*clears throat and stands up nervously*

Hello, everybody! I'm Maria, but please feel free to call me Ree. It's a nickname that has stuck with me since I was a baby, when I just couldn't manage to properly pronounce my first name (rather, just the middle syllable of it).

I've been on Wattpad for about four years, but I'm sure many of you will be scratching your heads as to who I actually am.

I'm a poet, journalist, trailer maker (I actually made a trailer for this very Block Party!), graphics creator, former Wattpad Engagement Ambassador, and, ever so proudly, a Wattpad Featured Author.

I write dark, thrilling, romantic stories that aim to leave you melting thoroughly, chuckling heartily, sobbing relentlessly, and screaming at your screen in confounded disbelief. I put my characters through hell because I love them.

My stories aren't just books, but rather, they are breathing pieces of my heart and history. They are my soul, my passion, and my purpose. I'm sure many authors can empathize when I say, large pieces of me have been left in the paragraphs. We wait patiently for those pieces to be found, dusted off, and brought back to life by our incredible readers.

But... please excuse my tangents.

This is my first time being involved in the Wattpad Block Party (thank you SO much, Kelly)! I've wanted to be a part of this awesome event for so long now! So please pardon my overt excitement. This is kind of a big deal!

Since this is my first time being a part of the grandeur that is the Wattpad Block Party, I wanted to do something really special. What I'll be sharing with you all today, is the entire prequel to Arrows & Anchors (my most popular story on Wattpad).

If you're unfamiliar with A&A, please take a quick peek at the trailer for it below:

https://youtu.be/dvaNpdiFRV0

This post is a true introduction to my series, so you don't need to be a current reader of mine to follow along. Hopefully, though, it'll make your reading experience that much richer, if you do decide to carry on with the series! (Pretty, pretty please! You won't regret it! Read my "Fan Feedback" chapter at the beginning of A&A, if you need more persuasion! Or check out the Fan Feedback video--very first link at the top of my Wattpad bio!)

And if you're already a steady Brulian fan, I hope this will give you a brand new insight into Jules--who he is, who he was, and who he's always been. There are lots of new details in this prequel that I've never shared with any of you before. Thank you so much for sticking by me. This one's for you, Lost Girls and Lost Boys!

It's lengthy, so if you're a true lover of words, you're in for a treat!

Oh! And don't forget to check out the giveaway at the bottom of this post. One lucky reader is going to score a MYSTERY SWAG BAG with Arrows & Anchors related goodies! It's a secret bundle with hand-picked items from yours truly! And I'll ship to anywhere in the world. New readers, faithful readers, silent readers... everyone is welcome to enter, and I highly encourage you to do so! :)

And now, without further ado...

Flesh, Blood, and Stardust: An Arrows & Anchors Prelude/Prequel!

November 2004

Julian's POV

There was a nip in the air.

The sun had just begun to descend the autumn sky. I felt an icy bite on the tip of my reddened nose. Since I wore no jacket over my t-shirt (reading "I Am The Night"), even the hairs of my forearms stood on end.

Meteorological predictions were often iffy, and I rarely trusted them, but this time it was certain: temperatures were definitely dropping. It was noticeable enough for me to want to cut my break short—by four whole minutes—and head back into the shop.

So that was exactly what I did. With a growl in my stomach, and a shiver in my curled shoulders, I returned to duty.

The wind whistled whilst I moved through it, and I ached for a steaming hot cup of something or other. Without very much grace, I moved through the entrance door of my workplace, just below the bulb-less "P" in the "PAWN" sign overhead.

To the right of the room stood the shop owner—my first and only boss—Patrick. His eyes remained downcast at the display case. He scribbled away messily and grunted in mild frustration about something.

Anytime my boss was in an extra sour mood, I put it down to the horse races, as he had a bit of a betting problem. But Patrick didn't seem too upset at the moment, and, thankfully, I had but three hours left with him that evening anyhow.

Not to be taken incorrectly—the lad wasn't half bad; he just expected an awful lot of me. And despite my lack of fear for hard labour, at seventeen years old, Patrick knew I was as dispensable as they came. (Right, don't tell anybody, but... truthfully... my boss believed me to be nearly twenty. But what difference did a year or two make? I was still expendable to him.)

I knew of my dispensability just as well. My resume was rather... bland. I had no previous jobs. And regardless of my tenure at a religiously-institutionalised public school and orphanage, I hadn't even any GCSE marks about which I could brag. The best part of my schooling experience, thus far, was running away from it. Literally.

Yep... I was a drop-out. But not in the way you might think...

See, my old school was called the Lambeth Home, except for the fact that it was no home at all. Especially not after the questionable disappearance of my best mate, Ollie. He was the only reason I had, to not make a run for it sooner. But when he never returned to the boys' common bedroom one night, the rumours started flying about.

"The South Chamber," they'd said. Their hushed whispers substantiated what I'd already been dreading. Ollie and I used to steal leftovers from the staff kitchen by night. Usually, we'd nick a loaf of bread or two, and, once caught, we never were spared an ounce of sympathy.

The staff already disliked us... me more than Ollie, but my best mate was always guilty by association. Just the thought of this truth was enough to speed my heart rate.

Where had Ollie gone to? Had he already escaped on his own? We had often discussed the possibility of escaping together, but maybe he had no time to find me first. We'd likewise made a pact to make a run for it, alone if necessary, if we ever got the chance. Had Ollie gotten his?

Or maybe it was something else entirely. Had he been removed to another home? Another wing of the orphanage? Had he really been to the South Chamber? And if he had, was he horribly injured and moved to hospital?

As the night hours crept by, I began to suspect the absolute worst... that perhaps I'd never see Ollie again. Or if I did, somehow, he wouldn't be the same lad I knew and loved. When it came to inflicting permanent damage, I'd have put nothing past Matron Wendy and her legion of abusers.

It seemed that they existed solely to harm the Numbers. I was proof of this myself.

Ollie wouldn't have been the first loveless Number to disappear. I could only hope that he wasn't too gravely hurt, and, if he'd been moved to hospital, or to another location, maybe fate would lead us along the same path, to meet again one day. Maybe when we were fully grown.

Did Lost Boys ever actually grow up? In stature only, I believed.

Nonetheless, the sweeping realisation overcame me, that I was truly all alone. Alone in a place full of people who hated my guts, to put it mildly. They'd taken him, and I had to be next.

Why this day, of all days? They'd done this to weaken me, I became sure of it. To break me, as they'd always wished to. Worst of all, Ollie could have been harmed in my name, as some sort of pawn. And this stung worse than any previous, physical lacerations.

I grew absolutely paranoid in my own ruminations. Lost in my own worried mind. And worried minds were wicked places to be.

Without Ollie, I had absolutely no reason to remain in the trenches of the Lambeth Home. There, I was simply a hen in a lion's den.

No... it couldn't be. I had to begin looking after myself—there was nobody else around to do it for me. This had never been more blatantly apparent to me.

What were they planning?

I'd been scarred already, but something even more irrevocably awful could have happened at any moment, without Ollie around to be my second pair of eyes and ears. The headmaster and matrons had stripped me of my best mate, and, as such, my best and only defense. The only surefire way to safety, was to get as far away as possible.

Far, far away from Lambeth, and away from the place that never was a home to any of those poor souls forced to reside within its quarters.

We hadn't heard of any successful attempts before. Despite this, I wanted to try it for myself: the great escape. What better day to try it, I thought, than my sixteenth birthday? Some birthday boy luck might've even been on my side.

Just past five in the morning was when I made my choice. I'd been waiting all night for Ollie to return, and he still hadn't. I decided it was time.

To my knowledge, I was the only one awake in the boys' common bedroom. My bed was by the far window. Beside that window, I'd spent countless nights looking to the stars. Contemplating.

I considered breaking the glass and jumping through, but it would've woken everyone around me. Not that I cared about the restfulness of the bellends around me, but I needed to be a bit more inconspicuous. At least for now.

Though, there might've been a second option, just beneath my nose.

Headmaster wouldn't arrive until seven, or half past six at best. And Miss Helen seemed to be the only one on night staff duty--patrolling the halls and looking inside the rooms for any signs of mischief. Normally, Matron Wendy and Miss Edith would have been 'round as well. I hadn't seen the latter two all night.

I spotted my chance.

As quietly as I could, I sat up, then stood to my feet. By the room's far corner was a lamp. I unscrewed its bulb, and placed it into the pocket of my uniform trousers. I hadn't been allowed pyjamas like the others.

I tiptoed to the bedroom door, opening it with a creak. Miss Helen was down the corridor, but immediately started walking back toward me. The clicking of her heels grew louder as she approached. I closed the bedroom door behind me, as to not disturb the other numpties.

I held back a smile to see she was truly alone.

"Miss Helen, I need to visit the lavatory."

"Ask properly," she snapped.

Delightful, wasn't she? The old witch.

"Miss Helen, may I please have your permission to visit the lavatory?" I amended, trying not to grit my teeth.

She gave me a look of disgust. "Quickly."

"Yes, Miss," I said, whilst beginning to move.

In my head, I hummed lyrics, to keep my nervous feet in a steady rhythm.

Steady. Steady now.

I could feel her wrinkled eyes upon my back until I turned the corner. Instead of rushing to the boys' toilets, however, I dipped into the cleaners' storeroom--just beside the loos. Ironic, wasn't it, that the cleaners' room needed a good tidying?

Breaths came heavily from my body as I reached for the small lightbulb in my pocket.

Gripping the bulb tightly, I reached my hand out of the broom cupboard and threw the bulb to the floor--as far to the left as I possibly could--with a rough, echoing, crashing of glass. Frantically, I pulled the door back toward me, leaving it open just a hair. Just enough to be able to see the silhouette of her, passing by in a rush.

Blood pulsed heavily within me, thickening my veins, as I heard Helen's shoes clicking louder, closer. Her feet like hellfire. When I heard her calling my number angrily from inside the boys' toilets, I ran.

I ran and ran down the long corridor, down the creaking stairs, and all the way to the main entrance doors of the orphanage. I was sure I'd never run so quickly in my life.

A black, morning sky greeted me as I threw the doors wide open. I made my silent birthday wish to the sky overhead--full of flickering stars--and leapt forward.

Give me safety, give me freedom.

I never paused for a moment... not even as the security alarms began to blare. I felt the vibrations of them in my ribcage. They seemed to grow even louder, as I got further away.

The grass was damp as I raced across it. I never looked back--not even once. The air was freezing, my lungs ached, and I was shaking.

A frigid wind parted my hair, whilst I ripped the identification necklace from 'round my neck. With a burning hatred, I threw it to the ground, leaving it where it lay.

"Ollie, I'm sorry," said I to myself.

And everyone else at Lambeth? To hell with them all.

Burn. Burn in bloody hell.

I nearly slipped on the wet ground as I rushed across it, barely making it to the furthest edges of the massive yard. An iron fence awaited me there, which I scaled--trembling thighs and all--before making it to the safety of the wooded area beyond.

The furious beating of my heart wouldn't slow.

My silent birthday wish to the sky had been granted--somehow, I'd pulled it off. With alarms screaming mightily behind me, I'd officially made it past the property lines of the orphanage, tasting liberty for the very first time in my life.

Still, comfort evaded me. Electricity ripped through my limbs, urging me ahead.

I didn't believe it was quite over... but, I hadn't yet been stopped. I hadn't yet been found. Time was precious.

I couldn't allow myself to roar a celebratory cry of relief. Instead, I celebrated by running harder, for every centimetre between myself and the hellhole meant a better chance at survival.

Through wooded areas, empty parks, dim footpaths, and sleepy streets, I sprinted with lightning in my toes. My surroundings became more foreign, and I'd decided this was a good thing. A very good thing, indeed.

As the miles were treaded beneath my feet, and the sky lightened infinitesimally, I'd realised at last: I made it. My throat was dry, as was my tongue, and my lips were numb. But I'd made it. I was out.

I couldn't even credit myself for everything having gone right. It really felt like heaven was looking out for me, leading me along. Sounds mad, I know.

No doubt, I'd caught a massive break. Still, I was starting out with absolutely nothing. Just the clothes on my back... an itchy uniform, at that. And in that black uniform, I ran for miles and miles, not knowing what exactly I was searching for, but feeling the need to get further and further away. The further away, of course, the better.

I couldn't rid myself of this sensation of being... guided... in a way. So I kept moving... looking for my rainbow, and maybe even the pot of gold at its furthest edge.

I'd never found a rainbow for myself before, but maybe there was a first time for everything. After all, what better day was there, to be feeling rather opportunistic? Lest we forget, I'd already been granted one giant wish.

So, after escaping from the Lambeth Home, without two pence to my name, I was ever so pleased to have found any stroke of luck, in the form of income. What were the chances that I'd stumbled upon Patrick's pawn shop, just as my legs grew far too weary to carry on?

To me, this was just more proof of my strongly-held belief: in life, there were no coincidences.

After running to the point of near collapse, whilst watching the sun ascend a sleepy sky, good fortune had found me again. And me? I found my pot of gold--an overturned, long abandoned, unopened fizzy drink by the footpath. If you're wondering whether I actually drank it, you're too bloody right I did.

My throat had never burnt so beautifully, as the lukewarm liquid moved past it.

And even better than the discarded, carbonated beverage, was the handwritten "Help Wanted" sign in the window of the shop across the way.

There really was no question about it. Upon me, fate truly smiled that day.

After gathering myself for a bit, I walked right in, and asked for work. I spoke with a false confidence. The man behind the cash register stared at me for a moment, making no mention of my all-black uniform. Since the surrounding area was really quite grimy, perhaps the somewhat posh-looking uniform even helped me a bit, at the time.

It was still a shot in the dark, and I made my request without expectation. To my surprise and glee, Patrick agreed to an extra pair of hands around the shop. I felt as though I'd just won the lottery.

The position was offered to me on one perfect condition: he'd pay me in cash—free of taxes—under the table. This was a rather ideal scenario for me, seeing as I was petrified of giving my full and legal name, Julian Riley Miles, just in case the Lambeth staff or police ever came 'round to look for me.

Nearly two years had passed already, and nobody had found me yet. I just had to make it to the twentieth of February, and I'd be legally free to live as... Julian... without fear of being recaptured and sent back to the hellhole on the hill. But, for the time being, I wasn't Julian. No. I was just a liar and a fraud.

Quite fortunately, Patrick never questioned my name ("Riley"), nor my age at the time ("18"). It was a solace for me to remember that, in a few months' time, the latter lie would at least become a truth. And the first lie was at least partially true—my middle name was still a part of my name, wasn't it? Middle names were always underrated...

Patrick, however, never really pushed for detailed information about my private life. It was all work, all the time. No meaningless chinwagging. I liked this about him. And I desperately needed it to be this way. This way exactly.

I knew Patrick was born in Leicester, and his family had Irish roots. Beyond this, though, I knew very little.

Our conversations were usually limited to a few sparse sentences throughout the day, and the rest of that space was filled by enticing sounds of an old rock-and-roll radio station.

They'd play tunes by The Beatles, Rush, Boston, Foo Fighters, Styx, The Rolling Stones, The Who, and Van Halen. Growing up at the Lambeth Home never afforded me the opportunity to become familiar with these artists. Each song, to me, was a bigger banger than the last. No matter my duties at the pawn shop, I'd somehow always gravitate toward the dusty, old radio, waiting for the disc jockey to give proper attribution.

Multi-tasking, to me, came in the form of making mental notes all day long. Whilst completing my duties to Patrick's satisfaction, I'd repeat band names and song titles to myself, for later reference.

On my rare days off, I'd walk to the lending library and search out those tunes, along with any information about Ollie. Every now and then, I'd have half a mind to try and find my parents as well. The urge to do that would usually pass rather quickly, and that space of longing within me, filled instead with spite, anger, frustration, and indignation. My parents didn't care, and it was their fault my life had gone the way it had. Part of me wanted to know why, but the bigger part of me didn't care for an explanation. It wouldn't solve anything.

I didn't care what my father was doing. I didn't care what my mother was doing. It meant bugger all to me. The fact remained that they had never loved me, nor wanted me, and had thrown me away like something they'd find at the bottom of their wellies, after a long walk through the train station. The "why" didn't make a blind bit of difference, did it?

I knew that, in order to heal a wound, one needed to stop touching it. I intended to do just that. Besides, what had I to show for myself, if I actually found my mother and father? I was nothing. A nobody. In the grand view of life, I was worthless. Even my parents thought so. They'd have never thrown me to the wolves otherwise. And who was to say they wouldn't do it a second time?

No. They didn't care for me.

The only person who had ever truly cared for me, was Oliver Yates. I didn't like thinking too much about what pained me in life, but I'd still find myself typing my best mate's name into a search engine every now and then. As expected, no search for his whereabouts was ever fruitful online, but I'd always hit the jackpot with my musical inquiries on the internet.

I couldn't get enough of these sounds that I'd never been exposed to before. Pop, jazz, classical, indie, orchestral, swing, operatic, rhythm and blues, punk, alternative, metal. And rock. Always rock.

I held a deep sense of restlessness, and unspoken woes within me, that drew me to the slightly darker side of music. That wasn't to say I didn't enjoy the odd Disney song or two, because I certainly did. Hell, I even loved flamenco guitar. Paco de Lucia quickly became my favourite, in fact.

I'd seen countless videos of his performances, and one thing was certain: Paco could shred. He just did it on an acoustic guitar, and expressed himself through scales, rather than patterns of arpeggios. Watching a musician, such as himself, expressing deep emotions at high tempos was something I greatly admired.

It made me want to know what it felt like for myself--to master an instrument, and play it better than anyone else.

What must that have felt like?

Once sparked, my interest knew no bounds. I tried to consume as many tunes as possible, across all genres. I felt as though I were living lifetime across lifetime this way--learning the heart of an artist, in the span of a few minutes.

Something switched in my brain. This was it. I'd found my drug of choice. Music was healing to me, and music was everywhere. It was a plethora of sounds, each one opening a new corner of my mind and imagination.

I even started seeing music as colours.

If I closed my eyes and just listened... darker, faster sounds were always red or black. Music with more technical or atmospheric qualities appeared green or blue, to my mind's eye. Music with proper ambience was a true, cool blue.

Endless riffs and rhythms and melodies and harmonies and octaves and dissonance, pulling me away from my old life, and into a new one. Calling to me. Screaming, really.

Call me addicted--and perhaps I was--but every free moment granted to me, was given to music. I was certifiably, aurally obsessed. And being introduced to a world of new sounds, naturally sparked a massive interest in me about the instruments that produced them.

Especially the guitar.

It felt like I was being magnetically drawn to the guitar, and the itch developed in me, to try and learn its intricacies. Problem was, I didn't have one of my own to practise on. I had an idea, though.

For months, I saved my meager earnings. I even skimped on food costs by temporarily dumpster-diving, behind the better-looking establishments (and don't you give me that snarl-lipped look, London's a top eating town).

Sometimes the veg was fresh, and sometimes, it would've been better fed to vermin. Sometimes, I'd be cursed at and shooed away from a posh establishment's alleyway bins. Other times, I'd be given meals for free, without even needing to ask for it.

For instance, on Wednesdays and Fridays, I knew to go to a specific restaurant, at a specific time. I'd been spotted digging through the bins there before, and this woman who worked there, Nipa, took pity on me. She'd sneak out these massive takeaway boxes for me, and leave them in a bag by the bins. They were always warm to the touch, and always included a generous slice of rhubarb pie.

I grew to really love the taste of rhubarb that way. Good job, too, since I'd have never been able to afford the dessert at full price. Basic pot noodles, for example, would've been more in my allotted range for food expenditure.

So, yes. The necessity of food was a big expense, but if there were some way to cut back, I was determined to find it. And I always did--whilst receiving generous perks here and there.

Before I knew it, I'd saved enough to purchase (and begin teaching myself to play on) my very own Ibanez. With pride in my cheeks, I'd purchased it from the pawn shop, thanks to my employee discount that Patrick had so graciously offered—30% off retail.

See? I did like Patrick, in a way.

He always had my money ready on Fridays, and sometimes even treated me to a cold, refreshing fizzy drink or two. About once a month, he'd even show up with a couple of Haggis Scotch Eggs for me in the morning, with a grunt as the food exchanged hands.

I always sensed that Patrick held a deep pity for me. Maybe it was because of my young age. Perhaps it was because he knew my wages resembled that of someone in a developing nation. Or maybe, it was something else entirely.

Whilst I looked after myself to the best of my young abilities, perhaps I appeared homeless to him.

Depending on how one viewed it, maybe I was.

Since my options were so few, when I'd accepted the position, £2.50 an hour sounded alright to my empty pockets. It was a definite start, and it afforded me just enough to taste independence.

I hadn't been able to grow a full beard quite yet, but I did feel like a man. How could I have felt any other way? I was making it, completely on my own, in the south of England.

How many teenage runaways could really say that?

I wasn't living well, no, but I was finally living. No more corruption, no more abuse. Anything at all would have been better than where I'd been before. So I learned to love the storage unit I'd just hired out, as my new makeshift bedroom in the heart of Hackney (had Hackney a heart, that is).

I couldn't wait to trek back there tonight, and find my Ibanez waiting in the locked storage unit, for me to practise on.

It wasn't the finest walk home—past dilapidated council estates, and the constant feeling of having preying eyes on my back—but I managed. Having a bit of sovereignty over my life, at last, was rather intoxicating.

To be fair, I didn't really know what intoxication felt like... kidney problem... but I imagined it felt like the colour in my cheeks, after a long day's work, whilst walking toward my improvised home.

The storage unit was a far better option to me than, say, sleeping rough, which I'd been forced to do on many a night, following my escape from Lambeth. Talk about a stiff neck.

Some nights, I'd sleep at the park. Tried a couple of multi-story car parks, as well.

It was scary at times. And by scary, I mean downright terrifying. I had mastered the art of sporting a brave face, in spite of it all, but some nights were bad. Just very, very bad.

Whilst homeless, I wore a cloak of near invisibility. I was almost translucent to normal passersby--which rarely bothered me much, as I liked my privacy and space in equal measure. Everyone avoided me, and I avoided them, like a bad smell.

I just worried that, the only people who would ever *see* me, were the ones who wanted to harm me in some way. I always feared what might have been coming, and the possibilities for pain were endless.

Sometimes, the panicky feeling would gnaw at me.

I felt even more defenseless by night. I worried about wetting my trousers in the cold. I worried about what lurked around most every corner. But I did, on occasion, find solace in my sleep.

On every really awful night, I'd have this recurring dream. Like clockwork. From the time I was a child, to the current day, everything about the dream remained the same, apart from one changing aspect--the age of the girl who always appeared in it. I thought of the girl as my own personal angel, and she did look like one.

She had no wings, but she radiated love. Flushed, hallowed cheeks. A delicate nose. Thick, slow-blinking lashes. Long hair--set in dark, shiny, loose curls. And two big, beautiful brown eyes.

Her full lips never spoke to me, but her eyes never failed to. They were wide and warm. Warm enough to melt parts of my heart that I never even knew existed. They were like cinnamon, or toffee, or heartrace-inducing espresso...

No, that's not right. Forgive me, for I've never been very good with words.

I'm not describing them properly. Her eyes were kind, gentle, glistening, and deep as the sea by night. I could stare into them indefinitely, hoping to reach the furthest edges of her mind. She held the beauty of heaven, and every colour of paradise, within those dark eyes.

Had the girl actually been real, I might've fallen in love upon first glance.

Not that I really knew what love was, anyway. Whilst I longed to one day find my real soulmate, I was but a young lad, and the only woman in my life was my trusty Ibanez. And I loved my guitar, sure... but, maybe the angel was love as well. Kind of like my first love, I guess.

And I don't care if that sounds pathetic. Who wouldn't love an angel? Even an imaginary one.

There was always a peculiar, ethereal glow to her face, which was what had convinced me that she was an angel in the first place. Well, that, and because my dream always seemed to be set in an all-white room. All around me were noises, but I found it difficult to sort out what they were.

All I could sense, in the dream, was that something was wrong with me. But the fear of that realisation always died down, as soon as someone reached for my left hand, holding it softly against her cool skin. Along the back of my hand, she'd gently brush her fingertips.

In the dream, I'd come to, always finding the angel girl sat beside me.

I held her hand as well, not letting go. And I had a feeling about her. More than a feeling--I knew I could trust her. After all, we shared a likeness. The angel girl had faded scars along her forearms... raised, flesh-coloured marks. They much resembled the scars along my lower back.

But I never focussed on those. I was too busy admiring the rest of her.

I wanted to know what it felt like, to belong entirely to her. And she to me. How the imaginary girl always came back for me... and how she stared into my eyes... made me think, maybe she already did.

The dreamworld would fall quiet then, and nothing existed apart from me and her--the way we looked at each other. Studying the other, thinking, hoping, listening. Waiting to be heard, and waiting for the other to speak. Always feeling excited for the words that never seemed to come, before my eyes would flutter open, bringing me back to conscious reality and miserable, daily life.

I'd leave the angel behind when I woke, but always remembered the details of her. And she'd always come back for me, when I needed her comfort the most. That dream, was the first dream I ever remembered having. Through the years, the angel grew older with me, as I did--always resembling an age similar to my own, at the time I would be dreaming of her.

She wasn't real, but I'd sometimes catch myself looking for her in busy streets. Or on a crowded train. Or by the bustling bus stop.

Even up in the sky, hoping to find her among the stars, or somewhere on the earth beneath them. Could she have been looking at the same stars, at the same time as me?

Or was she amongst them? If so, I wished to ascend them.

As humans, it seemed that we all knew ourselves to be flawed. But, somewhere deep down, we always wished to be perfect to somebody, somewhere. We all had our own version of "perfect," and, well... the angel girl was mine.

Like a perfect, 100% match. The kind of girl I'd spend my whole life looking for... not settling until I did.

Mad. It was all in my head, but I couldn't shake her from it.

She got me through every night of sleeping rough, just as she'd gotten me through the worst of my time at the Lambeth Home. Her fingers--though they existed only in my REM cycles--supplied me with the kindest touch I'd ever known.

I knew affection from the angel, and her alone. And I drew strength from the imagined softness of her, this angel girl. It instilled a hope in me, that perhaps not everyone in the world was as horrible as I'd first thought them to be.

Maybe someone like her existed, someplace, somewhere. But she wasn't here, in the Big Smoke--I'd looked, to no avail. And she wouldn't have wanted a lad like me, anyway... having been thoroughly unloved, and poor enough to have to sleep on concrete.

Amazingly, I still preferred concrete to other options, though. Rarely, in the past, I'd been offered a bed at a hostel--which, despite everything else, still wasn't my first choice. The hot showers at the hostel were always nice, but a few muggers had tried their hand at me, despite me not having anything worthwhile for them to take.

I was thin, shorter than many at 175 cm, and rather young--making me a prime target in dangerous situations. It made me want to learn how to box. Maybe someday, I'd figure out how to fight, and be able to sort out anyone who tried to have a go at me. But, as it stood, I was royally screwed.

So... yeah. I didn't much like the hostel.

Most of the time, I just preferred to utilise the loos at McDonald's to freshen up before work... after sleeping in the graveyard (which was only a stone's throw away).

I know, I know... a graveyard. Sounds morbid. But the dead were rather quiet, and I always had plenty of my own space. Every now and again, some harmless, drunk knobs might've stumbled their way through the cemetery after a long night of partying, but it was almost always a solitary sanctuary for me.

It was quite peaceful, really...

After getting past my initial fears, I slept fine in the graveyard. It was usually very cold, and I sometimes found myself sleeping like a damaged World War veteran--with one eye wide open, anxiously anticipating an enemy attack, in the dead of night.

Still, all things considered, my rest was okay. I slept light, but I did sleep. And I'd always force myself to wake up a bit earlier than necessary, to avoid any possible interaction with police. That habit of waking up rather early, always stuck with me.

Even currently, as I had the luxury of sleeping in my own closed quarters, at the storage unit. Compared to where I'd been, in my eyes, the storage facility was quite an upgrade.

Life was still rough, inarguably, but I credited its improvements to Patrick. My wages were rubbish, but any money was better than no money. So, I didn't always hate my job at the pawn shop. Because of it, I had a relatively safe place to rest my head at night, and happiness in the form of six strings.

I was happy. Chilled skin, reddened nose, hungry stomach, shortened break and all... I was happy.

So I didn't mind the words that followed from Patrick's mouth, as I re-entered the pawn shop on that cold November evening.

"Riley," he huffed, over the muffled sounds of Boston's "More Than A Feeling" from the old radio by the corner. I loved that tune.

"Yes, sir?"

"Need you to take inventory. These containers first." Patrick pointed. "And I need a cigarette."

He rubbed his temples, and looked around the room.

"I'll be out back," he said, barely awaiting my reply. "Come and find me if you run into any trouble."

"Yes, sir," I agreed once more.

With a slightly apprehensive nod, Patrick stepped away from the cash register and display area, allowing me to begin sorting through the collateral intake from earlier that day—jewelry, mostly, but also some power tools, small appliances, and collectible cards.

I began to sort the items—tidying them as necessary—and logging the information from the attached receipts. It had been a relatively slow day for intake, so it took just a few minutes to complete the logging and sorting. This was a relief, as I'd done some heavy-lifting at the shop on the day before. I was still a bit sore from it.

My mind wasn't really set on the numbers before me, nor the tenderness in my muscles, but rather on this cheap, classic chippy and kebab place, just down the street. I could nearly smell the onion and herbs from where I was stood. The plan was to stop there on the way back "home," and fuel up for a few hours' worth of (quietly) practising guitar later.

A relatively normal evening, it was shaping up to be. Admittedly, these days, I had little interest in anything apart from the guitar once work was over. From night one with the six string, it had been that way, really.

For well over a year, I'd practised for a minimum of three hours, every single day, on the guitar. More hours were dedicated to it, on my days off.

Call it diligence or call it obsession. Either way, I'd accept the compliment.

I taught myself everything I knew, starting with basic chords, and major and minor scales. With tedious attention to detail, I even began learning how to read sheet music.

A fire was set aflame inside me, to realise how quickly I was picking up on things. I could play much by ear, but I needed to know more. More. More.

My Ibanez quickly became a third arm to me, calling me back to it, each time I tried to set it down. I didn't want to simply keep learning covers, but rather, to write my own pieces. To find my own voice. To finally be heard, among the screaming of this world.

All around my storage unit were pieces of staff paper--some I had printed off at the lending library, and some I had made myself, with a simple pen and blank sheets of paper.

I learned to tab everything out, putting the rhythm on top of it.

I learned how to eliminate string and fret noise, as technicality wasn't just playing in ⅞.

I learned the various modes: Ionian, Dorian, Phrygian, Lydian, Mixolydian, Aeolian, Locrian.

I learned about composers of the Baroque era, and how, not so very long ago, so many were confined to the strictest rules of musical composition.

I wanted to learn all the rules I could, so that I could break each and every one. (Bit "Hard to Handel," wasn't I? ...ahem... Right, that was pretty bad...)

But maybe I wasn't as stupid as the Lambeth staff had previously led me to believe. It was true--before, I'd often received very poor marks in school. But music... music came to me as naturally as flight to a bird. In this regard, I found my mind to be a sponge.

Infinite and insatiable.

I wasn't very good with words (have I mentioned that yet?), but the guitar was all I needed to speak my thoughts. I could talk through my hands, through the strings. My emotions were spelled out, as E, A, D, G, B, and E.

Everything within me begged to pour out--to spill over the edges--as I learned I could finally express myself in this way. I'd never truly felt heard or understood before... but this... this was the outlet after which I'd always desperately sought. I'd found it at last.

Nonetheless, music wasn't without its intimidations. Whilst consuming music as a listener came as easily to me as breathing, learning to read and play music was akin to learning a foreign language. Once learned, however, it felt more like the universal language to me.

Take Paco, for instance. I couldn't speak a bloody word of Spanish, but I felt and knew de Lucia's heart, through the notes. That's what the notes did, after all--gave one the ability to speak the words he couldn't otherwise verbalise.

I, too, wanted to speak this way, as I knew no other way to do it. And I had a lifetime's worth of pain to share. I had anger. I had frustration. I had passion. Lots and lots of passion. Left unattended within me, I might've drowned in it all.

I could compress my life story into four-minute increments, sharing it across the world, with someone I might never have met otherwise. Some lad in Japan. Some lass in Bangladesh. Some guy in Poland. Some girl in America.

Without ever meeting face to face, we could connect on some soul-seeking level, with plucked chords as Morse code of the modern age.

And whilst I was all too aware of my own fragile mortality, I considered the possibility that perhaps I, too, could live forever through the music--just as my long-gone heroes always would.

So I wrote. And wrote, and wrote, and wrote. I wrote until my fingers ached, and the skin of my palms cracked.

There was no real rush, but I wanted, so badly, to master my instrument. To learn everything there was to know about its capabilities, and maybe even my own. I was driven by this desire... this deeply-held desire, to one day be the best.

I had to be the best. The best at something.

I didn't want to die as uselessly and namelessly as I'd lived. I wanted to make an impact. I wanted to be loved whilst I was here. And, most of all, I wanted to be remembered after I was gone. Didn't we all?

Perhaps I was getting much too far ahead of myself.

Alright. So maybe I wouldn't ever be Pat Metheny, or Paco de Lucia. And I couldn't be Eddie Van Halen, or Steve Vai... but I could be my own kind of rock and roll.

I was meant for more than my position at this pawn shop. I just had to be. And, for the first time in my seventeen years, I felt immense excitement at what could be. Like the recurring visions of the angel girl, this dream of musical domination was one that I could firmly hold onto.

So, with a dream in my head, a spring in my step, and a hum in my throat ("Message in a Bottle" by The Police, if you were wondering...), I began stocking the new inventory. Patrick was still away when I was finished shelving everything. Well... nearly everything.

I'd saved the best for last--someone had hocked a harmonica earlier. I didn't much care for the harmonica itself, but it gave me the perfect excuse to visit my favourite room of the pawn shop: the instruments room.

Might as well have been heaven to me. Especially with its latest addition.

Because I'd been occupied with other duties, I hadn't been able to appreciate what someone had sold to Patrick the day before.

As I set the harmonica down on the nearest shelf, and walked towards the beautiful Charvel guitar--fingers playing random little melodies on the closest keyboards, as I went--I learned it had been worth the wait.

I took one cautionary glance around, to ensure Patrick was still outside. Since he was... I figured I could maybe have a little sit... perhaps test out the merchandise.

You know, for quality assurance and all...

I grabbed a spare pick from my pocket (one could never have too many). And since I was testing for quality, it only made sense to plug into the Marshall amp, didn't it? Not too loud now...

The Charvel was a custom, strat model, and it felt like a dream in my hands. Two dual-humbucker pickups. Mahogany body with a maple neck. Factory Floyd Rose tremolo.

Without distortion, the sound was dark and warm. It still packed enough of a punch for each note to be clearly heard. Just the way I liked it.

Jun-jun-jun-jun. Junnn-junnnn.

Oh yeah. I didn't just like it, I bloody LOVED it.

Went with a bit of Blue Oyster Cult to start, then transitioned to Maiden. But the real test... "YYZ" by Rush.

Say it with me now... Y-Y-Zed. Enough of this "Zee" business.

It'd taken me about a week to learn the flashy tune, but my fingers now effortlessly remembered the proper positioning. They almost had a mind of their own, floating along the fretboard, in a dance with the strings.

I closed my eyes, concentrating.

With a deep furrow in my brows, and a loose bite of my bottom lip, I eased my way through the main riff and odd time signatures. Behind the sound of the amplifier, I imagined the roar of a crowd. The lights on my face. The ringing in my ears.

Keeping time in my head. My breaths as a sort of metronome. Bits of feedback as shouts of approval.

Vibrations came from the Marshall, its output pulsing nicely against my skin. My hands moved, error-free, throughout the minutes. The more into the tune I was, the less I was in my own head.

And all that was in my head now, were the cheers of my imagination. I felt the heat on my palm, and on my fingertips, whilst gliding along. Bending, almost maniacally.

Heat. Red. This tune was red.

There was energy and technicality. It required of me patience and precision.

Red, red, red.

I'd become so lost in the fantasy performance, that, as I slowed to a halt, I even thought I heard applause from the front row.

"That... was wicked."

Black.

Before I'd even opened my eyes, I saw black, from the deep tone of voice that had just spoken to me.

And once I finally did open my eyes, to find a lad before me--clapping softly and theatrically--I was sure that my cheeks were red.

Red, red, red.

How hadn't I heard him enter the shop?

He smiled an impish grin, but I couldn't meet his eyes at first. My vision landed instead on the design of his shirt--Judas Priest, which I thought was well cool.

"Sorry," I muttered. "May I help you find something?"

"You work here?" the lad asked, shaking a lengthy strand of curly, brown hair away from his face.

He couldn't have been much older than myself. Maybe a year or two.

"I do, yes," I said, whilst removing the guitar strap, over my head and off my body.

"Ah." He nodded, smirking. "Well, I was looking for something to beef up my lead tone. Maybe a reverb pedal. And, on the off chance, a rather rare ESP model. 'Devil Girl' in Satin Red. Heard of it?"

Briefly, I wondered where a lad, around my age, would get the kind of money needed for that model. It was a rather limited edition.

"We haven't got any ESPs in at the moment, but--"

"That's alright, I didn't suppose you would," he said. "Think I'd rather watch more of your performance, to be honest. I'm well impressed."

"Aww, that was nothing," I said, chuckling nervously whilst looking to the floor.

It was the first time I'd ever been heard. More than that, it was the first time I'd actually had my playing substantiated through compliments. It was strangely addictive, so I quite enjoyed the words that followed as well.

"If that was you just mucking about, I'd love to see what else you can do." The lad reached for my hand. "What's your name?"

I took his palm, matching his firm grip, whilst looking around. Patrick was, ever so thankfully, still on his break.

"Julian." At first, I wasn't sure why I'd told the truth. But the lad seemed pretty harmless.

"Mason," he replied. "Mason Everett. So, Julian, you been playing for long?"

Mason pushed his chin out, motioning toward the Charvel that I'd just set down, back into place.

"I've been playing... erm... for a bit."

"I can tell," said he. "You feel the dynamics as I do. And that's some killer alternate picking you've got on your right hand."

His smile resembled that of the Cheshire Cat--extensive and playfully mischievous. The kind of smile that led one to believe the person knew something that he didn't. A secret, hiding behind wide rows of teeth.

The dimples at the centres of his cheeks offset it all--the kind that old ladies would've liked to pinch. It gave Mason a rather boyish charm.

"Alternate picking," said I, nodding. "That's all thanks to John McLaughlin. You listen to enough of him for a week, and only work on your upstrokes, they'll sound as powerful as your downstrokes."

"Wouldn't have taken you for a fan of McLaughlin." Mason placed his hands into the pockets of his jeans, whilst balancing his body weight on his heels, rocking back and forth. "So what else you into?"

I stared at Mason's dark attire, finding some more commonality between us.

"Ozzy," replied I, with a lopsided smirk. "The Clash."

Mason nodded, adding his own, "Megadeth."

I nodded. "Journey."

"Queen." Mason smiled, puffing his chest a bit. "...Guitarists?"

"Satriani," I said.

"Jeff Beck," replied Mason in excitement.

"Paul Masvidal," I hummed, eyes wide.

We stared at each other, lips tight but upturned.

"Chuck Schuldiner," we both said, at the exact same time.

We pointed to the other, mouths open.

"You know of him?!" asked Mason.

"Yes! He's incredible!" I said, with a literal shake of my head in disbelief.

How had we so much in common? It felt as though we were speaking a secret language between us. Like we'd been wandering alone for ages, and had finally caught sight of another human being on the broken path.

"I know! Master of dissonance!" Mason agreed. "I'd kill to play like that... The way he could phrase his solos! What a legend. But musicians are always better after they're dead, aren't they?"

He laughed. I scrunched up my nose.

"Suppose it goes that way sometimes," I said.

"Go on, then... What band you play in?" asked Mason. "Haven't seen you 'round."

"Oh." I folded my arms across my chest in quite a nervous fashion, taken aback by the question. "I'm not in any band."

"What?" Mason's eyebrows pulled together. His head tilted slightly to the side. "You're joking?"

I shook my head.

"How old are you then?" asked Mason.

My blood began racing. I looked around once more for any sighting of Patrick. Nothing yet.

"Between you and me," whispered I, "Seventeen. But I'm coming up eighteen in--"

"It's okay, that," said Mason. "I'm nineteen, but my vocalist's fifteen."

"You've got a band?" That had come out of my mouth in a tone far too excited to be cool. I kept my arms folded (damage control), and rubbed my chin, awaiting his answer.

"Trying to put one together, yeah." Mason looked around the room, and began pacing a bit, whilst staring at the wall. It was lined with electric guitars.

"Me and my mate, Dev, we're invested in this project..." Mason explained.

"Project?" I asked.

"I've got this dream, mate. This vision." He seemed lost in his own thoughts. Lightyears--far and away--from this room. "I want to be the most renowned guitarist this world has ever seen."

"A tall order," I noted, with a single chuckle. "You've got some formidable competition in the history books."

"I don't care, mate," replied Mason, far more seriously. He hadn't yet paused to look at me again. "Their time is over. And history can always be amended. We can make them all a footnote."

I watched Mason shifting around. A man with an undeniable, impenetrable plan. And what was it, exactly? His trainers followed a pattern upon the floor. With patience, I awaited more of his spoken thoughts.

"I've never been one to settle, and I usually get what I want," said Mason. "I want to be a musical legend. So I will be one."

Hearing him speak this way led me to believe that Mason was somewhere between undeterrably confident, and just a bit up himself. But one needed a fair bit of confidence in order to make it big, I reasoned. Perhaps I could've learned something crucial from him.

"Is that so?" I swallowed hard.

Mason stopped pacing, and stood directly before me, burning right into my eyes. He was shorter than me, by a fair couple inches. And I hadn't noticed it before, but he sort of smelt of a spliff. I ignored that for the time being.

"I want the three G's, right?" From his throat came a deep and sure intensity. Mason lifted his right hand, to begin counting on his fingers. "The gold... the girls... the glory."

Maybe the lad was going about it slightly backwards, but I could understand one thing very clearly: what it felt like to want to be remembered. To leave a mark on the world. To be a name, not just a Number.

I began to recognise more of myself in him.

Mason had what I had: fire. An inextinguishable fire within him. He seemed so sure of himself, so powerful, and I found myself more and more drawn to the lad. I wanted to learn what he seemed to already know, so inherently, about how to succeed.

Disregarding the dash of arrogance about Mason, I kind of liked him. And if I wasn't mistaken, Mason seemed to sort of like me as well.

And, after abruptly losing all contact with my lifelong best mate, Ollie, I found myself longing for a close camaraderie with someone. Maybe this was it. Although I'd only just met him minutes earlier, I gathered hope that this could be the start of a great friendship between Mason and me. We clicked so well, and so instantly, through the topic of music alone.

I wondered what else we might've had in common.

"Kid, where are ya?" I heard my boss call, from another section of the shop.

"Erm, with the instruments, sir," I called back. "Helping a customer."

"I'll take over from here then--" Patrick began to say from the doorway, spotting us both.

"No," Mason interrupted in a stern tone, answering for me. "He's already of great help, thanks."

My boss and Mason locked eyes, but only Patrick seemed to grow uncomfortable as the seconds passed. There was something commanding about Mason's stare, and it felt good to have someone defend me somehow. More so, to show me respect, as if I were worthy of any.

Before long, Patrick gave a wary nod, staring into the room just a few seconds longer, before backing away. Out of earshot, and out of sight.

"Right, sorry, mate. I should probably get back to work," I spoke quietly. "If you want a reverb pedal, we've--"

"Forget the bloody pedal." Mason stopped me, putting his hands on my shoulders, making me face him directly again. "You don't belong working here anyhow."

"Huh?" I chewed on my bottom lip.

"I just need to know one thing." He held his index finger in the air, then pointed it at my chest. "Can you sweep?"

"I can do three-string major and minor ones," I offered. "I find ascending sweeps are easier for me to do..."

He took a deep breath--nose flaring in excitement--as Mason refocussed his thoughts.

"Look, I'm trying to put together a full-blooded English rock band," explained Mason. "I want to take over the world."

Straight out of my chest, my heart began to pound.

"But I can't do this alone." Mason enunciated every syllable. "I need someone to back me up, as rhythm guitarist. You in?"

Was he serious? I was chuffed to bits he'd even ask, but...

"Oh, I don't know if I could--" I started.

"Rubbish. You can," said Mason. "You've got something special. I think, together, you and I, Julian... we could create something incredible. Something this world has never seen."

He believed in me. A circumstantial anomaly.

He hadn't known of my existence just an hour earlier, but now, this stranger spoke of me as a powerful partner. A necessary ally in musical ascendency. What exactly did Mason see in me, that I couldn't see for myself?

"What do you say?" Mason eagerly pressed on.

He glared into me, his eyes a potent green. They were full of vehemence, purpose, and emotion. I feared failure. I feared him believing me to be better than what I was.

But my tongue could nearly taste the success of which he spoke, so assuredly.

"Well?" he asked.

"Maybe... erm," I scrambled, whilst red in the face. "I'll have a think about it, and--"

"Have a think and come 'round to mine this week. Devon and I practise on Fridays. We could try you out, see if you're a good fit... though I don't see that being a problem."

I cleared my throat nervously. Excitedly. I'd always longed for acceptance, so it felt rather good to think I might've belonged... somewhere. Like I had an actual purpose or something. An odd feeling, to be fair.

"Mainly, I want to see what else you can do." Mason grinned, and pulled the mobile from his back pocket. "What's your number, mate?"

"Erm..." I stalled, thinking. Pretending to have forgotten the number to the mobile I didn't even own. I hadn't the money for one yet... not that I could have admitted that to him. How embarrassing. "Let me get yours instead?"

The lad tore a receipt and a pen from his pocket, scribbling down some digits and words. When he handed the small, previously-crumpled piece of paper back to me, it had a number and an address on it.

"Friday, eight o'clock." Mason grinned.

I nodded. "Sounds alright, that."

The lad smiled once more, and turned on his heels to leave.

"Hey, Mason," I called.

He stopped, turning only slightly, to look over his left shoulder.

"What's it called?" I asked. "Have you got a name for the band?"

"We were thinking of calling it 'All the Stars,'" said Mason.

His mentioning of the stars had me thinking of the angel girl from my recurring dreams... and the efforts it might take to reach my own dreams. But I wasn't afraid of climbing to any height, since, all in an instant, all of the galaxy felt within my grasp. That was the power of a kind word, to a broken soul.

I was flying.

"What about Ascend the Stars?" I asked.

"Pardon?" replied Mason, with a stillness to his face.

"Ascend the Stars," I said, a bit louder. "It sounds cooler."

For a lengthy moment, Mason gave an odd and contemplative look--appearing as though he was about to speak. He stopped himself.

"I'll think about it." Mason nodded at me. "Don't be late on Friday."

_______

A/N: *bites nails nervously* What did you guys think?! Please leave a comment to let me know! All votes are very much appreciated, as well. :)

Extra special brownie points go to any reader that recognizes the significance of "More Than A Feeling." It appears somewhere else in the series... anybody remember where?

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Endlessly yours,

Ree

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