This isn't a normal "I knew I was different but I found out yesterday that I was a powerful being destined to save the world" kind of story. I have known all my life what I was, never a secret kept from me by my father.
I guess I have just known all my life what and who I was. Father figured it would be better for me to know, and now that I can understand I agree.
He has told me my story like a bedtime fable. He would tuck me under the covers, and tell me my story.
My father found a beautiful woman one day. She was beautiful, with golden hair and black eyes with an equal shade of gold flecks in them. She was hurt, her arm bent in an unnatural way. So he took her in, cared for her. They fell in love. But after five months, she had to leave him. But she took something with her. A child, a child of a watch and a human. He didn't see or hear from her in months, and he missed her dearly. But one cold night, when the stars shone bright and the trees danced elegantly, a knock came from his door. A witch stood there, he recognised the way she stood and the iron teeth and nails. She held a child.
He never knew he could love anything so dearly. The witch told him of what had happened. She told him that Asterin was hurt, but alive. She told him that I was to be dead, so he was to keep me a secret.
So he did. He cared for me as he did for Asterin, a wolf in the sheeps pen.
He named me Arson, a name as strong as my mothers.
I sat on the edge of the porch, next to my father as he watched the sky. It was a cloudless day, the colours of the trees, flowers, sky and grass vibrant. I looked at my father. I knew what he was doing, what he was waiting for. My father was old, his dark hair greying and his eyes wearing out. But when he smiled, when he laughed he always seemed younger. His green eyes sparkled and the dimples in his cheek showed. I must have been staring, as he looked down at me and said; "What's up Arson?"
I let out a puff of air, a cheap attempt of a laugh. "Nothing I guess." I say. There was really nothing much to do here at the cottage. There were the day-to-day jobs such as hunting, collecting wood and cleaning. Otherwise there was drawing, which I really didn't have the patience for, music, which I was not very good at, and sowing cloths, which again I did not have the patience for. "I just don't have anything to do." I complained.
Father only laughed, tapping my knee with his hand. "Don't worry child, you can always go and look in the mirror for another hour." He said, a grin spreading across his face.
I laughed. It was true, I liked looking at myself in the mirror. Not to sound arrogant, but I liked the way I looked. I was beautiful. Deep black eyes with golden flecks, midnight black hair and clean golden skin.
"You are my beautiful daughter." He said to me, leaning on to brush a kiss on my forehead. He slung an arm across my shoulder, and pulled me close for a hug. "No go away." He said mockingly. I laughed, and shoved him gently as I got up from my seat and made my way inside the house.
It was small, but full of vibrant colours and life. I made my way to the bathroom, to the mirror that I had decorated when I was little with the little amount of pain that I had. I had painted fire, red with flecks of yellow and orange and gold. Fire was the thing I was saved from, and I feared it. I could have died 67 years ago when I was saved. I feared death, despite the dangerous thing that I thought I was.
I looked in the mirror, checking out all my angles of my face, and brush strands of my jet-black hair behind my ear. Then I parted my lips, bearing my pointed teeth. They were iron, pointed and dangerous. I loved them, they were a part of my mother I never got to see. I had heard stories of Ironteeth witches. I knew enough about them to know that I was one.
My blood ran blue, not red.
Iron nail had never erupted from my fingers, I wasn't 'full-blood' enough. I was as human as I was witch. That's how it will always be, stuck in the middle of two worlds. Never being able to belong, but able to blend in.
I turned my head to the left, my good side. I ran my fingers, my ironless fingers, across my cheek.
Then I flinched.
A scream, no, a groan, of pain erupted through the home and rung through my ears.
I abandoned the mirror, and ran to the front door, bursting it open to find Father lying on the porch. Blood dripped from his mouth, his eyes closed but his body shook rapidly. I quickly ran over, falling to my knees beside his head. I hesitated for a second, not wanting to harm his or do the wrong thing. His body still shook, and my heart beat unevenly. My breath was raged, my hands shook. I had never been this worried in my long life.
I picked him up, my strength unmatched to any human. He stopped shaking, and my heart skipped a beat. Was this good? Was this bad? I didn't know, right now I didn't know anything. I carried him through the door to his room, where I lay him on his back on the large, soft bed. He lay still, so I put my heat to his chest.
There was heartbeat. There was breath. There was life.
There might be some hope, but that small flicker inside me was overcome with worry. He might die. He was getting old, but it wasn't his time yet. He was only 80 years old, he wasn't to die now. Not when I still need him. I began sobbing, tears spilling rapidly down my cheeks.
Not yet.
