08-02-2021, 01:15 PM
I am Heaven sent, don't you dare forget
The world he is born into is a dark one.
So he sets it aflame the moment he is pushed free from the womb.
Perhaps that is why he is here instead of at his mother’s side. He can’t remember her face, doesn’t know her name. Perhaps she might have even seen past his pyro tendencies and kept him if it hadn’t been for the added bonus of small leaves, twigs, and rocks that had suddenly hovered and swirled around him before they too burst into flame. He couldn’t quite catch the word she cries out, if she had pronounced it “fire” or “fear”. He decides it doesn’t really matter and Fyr he becomes, accepting both pronunciations as correct.
It wasn’t her fault really. He was a strange child who made things explode in a fiery inferno with a mere glance in their direction and seemed to talk to a plethora of imaginary friends. Even the fairies here tended to avoid him although they were kind enough and did the bare minimum to keep him alive. He doesn’t mind that either at first. It’s not like he can be truly alone when he can call souls from the dead. Sometimes the fae caretakers can see the transparent ghosts of those he summons, sometimes they think he is merely talking to himself. Either way, they murmur to each other about the unusual spotted colt. A handsome boy, they think, but a shame he is so strange. So creepy. So dark.
The moment they catch him glowing gold in the moonlight seems to only confirm what they had already assumed. Something spectacularly evil in the making despite the allure of his appearance, a fate that reeks of death and tragedy.
Fyr doesn’t understand of course. He doesn’t get why they can't see the beauty in the darkness, the enchantment of a flame, the way he does. But even he is scared of the things he can do sometimes. The ghosts he summons in his loneliness (sometimes unintentionally) can be frightening as much as they can be kind. Luckily the souls never stay for too long, his powers weak with his lack of understanding and experience with them. As for his fire, well.. At times it does get out of control but the fairies always put it out before it can cause too much damage.
He knows he is different and at first he doesn’t think it’s a bad thing.
But as he starts to notice the wide berth he is often given, the whispers when he passes by, the looks of fear and uncertainty…. He begins to wonder. Was he as bad as everyone thought he was? Was he born wrong? Were his abilities signs of an unavoidable dark path? Was he evil? In his heart he feels he is just as good as anyone else. He hadn’t asked to be born this way after all. As the days pass he starts to wish that he was more normal as he watches other foals play and grow up without him. As he dreams of what it would be like to have a family to go home to at night, to have friends he could laugh and go on adventures with.
He stands in the shadows as the others frolic and pulls the fire from that smoldering source within him, narrows his feral yellow eyes as a small spark grows from a tangled thicket before him. In a matter of seconds the entire thing is set alight and he focuses his concentration, trying to shape the flame into a small burning tree. The orange blaze begins to flicker and move but he only gets it as far as a trunk and a few curled branches before it sputters out. He sighs, disappointed, as he glances back out where the others giggle and chase each other. A few had looked his way and he frowns as he sees them looking at him, talking amongst each other. Knowing exactly what they must be saying. Feeling abashed and shamed, he lifts his small hoof and crushes the remaining evidence of what he had been doing, unbothered by the heat smoldering beneath him.
He didn’t want to be bad. He didn't want to be looked at like Carnage reincarnated. Maybe he should just ignore his powers. Maybe they would just go away on their own if he stopped using them. Maybe then he could be normal and stop living life on the outskirts and everyone would stop looking at him as if he was a Dark Lord in the making. The jaguar colt sighs softly, torn and sad, as he stands in the embers of his destruction and wonders for the hundredth time if everyone was right about him after all.
So he sets it aflame the moment he is pushed free from the womb.
Perhaps that is why he is here instead of at his mother’s side. He can’t remember her face, doesn’t know her name. Perhaps she might have even seen past his pyro tendencies and kept him if it hadn’t been for the added bonus of small leaves, twigs, and rocks that had suddenly hovered and swirled around him before they too burst into flame. He couldn’t quite catch the word she cries out, if she had pronounced it “fire” or “fear”. He decides it doesn’t really matter and Fyr he becomes, accepting both pronunciations as correct.
It wasn’t her fault really. He was a strange child who made things explode in a fiery inferno with a mere glance in their direction and seemed to talk to a plethora of imaginary friends. Even the fairies here tended to avoid him although they were kind enough and did the bare minimum to keep him alive. He doesn’t mind that either at first. It’s not like he can be truly alone when he can call souls from the dead. Sometimes the fae caretakers can see the transparent ghosts of those he summons, sometimes they think he is merely talking to himself. Either way, they murmur to each other about the unusual spotted colt. A handsome boy, they think, but a shame he is so strange. So creepy. So dark.
The moment they catch him glowing gold in the moonlight seems to only confirm what they had already assumed. Something spectacularly evil in the making despite the allure of his appearance, a fate that reeks of death and tragedy.
Fyr doesn’t understand of course. He doesn’t get why they can't see the beauty in the darkness, the enchantment of a flame, the way he does. But even he is scared of the things he can do sometimes. The ghosts he summons in his loneliness (sometimes unintentionally) can be frightening as much as they can be kind. Luckily the souls never stay for too long, his powers weak with his lack of understanding and experience with them. As for his fire, well.. At times it does get out of control but the fairies always put it out before it can cause too much damage.
He knows he is different and at first he doesn’t think it’s a bad thing.
But as he starts to notice the wide berth he is often given, the whispers when he passes by, the looks of fear and uncertainty…. He begins to wonder. Was he as bad as everyone thought he was? Was he born wrong? Were his abilities signs of an unavoidable dark path? Was he evil? In his heart he feels he is just as good as anyone else. He hadn’t asked to be born this way after all. As the days pass he starts to wish that he was more normal as he watches other foals play and grow up without him. As he dreams of what it would be like to have a family to go home to at night, to have friends he could laugh and go on adventures with.
He stands in the shadows as the others frolic and pulls the fire from that smoldering source within him, narrows his feral yellow eyes as a small spark grows from a tangled thicket before him. In a matter of seconds the entire thing is set alight and he focuses his concentration, trying to shape the flame into a small burning tree. The orange blaze begins to flicker and move but he only gets it as far as a trunk and a few curled branches before it sputters out. He sighs, disappointed, as he glances back out where the others giggle and chase each other. A few had looked his way and he frowns as he sees them looking at him, talking amongst each other. Knowing exactly what they must be saying. Feeling abashed and shamed, he lifts his small hoof and crushes the remaining evidence of what he had been doing, unbothered by the heat smoldering beneath him.
He didn’t want to be bad. He didn't want to be looked at like Carnage reincarnated. Maybe he should just ignore his powers. Maybe they would just go away on their own if he stopped using them. Maybe then he could be normal and stop living life on the outskirts and everyone would stop looking at him as if he was a Dark Lord in the making. The jaguar colt sighs softly, torn and sad, as he stands in the embers of his destruction and wonders for the hundredth time if everyone was right about him after all.
fyr