It is not uncommon for a child to dream about being an astronaut. There is a certain attraction dark skies and open space breed in human hearts, as though one could not resist the gravity that drew greatest desires closer to shooting stars and milky ways; orbits and planets; darkness and the moon.

The boy was no different from other children in that aspect, drawn to stars and planets and the moon up close—which he swore he would one day touch, one day reach after a long and tedious search.

Always looking for the moon.

__________________________

Luka Sullivan had always been accustomed to letting go.

It could have stemmed from the moving—that, or the frequency of change and its necessity for a heart that was light because a heavy heart was unwieldy to carry about in its cage and that was no attribute for a child to possess. No child would be in the right mind to deny the offer of new toys or new clothes; an entirely new room all to himself or an additional square of a backyard with a tree.

"Does that mean I get to have a treehouse?"

The boy attempted to wrap his arms around the tree in a hug and with this, his father could not refuse. Luka was not the kind of boy who indulged in the thrill of toy cars, video games or action figures. For ages, he had wished for a place high enough for him to feel as though he was apart from the ground—hovering between the earth and the clouds. It was enough to be in-between.

An agreement was to be made, however, for building a treehouse in the backyard meant that the family was here to stay. So long had Luka been hoping for a place between the earth and the clouds that five houses and many backyards without trees later, he'd left every child-like desire behind for just this one. His parents had found it the hardest of child-like desires.

It was the kind of desire that required the miracle of, perhaps, the moon.

"Are you sure?" Laura watched her husband pile plank after plank of wood into the garage, placing a toolbox by his foot.

He laughed. "The children are getting older. It's time we settled down."

"You seem to think our job easier than building a treehouse." The partnered knights exchanged a look of fair amusement, listening to the clambering of their children upstairs.

"Imagine growing up without a place to call home," the father prepared a plank for sawing. "I wouldn't want to let them down."

"That's not something you have to worry about," Laura shook her head with a characteristic roll of her eyes. "Look at them, getting used to it already." They turned towards the clambering that had somehow shifted to the stairs and the shouts of mirth getting louder and louder until their son came into view with a cardboard box over his head, bumping into his mother who stood in the doorway.

"Luka!"

The boy giggled and fell backwards, knocking into his sister who in turn knocked into the eldest. Together, they fell in a pile all over the kitchen floor, laughing and taking turns to wear the cardboard box that made their voices indecipherable. They sounded identical—all three of them.

"You'd want to be careful with that kids," their father peered into the kitchen, past the shoulders of his wife. "Miss a step and you'll be humpty dumpty."

"But humpty dumpty's famous," said the eldest sister, nine. "Doesn't everyone want to be famous?"

The second girl, eight, shot her hand high up into the air. "I'll be famous for sure."

"I'll be humpty dumpty," Luka piped, retrieving the cardboard box and placing it over his head. He said something indecipherable from the echo and laughed. Laura shook her head with a smile, warning the kids that dinner time was near with a sigh.

"Don't go getting dirt all over your clothes again, clear?" She had a finger sweeping across all three of them, except Luka couldn't see it.

It was only upon hearing the suggestion of going up to read 'The Big Book of Stars and Planets' while listening to rhymes and rhythms that six-year-old Luka Sullivan peered under his cardboard box and placed it aside altogether. "Stars and Planets?"

"Mhm, it's in the box by your bed. You packed it yourself, remember?"

He did. It was the only thing he remembered, really. The boy was not the best at recalling the whereabouts of his books and toys; most of them were chucked into the bin before every move—they called it 'packing light'.

Luka understood why one would pack light. It made sense to do so. After all, there was no reason for anyone not to pack light when they could, for it made the journey perhaps not easy but easier, at the very least. It made the climb much less intimidating and much less fearful of a fall and everyone was afraid of falling. Of being slower than the rest, of lagging behind with more to carry on their backs and having to always, always be afraid—more afraid than the rest. Afraid of being left behind.

There were many things that Luka Sullivan loved and many of those things he learned to leave behind for the sake of packing light. He once had a pet hamster who had to be put to sleep just before the recent move and it made him cry like never before. His mother told him that it would be in a better place and that letting him go was the right thing to do because it was suffering anyway.

It was the right thing to do.

*

Years after the move, his promised night came in September, hit by a newfound chill of recent. His father had called him outside and shifted to fly up to the balcony that he'd created just for Luka's telescope.

"Come on up," he called to the boy down below, who stared up in awe at his very own treehouse. A makeshift rope ladder was lowered from where his father was standing and without further ado, he began to climb.

"Dad, is this—is this really all for me?"

He held nothing back, eyes wide as he took in every detail of the build, laughing when his father's Avian struggled to find space in the tiny room. She screeched a complaint before folding her wings and perching on the roof of the treehouse.

"It's all yours. Here's space for your telescope and over there," his father pointed at a plank jutting out of the wall, meant as a shelf, "for all your books on stars and planets."

And with this, Luka had half his dream achieved and in such an instant! He couldn't sit still, couldn't stop thanking his father and couldn't wait to light the kerosene lamp and begin his reading and his mapping between the earth and the clouds. He was closer to the stars more than he was ever before, his search for the moon halfway complete.

Soon, he would find it. Soon.

__________________________

It was the coldest, darkest of nights; the kind of night without a moon or a single star in the sky for clouds, thick and heavy, smothered its eyes and spread wide like a cloak of darkness, vision obscured. Luka was not fond of such nights.

Those nights were filled with wait. Waiting for the moon to emerge from behind the clouds; for the stars to blink and the sky to clear just so he could meet its gaze from down below, through a hole that made him feel as though he was at the bottom of a well.

Tonight, the view was empty. He had been gazing into his telescope for the past hour and yet, the moon remained out of sight. Searching for constellations had been the second part of his plan but with a night so cloudy and masked, Luka was obliged to abandon his task for the night and turn away from the bottom of the well, looking elsewhere for company.

"Luka!"

The boy sidled to the edge of the balcony and peered down below. He spotted his father by the bottom of the tree, waving.

"It's getting late. Don't you have school tomorrow?"

"Yeah but I haven't got to see the moon yet," he called back, pointing to the sky. "I'll just do my homework while I'm waiting for the sky to clear."

His father nodded, hearing the buzz of the doorbell as he did. "Alright. Supper's in the kitchen if you're hungry. Lizzie ate of most of it already—" It buzzed again. "Coming, coming." Luka watched his father leave the backyard with a roll of his eyes.

The boy retreated back into his treehouse, lighting the kerosene lamp and placing it at the corner of his desk before fishing out his homework. He took brief notice of the fuel that was running low, slightly upset that he hadn't before and would have to go down in five minutes or so to retrieve some from the garage. Which meant that he had to leave the treehouse.

Several calculations and grammatical corrections later, the flame of his lamp flickered once, twice—before going out entirely and leaving Luka momentarily blind from the absence of light. By the time his eyes adjusted to the darkness however, he noticed something peculiar: the lights in the living room and upstairs were turned off.

Without the moon, Luka was alone in his search for light. He hooked one end of the makeshift ladder to a pair of nails attached to the edge of the balcony and unrolled the rest of it down below, carefully finding his way back to earth.

Bare feet brushed the tips of prickly grass before his hold on the ladder was released, crossing the family's backyard and making his way toward the patio in the shortest time possible. After all, prickly grass and cold feet did not make a pleasant combination.

*

There was a blade in the dark and it was wet. Luka Sullivan did not know of this blade. He did not know of shadows or of the things they were capable of doing to the creature within—he knew not of the things that could destroy his cage in an instant and allow the abyss to take what was inside.

He made for the light switch, footsteps naturally light and soundless. The boy was small and scrawny, often regarded as underweight by the majority of his peers.

But as he crossed the living room from where the door to the patio was left open, he heard a voice.

It struck the bars of his cage, startling everything that lived inside for the voice was not one that he could recognize.

"Kanaka, you may eat first," the voice of the stranger was thick and loaded with an accent that Luka could barely understand. All he heard was danger and all he felt was the impossible fear of uncertainty crushing the loud, scattered thoughts pulsing in his head.

The boy crouched behind an armchair, waiting for his father's voice to come along. That, or any sound he found familiar. He waited for the lights to come on.

"It's alright. I've had my fill."

Another voice he did not know. The crushing in his head was interrupted by a sound that he'd hear at the butcher's, whenever his mother would bring him along to the market. It was strange, hearing it at home, in the living room.

"Thanks to you, we finally got them after years of running around. And on time," the first of strangers said, presumably to the second. "Else, our market would've been raided by their Order."

One of them laughed. Luka did not know which.

"Well, I had my sources. They were this close to snuffing us out—can't allow that," the stranger chuckled. "Either way, George gave us the green to have them here. Golden eagles don't come easy...can't find them in markets, at least."

Collective laughter. It confirmed Luka's fear of there being more than two and not one of them—not a single one of them—belonged to someone he found familiar.

The darkness was closing in.

He had to go upstairs. He had to find his mother and his sisters.

Thud. Something had fallen from above and the sound was loud enough to echo down the stairs. Thud. Thud. Thud. It developed a constant beat that grew louder and louder and it took Luka a moment to realize that someone might be coming downstairs.

The involuntary urge to shout and warn whoever it was died by the hand of words that slashed it apart. "Come on, don't have to be dragging her head like that."

The frame of a fragile little boy froze over with a chill. It came like a storm, fast and without warning; leaving him stupefied with his feet cold and numb.

"That don't matter, man. She's dead."

He sighed, a hint of amusement escaping in wisps. "And the other girl?"

"Cori's upstairs takin' her time with the cut."

"Tell her not to take forever," the stranger's voice neared and Luka hid further into himself. "We've got more to hunt." He heard the man sink into the armchair that he was curled up against, away from their line of sight.

"An' you? Just gonna sit there while we eat?"

Luka could tell that he was about to throw up from the repulsive stench in the air. It smelled to him like metal. Like he was standing in the middle of an iron factory and they were melting those bars—hot and burning brighter than the sun. It numbed his chest.

"Ye, I'm good."

"But there's one more of 'em, ain't there?" He wasn't going to drop the subject or let it go. For some reason, they didn't like the sound of him not joining in the feast. "Ain't that why there's five of us?"

"Oh, you mean the youngest?" One of them followed up by saying, amidst the rhythm of blades cruising through flesh and bone. "That one's a little too young to be seasoned."

"Doesn't matter since they're all pure bred anyway," he insisted. "It's definitely a golden eagle. No doubt about that."

"Ah, but good things come to the people who wait, my friend. The little fledgling's going to be worth much more when he's ripe and ready for revenge."

There was the brief thud of someone collapsing to the ground before the man proclaimed one of his companion 'in the ritual'. Yet, the one seated in the armchair had not moved an inch and Luka was beginning to think this the eternal state he would remain in for the rest of his life; crouched low, retreating into himself and never shaking away the fear. The crushing fear that trampled over every blossom of thought.

"Shit." The shattering of glass. An unnatural struggle of feet.

Something was going on upstairs and Luka knew not what it was. The beat of his heart thundered against its cage and the voices of everything else grew soft to a muted buzz. From his corner of the room, he watched a man take the stairs to the second floor and he wished—wished so hard that he would sit on a wall and have a great fall.

The mumbling upstairs grew loud enough for him to make out a woman's voice that wasn't his mother's. There was more scuffling soon after; balls of feet moving across the floor upstairs and then a slam and a thud. The scuffling stopped.

No one was coming back downstairs.

It gave the boy a sliver of unnecessary hope that they would never return, having sat on a wall and had a great fall.

Only he and the man in the chair remained in the space of silence and darkness, breathing in the air that the other would exhale. So dangerously close to one another that there was no telling if or when he would turn around and grab the youngest by the neck and lodge a bullet in his mouth.

Luka shivered for he was freezing on a midsummer night, hearing the man in the chair rise from his seat all of a sudden and approach the stairs, back against where he was. Hiding.

As the man ascended the stairs to check on the silence—or, perhaps more accurately put, the breadcrumbs he'd left behind—Luka made quietly for the kitchen. Footsteps quick and light, he arrived at the scene he'd last remember for the rest of his childhood. The one scene that erased everything else that happened after; the one scene that slithered its way into his cage and settled there, haunting for a long, long time. One that resembled the darkness of a night he could not see.

The sight of his mother's head, removed from a body that was otherwise unrecognizable, made the most of his nightmares. Ribs—the cage that housed the creature within—jutted out of flesh, hammered apart to steal the treasure inside. Her eyes remained open, staring into the light.

Luka could not tell what his mother was looking at. On instinct, he'd almost looked over his shoulder; as though following her gaze would somehow bestow upon him the confidence to deem her...alive. He could not bring himself to approach what looked like the carcass of a deer torn apart by wolves, licked clean to the bone.

Elsewhere. He had to look elsewhere before the bile rising up the back of his throat ended up, instead, on his feet. By the corpse of his mother was another unrecognizable body.

Relieved that he knew at once it was not his father's, Luka could afford to take a closer look at the body. A man with a hood and a crest on his back, fingernails caked with blood and bits of flesh that did not belong to him; laying on his side, face down, across the floor and shaking, presumably collapsed.

All of a sudden, the boy found himself wishing for its death. That the creature in this man's cage would abandon its home and leave everything behind, cold and empty. He should die.

And with this, Luka could not bring himself to go any further than this with a load so heavy. It weighed upon his shoulders like the sky would on any back of a human being—vast and so horrendously afraid that a piece of it would come apart and fall far below. He no longer wished for quiet nights and houses with trees; telescopes and books; rockets and the moon.

Luka Sullivan would begin

to forget

Who he was and what he

Wanted to be, for there was no longer a

Need to be; he needed to disappear,

vanish, or be

removed.

*

The door to the shed was ajar. It invited that which was weak and would be drawn away from the light to hide in the darkness where it was safe to be, where nothing could be seen and nothing could be heard from the Outside. Luka felt the draw of its whisper, stepping over puddles of blood across the kitchen floor and placing a hand on the knob of the door. It felt, to him, coated in something that stuck to the tips of his fingers.

In the darkness, he could only guess what it was.

Slipping between the gap that he'd made and entering the shed as quietly as he could, Luka let his eyes adjust to the darkness anew, standing by the doorway and blinking as hard as he could to see—he hoped—a world apart from that which he was in.

The man that was his father lay in the corner of the shed, slumped over a spare tire that was never supposed to be there, a giant slash across his shirt and resembling a chicken before dinner. Before it was dinner.

A closer look confirmed this for the boy. Luka's father did not have any arms and it reminded him of the broken mannequin he'd seen the one time they passed a city and made a pit stop at something called a shopping mall. A shopping mall sounded to him like the name of an oceanic fish; a huge, beautiful fish with rainbow scales that did not exist.

"Dad?"

He'd heard himself, then. The cry of a child; the sound of a fledgeling as it waited for the return of its parent that would never come, in the middle of a nest that held the bodies of his siblings that would never wake.

Hide up high.

He had heard it in his head. It would be, on every other occasion, a celebrated feat to finally master and gain the ability to hear the voices of those who allowed him access to their heart. Luka did not know very much about using his Link. The only time he seemed to mind it was when his sisters giggled over dinner for no particular reason he could identify, exchanging knowing looks before his mother silenced them with a stern but mildly amused expression.

His father's voice was surprisingly soft; and in comparison to the silenced gun triggered from behind his shoulder and across the shed from the doorway, it was even softer.

Luka had known his father all his life. He would, very naturally. His father was the kind of man who had all sorts of strong opinions and to convey it all, an equally strong voice. Small, soft-spoken Luka had admired this trait of his fathers and longed to possess at least a fraction of it as he grew to become a man. Only—he'd always thought that his father would be there to teach him.

The boy turned to face the gun.

______________________

"Hello," said the man who held the gun. The voice of the man who'd sat in the armchair; the armchair that his father would often sit in as he—Luka—would ask about the progress of his treehouse. It felt, now, like a long time ago.

"You look afraid," he went on, the barrel of the gun aimed between the frightened eyes of a fledgeling, wavering in the face of death. "But there is no need to be. I will not eat you."

He bolted for the door and slipped on his mother's blood that splattered across the kitchen floor, trickling as it followed the gaps between the tiles like those of the sewers and the sides the roads that stank of iron, iron, iron; on his hands and now on his feet, stuck to where he could see everything that was red. He tripped over what could have been an arm—his father's—or a head—his mother's—and staggered into the living where the lights were dead, headed for the patio where his tree was and where he could hide.

Hide up high.

The man was speaking as he ran, musing quietly to himself as Luka left footprints—red—across the entire floor that was once white and untainted, so clean and polished that one could see their reflection in the marble.

"Where are you going, boy?"

Behind him, the man laughed. "Knights can be so troublesome, going around all the time trying to take us down," he followed the boy out onto the patio, where the latter had begun to climb his way up the makeshift ladder at the fastest possible speed. He remained, regardless of his efforts, an easy target. "And when we finally show up, they always, always run."

"Aren't you tired of running around?"

He climbed faster.

"Leaving everything behind?"

Were the places up high always this hard to reach? Luka was not aware of the terrified creature in his cage retreating into itself, feeling smaller and smaller as he climbed higher and higher. Where the moon was supposed to be, he felt the eclipse of the barrel of a gun bearing down the face of his earth.

Luka Sullivan never had the chance to tell his mother how much he hated packing light; how much he despised leaving things behind and how much he hated letting go. It wasn't that he lacked the ability to do it—if anything, he was befitting for the occasion—but the adversity that he felt toward every instance he had to.

"Going to stay up there forever?" The man called from below with a gun and a smile.

In the distance, far far away—he knew not how far—the sound of wailing sirens. Yet, the man did not seem to be in a hurry.

"I'll be waiting for you," he smiled.

"I'll be waiting."

Sirens, sirens, sirens; the man turned and disappeared from his view, leaving Luka's night dark, darker than ever. He retreated into himself, rocking back and forth as he stared at the Big Book of Stars and Planets on the highest shelf where he would have to leave behind when the people in uniforms came to take him away; the telescope that he would never see again when they cuffed his hands and put him in something like a sleeping bag. One that would put the creature within to sleep, never to wake.

"Get him tested," they put him in a van, in a cage, closing the doors. "Governer's not going to like this."

Through the bars, he could see blue and red and blue and red and hear the wailing of the sirens after being blinded by white, white, white headlights in his eyes and then the eyes that were looking at him. Staring at the creature in the cage.

"He's one of them, isn't he?"

"Definitely. Killing off the rest of their family so that they get everything else? Definitely one of them."

What was he? Luka himself knew not what he was, let alone who and where and how he came to be. Lights and red and blue and wailing sirens and a severed head were all that made up his chest of memories—a chest that he would never be able to open on his own accord.

Taken away, the boy never had the chance to tell his father how much he hated packing light; how much he despised leaving things behind and how much he hated letting go.

Come the occasion to pack light, he'd do so with the heaviest heart. Suppose Luka never listened to the times he had to pack light and instead, carried everything on his back; suppose he never let go and suppose he never left a single thing behind. Not his Big Book of Stars and Planets; not his telescope; not his dreams of becoming an astronaut and not his search for the moon. Not anything at all.

But there was no supposing.

There was no supposing because that was not what he did, and no supposing because there was no other option but to pack light and leave everything behind for

the boy

was

snapping.

All of everything had to go and

inside the chest

it went.

_______________________

DO NOT OPEN

_________________________