Of Gods and Monsters Series
"The realms of life and death should always remain apart." - Jayden Thanatos Moirai. Aka Jayden the Veiled, assassin and servant of Death. First born and first in line to the thrown of Thanatos the God of peaceful death.
"Never complain over something you can change and don't cry over what you can't as where there is life, there is a way." - Zayra Webber.
Tanzania, East Africa 10 years ago. Zayra woke to the sounds of birds and low murmurs. She stretched her limbs under the covers bumping her foot on what felt like a weighted box on top of the sheets. "What the hells." Her eyes flashed open as she pulled herself upright. She squinted her eyes when a piercing ray of sunlight hit her face followed by a rising sun seeping through the gaps in her curtains. "Why are they awake?". Her coordination was lagging, and her body was still half asleep as she threw her legs over the side of the bed. Glancing at the now demystified oversized suitcase she exhaled "shit, where now?". "Were they ever going to settle, why this incessant need to travel?". As she began to walk over the cool marble tiles to her parent's room a brief thrill of inquisitiveness overwhelmed her to listen into their conversation. Although only 12 she could tell that their previous explanations were heavily filtered to a child friendly version of the truth. At times she was grateful that they presented the P.G. versions to her overly sensitive younger sister shielding her from the brutalities of a corrupted continent. She knew she was young but felt much older which gave her further justification to listen in on their conversation. As quietly as she could manage Zayra walked toward her parents open bedroom door trying to mute out all the chirps of what seemed like flocks of bird from outside. "I can't live like this anymore Phil, we need a change, it's not safe here. I haven't had a decent night's rest in years." Zayra pressed her back against the plastered wall next to her parent's bedroom door knowing where this conversation would lead and let herself slide down to a seated position. She heard a suitcase being zipped up and papers being rustled followed by her father's exaggerated exhalation. "So, its decided we leave, move away and begin our new lives somewhere safer. The girls will adjust in time. If all goes well with the interviews it will be sooner rather than later." Zayra thought that her heart skipped a beat and had sunken into her stomach. She never wanted to leave her home, the land called to her, it had a spirit of creation that she was drawn to, as far as she was concerned it was her home. As her head fell into her hands a hushed voice whispered from above her "Little girls shouldn't listen into grown conversations". Maya. Zayra's parents, the Webbers, were a well-established family within the community which left them overworked and desperately in need of help around the house. Maya was the family's third governess she'd been with them for almost three years now and as far as Zayra was concerned she was practically part of the family. Maya carried her usual tray of tea, coffee and an assortment of breakfast items clearly on route to Mrs and Ms Webbers rooms. Standing Zayra grinned "just curious Maya". Out the corner of Zayra's eye she spied a letter on the tray, quickly her smile dropped and without hesitation she reached over and snatched it up. "Hey!" Maya snapped in a genuinely surprised voice. Then more quietly leaned over her tray whispering "child that's not for you! You'll get us both in trouble!" Zayra exhaled "fine but let me see who it is from.". Turning the letter over it read: 'From: The National Department of Australian Immigration'. Zayra could feel the warmth leave her face as she placed the letter back onto the tray and turned away. This meant one thing. It was happening. She was going to be ripped from her land in tow of a new life. She knew this country, scratch that, the continent, was dangerous but it's all she knew. Her parents had applied to immigration two years ago and the process was gruellingly slow that Zayra has assumed it would never really happen. Turning on her heels she ran into her parent's room. "We are leaving, aren't we?" her eyes had gone teary, but she fought back the lump in her throat. "God morning Zayra." her father breathed in a condescending manner without looking up from his desk. "Yes" he said decisively as he signed a paper followed by dotting his signature loudly. It may as well of been a judge's hammer hitting the desk for Zayra knew what the ink on paper meant. Done. Her mother walked towards Zayra, her hair gleaming in the morning sun. Clair had deep brown eyes that complimented her dark auburn hair, she almost as tall as Phil although with a leaner build than his. She had a beautiful laugh that was rich and melodious but was let down by the dark circles under her eyes. "It will be a fresh new start for us, somewhere you can grow up." Zayra crossed her arms and breathed quietly "I don't want to grow up.". She knew this conversation was pointless. As she turned for the door she exhaled in a louder voice "I'm going to the stables.". Her horse was Zayra's escape, an embodiment of freedom, nothing she had known could compare to riding through the wind at unreasonable speeds. Grabbing a pair of jeans out of her wardrobe she pulled them on followed by a black t-shirt, boots and snatched up a book on her bedside table. Zayra's horse was flighty and debatably untrained, which meant she spent more time walking with and reading to him than riding, she never half minded. For as long as Zayra could remember she was drawn to books, more particularly, fantasy. She had an overly active imagination even for a child. She would read on her balcony at night in her attempts to attract Peter Pan or some willing garden fairies. Desperate to be able to fly she would run as fast as her legs allowed jumping off small mounds in the gardens launching herself into the air. In the short seconds where she didn't touch the ground, ecstasy. Zayra felt most like herself when her long honey-blonde hair was blowing through the crisp wind and when lightning storms rolled in over Kilimanjaro. The dormant volcano that was nicknamed the 'Roof of Africa' and as the thunder quacked the proud mansions she felt as though it was charging her hitting Zayra like a frenzied sugar rush.