Number Four"
The curse has been broken. I knew it the moment I woke up that morning, in the same quaint, little house I had lived in for five long years. Five years. It must be a new Lorien record; one of the Nine living in the same town for so long.
"Most of us leave within a few months," my Cêpan, Atalie, always told me in her thick Lorien accent. "Always having to live on the run, in fear."
"But not me," I would answer, staring off into the Pyrenees mountains. "Those are the ones who are next. I am Number Seven."
Number Seven. Atalie insists on reminding me how lucky I am, to be one of the last Loriens on the chopping block. I didn't have to run, because there has always been someone ahead of me; always someone else the Mogadorians were after. The spell prevented the aliens from killing us out of order, which was a blessing for me. For the others, like Number One, it was a curse. He didn't even stand a chance; never heard Señora Gomez sing as sweetly as a sparrow, or listened the old man's captivating tales over a roaring fire and bowl of frijoles.
I was able to have as normal a childhood as I could. I even had friends, a permanent school, and the same tiny house for all these years. I was safe…until that morning. Until I realized something was horribly wrong.
Three were dead, that much I knew. One was killed in Malaysia, Two in England, and just recently, Three in Kenya. I felt each of their deaths like it was my own; each and every one. Have you ever felt a Mogadorian sword in your gut; felt its poison course through your veins? No, I suppose you couldn't, but I have, and it wasn't a pleasant experience.
Atalie says that I'm special; that this "gift" is one of my Legacies. I received my first Legacy last year: telekinesis. After hours of training, I was finally able to lift my Cêpan off the ground. Sure, levitating objects in thin air with your mind sounds like an amazing ability, but if feeling other peoples' deaths is a gift, then I never want another birthday present again.
I don't know when my exact birthday is, but Atalie estimates that I was born sometime in Taven, so I always receive my regalos on New Year's Day, known as Primero de Enero here in Spain. I always complain that I'm unlucky, because Taven was always the coldest, most depressing month on Lorien, but as usual, Atalie says it was a gift. Everything to her is a gift, even the piles of dirty laundry in the bathroom or the mountain of orders she has to complete by the end of the week. Maybe that's because we were one of the only ones to survive on Lorien. Only eighteen of us escaped out of the billions who lived there, including our families; my parents.
We were lucky, but sometimes, when I feel the death of one of my fellow Garde, I wonder if surviving actually was a gift. We're always on the run, always have to keep a low profile and worry about the aliens finding us. Now I'm starting to think that the blessing of survival wasn't really a blessing after all. It was a curse.
Were the Mogadorians a present? I don't think so. They destroyed our beautiful planet; destroyed my parents, my grandparents, everything. Well, everything except us, the Garde. We escaped with our protectors, our Cêpans, before Lorien was completely abolished. We abandoned our planet and everyone on it to continue the Lorien race before the Mogadorians would have murdered us all.
It doesn't matter how many times I tell Atalie this, she won't listen. She's a Povan, someone who could convince you to pay a fortune for a piece of junk and have you believing you've made a bargain when the day is done. She also speaks seven languages, if you count Lorien, and can play the ukulele like a pro. She can even knit beautiful clothes of every color, and knows probably everything there is to know about Zimbabwe, Russia, and Atlanta, Georgia.
Her profession, however, has nothing to do with any of these talents. She's famous in our little village because of her healing skills. Atalie has a cure for almost every sickness the people of Ladera can throw her way.
"A jack of all trades," villagers tell her in Spanish. I agree.
Despite all her talents, Atalie remains at home for the majority of the year, except for driving to the market for supplies every Tuesday. People who are interested in her services walk the three mile hike through the hills to our small house by the stream. My friends refer to it as "La Casa Pequeña," and they're right. It's our home in a nutshell; The Small House.
It's 800 square feet of ancient wood, faded, red shutters, and weathered, cedar shingles. The paint, chipped and faded, was barely noticeable. In the old days, it would have been a quaint, white cottage. Now it was a dilapidated house from years of Spain's bitter snowstorms near the mountains.
If you saw me on the hot, sunny days in my small town, you'd think I was a normal fifteen-year-old girl with auburn hair and deep, green eyes. In many ways, I am ordinary. My life outside of home is just like anyone else's; do homework, laugh with friends, ride my bike down town, and listen to Señor Callas' tall tales.
Yet, in La Casa Pequeña, everything's different. It's there that I have my nightmares; my "visions," as Atalie likes to call them. It's behind those ancient, wooden walls where I received another circular scare that etches into my skin like fire onto flesh whenever one of us is killed. It's here, en mi casa, where Atalie and I search the news for anything about the Garde, or any leaks in information that could lead the Mogadorians to us.
For years now, everything's been quiet; too quiet. Until now.
If you get to know me better, you might notice that I don't allow pictures to be taken of me, claiming that I'm camera shy. You may wonder why I disappeared the day the news came to our school when there was a fire in the art room, and why I always keep my head low.
What you won't know is that I'm hiding from monsters that came here from another galaxy; the ones who are killing the last of my kind. You won't know that I'm not from Ireland, the place where I was supposedly born. You won't believe me when I say that I literally don't belong here, and that I don't belong anywhere.
Yet that's the truth. My planet was destroyed, and I can never go back.
Everyone believed my story; that I come from Ireland and that Atalie is my mother. Everyone, that is, except Señor Callas, who's the storyteller in our little town. I remember when he asked me in his soft, calming voice one day, a year after we had moved here.
Leaning forward in his rocking chair, Señor Callas motioned me towards him. "De dónde eres?"
Where are you from?
I hesitated. Should I lie to him? I trusted him more than anyone—well, anyone except Atalie. Still, I didn't have a choice, and I hated myself for it.
"Yo soy de Irlanda," I told him as I looked out the dirty, cracked window in his run-down house. For some reason, I couldn't meet the old man's gaze. It was hard enough lying to him, let alone looking into his caramel colored eyes while I did it. Sometimes I felt like he could read minds, and Atalie always tells me that I'm a terrible liar.
Atalie was right; the old man was not fooled. "Pensé que acordamos no mentir el uno al otro," he replied gently, cocking his head to one side.
I thought we agreed not to lie to each other.
Something in his voice made me look up. It wasn't accusing, but puzzled. He was staring at me curiously, but didn't look offended. I didn't know what to say. I just sat there and gaped at him.
Señor Callas smiled a broad, toothy grin, revealing his crooked teeth. He raised a wrinkled hand; veins running up and down his arm like blue rivers through dark desert sand.
"Entiendo," the old man interrupted. "No es necesario que me diga, y no voy a preguntar de nuevo." His voice was soft and kind, which wasn't what I expected. His message, however, was clear:
I understand. You do not need to tell me, and I will not ask again.
I had never been more grateful in my entire life. I was about to thank him when he held up his hand once more. Señor Callas was not yet finished. "Pero Allie, tú eres de dos mundos. Estos viejos ojos puede ver que gran parte."
My heart nearly stopped as I deciphered his message. But Allie, you are of two worlds. These old eyes can see that much.
I was too stunned to speak. Tú eres de dos mundos. How had he known? He wasn't a Cêpan, and he certainly wasn't one of the Garde. He was just a human…a human who could see through me as easily as one would look through clear glass.
As much as I wanted to tell him of Lorien and the Mogadorians, I couldn't do it. I had to keep my life a secret, for all of us. Our lives depended on it, especially now.
Smiling slightly, I thanked him and left his house not long after. I didn't even wait for the water to finishing boiling, which he turned on for me. He always makes me tea after school, even in the summer, because he knows it's my favorite.
Before I stepped out into the frigid winter air, I glanced back at the old man, who hadn't moved from his seat by the fire. He was smiling, as usual, with a familiar glint in his chocolate brown eyes. Behind his grin, however, was something else I couldn't quite place. Knowledge, perhaps? Pity?
Somehow, Señor Callas knew about me. How much he was aware of, I couldn't know for certain, but something was there. That only left two other questions: How did he obtain this information, and could he be trusted?
I already knew the answer to the latter. I would trust the old man with my life. Which life, however, was a mystery. Sometimes even I don't know the answer. Am I the Spanish school girl from Ladera, or Number Seven, a member of the Garde? If it was my decision, I knew what my choice would be. Unfortunately, I was born Lorien; destined to protect the world from the monsters that roamed the galaxy. Even if this was my fate, I didn't want to talk about it. If anything, I wanted to forget about my past all together and live a normal life. Somehow, I believe that Señor Callas understood.
We never talked about my origin again. The old man kept his promise.
Like I said, I had recently felt Number Three's death. It happened late one night in August. I was sleeping, dreaming of Lorien, when suddenly, I was lying on a bunk bed surrounded by mosquito nets. A middle-aged man with a long, brown beard slept in a bunk nearby. Outside, I could hear monkeys swinging from branch to branch and a chorus of foreign insects that sang to each other, even in the middle of the night. Somehow, the sounds sounded familiar, and I knew this musical performance happened here every single night, like how you can always count on the sun to rise every morning. Still, I was positive I had never been here before.
Everything was peaceful, until a few moments later, when the jungle fell silent. Now I don't mean your ordinary silence, like when a teacher yells at you and everyone shuts their mouths. I mean the kind of silence in horror movies, right before the blonde damsel opens the door with the murderer behind it. It was the kind of silence that comes before death.
The older man was awake in an instant. The two of us stared at each other for a long time. Then we heard the rusted metal handle of our tree house door turn. It was locked, of course, but we were in a tree. Somehow I knew that no one ever visited here so late at night, if any actually visited at all.
That's when I realized who it was at the door, and the very thought made my blood run cold.
My Cêpan motioned for me to get up, and ever so slowly, he crept towards the door. The floorboards creaked with each step, making me flinch. Just as he reached for the door handle, a jaw-rattling roar cut through the eerie silence like a blade. A large, sharp sword burst through the door and went straight through my beloved Cêpan, whose name I somehow knew, even though I had never seen him before in my life until now.
"Adolfus!" I cried in a horrified, masculine voice that wasn't mine.
The older man's stared at me, his eyes filled with pain.
"Run," he managed to whisper, and then the sword retreated out the door, taking my Cêpan with it.
I did. This is what I had trained for; to do whatever it takes to survive, even if it means leaving my Cêpan behind. But I had never thought it would actually come to that. Adolfus was my protector, and was by my side as far back as I can remember. He could never disappear.
All this had to be a dream…only it wasn't. My protector was gone.
And I was next.
I sprinted across the tree house and leaped out into the air. With a thump, I landed on the muddy jungle floor and took off, as if I hadn't jumped from twenty-five feet in the air. My conscience switched to auto pilot as I leaped over moss covered logs and trudged across steams that glistened in the moonlight. Something, or someone, was right behind me. I could hear their heavy footsteps as they followed my trail through the overgrowth.
I knew my life was at stake and that I could never make it, but my will to live kept me going. Finally, I came across a ravine, three hundred feet across and three hundred feet down. It's an impossible jump, even for me, but it was my only chance. The monsters were right behind me.
With a running start, I leaped across the wide abyss with my bruised, tan arms outstretched. With a thud, my fingers grasped the moist earth, and I managed to pull myself back over the edge.
Now that I was safely on the other side, I stopped. My lungs, burning from the inside out, ached and it were as if my legs had turned into Jello. Had my attackers stopped pursuing me, and if so, would they be back?
Everything inside me screamed, "Keep moving! They're coming!" but my legs wouldn't budge. I laughed as I gazed in the direction of the tree house. No one was there.
With a smile on my face, I turned around—and walked right into a rough, clawed hand that clasped tightly around my neck.
I didn't even have time to cry out as the beast lifted me high in the air. With a heinous smile, full of yellow, needle-sharp teeth; it laughed at me. It was a heartless laugh, and the sound made me wonder how many innocent people its kind had destroyed, and how they could bear taking the soul of another living it tore my amulet off my neck, the ones only the Garde can wear, and tucked it on its belt with two others; the amulets of One and Two. Anger coursed through me as I stared into those wide, cruel eyes.
"The Legacies live," I managed to whisper, my voice ragged. "They will find each other, and when they're ready, they're going to destroy you."
The creature laughed again and took its gleaming white sword out of its sheath. His face, scarred and hideous, looked amused as the Mogadorian thrust its jagged blade into my chest.
I could feel the cold, poisoned medal as it cut through my flesh. With a gasp, I raised my head toward the sky, determined not to have the face of the monster as my final sight. Finally, the pain increased, and my whole body felt like it erupted in flames. Then everything went black.
Thanks for reading chapter one! More chapters to come if I get reviews, so REVIEW PLEASE. Thanks again, and have a great day!
P.S. Sorry if my Spanish is a little off. I used google translator for the majority of it. :D Adios!