The apple fell far from the tree. That is all I could say concerning my personality in comparison with that of my mother, Andarina Ynés Serrano.

Odd, really. You know that sort of character, people who just exuded an air of likeability on the first instance upon meeting. People who take genuine joy in knowing and talking with others.

My mother is one such individual. What with her easy and genuine smile and jovial air, she was an easy person to be around with. A people person. She enjoyed and could understand minute nuances of social interactions out of pure instinct. She enjoys the art and expertise that is human interactions.

And what is the ultimate form of human expression? Of emotions made manifest?

Art, and thereby High Society that so crave it.

Whereas I on the other hand, well…..I don’t particularly care much for people, much to the grievance of my mother. But she kept a particular respect for that quirk in my character. As she herself was able to emphasize as how I saw the world.

Her and maybe my father.

Perhaps it is time to discuss the subject of my sire. The so-called man at the back. There was a somber sorrow to him, particularly when his eyes fall on me. Almost like pity. Even when he smiled out of genuine joy, there was a gentle sorrow to how his lips would lift and his eyes alight. Not an oppressive shadow but a phantom pain in his eyes. For most of my early childhood he would pop in now and again, I deduced it was because of his occupation. My mother was so adept at diverting attention to whenever I inquired as young children often do. My mother told me he stayed quite aplenty during the first two years after I was born (though not at the same Tower for reasons I would not come to know until my young adulthood.)

I remember as I was full of smiles whenever he would make his rare appearances in the tower. Until one day he just stopped coming altogether. But that would not be the last of I ever saw of my father.

A few years after that our time, in the Thousand Sea Spires would come to an end as well. My mother was ever adept at diverting attention whenever I asked what it was my father did. That deft skill of hers also extended to her own line of work. Andarina Serrano did not do "work". Not in the strictest sense of the word. I came to acknowledge the fact that people of the Tower adored my mother. She was ever dressed in shades of green of varying hues, a complement to her soft green eyes that made her seem ethereally pretty in certain lights and her midnight black hair so dark that it was almost blue, a trait that is distinguished among the inhabitants of the Old Grey. The Tower has no shortage of aristocracy or nobility of varying degrees of wealth originating from dozens of different lands. So many in fact, that they could not be faulted for not noticing that among their peers were no small number of peasantborn interminglers. What is the aristocracy if not masquerading and peacocking? of misdirection and gossips? of being something you are not? As it turns out, there are a number of people who has this gift of social maneuvering, lineage notwithstanding.

With the fervent stream of wealth and resources that is ever ready available in the Spires, aristocrats dole out gifts, parties, favors and soirees with an almost wild abandon. With guests numbering in as few as a couple dozen and as many as a thousand, my mother would deftly maneuver her way into the good graces of those at the top. She would dazzle them with her smile and her ever listening ears. She never forgot a name nor a face (a feat that amazes me still, me who couldn't so much as be bothered to know our neighbor's name, much less a stranger.) In a span of a few hours she would endear herself so intimately with the host of the party that it would seem like lifelong friends as they chatted and gossiped.

Dazzling Andarina Serrano. Lovely Andy, some of her friends have nicknamed her. Pretty as a butterfly and just as dainty looking. What they don't know is how she wore the same dress every other day, how she only had a three sets of clothing that she mix and matched to make it look like she had a n array of dresses while her "friends" have entire rooms the size of our loft to hold their immense collection of dresses that could make up a small mountain. Or that she was practically flat broke, not a single drachma to her name but appeared to be as rich as the aristocrats she associated with. She never asks nor begs money from her friends.

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If it was known to others, she may seem sycophantish. I never saw her, not once, beg for money. She'd rather go hungry than beg or ask for any financial support from her friends. She once went home somehow having spirited an entire silver tray of hors d'oeuvres that became that night and the morning afterwards my meal.

To my young innocent eight year-old eyes then, I thought my mother was living a lie. That she does all these things in support of me, her only child.

But when I saw her talking and partaking in the festivities on the odd occasion she gets me to attend a party, I realized a central truth about my mother. Her eyes were alight with real glimmer of joy. This was not the act of a woman forced to survive but a wondrous creature that have found her place in the world and thrives in it.

I began to notice other things too. How she would sometimes sit in a bench as I play with other children in the park level of the Tower, looking at nothing in particular, lost in thought. Or how she would fidget in place, her feet tapping against the floor as I finish my meal.

Andarina Ynés Serrano was a woman of easy smiles and genial company. I seldom saw her angry or in a down mood. My mother is a creature ever in search of adventure. meeting new people and enjoying the frivolities high society has to offer. I noticed as much as I saw her, she was missing out on various events and parties held by some aristocrat or another.

It had began as any other day I suppose. It was not out of the norm, my mother bid me goodbye and she would be back in a few hours with food. In later years, I wondered in amazement at my mother's steely constitution, how she could go for the better part of a day without so much as a full meal, living off on the little food they serve at parties and a glass of wine or two.

Andarina Ynés Serrano was a woman born and built for such a life of endless parties.

But a child of eight was an entirely different matter. My mother would later tell me of days where she wouldn't sleep, hopping from one party at a tower to the next party at a different tower. She doesn't know how she does it, she simply does. I waited eagerly as my stomach grumbled for supper. the allotted she was supposed to return came and went. One hour late became two. Two became four and so on.

I had not eaten anything for the last thirty six hours. It never occurred to me to beg to our neighbors. I was ashamed to beg. My mother never begged, so why should I? I slept and I read. Anything to pass the time and alleviate my hunger. I was pushed on by the unwavering faith that my mother would return. And return she did. The door to our loft groaned and swung open. I remember her smiling when she swayed in, her eyes alight with that euphoric dreamy look in her eyes whenever she came home from an outstanding party. Then our eyes met. She froze, eyes gone wide as if she remembered that I existed. And with sorrow so profound, she realized her folly. She was stunned. Remember what I said about being stunned? as if your breathe was caught in your throat and you forgot how to breathe. She then scrambled out of her way and back out the door. I followed. I saw her begging and explaining to our closest neighbor, a family of painters hailing from Zares. They were perplexed at seeing Andarina Ynés Serrano on the verge of tears and frantic. For the first time ever, I saw my mother beg for food. It was no problem really for the Zaressi family. They were kind people. My mother begged me for forgiveness as she fed me. She kept saying sorry over and over again as I wolfed down the food. I was not angry. Never occurred to me to be angry. Why would I be angry with my mother? I was an eight year old boy who thought the world of her. I told her as much then. She was trying to hold back tears, that much I saw clearly.

Something must've broken inside of her that day. For the first time ever, I saw my mother cry. Or rather I heard her cry, she never let me see her tears. She realized another truth about herself that day.

Andarina Ynés Serrano was not fit to be a mother, try as she might. She was of a different creature. Much like the migratory birds that travelled all over the world, unheeding of the boundaries and worries that beset much of humanity on a daily basis. Not soon afterwards, she came to a decision.

I ever only followed my mother. I did not ask questions. We simply boarded a boat, bigger and tougher looking than the boats that came to the Tower Resplendent. My mother hugged me close against the chill sea wind as we weaved beneath the behemian shadows of the Towers. To my shock, we were leaving the their shadows, out into the open waters. Away from the Mare Viridis and into the somber and colder waters of the Mare Graucus. The Grey Sea.

And so we departed the Thousand Seaspire.