The Collector

== PROLOGUE ==
The story of a leaf is a delicate thing, able to be easily torn and turned into small, simple pieces, but people often miss the creator of the leaf, the simple bud that exists on some branches of a tree. The idea of creator and creation goes on forever until it reaches its end. The universe, and its creator. Whether someone believes in a religion or they believe in the scientific theory of the Big Bang, the universe still has a creator.
The creator itself, however, is and will be forever uncertain, left up to the mind and imagination to create it. To those who don’t have a religion that prompts a picture in their mind of who it may be, it can be commonly perceived as a man with a beard, or a fair woman with long dark hair, the race completely up to the one who imagines it.
The creator has a creator, and the creator is simply imagination.
== memory - kaiyah ==
I am only fourteen years old when the Collectors come for me. Their dark cloaks, arrayed in different hues, swirl around them like shadows. Among them, the deepest crimson cloak stands out, adorned with a sigil sewn in shimmering gold fabric—a cat's left eye and a raven's feather, symbols of intelligence and mystery.
Though they are not known by their true name, everyone refers to them as the Collectors. In the whispers of peasants, they are imagined as greedy nobles thirsty for power, intent on instilling fear in the hearts of common folk.
Rumors about them abound, some disproven, others lingering like specters in the night. Tales speak of burning libraries, snatching children from their beds or the streets, leaving no trace behind except empty clothes and abandoned toys, erasing all evidence of existence.
Silent screams echo in my mind as they pull me from my bed on the creaky floor of the old farmhouse, the thin mattress offering little comfort. My neck always aches from the long days of farm work, the complaints echoing in my memory now drowned by my desperate cries.
I scream for my parents, unaware they sleep peacefully in their beds, unaware of the tranquilizer dart that silenced them. In my terror, I believe they've forsaken me, leaving me to face these intruders alone. One of them, almost twice my age, wears a dark blue cloak adorned with an unfamiliar sigil.
== ii - artillius ==
The centerpiece of the town was ablaze, tortured into flames and gasoline. It was a beautiful willow tree, and I wasn’t sure what the protesters were insisting on. They were shouting and shouting, but no one could put a word to their violence. What good is violence when one cannot communicate?
I was supposed to climb up that tree to take one of the glowing green leaves that grew on it and put it in a teacup. It was supposed to tell the future, but who believes in that?
People’s attention was supposed to be on me today, it wasn’t on some incapable group of rebels that didn’t have a clue about what they were rebelling against.
Amidst the chaos, I couldn't help but feel a sense of despair at the futility of it all. What good could come from such violence, I mused, when communication itself was lost amidst the roar of the flames and the shouts of the protesters? In their blind rage, they had become nothing more than a mob, their cause lost in the chaos they had wrought.
“Shame on them, Artillius,” My father came up behind me, wearing his dark green cloak like he usually did, reminding me of the Lords of the Forests that occasionally came to visit. “They aren’t students like you, my child.” He seemed to take in my face with a calm and calculating gaze as if he looked disappointed, but if it was in me, I wouldn’t have been surprised. “They just don’t understand. We will find a way to get you past the ceremony, as you are already above average age to not have an apprentice of your own, correct?”
I wasn’t sure if it was either a comment or a question, so I answered with a brief and swift, “Yes, Father.” As his eyes panned out and back to the crowd, he gently put his large, calloused hand on my shoulder, turning me and leading me back inside of the academy. 
The ‘academy’ was about the size of a fairytale castle, with long spindling hallways and fairies at every corner. The fairies were a rare sight, however, they were rather difficult to conjure up, and certainly not let out of sight of the Creator. The bricks were a soft white, invisible to see in the thick foliage of flowers that coated the hallways and classrooms. 
“Do they not know what we are doing?” My father mused to himself, though the answer was obvious. What we are doing is something that the general public can’t know, and even I don’t know the purpose of doing it. “The ones who are out there are dimwitted, Artillius. Remember that. They aren’t in this academy because they are lacking... Certain skills. You have learned that already.” The man studied me, “The main skills are..?”
“Talent, Father.” There was a nod, but no reply, a sign of an unfinished question. “Imagination also holds a great role in their... Lacking fields.” I snickered softly, and there was a hesitation, then the small crack of a voice, before no sound at all came out of my father. Was he disappointed again? Did I do something wrong? Did I do something to infuriate him? In the back of my mind, there was the same ringing question from when I came to this school. Will I be whipped again?
The first day at the academy is the worst. Every student is packed into a small, tight gymnasium that should only hold one hundred students, but everyone seems to fit in. There are no classes that day, focusing on simply the presentation. The presentation would haunt the people of the school forever, but only one student didn’t have to embark on the presentation, and being the son of the Headmaster, it certainly wasn’t me. 
There was some boy that my father had taken a particular liking to, the son of rich parents, who coincidentally seemed to donate large sums of money to the school and courses. I was never exactly told his name, but it was something lame and unoriginal. James, I believe.