My feet pound the wooden floors with a thundering thud as I race through the corridors of the Sheroa, his name flooding my head.

I halt at locked doors, rapping them and calling out, "Jethro, are you in there?" My heart Knows he isn't, but my head hopes he may be.

Slowing down, I talk to myself aloud, "Calm yourself Blue, it is as Ali suggests, he has merely travelled to the Freedom Tunnel to secure the best viewing place for the great reveal."

My own words do soothe me a little and I express the thoughts that enter my head, aloud, "How did I not read Jethro's feeling for me? Perhaps it was because I was feeling too much for myself, my feelings for another have been locked. When feelings are locked away, they cannot hurt you. I still hurt for Jake; I am so young, yet I have loved and and felt loss so profound; and now I fear I have lost again – have I lost you, Jethro?"

Of course, my question goes unanswered, thus I make my way to the gangplank of Sheroa with an ever-anxious mind.

###

In my haste I stumble down the gangplank and somewhere around the middle; I lose control and feel my body flailing forward. The palms of my hands take the full force of my fall, and I feel the skin peel as my hands grate along the wooden plank.

But they break my fall, and as I slump at the bottom I am grateful that no bone seems to be broken. However, my hands are raw and are bleeding.

They are only surface wounds and I press my palms into my tunic, knowing the blood flow will soon stem; in fact, the pain of their sting distracts my anxious mind, and I continue on to the Freedom Tunnel.

###

In the Tunnel, I notice the noise first. It is the collective sound of excited talk. But such is the size of the crowd that no words can be discerned, just a loud buzzing hum that bounces around the tunnel.

This is the first time I am aware of my height, or to be precise, my lack of it. Most of the thronging crowd are taller than me, restricting my view. All I can observe is a seething mass of canvas tunics in every hue of grey.

I am swept up in this undulating sea of grey, and rather than resist, I allow myself be carried along in its human flow.

###

Even though people surround me, I feel completely alone. My feelings are the same as those I had at the beginning of my journey, when I first discovered my Blue Eye and decided to run rather than be incarcerated by the state.

Then, like now, I feel frightened, sad and anxious. But there is something else now, I am being haunted.

Haunted by my history, is it repeating itself?

If I do find Jethro, will I lose him forever, like I did Jake?

Still being swept along by the surging crowds my mind gets to thinking that perhaps I am a bad omen when it comes to boys. Maybe I must avoid Jethro in order to save him; I could not live with myself should he succumb to a fate like Jake.

###

My foreboding thoughts are such a distraction, that I am unaware of how far into the Tunnel I have travelled. But I am suddenly struck by my surroundings; the people around me disperse and I have more space to walk unencumbered.

It is then that I hear words and phrases. A man's voice rises, his tone is one of great hope, "This momentous occasion shall have significant bearing on our future; we shall soon experience history in the making."

A woman's voice follows, her tone almost preacher like in its intensity, "Tomorrow will be the birth of our New World."

Another female voice rises in response, "But we must also recognise today, this cusp we are on shall be known as 'Reveal's Eve' and we must relish every moment of this day which will be forever celebrated by our ancestors."

I stop and stare ahead – the great gargantuan Cutter is no longer there. In its stead is a wall of vivid orange rock. My eyes wander over this mammoth space, resting on myriad wooden mallets with heavy metal heads that line the ground in regimental precision.

It is clear to me that the final reveal will be the result of a manual breakthrough via people power.

Behind me the people gather, whilst in front of me, people work: arranging, organising and planning for what it is hoped will be a Historical event.

And it is as I watch the people work that I notice something else – many of these people stop to stare at me, and in their faces I see something that looks like alarm.

As more people look at me, I begin to feel self-conscious and wonder why I am being so objectified.

Eventually, a woman steps forward and addresses me, "Why are you so brazenly displaying this hue upon yourself?" 

I do not understand her question, and remain standing in ignorant silence.

My lack of response attracts another woman, "It is the colour of rage, anger and indicates danger and malice," she says.

The first woman looks at me again, "Is this why you are wearing this vivid red upon yourself, are you here to warn of some impending danger inherent in our reveal?" she asks, pointing to my tunic.

I follow her pointing finger and and I am hit with the realisation that they are referring to the daubs of blood, my bloody palm prints that stain my tunic.

Looking up, I raise my hands to display my raw palms, "No, no, there is no message in this colour, I merely used my tunic to stem the blood flow from these grazes I accidentally inflicted upon myself," I explain, with a wavering smile.

The woman smiles warmly, "Come child, let us wash and dress those abrasions for you," she says, extending her hand to me.

In her gentle grasp I feel kindness, "What is your name my child?" 

I am about to answer, but a voice from behind answers for me, "Lavender."

His voice and the word he pronounces with such surety, stuns me, and I turn swiftly.

Jethro looks at me warmly, his eyes flicker with affection, "Her name is Lavender, a hue so befitting of one that is rare and precious, and far removed from the indignities inherent in Blue," he says, walking towards me with outstretched arms.

My heart swells with affection and as I await his embrace, I ask quietly, "How do you know my name?"