DISCLAIMER:

Roses are Red,

Violets are Blue,

Mankin no mine,

So you no sue.

(Isn't it cute? If you know who this rhyme belongs to, please tell me so I can give credit!)

This is a parody of Sherryl Jordan's novel Winter of Fire. Plot belongs to Sherryl Jordan; characters belong to Hiroyuki Takei-sensei. Anna belongs to Yoh, Yoh belongs to me…jkjk.

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Fire

Written by Zephyr Wyndrose

Prologue: The Dreamer

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I have always admired the power of fire, ever since I was small. It is deadly when untamed, but when controlled, it is a vital source of energy for the humans.

I remember how, when I was younger, I had stared with childlike wonder at the dancing red flames from my mother's lap. My mother had been trying to sing me to sleep, but I had been too mesmerized by the fire. My hand instinctively reached out to touch the fire, but my elder brother had slapped it away, scolding me for being so careless.

That memory is most prominent in my mind, because it was the night before I was branded.

I am a daughter of the Itako, the forbidden race of people of the Patch. My people are slaves to the Shamans, the superior race of warriors connected to the Great Spirit. The Itako are considered lowly, unworthy of the Shamans because we do not have the ability to communicate with spirits, nor can we perform the techniques that allow them to bond with spirits.

The brand of the Itako is something the Patch Tribe Council came up with to separate the Itako from the Shamans. The day I was branded is plagued in my memory just as the brand on the back of my right hand is seared into my skin.

I had been only five years old then. It was the custom to have a child branded at the age of five, but I had not known that. The rest of the five-year-olds I played with did not know either, because when the cart came to pick us up, we all boarded the rickety wooden cart, laughing like it was another silly game.

I, however, sensed trickery. I had seen the brands on the hands of by family, and I had even asked my onii-chan once how he had gotten the mark. His reaction, however, was unexpected. My onii-chan was popular among our people for being a smiling, carefree boy: he had an infinite sense of humor and always managed to make me smile, even when I was crying.

His features turned dark for a moment, and then pulled me into a tight embrace. He whispered for me to be strong, to be brave and not falter. I did not understand, but I did not ask either.

I should have asked. As I rode on the cart, I stared at the Shamans who escorted us. They were large burly men with dark features and beady eyes, and glared at us if we so much as talked. I remember that one boy asked if he could go to the bathroom: he was smacked upside the head with a resounding thud, and I saw dark red blood trickle down his neck. Then I heard the other escorts laughing riotously and speaking fast in a language I could not understand.

I redirected my attention to the five Itako pulling the cart. I felt a sting of pain for them as I saw their bodies. They were harnessed like horses to the cart, and their emaciated bodies seemed to shudder every time they took a step down the path. I noticed that the road was rocky, covered with gravel and occasionally, thorns from nearby bushes. Their feet were bloody and heavily callused, their grey skin rubbed raw from the sinew yoke.

I remember one person most vividly: she was the only girl among the Itako pulling the cart, and hauled the most weight of the five. Her face was emotionless, though her eyes were full of determination and strength. I continued to stare at her for a few moments, until she looked at me with those fiery eyes.

For one split second, it seemed she was smiling at me with elder-sisterly warmth. Then, out of nowhere, a long whip snapped on her left shoulder. The Shaman closest to the girl was shouting something in that strange language, and his companion replied something in a sarcastic manner.

I felt fury and defiance rise in me as I leapt up, grabbing the Shaman by his expensive fur coat and sinking my teeth in his fleshy arm.

He howled in pain and tried to shake me off. His companion yelled and his whip snapped out again, missing me the first time. The second time though, I felt a searing pain down my back and released the Shaman, dropping back into the cart with his blood dripping down my chin.

His eyes were mad with fury as he advanced on me, one hand on the large truncheon hanging from his belt. The other Shaman held him back, shouting something I took as a warning. I did not feel any fear, but anger and satisfaction. His red blood was prize enough for me.

The cart was stopped, and the Shaman was given bandages and ointment to treat his wound. The children were huddled in fear, grasping each other for comfort.

I wiped my mouth with my wrist and looked back at the kind-eyed girl. She was standing with her back hunched and her arms slack. She looked at me again, making sure the escorts were not looking. Then she gave me that illusion of a smile again and spoke in a soft voice I could have mistaken for the passing wind.

"They cannot put a brand on your soul, lionheart," she whispered with her ashen lips. "I am called Jun. What are you known by?"

I hesitated, but opened my mouth to reply. However, before I could make any sound, the Shamans returned and we continued on our journey.

That day I made my first friend, and it was the strength that she gave me that day that helped me survive the whole ordeal. The brander was a thin old man with a wicked smile and his hands forever glued to the branding pole. I heard screams of pain as I neared the tent, and when it was my turn, I looked to my new friend Jun for comfort.

She wasn't allowed to look at me, but I think she understood. I entered that tent knowing that I would exit a true Itako.

The branding iron glowed a bright reddish orange when I stepped in. I felt my stomach lurch and gulped. He gave me a toothy grin, like a child, and asked me for my right hand. I gave it unwillingly, and I felt the heat nearing my hand when I turned away, biting my teeth and closing my eyes.

The pain was unbearable. It took every bit of my willpower to refrain from screaming, but to no avail. It seemed that the brander was taking his time, letting the white-hot iron sit on my hand until I screamed. I could not comprehend this clearly though: every nerve in my body, even the ones on my feet, was on fire. I do not know if I cried out or not.

It seemed like an eternity before he lifted the iron. My eyes were overflowing with tears that I swallowed. I was suddenly thirsty, my throat parched. I opened my eyes, and although my vision was blurry, I could see the outlines on his face. He gazed at me for exactly one second with a look of amazement, and then shifted his gaze back to the coals that heated his weapon of prejudice.

I exited the tent with shaky legs and tears still streaming down my face. When I looked up, the welcome sight of Jun's face greeted me. She looked at me with that silent knowledge of hers and gave me a slight nod.

On the journey back, when the Shamans were not looking, I told her the name my parents gave me and shared with her a smile between friends.

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Now, as I look at my homeland, I feel anger at the Shamans. Whenever I work in the mines, I see the towering Shaman homes, made of wood, brick, and stone. I seethe silently in anger at them, at their luxurious houses, expensive clothes, and elegant banquets. I see the grey smoke climbing out of their chimneys, borne from the labor of our work: this is what burns at me most of all.

The area in which we live in is a cold, desolate mountain crevice. Our mine is often referred to as Siranjaro, but I am not sure. We Itako mine for the firestones, the source of warmth and heat that is locked within the mountains. The firestone is blackish red, and if held up to light you could see liquid fuel. Of course, all of our best firestones are given to the Shamans. The Itakos that live in the mines are given meager portions: the firestones have very little fuel and are usually taken from the garbage of our masters.

Even so, out of all the Shamans, there is one I love. My people have no name for him, but simply call him the ruler of all Shamans, the Shaman King. I have heard mythical stories of him, how he is God's vessel of power on Earth and the Messiah, one who can touch fire without being burned.

As a child, my father told me stories of the Shaman King, how the civilizations before us collapsed, conquered by their own greed, and how the world fell into perpetual winter. He enchanted me with tales of how, after all the humans had died out, the Shaman King saved the world by seeking the wisdom of the Great Spirits. The Great Spirits had told the Shaman King of a hidden fuel in the mountains, the firestone, and the potential of its energy.

I had smiled, captivated, with child-like wonder at the feats of a man I had never known. Back then, I had not known of the cruelty of the Shaman race, or the oppression of my people.

"And then? Then what happened, 'tou-chan?" I remembered prodding the answer from my father. I pulled at his clothes and his hair relentlessly until he finally laughed and continued with his story.

"The Shaman King became the ruler of all those who survived the Great Winter, and is still ruling over us today."

I did not see the sad flicker in his eyes as he said this, because I was too young to understand. I paused to a moment before asking another of the many questions in my head.

"Wow! So that means he's…he's…" I tried to do the math in my head.

My father laughed and replied "About a thousand years old,"

A thousand years…that seemed like such a long time to me. The Shaman King was immortal, or so they said. His appearance was that of a young man's, they said. He was a very handsome man, the most powerful Shaman of them all.

I had only been a child then. I am an adult now.

Well, almost. I am almost sixteen, the age at which a woman of the Itako must wed. My onii-chan frowns at the prospect of this, but I am willing. If I marry, my husband's family will provide the support that my ill mother needs. She had always been a sickly woman, and after giving birth to my brother and me, her body had begun to age rapidly. She is still young, about five-and-thirty, but her face is that of an old woman. I hope they will allow her to become a caretaker soon: the caretakers care for the younger, unbranded children while the others are at work. My mother had always loved children: it would be a good job for her.

The rest of my people are the same. When I look around, I see thin skeletons moving around with heavy burdens on their backs. We do not get enough food, and yet we are the ones that grow the food. My people receive one stalk of wheat of a hundred, even though my people's race outnumbers the Shamans ten to one. They hold their lavish feasts every week, with bright lights and foods that we Itako have never seen.

Those lights…they blind my eyes every time I see them. Not because they are too bright, but because my eyes always swell with tears. Those lights are unnecessary, and the firestones used to fuel them could be used to warm my freezing people. And yet, the Shamans, basking in their false realities, do not hear us.

It was my dream of dreams to tear down the curtain of prejudice and slavery that separates our people. I have had wild dreams of freedom, of a world without prejudice, and a world where there was no cold. My father calls these dreams silly: I think otherwise.

My dreams have been getting stronger lately. My visions come to me in greater detail, and I begin to fear and anticipate great change. My dreams tell of an impossible future, one so profound that I dare not believe.

Inevitability is something I have come to know: if my dreams are truly to come to pass, then I fear the future of my people, and the consequences of my actions.

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Prologue: Finished July 23, 2006

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