Firion has spent much of his life hiding from himself, pushing the truth of him into the shadows because it was unbearable to look at. A boy raised wild and cursed before maturity hit. A boy warped into something new. He had risen one day with ash and death on his tongue and no understanding of where it had come from. He had spent years upon years stumbling through the night, his mind leaving him, his body betraying him. And when he had finally broken free of it? When he had found magic instead?
It had damned him, not saved him.
So he considers himself terrible, but for different reasons then this boy might. He has looked upon the truth of his heart and found it wanting, found it ugly, found the pieces of him not worth saving.
And they are the pieces that scream at him to leave now before he does even more damage. To turn from this young boy before it is another victim of his selfishness, his callousness, his greedy heart. But it is another part of him that keeps him anchored, his heavy jawed head tilted to the side, his expression contemplative. “I very much doubt that,” is all he answers as his shadow companion twists around his legs, turning back into smoke before coming to rest curled upon his back like a small cat.
His expression grows curious as the rose of flames blooms before him. “Hello, Fyr,” he says and with a simple twitch of his shoulder, the entire space around them bursts into flames. Harmless illusions of fire, although the heat is real enough. The sting of it on his skin a welcome reminder as the smoke curls toward the sky. With a twist of his magic, the flames bend toward his will and they turn into a meadow of the very flower that Fyr had presented him with. A blanket of wildfire blooms that spread out around them.
The light flickers against them as the flames bank and then settle, crackling like candles at their feet.
“I’m Firion.”
so as our grief falls flat and hollow upon a billion blooded seas
all our worst ideas are borrowed (you do and don't belong to me)
@Fyr