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Whispers From the Dead

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It is the human condition to think that every individual is significant to the history of the world. However, absurd that ideal may be, a person cannot deny that in their existence, they wish to leave a mark.
In reality, there are only a handful of people that will become historical figures, while the rest of humanity is just a number that officials go by to keep track of their population.
It is a sad existence, but nevertheless, we humans always seem to find the positives. We continue to befuddle and frustrate. To sadden and enjoy, and it is these qualities that make us who we are.
See, for a person to truly realize what reality is, they must look deep into our history and observe what it is we do today. The events that occur around us are what will effect generations of not only humans, but the animal kingdoms, and it is this realization that a person must make in order to become significant in the history of the world.
Many have done it before,  most not truly attempting to change the world, however it is this very thing that makes them important.
So when Declan Flynn was brought to his knees before the hundred most important people in history, and told that his time had come to lead the revolution of the next generation, he didn't believe it. For he, had come to the realization that for all that he had been through, his life had been one of the utmost insignificance.

Chapter One
Declan was a curious boy, and it was because of his curiosity that he had gotten himself where he was now. Hanging by his wrists and held by gun point.
If he had thought his plans through before following the two men, it wouldn't have come to this. The end of the line. A sad ending to his miserable life. But yet, Declan couldn't help but feel numb to his situation. Surely, he would die at the hands of this madman, alone in this dark alley way, gasping for air until the last drop of blood pooled from his wound, and his eyes closed forever. However, to Declan, dying by the hands of a madman was better than scrounging for food in the dumpsters.
The man nudged Declan's sweatshirt pocket with the barrel of the gun, “What's in there?”
Declan's eyes wandered to the bulge in his right pocket. That was a good question. He thought back to this morning.
Being an orphan on the streets, Declan was forced to flee many times throughout the day. Hmm...
“I'm not quite sure, but if you'd just let me down, I could show you.” He confessed.
The man raised a brow, “And what's to stop us from just taking the object before shooting you?”
Declan snorted, “Do you really trust a sixteen year old to admit the truth? What if the very thing that's in my pocket is a bomb, and I'm just waiting for you to take it yourself?”
The man seemed to ponder this for a moment.
“Okay. Drop him, Greg.” The man sighed.
The man who'd been holding him up by his arms dropped him. Declan winced as his knees smacked into the pavement and clenched his jaw shut. There was no need for back-talking when he'd already worked so hard to survive.
Declan reached into his pocket, and halted. His eyes met the barrel of the gun.
“Okay, boy, now hand over whatever it is in your pocket, and we'll leave you to your scrounging.” The man hissed.
Declan swallowed hard, “Okay, okay. I'm pulling it out.”
Swiftly, the sixteen year old pulled out a blue orb that twirled around each of his fingers.
The man's eyes widened, “He's one of them!”
Declan's eyes darkened, “Get outta here.”
Neither of the men moved.
A glare of blue began to swirl around Declan's hand, “I said get outta here!”
Greg bolted down the alley, leaving the man standing in the presence of a very dangerous young boy.
Declan took another tentative step towards the man. The sky around them darkened.
The man held up his hands, “Hey, kid, there's no...”
Declan startled the man, plowing into a tin trash can. A splitting shriek broke the silence of the city, and brought Declan to a stop. He drew in a deep breath before he realized, he shot me!
Declan growled as the wound immediately began to heal. The man's eyes widened.
“I—I'm...”
The man bolted down the alleyway just as Greg had done.
And oh, yeah. Declan also happened to be a very strange boy with the ability to bend the elements to his will and heal at an abnormally fast rate.
Declan snorted as he watched the man scatter across the street on his hands and feet, and glanced over his shoulder.
That's what you get for trying to kill me!
Using his left hand, he stuffed the orb back into his pocket, and smiled to himself. The orb never seemed to fail him. After all, nobody wanted to be around a Cyrian.
“You use that orb well.”
Declan choked on his spit, and nearly stumbled into the wall. When he was finished fumbling around, he searched the darkness for the source of the voice.
“You won't find me unless I want you to. I saw what you did to that woman.”
Declan raised a brow.
  “Wait, have you been following me all day?” He asked. There was a high pitched whistle, and Declan turned to his right, searching for the body accompanying the dark voice. 
“I've been watching you for three days, actually.” The man laughed, “Your glowing trick won't work on me, Mr. Flynn.”
Declan felt foolish and dropped his hands to his sides. He was terrified, being all absorbed in the darkness, and without a way to protect himself.
He swallowed hard. No one had ever stayed around long enough to realize that he didn't actually know how to use his powers.
“I won't hurt you, Declan. I want to help you.”
Declan pursed his lips before responding, “I don't believe you. You're some hunter, aren't you? Just trying to catch me and sell me to the tower?”
A cool breeze caressed his bare chest and arms, and Declan shivered. There was a silence.
“If I were going to hurt or capture you, I would have already done so. You make it easy to catch on to what you are, or should I say, who you are.”
Declan's eyes widened.
“Ah, yes, I know who you are, Mr. Flynn. The only son of the Cyrian King, but most importantly, I know why you left.”
Declan slid down the wall, and searched the darkness for the voice. Slowly, a trickle of light began to seep through the darkness surrounding the alley, and a man emerged.
His eyes were darker than the sky around them, and Declan knew just why. He was a Cyrian just like Declan. His heart stopped.
“I—I'm not going back! I—I won't let you!” He stammered.
The man shook his head, and rolled up his sleeve.
“I'm not with your father, see?”
The man's pale skin, not unusual for a Cyrian, seemed to glow in the moonlight, and Declan's eyes trailed over the man's forearm. A thin, faint black tattoo spiraled up to his shoulders.
Declan blew a sigh of relief, and calmed a bit...but just a bit. See, the Cyrians were remarkable creatures that were able to shapeshift into any form they wanted. Now, that wouldn't have been so bad if the only way a Cyrian could shapeshift wasn't to drink the blood of the creature that they were trying to shift into.
Ordinarily, a Cyrian had almost luminescent white skin with eyes as dark and cold as the ocean floor. However, things were entirely different for a Cyrian participating in the rituals his father performed.
His father, for example, and Declan before he'd run away, bore obsidian eyes that glowed in the dark, and the markings on their bodies glowed blue. That was why when the Cyrian revealed his arms, Declan was able to relax.
“If you aren't with my father, then why have you sought me out?” Declan questioned.
The Cyrian watched him through cold eyes.
“I have an opportunity for you. To help you distinguish just what gifts you bore, and stray away from all this.” The Cyrian said, gesturing around the alley.
Declan crossed his arms.
“So you're saying that you've sought me out and watched me for three days to...offer me a place to live?” He asked.
The Cyrian nodded, “There will be others like you, of course, and if you decide that you don't like it there, you can leave. I won't stop you.”
Declan scratched the back of his neck. He had to admit, it was a tempting offer, and much better than being taken back to his father where he'd be forced to kill his mother.
“And what's in it for you?” He questioned.
Through his dark eyes, the man watched Declan as he dropped to his butt, and fixated on the ground.
“Then let me ask you one question.” He mumbled.
The Cyrian raised a dark brow, “Go ahead.”
Declan's eyes fell on the man, and he asked, “Why am I seeing dead famous people?”
The man suppressed a laugh, until he realized that Declan was dead serious (no pun intended). He crouched down next to the tortured boy.
“And, uh, do you see dead people often?” He asked.
Declan rolled his eyes, “I'm not insane, you idiot. I—I just get advice from famous dead people.”
The boy's eyes darkened and he searched the man's face.
“Do we have these sort of abilities in our species? Are we able to speak to the dead?” He asked.
The Cyrian swallowed hard before replying, “Yes, yes, and it's not something you want to have, Mr. Flynn.”
Fear began to scramble Declan's mind, and his heart began to race.
“W—wha—why?” He stammered.
“Because it means that you've been touched by the Inferos.” He whispered.
The Cyrian sighed, “Okay, I'll put it in terms you understand. Honestly though, you've spent too much time with these...sores.”
Declan glared at the man.
  “The humans aren't sores!” He spat.
The Cyrian held up a hand to stop him, his hand glowing very slightly, a sign to Declan that meant the man hadn't been off the blood too awfully long.
“You've gone soft, which we'll have to clear up when we get to the base, but if you really must know, I'd suggest you keep your trap shut.” He hissed.
Declan opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it. He was tired of Einstein hanging around his shoulder all the time, insisting that he go home. He wanted to know what this was so that he could get rid of it.
“Okay, I'll listen.” He said.
The man looked pleased, “Good, then I'll start.” The man eyed him a few more seconds before he began.
“You've been touched by the creature, the humans call, Devil. He's one of ours, I admit, a Cyrian, but he is not of this place. He is the darkness that plagued our world until your great great grandfather banished him beneath this world. If you can talk to the dead, it is his doing.” He explained.
Declan turned to his right, and faced the shadow that'd been following him for the past eight years. Einstein, he believed it was.
“I cannot disagree with anything that he has already said.” Einstein said, fumbling with the button on his jacket.
Declan rubbed his temples, and watched as Einstein fought to button the jacket, but the reality was that he was just too big.
“You know that you've grown too big, right?” He said. Einstein frowned and stopped fiddling.
“Nonsense! I could calculate the speed one would have to travel through a wormhole, I can easily button a jacket!” He exclaimed.
Declan sighed and turned to the man still sitting beside him, though, this time he was watching for any signs that the man could see the spirit.
“And what if I wanted to get rid of this ability? Could this Inferos take the ability away?” He muttered, but Einstein heard this, and he let out a string of German curses.
“You must not banish us! Napoleon, help me out here!” Einstein hissed.
With a rush of wind, and an ache in his head, Declan watched as the French general appeared in a burst of golden light.
“You have a...” Napoleon thought about this for a moment, “destiny to fulfill, Mr. Flynn. We all are here to help you with that. To help you take your place as the Cyrian Prince and begin your journey.”
Declan's face burst into a flame of red, “I'm not going back to my father!”
The Cyrian held up his hands, “Hey, I wasn't going to take you there.”
“Not you!” He spat, returning his gaze to the man beside him.
Napoleon rushed at Declan, and before the boy could do anything, the spirit's palm collided with his chest. Warmth began to gather over the boy's chest, and spread up his arms in a burst of golden light.
Declan slumped against the wall, his eyes flittering back. Images began to filter through his mind. Him, and dozens of other people that he could tell, were all dead.
With a gasp, the boy rose from his place on the ground, and started to claw his way out of the darkness. His chest pumped up and down, and with all the strength in him, he could just not get away from those images. Those horrific images.
The Cyrian grasped onto the boy's hand and shoved him against the wall. Declan's eyes lit with fear, and he fought to get away once more, but the Cyrian was not willing to let him go.
“What did you see, Mr. Flynn?” The Cyrian questioned, but the boy was not listening.
He was clawing at the Cyrian's hands, clawing to get away from the darkness.
“Damasos, tell me what you have seen!” The Cyrian snapped, speaking their native tongue.
Declan stopped struggling, and for a moment he pictured his father standing there, holding a fist above his face. But his father wasn't there. It was just the Cyrian.
The Cyrian let go of the boy, and backed away, but his eyes never left Declan.
“I saw...I saw our deaths.” He said, meeting the Cyrian's eyes.
The Cyrian opened his mouth, but Declan quieted him with the words he uttered next.
“The dead, they told me that I must go back home. They told me that I must become the Cyrian Prince and fight Inferos for this world.”




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