Stories of Fire, Stories of Faith

-The blind saint sits in her alcove. Next to the candles, providing light she cannot see. Her hand rests on the tomes next to her. Unread, now, for many days. Her empty gaze glides of over the stones. She sits there in complete silence: Irina can't even find the will to cry.

-She yearns for a voice, for a touch. But nothing disturbs her solitude. Nothing but the little creatures, gnawing away at her. She has long ago stopped fighting them, and now they are her only company. The cold stones at her feet, the darkness all around her. Her cowering in the nothingness, like a scared little child.

-She trembles when she imagines what her companion must think of her. Pathetic, he would say. That's what it is, she knows it. She can't even ask him for his sword.

-For a moment, she had had hope. Just a tiny flicker, but it was there. But he has gone now, too. Left her, like everybody has…

-"What is troubling you, child?"

-The voice rips her out of her thoughts. Her eyes open in confusion, staring into the void. It was no imagination. She hasn't heard this voice before, yet she feels no fear, just relief that the silence is gone, even just for a moment. But- no one ever visits her here…Why should they? "Who is there?" she calls, suddenly suspicious.

-She hears a quiet chuckle. "Just a bored old man. You have nothing to fear from me, my dear." His voice does sound ancient. It is not the voice of a killer. Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

-"What do you want? I'm afraid I am not very good company…"

-"I just wanted to talk. May I sit with you?"

-She nods, maybe a bit too eagerly. She tries not to show her relief too much.

-She can hear him sit down, clearing his throat: "I do believe we have a common acquaintance, you know? My pupil often visits you when he comes back from his journeys."

-A memory surfaces. He has told her of this old man. "You- are you his master? The one that teaches him pyromancies?" she asks, suddenly pensive.

-A cough. "Was. I don't have much left to teach him, I fear. He has learned pyromancies that I have never even heard of; I can hardly call him pupil anymore." She thinks she can hear sadness in his voice: "So No, I am no master."

-It sounds too familiar. "I have nothing left to teach him either." she admits hesitantly. A question pushes through, demands attention. Her body straightens. She has to know: "Does he- does he visit you, still?"

-There is a slight pause. "Sometimes, yes. To chat a little, mostly. Or to show me something new he has found." He laughs suddenly: "I suppose, in a way I am his pupil now."

-She nods, her heart numb. Like she expected. She turns her head away to not let him see her tears.

-His voice suddenly becomes soft: "He always speaks kindly of you, you should know that. You are a great help to him…"

-"Not anymore." she whispers. "I don't know any more. I've told every tale I knew! He doesn't come here at all now." A bitter cry breaks from her lips: "Why should he?! I'm no use without something to tell."

-"Is that how you see yourself? Just a means for someone to gain knowledge?" It sounds almost scolding.

-That sparks defiance in her. Irina raises her head: "I help. It gives me a purpose. It's better than just…just…" Her resolve falters and her shoulders slump. "Than just sitting here alone with my failure" she finishes quietly.

-"Your failure?" He sounds honestly curious.

-Tears well in her eyes and she lowers her head.

-A sigh. "Forgive me; that was not tactful." She can hear him standing up. "Forget that I asked. I won't bother you anymore."

-"No!" she cries. The movements stop. She turns her head away: "Just…stay for a moment? Please?"

-A moment of silence, then he sits back down in front of her. His old bones creak as he does so. She can feel his attentive gaze on her.

-Hesitantly, she begins: "You know, in my home of Carim, I was a nun. The epics the sisters told me were wonderful. And I always loved hearing new tales." She shakes her head: "But that's not why I came here. Not for the miracles. I- I wanted to be a Fire Keeper" she confesses.

-"That is a noble cause."

-Her voice shakes: "I couldn't. I am weak. Unfit to tend the flames. They burned me as I tried. They laughed at me…"

-There is a long moment of silence. He seems to hesitate. "I'm sorry." He takes a deep breath: "The flames are not evil, you know? They don't take pleasure in hurting you. I'm sure you could…"

-"You are a pyromancer!", a desperate cry breaks from her lips. "You can control it; you don't need to fear it! I'm not like you; I'm not…I can't…I…"

-A hand rests on her shoulder. It breaks through the darkness surrounding her; the little creatures hiss and retreat at the heat around his fingers: "Child, everybody fears the fire. Those who claim they don't are fools. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

-"I tried." It's barely a whisper. "I tried so many times. It never lets me get close; it hurts me." She casts down her sightless eyes: "It hates me."

-She hears the old man sigh: "Fire can have a mind of its own, 'tis true. I learned that myself." The grip on her shoulder tightens: "But fire is not only destruction. It is life, light, warmth. It can be a friend, if you let it."

-"Not to me."

-The hand leaves her shoulder.

-She is surrounded by darkness once again. By silence. She hugs her knees. Now he has gone, too... She can't reproach him; she wouldn't want to be in her company either. But now she is alone once again. The little creatures approach again, she can feel them, the tiny fangs tearing into her skin…

-A quiet crackling reaches her ears.

-She flinches at the sound. Instinctively, she raises her arms in expectation of the pain. But there is something that gives her pause. This is not an angry roar, nor a pained scream. It is quiet, distant. Somehow, it is soothing. So quiet…

-She has no explanation why, but then she is on her knees and crawling towards it, as if under a spell. It gets warmer and warmer. Her movements become slower and slower. She stops. It is right in front of her, she can feel it. Suddenly, she is afraid. "What- What should I do?" she calls into the darkness.

-No answer.

-Irina makes her decision. She knows it will hurt again, but she has to try, has to know. A tentative hand reaches out. Closer to the quiet crackling. It is so warm…

-From her fingertips, something spreads through her body. It is as if her veins catch fire. The flames dance behind her eyelids; it is blindingly bright. She gasps. The fire is running all over her, setting every inch of her ablaze. It is frightening: She wants to scream, but the fascination is stronger. She stays there, motionless.

-The burning feeling recedes. The warmth runs up and down her arms, her legs, her stomach, before accumulating in her chest. It nestles there, still crackling faintly. She listens to it, spellbound. Like in a trance, she presses a hand to her chest, feeling what she thinks must be a dream:

-A second heart is beating in her chest. Waves of fire run through her every time it beats, they wash the little creatures away from her skin. She can still feel them. But they can't touch her: Something glows within her, keeping them at bay. And with every beat, it spreads warmth throughout her, enwraps her in it, tells her it is there.

-She is no longer alone.

-Tears well in her eyes and she lets out an unrestrained sob. How…? The old man, he…

-"Th-thank you!" she calls into the darkness.

-She hears him laugh: "I'm the one who should be thanking you, child." His voice grows more distant: "Come visit me sometime. Tell me a story. From what I hear you are a gifted storyteller." His footsteps recede, leaving the saint alone in the darkness.

-Only she isn't alone anymore. She leans back against the cold walls and allows the tears to fall, keenly aware of her surroundings. Suddenly she lets out a giddy laugh. She wants to jump up and rejoice.

-The sound of metal scraping on metal approaches. Heavy boots click on the stones.

-"What did the old soot want?" The rasping voice is full of suspicion. To someone who doesn't know him, it would sound threatening.

-Irina laughs and smiles up at him. "Nothing, Eygon." An incredulous laugh rips from her chest. "He gave me something. Something wonderful."

-"Are you alright?" He sounds surprised. She must make an odd sight to him.

-She leans her head against the wall. The warmth beats in her chest. Her eyes close: "I'm warm."

::::::::::::::::

-The Unkindled returns to the shrine with a heavy heart. His friend had been too lost in thought in the past weeks. She needed something to tell, and he had searched high and low for a tome. Even to the dark Cathedral had he ventured, searched every nook and cranny of it…

-He wished it wouldn't have come to this, but there was no other way.

-The familiar sounds of the shrine welcome him. The fire crackles around the coiled sword and Andre's hammering rings through the halls. With a sigh, he makes his way down the stairs, when he becomes aware of another sound. For a second, he thinks his ears deceive him. Then his steps quicken. At the foot of the stairs, he stops in his tracks.

-There she is. She sits on the old carpet, her favourite tome in her hands, and reads aloud. The light voice sounds through the air; it is soothing, as always. He listens, spellbound.

-So does the old pyromancer. He sits opposite of the saint, listening intently. Between them, an orb of fire crackles faintly. Irina is absorbed in her reading, but a quiet smile plays on her lips. It resounds in her voice, makes it sound brighter, hopeful.

-In the Unkindled's hands, a black and rotted book suddenly catches fire. He tosses it aside without a second look. His feet take him to the pair, and he sits down beside them. At the touch of his hand, Irina turns her head and gives him a smile. Her hand reaches out to him, and he takes it without a word. Then she reads on; a tale of an age long past; a warm voice reverberating through the shrine.

'Warmth', Pyromancy

Requirements: 25 Faith