10-21-2016, 02:13 PM
It was night when the fire came back for me. Of course it was night; the fire always kept me warm in the dark, flickering in the shadows, little tongues of flame licking along my skin to chase the cold away. Sparks dancing in the wake of those flames, leaving a tingling warmth in their place as they faded. Of course it was night, when the fire finally returned.
It claimed my wings first, just as it had when I followed my father up the Mountain to petition for a place to live. I fought back the screams that tried to tear from my throat as the limbs I’d grown to love burned away, feathers turning to ash, flesh burning and blood boiling. The flames left nothing in their wake but angry scars along my back where my lovely wings used to be. Scars and a few precious memories of soaring through the sky.
Still, there was a strange sort of affection in the way the fire wrapped itself around me, caressing my skin and reminding me we belonged together even as agony washed over me in waves, Beqanna’s vicious little reminder that she was not pleased with me. Stubbornly, I clung to my newly returned fire despite the pain, letting it sink back into me and melt the ice in my bones, warm my insides in a way I hadn’t felt in half a year.
Months have passed since my fire came home to me. Months where every touch of added warmth, every flickering flame, every spark and burning ember lit up not just the darkness, but also every last pain nerve in my body. Months where agony sank into my soul, into my flesh, subtly reshaping me until somehow that agony is beginning to feel like a friend. A companion almost as constant as my fire. She whispers in my veins, a heated murmur I’ve just barely begun to hear over the hurt, and something in that almost inaudible voice is calling, beckoning, inviting. I just can’t quite hear what.
Maybe someday I’ll be able to hear her well enough.
She is silent today, for the moment at least, as I amble through the Meadow in search of a familiar face. I haven’t felt much like talking to anyone, not since the fire claimed me again and burned away my wings. But I have finally begun to adjust, and to remember how lonely it is to be without anyone else in the world. I haven’t even seen my father in a long time, let alone any of the friends I made as a child.
A child. I suppose I still am one in body, if only by a bit. I’ve grown taller, broader, the feathering on my legs filling out and the deep red of my mane spilling down my neck in long, chaotic strands. The awkward, gangly lines of childhood have begun to round out some into curves, though only just. My limbs are just beginning to show the strength I’ll one day possess, hints in the flex and release of muscle as I walk. And my eyes, still a gleaming gold, scan the Meadow around me, searching the faces I pass for any sign of familiarity.
When I see them, I almost do not recognize them. They’re no longer close to one another, in height, in movement, in...in nature. There used to be some indescribable bond between them, like an invisible cord tying them to one another, syncing their words and their thoughts and their body language. Now...they’re so different from one another, it’s only the familiar shapes of their markings that catches my eye. It is only the familiar mismatch of their eyes, each with one eye the same red as my hair, that makes me sure.
“Spear? Spark?”
I call their names softly, approaching cautiously. They’re so different. But I can’t help but remember the casual brush of lips and noses along my shoulders, my neck, my sides. My very first best friends, even if I only knew them briefly. “Is it really you?” I ask, my eyes lighting up with joy. “I’ve missed you so!”
It claimed my wings first, just as it had when I followed my father up the Mountain to petition for a place to live. I fought back the screams that tried to tear from my throat as the limbs I’d grown to love burned away, feathers turning to ash, flesh burning and blood boiling. The flames left nothing in their wake but angry scars along my back where my lovely wings used to be. Scars and a few precious memories of soaring through the sky.
Still, there was a strange sort of affection in the way the fire wrapped itself around me, caressing my skin and reminding me we belonged together even as agony washed over me in waves, Beqanna’s vicious little reminder that she was not pleased with me. Stubbornly, I clung to my newly returned fire despite the pain, letting it sink back into me and melt the ice in my bones, warm my insides in a way I hadn’t felt in half a year.
Months have passed since my fire came home to me. Months where every touch of added warmth, every flickering flame, every spark and burning ember lit up not just the darkness, but also every last pain nerve in my body. Months where agony sank into my soul, into my flesh, subtly reshaping me until somehow that agony is beginning to feel like a friend. A companion almost as constant as my fire. She whispers in my veins, a heated murmur I’ve just barely begun to hear over the hurt, and something in that almost inaudible voice is calling, beckoning, inviting. I just can’t quite hear what.
Maybe someday I’ll be able to hear her well enough.
She is silent today, for the moment at least, as I amble through the Meadow in search of a familiar face. I haven’t felt much like talking to anyone, not since the fire claimed me again and burned away my wings. But I have finally begun to adjust, and to remember how lonely it is to be without anyone else in the world. I haven’t even seen my father in a long time, let alone any of the friends I made as a child.
A child. I suppose I still am one in body, if only by a bit. I’ve grown taller, broader, the feathering on my legs filling out and the deep red of my mane spilling down my neck in long, chaotic strands. The awkward, gangly lines of childhood have begun to round out some into curves, though only just. My limbs are just beginning to show the strength I’ll one day possess, hints in the flex and release of muscle as I walk. And my eyes, still a gleaming gold, scan the Meadow around me, searching the faces I pass for any sign of familiarity.
When I see them, I almost do not recognize them. They’re no longer close to one another, in height, in movement, in...in nature. There used to be some indescribable bond between them, like an invisible cord tying them to one another, syncing their words and their thoughts and their body language. Now...they’re so different from one another, it’s only the familiar shapes of their markings that catches my eye. It is only the familiar mismatch of their eyes, each with one eye the same red as my hair, that makes me sure.
“Spear? Spark?”
I call their names softly, approaching cautiously. They’re so different. But I can’t help but remember the casual brush of lips and noses along my shoulders, my neck, my sides. My very first best friends, even if I only knew them briefly. “Is it really you?” I ask, my eyes lighting up with joy. “I’ve missed you so!”