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>(1/2)

You are John James Green, mutant vagrant.

You sit at the old porch with your feet dangling an inch from the waters, a vast expanse of shadow beneath you. The sky is grey and unfeeling, but you can discern it from the wall of mist that waits beyond the lake, where the world trails away into nothingness. You can’t see the sun, but you know it’s out – you can feel its warmth suffusing you, lifting you up, hear the crickets and the birds and the worms of the earth awakening to its touch. Your sister sits next to you, reading.

You drift, thinking of things, not thinking of things. The horns atop your head blaze with the heat of the sun – fire the colour of lapis, smoke the colour of malachite. You roll your shoulders and let your head hang back, let the sun and the moon colour your cheeks. You feel calm.

“The whole world will be your enemy,” Reads your sister, her eyes roaming the pages, long white hair swaying in the breeze. “Prince with a Thousand Enemies, and whenever they catch you, they will kill you. But first they must catch you, digger, listener, runner, prince with the swift warning. Be cunning and full of tricks and your people shall never be destroyed.”

The front door creaks as Joyce comes out onto the porch, and you feel everything beginning to crack and burn at its edges, and the thing beside you seems to expand – its veiny, near-translucent hands, its silver-frayed hair, its shining eyes. It looks to you and you feel incredibly, indescribably small.

“Your people.”

“Our people.”

MY PEOPLE.