1 PROLOGUE : Waves Of Gray

Rain lashed down the cemetery. A storm that had been brewing for days finally finding release. It poured down non-stop soaking the little boy who knelt in front of his mother's grave. Melissa Roselyn Nelson, Born February 10th, 1978, died at the age of 33. Tears streaked down his flushed cheeks barely noticeable as they mingled with the rain drops that already soaked his face.

Everyone had left after the funeral, leaving him alone to say goodbye. Only problem was he couldn't do it. He couldn't say goodbye, not to her, not now. This was his mother after all. Up to that point she had been his whole life. This wasn't fair, he needed his mother. How else was he meant to survive?

"Be strong, my little prince," those words echoed in his mind. He could still hear her lilac smooth voice saying them as she stroked his hair every night before he drifted off to sleep.

He wanted to be strong but the pain clutching his heart was horrendous. At ten years old he had never felt pain like this before. His lungs burned as if he was breathing poisoned air, his limbs felt like jelly as he fought to stay up, his eyes itched and stung as they filled with tears again. He'd been crying for what felt like forever; the tears wouldn't stop. His heart pulsed painfully against his tiny chest, for a moment he had feared it would rip right out of his chest. He wished it would stop.

He wanted to be strong but something had him pinned down. Anger had his eyes flashing red. He curled his fingers into fists. He was so angry, angry with the goddess for letting this happen, angry with himself for being unable to do anything to stop this, but most of all he was angry with her. He felt guilty for it, but he couldn't help it. She promised she would always be by his side. But he was alone now. How could he be strong without her.

The rain pouring over him was abruptly interrupted as someone held an umbrella over him. He looked up to find a tall man with dark chestnut hair and pale blue eyes that stared blankly ahead, standing beside me. He was dressed in a black suit very much like his own, with a white button up shirt and a black tie.

"It's time," the man said, placing a hand over the little boy's shoulder. His voice was monotonous, his face void of any emotion. But behind that blank face, behind the façade laid a man burdened by grief. The woman laying in that grave had been his employer but also his friend. A kind and caring woman. One that had been taken from this world too soon.

He looked down at his little master. There was so much installed for this child, and there was little he could do to prevent it all. There was little anyone could do.

The boy got to his feet wiping away the tears from his eyes and sniffling. He placed a dark crimson rose on top of her headstone and whispered a soft goodbye before he turned back to Harrod, his butler.

Quietly they walked back to the car and he settled in the back seat. The drive home was silent with the exception of an occasional sniffle from the boy. He stared out the window not really looking at anything in particular. The trees they passed blurred until all he saw was green. On either side of the road were evergreen pine trees, they stretched high and surrounded most of the small town of West Chapel. The wind and rain whiplashed against the window; the storm had picked up. Flashes of lightning lit up the sky followed by the roaring of thunder.

They reached the house in a matter of minutes, very much to the boy's dismay. The car passed the open gate turning into the long driveway leading up to the gigantic Victorian gothic style mansion. Looking up at it, the boy couldn't help but observe the house looked different. It looked grim as if the light would never shine upon it again. There was something chillingly cold about the mansion, as if a dark a shadow had been cast over it. It appeared bigger; too big for him to find comfort. But most of all the house looked lonelier. He had never noticed before how far away the house was from everything. It stood solitary at the outskirts of town. His house looked sad. If tears could pour out of the windows, he was sure they would.

Harrod, the boy's butler parked the car in front of the house. The boy's face paled as his bottom lip quivered. Harrod helped him out of the car before leading the way inside. He followed quietly trying not to stumble on his own two feet. His body felt heavy, he had to practically drag his weak and exhausted limbs. All he wanted to do was curl up in his bed and sleep until the pain went away. Perhaps when he woke up this nightmare would be over.

Maybe when he woke up his mom would be sitting by his bedside stroking his hair, humming a soft lullaby and telling him that she'd always be there for him. Maybe that was it, this was a nightmare. Something that wasn't meant to last long. That was it, he would wake up, he had to, he just had to.

He didn't want to feel like this. He didn't want to cry over his dead mother. He wanted his mom to be there, with him. Alive and well.

But she was gone.

As much as he wanted this to be nothing more than a bad dream, he just couldn't wish away his pain. This was his reality now. He dreaded it, of course he did, but he couldn't change it. It was here to stay.

The house was quite as they walked in, the only sound coming from their shoes clicking on the marble floors. He took off his soggy jacket handing it over to Harrod. The house felt drearier, every ounce of life had been snuffed out of it. Nothing was the same without her. The laughter that had once echoed through every corridor was replaced by an insufferable silence. The scent of a dozen flowers that wafted through the entire house was gone without her. Even the warmth that radiated through every room had vanished, leaving behind a cold building. This wasn't a home without her, just a house.

"Your father is expecting you in his study," Harrod informed him. He nodded.

Without a word, he turned towards the stairs. His father's study was on the second floor, down a long hallway. Knocking once and getting an immediate reply to come in, he cautiously twisted the door handle and let the door swing open. It squeaked as he swallowed the lump caught in his throat. His father was sitting by his desk, hunched over a pile of the documents.

He didn't even bother to spare him a glance as he order him to take a sit in front of him. The room was quite for a few minutes that stretched out for the little boy; they felt like hours as he shivered-he was still in his wet clothes. He fiddled with his fingers as he counted the seconds. Eventually his father cleared his throat, pushing aside the stack of documents.

David Nelson looked up at his little boy sitting across from him with bloodshot eyes obviously from crying, it crushed him to know what he was about to say was going to hurt him more, but it had to be done. His son's safety came first and after what had happened to his wife he no longer believed this town was safe. With an long sigh he said, "I understand today has been a hard for you." The little boy looked up at his father. David's heart ached as he stared into his eyes. They were the same shade of grey as his mother's, light and honest. They spoke volumes of what he was going through right now. He was in pain.

David adjusted his collar, loosening his tie. "Marcus..." His voice trailed as he rose to his feet. He turned from the child, going over to look out the window. Rain poured relentless onto woods, the wind howled like a beast as the storm whiplashed against the house. David groaned.

"I've ordered Harrod to pack your bags. I have enrolled you into a boarding school. I'm sure it will be good for you," he told him as he turned back to him. Marcus looked at his father with wide eyes. Had he heard him correctly. He couldn't actually be sending him away to a boarding school, could he? He had to be joking, except his father never joked.

Yes his father had never been an affectionate man. He was cold most of the time and he had never seen him smile but this was just too much. He had just lost his mother, his father couldn't be sending him away from the only home he had ever known.

"You can't!" he leapt out of his chair, a new wave of tears threatened to spill from his eyes but he swallowed them down. "Please," he begged.

"It's for your own good." His voice was monotonous, masking the turmoil going through his head. He didn't enjoy harming his son in anyway, but this was unavoidable. Marcus' very life was at stack.

"No it's not, you're only doing it to get rid of me. You don't want to deal with me, you never have." Tears were burning down Marcus' cheeks again, as he failed to understand why his father would do this. It was cruel, even for him. "Mom was the only one who cared. You hate me that's why you're sending me away."

David Nelson was always the bad guy in his son's eyes. The man ruining all the fun. Though Marcus was too young to understand this, his father loved him and everything he did was for his benefit. It was true, David had never been an affectionate man but he knew what was important.

He moved towards Marcus, laying a hand on his shoulder. He looked into the little boy's light grey eyes, kneeing in front him. David placed Marcus back in his seat.

"I wouldn't be doing this if it wasn't best. I love you, I need you to trust me."

Trust could only be given to those who deserved it. How could Marcus trust the man who was taking him from his home? Resent burned hot in his chest.

Yes, looking at this house now all he could see was all he had lost with his mother's death. He'd lost a warm and caring parent. A home he felt safe and welcomed in. However it also reminded him of her. Every good memory he had of her was made within these walls. Her chasing him down the halls when he was seven giggling uncontrollably, baking chocolate chip muffins-his favorite-in the kitchen, laughing all night in a fort they had made out of pillows.

Yes, this house reminded him of the bad but it also reminded him of the good. His father couldn't take him away from that. If he had a say in anything he wouldn't let him but he was just a child. He had no say.

"You can go to your room now. I'll have Harrod call you in the morning to say goodbye."

Without another word he got up from the chair, walked out and went straight to his room shutting the door behind himself. He wanted to scream, throw something. His father shouldn't have the power to take away his home. He was furious and hurt, a painful combination. He felt powerless and he hated it.

He stripped out of his wet clothes and shoes, putting on his pjs. He slipped into his blankets pulling them up to cover his head. He had not thought it was possible for the pain he was feeling to get worse, but somehow his father found a way to break him further. He cried for what felt like hours before he drifted off to a dreamless slumber.

How could he be strong when it seemed like his own father was against him?

..................

The room was still cast in darkness when Marcus opened his eyes. His throat was sore and his eyes were burning. Toppling out of bed he landed on the floor with a soft thump. With shaky legs he got up and wobbled to the door. He was just going to get a glass of water down in the kitchen when the sounds of an argument down the hall had him stopping in his tracks.

It was coming from his father's study. He didn't intend to eavesdrop he'd been raised better, but the curiosity in him toppled his good manners. He was fairly certain it was way past midnight; who could his father be arguing with at this time? He tip toed over, placing his ear against the door.

"He has to come with us," the voice was muffled but he could tell it was female.

"I'm not letting you anywhere near my son. He's not going be part of your world." This voice he recognized as his father's, a deep baritone. There was a bitter bite to his words.

"We want to protect him," the female spoke again.

"The way you protected my wife," his father challenge, there was anger laced in his voice. "The only thing he needs protection from is you," the words were cold and intended to sting.

"Master Marcus?" startled he stepped back from the door turning to face Harrod. He'd been caught red handed. "It's rude to eavesdrop," Harrod scolded.

"I'm sorry," Marcus said hanging his head in shame.

"It's okay. But you have to go to bed. You have a big day ahead of you," he said referring to Marcus' first day of school. Up to that point Marcus had only been homeschooled, now he would be going to an actual school. He didn't want that.

He let Harrod lead him back to his room. Once Marcus was tucked into his bed Harrod bid him goodnight and left. Marcus laid down on his bed and tried to go back to bed but his mind kept drifting to the conversation his father was having. He had so many questions. Who was he talking to? Why did this woman want to take him away? And what did he need protection from?

Yawning, he snuggled into his pillow. He didn't want anyone taking him, especially some woman he didn't want. He didn't want to leave his home. He didn't want to go to school. He hated that his father was sending him away.

He was terrified.

Stumbling out of bed, he padded to his dresser. In the top drawer, hidden underneath neatly rolled up socks was a silver chain with a poppy pendant, it belonged to his mother. He placed it in his palm letting his thumb brush over the intricate design.

"Be strong, my little prince," her words rang in his mind again. He didn't know if he could be strong, be wanted to try though. Clinging to the pendant, he slipped back into his blankets making a silent promise to his mother that he would be strong.