Present:
The fire burns within me, a hot, searing flame, curling my duty, my memories, my pain at the edges, not dulling but brightening them, driving me before them fast and hard, as if the very demons of the Nether nipped at my heels. Perhaps they do, for nothing seems able to cool the burn, not the gentle, understanding touch of my husband, the flickering flutter of Ailin's delicate dragon wings, the soft chitter of Pippen's prairie dog voice, the playful nudge of Speck's large, dog nose or the sloppy lick of tiny Flick's lolling pink puppy tongue. These are my beloved, those I take with me as I abandon the cold snap of duty and the overwhelming flood of needs that were not my own.
Standing now at the peak of the Twin Colossals in Feralas, not far in place but ever so distant in understanding from the Masque, I smile and turn to watch my family lying among the grasses, playing an odd sort of tag under the watchful, careful eyes of my husband. He somehow feels me watching him and looks up, his stern, ageless face softening into that smile that's just mine, just for me, just because he knows I need it, need him, need this sort of exile I've taken us on. He knew, perhaps before I did, that I was stifling in the cool stone hall guarded by the great green dragon, slowly drowning under the weight of a duty I accepted much too soon.
Restless suddenly, I curl my fingers into my itching palms, fighting the need to set something aflame, to watch it burn as the thing inside of me burns, twisting to get out. That it were a true demon, a true spirit and not something of mine, something inside of me that has shifted, changed, perhaps not for the better, I wish for in private but do not say aloud. Steadfast has watched me twist myself into knots over such things among my friends; that I might want something that sinister for myself is something I can't bring myself to tell him. As his smile slides into a worried, thoughtful expression, the light in his eyes dimming just a little, I wonder if perhaps he already knows.
A distance is growing between us, a chasm that becomes harder to span everyday. Always it is this way with me, this slow widening of the gap between what I hope and what my magic demands. The very real possibility that this love, too, shall die only adds to my worry and fear. The worry and fear feed the fire. It is a cycle part of me is afraid to break, afraid that in the breaking, I will break myself.
A playful tug on the hem of my pants has me glancing down into the excited, adoring eyes of Flick. The little worg has fallen in love me just as I have with him, this puppy that is both sweet-tempered and mischievous. Reaching down, I pluck him up, cuddling him in my arms, burying my nose in his ruff and inhaling the fresh scents of grass and damp fur. I have the fierce hope that he will never outgrow me, never outgrow this need he has to be stroked and petted and loved. He snuggles closer, burying his cool puppy nose in the curve of my neck, comforting as he is comforted, loving as he is loved.
Not to be outdone, warned only by the flickering sound of wings and a hushed chitter, I am set upon by Ailin and Pippen, the latter purring in his strange, dragonling way as Pippen dances about my legs. We fall to the ground in a tangle of hair, fur and laughter. A shadow falls over us; when I look up, Steadfast is smiling once again, both he and his large, fierce worg Speck sinking down to lie with us in the grass, Steadfast's head on my belly, Speck's cool nose in my neck, the smaller animals snuggled in as close as they can get.
Within minutes, everyone but me is asleep.
One of my hands is buried in the long fall of my husband's snow-white hair. The other, slender and pale, is lifted over my head, contrasting sharply with the bright blue of the Feralas sky. I turn it slowly to and fro, watching the flame within my palm burn, flickering malevolently red and orange and red again. It is the color of my hair, the color of my pain, the color of my life.
Past:
I am five. I know this only because it is the reason my sister says I must stay home with Papa while she and Mother travel into the City to see our grandparents.
"I am eight," she says in that lofty way she has that makes me want to pinch her, her honey-blonde locks curled carefully about her dimpled cheeks, her mouth in a little moue as she looks down on me from her extra inches. "You are only five and you dirtied your best dress playing with the chickens. Mama says you have to stay with Father but that I may have ice cream if I am good."
Part of me wants to cry and plead with Mother to take me with her, as ice cream sounds terribly exciting and the idea of the City and wistful way Mother speaks of it make me want to go. The other part, the one that is the image of the tall man who is my sire right down to the flame of my hair, is quite content to lean back against Papa's knee where he is checking the harness on old Seraph one last time. The horse stands patiently, his eyes cloudy with age, his back slightly bowed from pulling the heavy plow. He whickers softly as I lay my tiny hand on his side but I am not afraid, for he is only saying hello and goodbye. He, like my Papa, is infinitely patient with the hurried patter of my feet at his heels and the high-pitched, quick staccato of my speech.
Mother, looking like an imposing stranger in her fine cloak of deepest green, does not pause to kiss either Papa or myself as she sweeps up into the carriage. Arranging her little hat with a careful pat, she folds her hands in her lap and keeps her eyes turned carefully forward, her mouth compressed into a tight, hard line.
As Papa steps away to help Rachel into the carriage, I frown, my hands dropping to twist nervously in the skirt of my dress; Mother has that look most often when I have done something to displease her. She says nothing, however, only nods curtly to Papa as she picks up the reins and clicks her tongue at Seraph. With a last whicker and a glance back at Papa and I, he sets off down the dusty road. We stand there for a long while, Papa and I, until his big hand gently squeezes my shoulder.
"Little bit, you still need to feed the chickens. If you manage it quick, fast and in a hurry, I'll let you help me in the garden."
A thrill runs through me for, aside from the chickens who peck at my bare feet and make me giggle with their odd strut, helping Papa in the garden is my most favorite job. He doesn't mind that I dig in the dirt with my hands or plop down in the middle of the row of corn to daydream; he just seems happy for my company, his deep voice rising and falling as he croons to his plants, singing songs of his own childhood. He laughs when I try to sing with him or when I bobble the little watering can, drenching myself and making a mud hole worthy of the hogs.
Nodding up at him, I rush off to get the feed from the barn and then hurry even faster to the henhouse, the little can that looks big in my hands bumping against my skinny legs. It rattles and I am humming tunelessly along with it as I rush into the enclosure, thinking five minutes ahead to when I will be patting the dirt around another seed.
It is my favorite hen, the one I have named Pick, that I nearly stumble over in my haste. I stare at her for a long moment, not quite sure why her pretty little head with it's proud red cockle is tilted at such an angle, or why there is a red, oozing mess where her bright white feathers used to be.
Present:
The flame in my palm has spread up my arm, lapping at my bare skin. I am hypnotized by its searing flame and by the heat and pain I somehow don't feel. I wonder idly how long it might take for the fire to consume my body and, if in the end, I would even feel it. Steadfast stirs, moving away from me in his sleep, and the flames leap higher.
Past:
I think it must be my high-pitched, endless scream that brings Papa to the henhouse. His face, broad and kind, sunburnt from his labours, is pasty white, his large, work-roughened hands skimming over my small body, trembling as they attempt to find my hurt. It is all I can do to stand there, to not wrench away from the person who understands me best in the world.
"Little bit! Little bit!" When I can respond only with another wail, he shakes me, but gently, his voice sharper than I have ever heard it. "Keelyn Marie Mulally, you answer me right this minute!"
Somehow, I manage to turn, extending one trembling finger in the direction of the henhouse, unable to do more, unable to articulate what I have seen, what has happened…what I have done. The best I can do is choke back the wailing, to swallow it like a thick, heavy lump that lodges somewhere near my heart. Holding me close, he turns to the henhouse, stepping first to the doorway and then inside. I bury my face against his leg, unable to look.
The word he breathes under his breath, a curse that sounds more like a quick prayer, makes me wince and increases my trembling, for I can see what he sees without needing to look.
Where once a handsome and sly fox stood, rooting in the nests of my beloved chickens, is now a pile of skin and bones and fur and flame. Flames the red-gold of my hair.
Present:
The fire burns both within me and without. I do not know that there is a way to control it.
I do not know that I wish to control it.
I do not know if they can ever forgive me for embracing the flames.