A/N: I don't even know what this is. I'm so sorry. I was just working nonstop on Atonement and needed a break, and I was like, "You know what's a nice sentence? You're playing with fire." And then this happened. Special thanks to my bae, Blame the Priest, for putting up with me as I wrote this entire thing, a few sentences at a time, all through text messages xD whoops. Anyway, yeah, this is pretty much just some pointless rambling, so take it as you will.
…
You're playing with fire, in every sense of the word.
Literally, you can feel it, radiating warmth as it twists between your fingers and brushes against your knuckles, this perfect flame of which you have absolute control. Fire is destructive, and so you can destroy. Fire is what burned down your homeland, you think idly, and suddenly the spark in the palm of your hand seems to grow brighter with your rage. Literally, you watch as it flickers back and forth as a breeze blows past you, tugging at your hair and threatening to snuff out your fire. The breeze smells like ash and dust, and it's thick and suffocating, but it isn't strong enough to put out your little flame.
Figuratively, you think, you're playing with fire too, only this one is emerald green, and it burns in your veins where you can't see it, and you feel it scorching you every second of every day. It is all consuming, and it leaves nothing behind. Moving your fingers absently, your fire twists up your arm, teasing the skin of your wrist and fraying the edges of your robe. Glance up through long lashes and hold your breath. Let it out again in a soft hiss. Feel the fires dance in your palm.
For a long time, there is only silence, and it stretches out around you, and it screams louder than any sound possibly could. It fills the air, pierces your ears, settles on your chest like an invisible weight. You haven't moved an inch since you arrived, except for your fingers, which continue to curl and uncurl as the fire continues to caress your skin with the gentleness of a lover. This, you think, isn't so far from the truth, because as it stands, this fire is all you have, all you have ever had from the very first time you snapped your fingers together and watched with glee as a small flare appeared before your wide, innocent eyes.
You aren't sure how long you've been standing there silently, only that it's gotten to the point where it's too long, and you need to say something because this tension building around you is unbearable. He hasn't so much as glanced in your direction, but you know that he knows you're there, that he probably sensed you coming before you had even made the decision to come. You know better than to underestimate him. He doesn't have to see you to know every secret you're keeping.
"So you're leaving," he asks, in a voice that is just a deep rumble in his chest. You don't know why, but you were expecting anger, and so the broken bitterness you are met with catches you completely off guard, and you aren't exactly sure what to do with this feeling of betrayal welling up inside of you.
You don't know what to say, so you opt for saying nothing, just turn you gaze back to the fire you hold. It's become something a nervous habit, or a reassurance, you aren't sure anymore. Fire is destructive, and sometimes you contemplate burning everything in sight, yourself included, because it would be easier than having to deal with this feeling you can't even seem to put a name on.
It's silent again, and you hate it, you need to fill it with something, so you manage to find your voice and stammer out a pathetic excuse. "I have obligations," you say, "to my people." This is true, yes, but if you really meant it then you wouldn't be here in the first place. He knows this too, and it's evident in the small snort he gives. Your obligations have always been to yourself. So have his, though, and that's why this will never work, not the way you both thought it would.
You expect him to argue with you. Maybe try and convince you to stay. Anything at all, except sit there and stare off over the edge of the temple at his self-created kingdom, at the lands he has claimed for himself. And for you, too, you know, because you promised him you'd stay. Only you've broken a lot of promises in your life, so you figure one more isn't going to be the death of you, and you can't stand another day here watching him tear himself apart, and you want to go home, except home won't have you anymore, so your only option is to turn and run. Because as much as you want to, as easy as it might seem, you can't simply burn everything down and expect to be able to find something in the ashes.
You don't really know why you're still standing there. Waiting for his permission, or his approval, neither of which are ever going to come. You know you should turn and leave while you still can, before he changes his mind and pins you down and forbids you from leaving him, because you promised you would stay. But you've promised you would stay before, too, and yet somehow you always end up alone, and you're starting to think you're the problem here, because you're the one running away. You're the one playing with fire. You're the one who is going to get burned.
You don't think you should be as okay with this as you are.
He turns his head slowly, painfully slow, as though he has grown far too weary to bear the weight of the massive horns that twist up from his scalp. Those unnaturally green eyes turn on you, but they're half concealed and would be impossible to read even if they weren't. "Go on, then," he says, his voice nearly inaudible and eerily void of emotion.
You aren't planning on sticking around long enough for him to change his mind. You've barely managed to turn on your heel when you hear him speak once more, but you don't look back, can't stand to look back and know that you've become nothing more than another person he trusted that betrayed him.
"Kael," he mumbles, your name little more than a breath upon his lips. Your heart skips a beat at the sound of it, and for a second you almost falter, almost turn right back around and promise not to leave, because whether he will ever admit it or not, he needs someone, anyone, and for so long now it's been you.
You say nothing in return, just wait for him to speak again. Except his doesn't, not for a long time, and if ever he does you aren't around anymore to hear it.
Your footsteps echo against the stone floor as you make your way down the staircase, back into the temple. When you hit the last step, you glance down at your hand, now clenched into a tight fist.
The fire has gone.