Lamartine

She was born in the West, what was then called Oregon, and part of the still standing United States. She would move to the East, to a place called Pennsylvania when she was about five or six. While she loved the sciences, she was never any good at them, and these were given up. And so, her passions turned to her already existent love of arts. She wrote stories with such passion that she could describe exactly how the moon was made of cheese, and you would have believed her. She played the violin very well, but hardly good enough for professionalism. And she adored acting and singing. She was a master of neither, but such heart and soul was placed in both that it was truly an art and beautiful.

Her hair was brown. In its simplest words, it was brown. To its true colors, it was, in a sense, more like bronze, for it caught sunlight, and held it, gleaming and shimmering in splendor. Her eyes had the same look to them. Brown though they were, they were golden in sunlight, and bronze in moonlight. She was slim, but far from gangly. She was not tall, but not short. Her voice was smooth and sometimes self possessed, for she allowed no one to pick on her.

Her life was, for any young one, sublime.

But this was back in 2040 when she was but seven, and had nothing to fear.

In that year, war broke out. It had been a festering wound for some time, and her parents constantly talked of fleeing north to the still safe Canada. But they stayed. It was not a decision they regretted, but it still kept them in constant fear. The world was torn apart, and the U.S. split. In the east, one man rose to power, and his name was Sellon.

The true dictatorship of the East began with him, for writing was the first thing to go. Mournfully, Emily ceased to write. Rights were taken away, constant battles were being fought within the streets as minor groups sanctioned for powers they desired. The world slowly crumbled around the girl, and in 2046, it shattered completely...She was but thirteen...

"Hush. You'll see. Oh, Jessica! I'm so excited for you! Such fun you'll have!" Jessica looked warily up at her mother, who sat in the seat in front of her. Jessica had seen her crying earlier, but she insisted this was simply do to her helter smelter emotions.

"Will I?" she asked apprehensively. "Where will I be having such fun?"

Her mother faltered slightly, but told her plainly. "Maryland."

"What? Maryland? Stop the car, I'm getting out!" she shouted, hurrying to unbuckle her seat belt.

"No, Jessica, you mustn't!"

"Laura, stop her!" her father cried as he pulled onto the highway. Her mother had unbuckled and flung herself into the backseat, pinning her daughter down and rebuckling her, making sure she could not repeat such a stunt.

Jessica's eyes were full of tears as she looked up at her mother, whose face was likewise. "Where will you be?"

"Oh..around..Probably out West. We have relatives there.." Emily began to wrestle with her again, but was held in place. "Stop that! We'll call! We'll visit! You'll see us again!"

The theater was called The Rose, and on each door, a lovely rose had been carved. It had, at one point, also served as boarding house for its actors, for it was several stories and windows attested to its ability to hold many more occupants than just what the maximum seating capacity said.

Pulling in a deep breath, she timidly pushed through the door.

It was completely empty.

"He-hello?" she called nervously, her voice echoing throughout the theater. She closed her eyes and revealed in the sound. Suddenly, and seemingly violently in her surprise, white rose petals were floating down from directly above her.

"Sweets to the sweet: farewell!" a voice above her called. Looking up, she saw that the ceiling directly above her had ended, and she realized that had been the floor of the lighting area. The true ceiling spread high up and all around.

Shakily, she asked "Is.Is that Hamlet?"

The voice above her ignored, and continued on to another tragedy. At the same moment, she heard a tympani sound from within the orchestra pit. "A drum, a drum! Macbeth doth come!"

She countered with "The weird sisters, hand in hand, posters of the sea and land, thus do go about: thrice to thine and thrice to mine and thrice again to make up nine: Peace! The charm's wound out."

The speaker from before clapped from above, and a grinning head popped out. His brown hair was short and the bangs were slightly spiked, so it did not fall about his face as she would have expected. "That was great! Hang on; I'll be down in a sec."

She smiled, and felt a slight weight on her heart lift. Was she forgetting already? She had been told that was the best thing to do; to move swiftly into ones profession, and to never look back.

She heard the pounding of feet above her as the boy - he was actually fifteen, and would have resented being called a boy - raced down to greet her. Bursting through the side doors, grinning all the while, he greeted her.

"Ah! Canda! You are very welcome here!"

Jessica frowned slightly. "No, my name's-"

He held up a finger, and tilted his head slightly. "Whatever it was before is now gone. Mr. Whitcomb knows who you were, but I don't, and have no interest to know. He has assigned each of us a name, and yours is Canda. That is all you are or ever were."

"But-" she began to protest.

"No!" he shouted, looking slightly angry, and she pulled back, in fear he might strike her. "You are Canda!"

Trying to make the best of the situation, she timidly asked "Like a stage-name?"

He smiled. "Yes, think of it that way."

"Why Canda?" she inquired.

"It's from Macbeth. Sorta. It's Duncan, King of Scotland, with all the letters switched around, and a few left out. And so, you are Canda."

She smiled too. "Oh..so then, who are you? And who's in the pit?"

"I'm Tilarsus, which is Titus Lartius from Corionlanus. I was-" He quickly stopped himself. His face darkening. "Down in the pit's our drum major, Nicar. He's-"

"Marc Antony!" she guessed.

He grinned. "Yes, from Julius Caesar. You're good at this sorta stuff."

She shrugged. "Word puzzles back..home...." She sniffled slightly.

He put a tender hand on her shoulder, and hoped she didn't think he was hitting on her. She didn't. "We have word puzzles here, too." She smiled lightly, and nodded. "Anyway, that's your initiation. Not much, I know, but welcome to the Rose! Piesus is around here somewhere. She'll show you where you're rooming."

Jessica turned Canda nodded, and clutched her bags as he showed her up the stairs, across the stage, and through the backstage. He opened a small, secretive door for her, which led to the house like part of the theater. Through a sliding glass door, Canda could see a patio, and a garden of roses, and she guessed that's where the petals had originated from.

Some might call the manager, director, and owner of the Rose eccentric. Canda found this explanation believable. He had a ring of white hair beginning at his ears and forming a semi-circle around his head, leaving the middle bald. He was about 65 and very friendly, if slightly nutty.

While he had no favorite student, he did have those he trusted above all others. These were Piesus, the girl's section manager, and Tilarsus, the grinning, zealous fifteen year old in charge of initiations. When he got older, this would switch to boy's section manager, he promised.

The upper stories of the Rose were split into gender sections. Some floors the girls stayed on. Other's the boys stayed on. Mr. Whitcomb had hall monitors to make sure teen-age hormones didn't force anyone to break this rules and result in..unfortunate new members of the troupe. Curfew was 11:00 PM and lights out was 11:30 PM. Canda was slightly surprised that no one was allowed outside the vicinity of the Rose but Mr. Whitcomb and Piesus. Not even Tilarsus. What surprised her even more was that no one wanted to leave. Rebellion among the beloved "children," of Mr. Whitcomb had long ago been abolished, and there was ample to do merely on the Rose grounds.

A large chunk of land was the back yard. It had a green, slightly slopping hill to one side with a ring of trees and a small creek where a stone bench was. There was also a stone patio where Rose bushes, Mr. Whitcomb's other beloveds, were meticulously tended.

Directly inside there was an adjoining living room, kitchen, and dining room. There was a coffee table and old, comfy couches in the living room. A counter, ancient oven, microwave, and refrigerator in the kitchen. And finally, a long table with many chairs in the small dinning room. Piesus was often cooking if she wasn't watching the younger girls like a hawk, scolding and advising.

There were games to be played indoors and outdoors should work be finished early, which was entirely unlikely. Canda found the work enjoyable, and though at first she resented being given more than the others for being new, she found refuge in it rather quickly. With so much to do, she didn't have time to weep and wail about the loss of her parents, and was so tired when she went to bed at night, that she needn't cry herself to sleep. She found it all...refreshing!

There were a total of twenty members of the troupe, split evenly into boys and girl groups. Occasionally, Mr. Whitcomb found the small numbers annoying, but most parents believed that craft working was safer for their child (it wasn't) and Mr. Whitcomb did have some high standards.

It surprised everyone how deftly Tilarsus took to Canda, though Canda couldn't understand why. He tended to be indifferent to those he initiated, but to everyone's shock, was constantly tagging around her. Were there anything she couldn't reach, he grabbed it. If there was something too heavy to lift, he was more than happy to oblige. And while it got him some teasing from the other boys, he was always smiling and courteous around Canda, though he didn't give two straws about his behavior around the other girls.

Canda decided that one might be able to call him attractive. He certainly wasn't detractive. He had fine, blue eyes, and as long as it was kept trim and short, very nice brown hair. He had a pleasant laugh, and a nice voice. He was good at what he did, and his eyes were always sparkling in his jobs well done. Canda decided she liked him enough, though not necessarily adored him and drooled over his every action like the other girls did.

It was about a month after Canda's own arrival that life at the Rose thrown temporarily into chaos.

Despite the fact of the "safety," of the crafts, Mr. Whitcomb still got plenty of calls and letters with tapes of acting or singing sent along too. If he liked what he heard, a date was set up and a name picked out for the new arrival with other things going directly to Tobra, the boy's section manager.

The arrival of Roden was almost out of planning stages when the event occurred. Canda, busy sweeping off the stage from the dust kicked up by the lighting crew, was alone when it happened, everyone else about their various duties. The side stage doors, which Canda had thought civilians didn't know about, were flung open, and a boy was thrown in.

She supposed he might be tall, were he not sprawled so indignantly across the floor. His eyes might be a lovely shade of dark, dark brown, were they not red rimmed with unabashed tears. He was slightly tanned, and had sandy blond hair, which was very slightly shaggy, allowed to grow just to the point where it touched his ears, but no longer, with his bangs just brushing his eyebrows. The lovely, soft looking hair had flecks of occasional brown in it. An odd quirk, Canda thought.

In an instant, he was up on his feet, and charging towards the door, where an older, larger man that Canda assumed must be his father was blocking his escape. He was pushed back again by the rough, burly man, and his bag thrown into the theater, falling hard to the stage and sliding a few feet.

The boy tried again, his hands out stretched, palms up in a begging gesture. "Father, please-"

The man, now definitely revealed to be the boys sire backhanded him and knocked him away again, this time forcing him to fall to the floor, his hands stopping him from allowing his face to connect with the smooth, black, painted wood flooring of the stage.

"Damn it, Brian! I told you you're staying here! Get used to the idea!" There were a few more words unfit for repetition, and the door was cruelly slammed, though the boy's face was now turned upward, his mouth open for more protests. With his head turned, Canda noticed that a nice cut was on his right cheek, and a little blood, which she, or the new arrival, Brian, would be forced to clean up later, was dripping down to the floor.

Timidly, she softly put the broom down, a very soft clink sounding across the stage. Who was he? Roden wasn't supposed to come for another week! Who was he? She quietly tiptoed near him, peering inquisitively. He had moved himself so that he was sitting on the floor, which was a more respectable position than the hands and knees one he'd been in. Angrily, he snapped his head at her.

"What?" he demanded hotly.

"Are.Are you Roden?"

"No," he said angrily. "I'm Brian. Who are you?"

"I'm Canda."

"Weird name," he accused.

She was about to icily protest that her real name was Jessica, but stopped herself. Who was Emily? Not she! "It's my stage name. You'll get one too if we can figure out who you are."

"I told you, I'm-"

"Stop!" she ordered, raising her hand. "You can't call yourself that anymore. It's dangerous. We have new names and a new life once we step through those doors. Well, actually, you were supposed to come through the front ones, but I guess you couldn't help that. I suppose it won't matter."

He smirked slightly, but remained silent, so she continued.

"We weren't supposed to get anyone new until next week. His name will be Roden."

He awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm probably this Roden guy you're so insistent about then."

She smiled, but he noticed she was looking at him funny.

"What is it?" He said this with much more kindness and patience in his voice now.

"...Your cheek..." she said, reaching a hand out as she went down to her knees so she could examine the wound. He turned his head to face her briefly, and she was taken in by those fine, dark eyes. They looked almost black, or purple, they were such a deep brown.

"Hm?" He touched his fingers to his cheek, drawing the hand away and looking at it, revealing the bright, red sticky blood. He laughed. To laugh at such a time unsettled Canda a bit, but she realized that through the laughing he was crying slightly, though he was managing to mask it very well. Her heart was moved, and her pity went out to him. She reached her arms out and encircled his head, bringing it closer to her and resting it in between her shoulder and her chest, the way she often saw Piesus do for the youngest children in the troupe. (Five year olds were occasionally brought in for the children's roles in plays, and Piesus dotted on them with motherly affection.) Brian did not shrink away from her touch. Sniffling, he did pull back though.

"I'm getting blood on your shirt," he explained.

"It's just a shirt," she said comfortingly. "I can wash it. It doesn't bother me." Tenderly, she reached up to poke gently at the wound, and he winced slightly. "We better clean this up before we go and try to find Mr. Whitcomb to find out who you are. I'll just call you Roden for now. It seems the most likely."

She almost reached out again to draw him near her. She liked his hair. It was soft and silky. She shivered slightly, enjoying the close contact. "It's just hormones," she scolded herself. "I'm sure I don't really like him." Either way, the hormones were screaming for more contact. She wondered if his were screaming too. She didn't obey them, and instead, stood up, reaching a hand down to offer to help him up. He politely refused the hand, getting up on his own.

"How....how old are you?" she asked, trying to make conversation.

"I just turned sixteen a few weeks ago. How 'bout you?"

"Thirteen," she responded. Taking his hand - she tingled at his very hand! - she lead him backstage and into the small fist aid station (it was nothing more than a bathroom). She smirked as he sat down on the stool awkwardly while she got out rubbing alcohol and gauze. He winced ever so slightly as the painful concoction was rubbed onto his cheek while she dabbed at it with a cloth and tried to stop the slow, yet steady, flow of blood.

"Hey Canda!" she heard Tilarsus call.

"In here!" she called back. Following the light, he entered, and scowled instantly as he watched her gently treat Roden's cheek.

"Who's he?" he demanded darkly.

"I'm not sure," she admitted with a shrug. "I assume he's Roden."

"Impossible," Tilarsus dismissed with a wave of his hand.

"Really?" she asked, smiling up at him, teasing slightly.

He smiled back and loosened up ever so slightly. "Yes."

"How so?"

"I'm the Initiations Controller. We don't have anyone coming for another week. Were someone to be coming early, believe me, I'd be contacted, and I'd know about it."

She felt the vibrations of Roden growling through his skin, and she made it purposely hurt to shut him up. It was clear that both of these A type gentlemen greatly disliked each other. She smirked slightly.

"Looks like this one got away. As Initiations Controller, you know the future names of the incoming thespians, right?"

He straightened slightly, and puffed out his chest. "Of course."

"Then you'd know if a Brian were to be changed to a Roden, wouldn't you?" she said, teasing now. Tilarsus didn't seem to notice that.

"Yes, and he's not supposed to be coming until next wee- Oh shit!" He smacked himself upside the head, realizing he gave away secret information. Canda merely laughed.

"Your secret's safe with me. But he is Roden," she added, pointing at him with the gauze she was about to throw away and replace with a fresh bandage.

"Anyway," Tilarsus added, quickly changing the subject, "Piesus sent me hunting for you. She wants your help in the kitchen." He extended his arm with a flourishing bow. "My lady? Shall we retire?"

She accepted his arm, leaving Roden to either follow, which he did, or wait for Tobra to hunt him down now that word would be out about his arrival.