I do not own. Leave me some lovin'. Unbetaed.
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fire, this time
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When you are fourteen, you go to the market to buy slaves for your father's farm and you see her as soon as you round the last corner. Her hair is spun fire, red and bright, curling over her pale shoulders down to her waist.
You have never seen red hair before, not in this land, not in your world. Bad luck, the old man next to you mutters, spitting in defense of her evil. Red-headed babies are drowned, not raised. This girl will bring no luck to a household.
And still… her hair is fire in a world of green and grey. You look down yourself, pale skin, blue tattoos, drab, brown garb of winter. You have the slave master bring her forward, have her turn and twist. You buy her. Your sister needs someone to feed and clean her, now that your mother had passed.
That is what you tell your father. You never tell him about her lips, her kisses, her whispers in a foreign tongue. You never tell him about the feel of her hair between your fingers, of the fire at her core.
You never tell, but you sample them all.
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It is ice, your first death. Icy fingers, icy lips, an icy grave. Eternal midnight.
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After your rise from the grave, you are cold. One night, your maker joins a group of humans in the forest and you sit close to the fire, hands extended. And closer, and closer, to feel the warmth, to remember heat.
Not even the memory of a slave girl made of fire keeps you warm now and you push closer until you almost feel flames licking at your fingers.
Then Master is there suddenly, ripping you backwards, snarling. Fire is the enemy he says, you burn like tinder now. A single flame, an instant…
You stay at the fringes of the group until killing time, wondering if that instant would not be worth the flame.
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He dies in flame, you Master, after he has outlived his usefulness. He smiles at you as his hair catches fire and you know he is proud. He is like you, a warrior far from the modern mindset you will never understand in the millennia to come. He was bored, so he made you and he would have gotten bored again eventually, would have unmade you.
You got there first. You remembered all his lessons.
Fire is the enemy.
He burns and you watch and when the embers die, you kick his ashes into the night and wander on alone.
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For the longest time, there is nothing else.
What would there be? Time has lost all meaning and the world all color. You know only greens and greys now, as bleached as you and your blue tattoos. No red. No heat. No flame.
And then…
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In battle he is a study of motion, the swing of his sword, the twist of long legs, the bow-taut line of his back as the blunt knife digs into his stomach, spilling forth life.
Blood is red like fire and you want to burn yourself against his skin.
His bier is high and ready to be lit, ready to take him away. A burnt offering. You can't stand it. This is not what you want. You do not want him burnt. You want him burning.
You offer life, offer color and blood and heat. You offer red and that is the only truth in all your promises. He accepts it gladly and you think that, maybe, he is as hungry as you.
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The lesson is the same, passed on. Fire is the enemy.
He, unlike you, does not draw away. He throws his head back and laughs, pushing himself closer to the fire pit, daring fate. Daring you.
You sit back and watch him, a smile on your face.
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You do not understand modern minds and modern morals, but you understand the things they build. The craving for warmth and light is older than you, older than any instinct except maybe one: fight or flight.
Eric jokes once, says his is broken. There is only fight in him. He gets beat down, spits blood, stands and laughs, goading his enemy into another hit. In almost a thousand years, you never once try to stop him.
In this endless night, to each their own way of keeping warm.
And then humans build new things. Light in the dark, warmth in the cold. You send your child to make money to buy those things and red returns to your green and grey world, followed by warmth.
It's is a weak, paltry warmth, spread out and faint and it never goes down to your bones, but it is warmth. It is enough.
For a while.
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You will burn, they say as they come for you with nets that will not hold you and stakes that will not find their aim.
Fire? You ask.
Fire, they echo and in their faces, the same expression your Master once wore. War and hate and animal cravings. Kill or be killed. Humans make useful things, but underneath they are the same as they were when the world was younger.
Fight or flight. Yours must be broken, too, for you do neither. You go with them.
Fire, they say. It is enough to catch your interest.
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The girl is golden and soft, a different warmth. She will burn Eric and be burnt by him. The knowledge is soothing but not necessary. The world turns without your say so.
You never wanted burnt offerings. You understand now that you wanted the flame itself.
As the dawn comes over the rooftops of this new, modern world, you remember a flash of red curls through your fingers.
Fire, this time, not ice.
The world is ablaze in sunlight.
And so are you.
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