Pittacus Lore - The Fall of Five

“Man,” says Nine, picking himself up from the ground. “I had no way to dodge that last punch. Good move, dude.”

Eight turns his bruised face up towards Nine. “Yeah. I owed you one. Or, like, ten.”

I kneel down next to Eight and start healing his injuries. The icy feeling isn’t so startling anymore; in fact, it’s starting to feel more and more natural.

“Why’d you shape shift back?” Nine asks, picking at the gashes on his chest. “That lion dude bullshit was giving me fits.”

“I have to really concentrate to keep the form,” explains Eight. “Getting my head bashed in was definitely not helping my focus.”

“Okay,” says Nine, thinking this over. “Sandor’s got some nonlethal weaponry stashed somewhere. You should let me shoot stuff at you, and we’ll work on keeping your concentration.”

“Yeah,” Eight says dryly, “sounds like a blast.”

With Eight’s face returned to its far more appealing not-bruised state, I start to work on Nine’s wounds. “You know,” I tell him, “you’re actually really good at this.”

“Fighting? Uh, yeah, I know.”

“Not just fighting. I guess, um, thinking about fighting.”

“Strategizing,” puts in Eight. “She’s right. I don’t think I would’ve come up with that teleport punch if you hadn’t pushed me. And awful as getting shot at sounds, I actually think that practicing might be a good idea.”

Nine puffs up, even more than usual. “Well, you’re welcome.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” I say, watching the last cut on his chest slowly knit closed beneath my fingertips.

I glance up at Nine to find him looking past me, towards the doorway of the Lecture Hall. “Hey Ella,” he says, “did we wake you up?”

I turn around to see Ella standing in the doorway. She’s dressed in street clothes, the first time I’ve seen her out of pajamas or one of Nine’s baggy flannels in days. I’d think her getting dressed was progress, except her eyes are red-rimmed from crying. Ella doesn’t look at any of us, her eyes pinned to the floor.

“What’s wrong, Ella?” I ask, taking a few steps towards her.

“I—I just wanted to say good-bye,” Ella replies. “I’m leaving.”

“Like hell,” says Nine. “No more field trips today.”

Ella shakes her head, her hair whipping around her face. “No. I have to. And I’m not coming back.”

“What’s gotten into you?” I ask. And that’s when I notice it. Clutched tightly in Ella’s hands, practically crumpled from the way she keeps wringing it, is a piece of paper. Crayton’s letter.

“I’m not one of you,” Ella whispers, fresh tears streaking down her cheeks.

My dearest Ella,

If you are reading this, then I dread the worst has already happened. Please know that I loved you as if you were my own daughter. I was never meant to be your Cêpan. The role was thrust upon me the night our planet fell, and it was not something I was prepared or trained for. All the same, I would not trade away these years with you for anything on Lorien or Earth. I hope I have done enough for you. I know you are destined for great things.

I hope that one day you can understand the things that I’ve done, the lies that I’ve told you, and find it within your heart to forgive me.

When you were small, I told you a lie. Soon, that one lie became many lies, and those lies became our life. I am sorry, Ella. I am a coward.

You are ten, in that only ten Garde survived the attack on Lorien, but you are not the Tenth. You were not a part of the Elders’ plan to preserve the Loric race, which is why you were not sent to Earth with the others. This is why you do not bear the same scars as Marina and Six. You were never under the protection of the Loric Charm.

The Elders did not select you. Your father did.

You hail from one of Lorien’s oldest and proudest families. Your great-grandfather was one of the ten Elders that used to govern our world. This was in the time before our home planet reached its full potential, before our people unlocked the power of Lorien and, by living in harmony with the planet, were gifted with Legacies. Our young planet was at a crossroads, caught between a desire for rapid development and a need to protect what is natural and life-sustaining.

It was a time of death, a time still shrouded in mystery even to our greatest historians. During these dark ages, war raged amongst our people. Many perished in needless conflict, but eventually the forces of peace prevailed. A new age dawned on Lorien—the golden time that you were born into, and that the Mogadorians so brutally ended.

Your great-grandfather was one of the casualties of the Secret Wars, the conflict between the Mogadorians and the Loric that was covered up by our government to preserve the illusions of a Lorien utopia.

As a young man, your father, Raylan, became obsessed with this war. You see, after the war, when the surviving Elders reconvened, they limited their number to nine rather than the original ten. Your father believed that the vacant place amongst the Elders belonged to your family. Our Elders had never been chosen by ancestry or heredity, yet your father still believed that your family’s house had somehow been wronged by history.

These obsessions made him into a bitter and distrustful man and Raylan became something of a recluse. He made a home for himself deep in the mountains—more a fortress than a home. For companions he kept a menagerie of Chimæra.

I was hired to tend your father’s beasts. He cared for little except his secret histories and his animals.

Until he met your mother.

Erina was Garde, assigned by the Elders to keep an eye on your father. Some believed that he was a danger to our people. Erina saw something else in him. She saw a man who could be rescued from himself.

Your mother was beautiful. You remind me of her more and more every day. She had Legacies of flight and Elecomun, the power to manipulate currents of electricity. So she would fly above your father’s home and create these brilliant displays, like fireworks made from lightning.

Your father distrusted Erina and openly challenged her reasons for coming to the mountains. Yet, night after night, he would come to the courtyard to watch your mother fly with the Chimæra.

One of your father’s Legacies allowed him to manipulate the spectrum of light. It seems a silly thing—like your Aeturnus—but it has many uses. He could darken the world around an enemy, making it hard for them to see. Or, in the case of his courtship of your mother, he could change the colors of her lightning strikes. Bright pinks and oranges ripped across the sky at night. Your father, for the first time in many years, was enjoying himself.

They fell in love and soon were married. And then, you came.

Erina had made many friends serving with the Garde and they would come to visit, welcomed by your parents. They are gone now.

The Mogadorians came. Our planet burned.

During his days as a recluse, your father had amassed a sizable collection of relics that once belonged to your family. He had even spent a large sum of money restoring an old fuel-powered spaceship that he believed was used by your great-grandfather in the last Loric war. When Erina moved in, she convinced your father to donate many of these items to a museum, the ship included. When the Mogadorians came, they first destroyed our ports, cutting off any conventional means of escape. Your father immediately thought of the old ship waiting dormant in the museum.

While others on our planet fought against the invasion, your father planned to escape. Somehow, he knew our people were doomed.

Your mother would not flee. She insisted that they go and join the fight. They argued, their most ferocious fight ever.