some are lost in the fire
some are built from it
Her home was heat, and yet he's the one with heat in his blood.
If she was born in the melting of the jungle, if her heart was buried in the warm, wet earth, if she was christened by the holy water that drips from trees and spills from overhanging flowers, he was born of ash and ruin. He was the Chamber's new hope, its shining prince, its golden boy. He had been born so soon after the disaster, mere years after the Chamber had nearly burned to the ground in a cataclysm of magic origins. And sure enough, for a time they had been ruined – for a time the Chamber had slumbered.
But then had come Straia, and soon after Straia, Erebor. He grew up with the land, turning tall and stalwart alongside the trees, his height growing with theirs, a beautiful synergy – the boy and the branches. And in the woods, he had always felt at home. In the woods, a blanket of silence hung heavy, snug as a hug around his shoulders. In the woods, the chill was his companion, the delicate beads of morning dew a welcome quench to his thirst. In the cool pine forests, he did not know heat.
But now? Now, he burns.
Perhaps if he were not so busy burning he'd have more time to worry about his coloring. God knows he hates it; it's so unlike his mother, so unlike his father, so unlike anything. It is a constant reminder of everything that he had gone through, of all the friends lost along the way, of everything that he could, arguably, want to forget. But the more distance he gains from the experience, the more it begins to become a part of him. It melts into him, almost as though his new power over heat has given him power over memory too, as though he can use it to bend and shape things to his will – even things like memories which shouldn't be touched, shouldn't be tampered with.
But even the most perfectly welded thing, twisted unnaturally by heat, is never truly perfect. And so it is that he does struggle with what had happened in the toybox, in the mansion, in the little hut. It haunts him sometimes, and he feels like he is boiling. It is a strange and impossible sensation, because he can never truly boil again. When you command the heat, nothing can ever burn you.
He discovered that early. When he'd first come back, when he'd been struggling with his new powers, when he'd been struggling with his memories, he had tried. He'd turned the heat on himself, fighting to singe the unnatural hair from his body. He'd tried to incinerate it, to leave himself hairless rather than wearing the strange, unnatural hair that reminded him so much of a still-raw experience.
It hadn't worked. The hair hadn't changed. He was still the same, the dark wine-red of his body, the dark blue and dark green of his mane, none of it so much as singed.
A newfound immunity, strange, as strange as the dreams - not so much of the toybox, the teakettle, the torture – no, what he dreams of, and what unsettles him the most, is the little girl who had treated him with such incredible care. It's Lena he thinks of, Lena who haunts his dreams, Lena with her precious eyes and sweet smile and quiet voice. Lena, who was weak, Lena, whom he should disdain.
Stockholm syndrome, he thinks, and goes to lose himself in the trees.
He wanders for minutes, or for hours, or forever. The air is crisp out here away from the center of the kingdom, and the chill of it is delightful. It's not that the heat hurts – it could no more hurt him than burn off his unnatural coloring – but it's simply so constant, so omnipresent, that the difference is a delicious thrill. It allows him to refocus, to draw inside himself, to become (once more) the stoic boy that he'd been born to be. Here, he is in control. Here, he knows every tree and every branch. Here, the world is his oyster. Here, he is free from strange powers he struggles to control, and strange dreams he cannot puzzle out. Here, there is blessed solitude.
That is, until there is not.
If he hadn't been so lost in his thoughts he'd have noticed her far sooner. He comes upon her as she starts to go into the water, and he is immediately paralyzed. He recognizes the coloring instantly, and he knows what it means. It is as though he's struck by lightning, as though he's rooted to the spot. The images that he thought he'd successfully dominated, successfully tamped down rush back into the forefront of his mind. He feels all the pain again, all the helplessness, it all comes rushing back, threatening to overtake him as the water overtakes the mare's body.
He swallows hard, clawing his way out of the memories. It's never even a question, he will approach her, he must. But his legs (so dark, so wine-red) are unsteady, and his usually suave, unflappable demeanor is somehow shaken.
By the time he reaches her pool she has emerged and is staring at herself in the water. He approaches tentatively, drawn like a moth to a flame, simultaneously exultant to find a kindred spirit and aghast at the prospect of rehashing the memories he knows they must share.
And so he comes before her, her muted coat the strange echo of his own unnatural coloring, dimmed by mud but still far from invisible. His brown eyes (his one remaining unremarkable, anonymous feature) are riveted to her. So many emotions clash within him, fighting for dominance on his handsome features, that his face becomes a mask of polite interest – but his eyes seem deep, deeper than forever.
And for the first time, the confident boy, the stoic boy, the eternal diplomat, finds himself entirely at a loss for words.
Perhaps it will be enough, he hopes, to let his coat speak for him. Perhaps his eyes, with their depths and their darkness, will tell the story. Perhaps she, like he, will know the moment she sees him. Perhaps she too will feel the magnetic pull of everything they've been through. Perhaps there simply aren't words for it.
"You…" His usually deep, confident voice is hushed and quiet. It's a question, and a plea, and a prayer – he recognizes her, yet he doesn't know her. He pauses, shaking his head, closing his eyes for a moment, trying to collect himself. "You too?"
If she was born in the melting of the jungle, if her heart was buried in the warm, wet earth, if she was christened by the holy water that drips from trees and spills from overhanging flowers, he was born of ash and ruin. He was the Chamber's new hope, its shining prince, its golden boy. He had been born so soon after the disaster, mere years after the Chamber had nearly burned to the ground in a cataclysm of magic origins. And sure enough, for a time they had been ruined – for a time the Chamber had slumbered.
But then had come Straia, and soon after Straia, Erebor. He grew up with the land, turning tall and stalwart alongside the trees, his height growing with theirs, a beautiful synergy – the boy and the branches. And in the woods, he had always felt at home. In the woods, a blanket of silence hung heavy, snug as a hug around his shoulders. In the woods, the chill was his companion, the delicate beads of morning dew a welcome quench to his thirst. In the cool pine forests, he did not know heat.
But now? Now, he burns.
Perhaps if he were not so busy burning he'd have more time to worry about his coloring. God knows he hates it; it's so unlike his mother, so unlike his father, so unlike anything. It is a constant reminder of everything that he had gone through, of all the friends lost along the way, of everything that he could, arguably, want to forget. But the more distance he gains from the experience, the more it begins to become a part of him. It melts into him, almost as though his new power over heat has given him power over memory too, as though he can use it to bend and shape things to his will – even things like memories which shouldn't be touched, shouldn't be tampered with.
But even the most perfectly welded thing, twisted unnaturally by heat, is never truly perfect. And so it is that he does struggle with what had happened in the toybox, in the mansion, in the little hut. It haunts him sometimes, and he feels like he is boiling. It is a strange and impossible sensation, because he can never truly boil again. When you command the heat, nothing can ever burn you.
He discovered that early. When he'd first come back, when he'd been struggling with his new powers, when he'd been struggling with his memories, he had tried. He'd turned the heat on himself, fighting to singe the unnatural hair from his body. He'd tried to incinerate it, to leave himself hairless rather than wearing the strange, unnatural hair that reminded him so much of a still-raw experience.
It hadn't worked. The hair hadn't changed. He was still the same, the dark wine-red of his body, the dark blue and dark green of his mane, none of it so much as singed.
A newfound immunity, strange, as strange as the dreams - not so much of the toybox, the teakettle, the torture – no, what he dreams of, and what unsettles him the most, is the little girl who had treated him with such incredible care. It's Lena he thinks of, Lena who haunts his dreams, Lena with her precious eyes and sweet smile and quiet voice. Lena, who was weak, Lena, whom he should disdain.
Stockholm syndrome, he thinks, and goes to lose himself in the trees.
He wanders for minutes, or for hours, or forever. The air is crisp out here away from the center of the kingdom, and the chill of it is delightful. It's not that the heat hurts – it could no more hurt him than burn off his unnatural coloring – but it's simply so constant, so omnipresent, that the difference is a delicious thrill. It allows him to refocus, to draw inside himself, to become (once more) the stoic boy that he'd been born to be. Here, he is in control. Here, he knows every tree and every branch. Here, the world is his oyster. Here, he is free from strange powers he struggles to control, and strange dreams he cannot puzzle out. Here, there is blessed solitude.
That is, until there is not.
If he hadn't been so lost in his thoughts he'd have noticed her far sooner. He comes upon her as she starts to go into the water, and he is immediately paralyzed. He recognizes the coloring instantly, and he knows what it means. It is as though he's struck by lightning, as though he's rooted to the spot. The images that he thought he'd successfully dominated, successfully tamped down rush back into the forefront of his mind. He feels all the pain again, all the helplessness, it all comes rushing back, threatening to overtake him as the water overtakes the mare's body.
He swallows hard, clawing his way out of the memories. It's never even a question, he will approach her, he must. But his legs (so dark, so wine-red) are unsteady, and his usually suave, unflappable demeanor is somehow shaken.
By the time he reaches her pool she has emerged and is staring at herself in the water. He approaches tentatively, drawn like a moth to a flame, simultaneously exultant to find a kindred spirit and aghast at the prospect of rehashing the memories he knows they must share.
And so he comes before her, her muted coat the strange echo of his own unnatural coloring, dimmed by mud but still far from invisible. His brown eyes (his one remaining unremarkable, anonymous feature) are riveted to her. So many emotions clash within him, fighting for dominance on his handsome features, that his face becomes a mask of polite interest – but his eyes seem deep, deeper than forever.
And for the first time, the confident boy, the stoic boy, the eternal diplomat, finds himself entirely at a loss for words.
Perhaps it will be enough, he hopes, to let his coat speak for him. Perhaps his eyes, with their depths and their darkness, will tell the story. Perhaps she, like he, will know the moment she sees him. Perhaps she too will feel the magnetic pull of everything they've been through. Perhaps there simply aren't words for it.
"You…" His usually deep, confident voice is hushed and quiet. It's a question, and a plea, and a prayer – he recognizes her, yet he doesn't know her. He pauses, shaking his head, closing his eyes for a moment, trying to collect himself. "You too?"
erebor
heat manipulating lord of the chamber
warship x straia
<3 I'm literally the worst ever.