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The Prince he was never raised to be, but a warrior soul he posessed.
A soul of kindness and mercy, one could see how much grace he held. He possessed this magnitude of a born leader.
.
One can see grace in his eyes. His defensiveness over people he cared the most thickens, not only to those who deemed worthy. Cross his boundaries and he shows mercy no more.
.
Having seen less than fifteen summers, the cherubic was a little lack in stature- reaching only at four foot eight. His skin was fine and fair. His frame was lithe but he was not weak. His eyes were pools of honey, small and round.
Those eyes lay irreversible spell. Any lucky eyes basking in these pools of honey would drown immensely, drawn to love him. And if tears of hurt were to fall, they were a curse to those who made it.
Feeling his eyelids heavy, he immediately landed his weight onto the matress. He pulled on the quilt blanket that lay under his feet to his chest. Drifting asleep, he sweetdreamt a life far from threats and adversaries. Little but fully-loving family he remembered as a child, despite all the minimizing parental dependency system his Father strictly exercised over his upbringing.
He remembered he hoped from station to station to get to his city school. A towering apartment was his early home before they moved to the Embassy Hall. He liked there, but it was stiff cold, surrounded by the darkness of scandalous political influencers. There, the furnitures were always polished by the household assistants. The scent of solid wood reminds him of a court. Half of the abode was office. He did not have many friends, everyone were able to see each other almost temporarily. For one day they have just met, the next day they move to another town having to follow their parents. He felt like it was not a proper place of childhood, which was one of the reasons he chose to live away at their Island hometown.
The Island was of blessing and curse to this family. His grandfather's house was indeed antique. The creak his bed made, the faded glowing stars in his attic-like room—his Father's room— seem to echo laughters from their bygone childhood. At least five generations had grew up here, keeping hidden legacies he had yet learnt of. It reminds him of the old school uniform Tok Aba prepared him at the aerotrain station, once was worn in the era of his twice greatgrandfather. It made him wonder, perhaps it was more than just their chocolate products. Perhaps there is more astral objects and beings hiding somewhere- blending, adapting, collaborating with human civilazation around them wearing a mask of escalating modernity. There is full of love, warmth and comfort he has yet to found at another place in this Galaxy. This is the place he found friends. A family he will turn to when he was upset. A home he would return after months long in Space.
"Atok has prepared breakfast ages ago. It is not good to let him wait!" Ochobot snapped. He seemed to hover in between his dreams.
"Coming!" Boboiboy shouted towards the door.
He grabbed his previous day t-shirt he had hung on his chair and wear it on a layer of undershirt he has worn to sleep. He stayed in his shorts. He was already at the door when Ochobot stopped him.
"Gross! Go brush your teeth first," the ninth gen powersphere nags like the mother hen he is.
Boboiboy sighed.
"I thought you want me there immediately," he said as he made his way to the bathroom, purposely leaving the door ajar.
The young boy practically dashed the stairs towards the kitchen. He washed his hands before seating himself across his awaiting grandfather.
"Careful, grandchild."
"I've tripped on something worse, Tok. Your old stairs won't hurt me," he replied teasingly. A wide grin spread across his freckled face.
A classic song turned up the radio to counter the serene and quiet morning, making the atmosphere all the more nostalgic.
Boboiboy muttered some prayers under his breath before sipping a glass of juice. It taste soury sweet but he swallowed anyway. He emptied the remaining into his glass and threw the carton into the dustbin. He picked up a set of toast and started eating them.
Boboiboy lifted his head, a tiny bit of butter and honey sticking at the edge of his lips. He curtly brushed it with the tip of his dainty fingers.
The elderly man caught a glimpse of coffee hair in disarray, ivory locks shyly peeking from its crown. Much like his own son, Tok Aba thought.
Letting go of his only son from his household was the worst, but he was rewarded. His strength has deteriorated, his health was not the best at most time but he knew his long departed life companion would be proud of them in her peaceful slumber. Like the waterfall family they are, the water would eventually hit the rocks in line.
"And you said breakfast was done ages ago. But this toast is not even cold," Boboiboy said in between his bite.
"Eat up, Cadet. Work is calling. We're departing right after this," Ochobot demanded.
Boboiboy frowned.
"Are you kidding me? That's right just about now! Can I pleaaasseee stay longer?" He pouts but Ochobot would display a look of distaste.
"Well we can talk to your Admiral Tiger about that," if his eyes weren't LED, Ochobot would roll his eyes.
Boboiboy shook his head rapidly,
"Absolutely no need, assistant. Also he would probably yeet you into outerspace if you were human and just said that."
"Good to know," Ochobot chirped.
"Now shower and get ready," he added.
Then he caught a glimpse of a statuette figure. He picked it up into his palms and studied it. It looked a boy, skin immortalized in ivory and red. He brushed his thumb at the noticeable powersphere figure on its torso.
He blinked.
"Papa," is the only word he muttered. The word catches in his throat.
"A heart too weak for this world is easily broken, your grandmother say."
Boboiboy winced as he turned to see someone behind him.
"H-how can you say that..th-that is what my father say—" he cut his own sentence and shook his head.
He refuses to look up to the other boy's head. The head that is similar to him. He shook his head again.
"You are not here. You are supposed to be old," he bites back coldly.
Amato huffed.
"Certainly. But this is the way it all started."
"How it all started?"
He did not answer that. Instead, he turned to look at another statuette. Instead of red, it had a touch of gold. A powersphere wrapped its arm around the waist.
Boboiboy also looked into the same direction as Amato and he was bemused.
"The universe would be ready for a formidable Master of Seven Elements, but today is not that day. For you to thrive into that day, you must learn a little history to strive a long way after today. There is something we left that you hold the destiny continue."
Boboiboy swallowed a response of denial that was tugging at his mouth. He looked at his hands and then clasped it. Then clasped it. He drew in a long breathe let out a heavy sigh. He turned to the boy whom he would later call Father. Or is it now? He doesn't know if he was talking in his dreams or having travelled to the wrong dimension.
"I am terrified, to know who you really are," he spoke.
Amato furrowed his eyebrows.
"Me? How strange. I am more terrified to think of what you would become. 'One who is afraid of his own destiny, might as well be afraid of his own reflection'. Guess we are reflections of each other," he smiled in grimace.
Boboiboy smiled in return. Tall and slender, oval face, the boy noticeably had Atok's figure. Amato's bigger eyes seems to pierce into his own, but it was bright and he likes that. It reminds him of Cattus.
"But we are not those phantom reflections," Boboiboy shifted to pick the two statuettes and lined them both together. "We are Defendors. We are warriors. Warriors do not look into their own reflections on another's armor," he added to the response.
Amato's smile lit up. He chuckles,
"I see, you understand the point now."
How he missed him, his father, whom they share correspondence between postcards. They have spend light years apart. His father did not wrote to him regularly, nor did he. Usually his father would initiate. Most of the word conversed between them were of no secrets or something very personal, but it was his greatest source of comfort.
The postcard he received recently was attached with a folded letter.
'...for they cannot take that from you, try as they might. Here, I will tell you something the world should be careful of: you. You, child, are the smallest star that sparks the brightest flame, that envies all the bigger stars in this wide galaxy.'