'You either feed a flame or let it die.'
The matchstick snatches along the rim of the box and with an ignition, it springs to live.
The flame is tame and small. It grows eating the wood. It gets hot on his hands. Slowly.
He lets it.
Fire doesn't scare him any more than the sound of a bullet or the blood of a dying man. It makes him not angry anymore. All he feels is the heat, it feels wrong, but he pushes through it. The way he feels himself reacting to the heat is more than he can say for most days that he is not fighting or running.
It is dark inside the stone walls and musty stale air flares through his nostrils.
He stares at the predatory, lurking orange of flames. They tingle on his face warm and gentle, false safety, as the scar tissue can attest.
He gets lost in the eerie glitter of red and blue, black smothered wood and orange-tinted light.
He once thought the fire could be beautiful. Since the Ghost has stopped caring or finding sense in aesthetics, he can't see any more beauty in flames. All he sees is death, and pain, and the longer he stares the more he regrets having eyes at all.
Not so different from the first time a boy named Thomas met a prince named Maven.
"We'll never talk about this again," A voice very quiet and a face crumbled in embarrassment, smooth brow drawn together, blue eyes twitching, dark eyelashes blinking rapidly once, twice.
The words are harsh in the leftover silence and dim light, that was filled with another kind of sound hidden behind two lips. The answer is not any less harsh or angry.
"That kiss behind the tent or the way I...you know." They know, they know both.
And no answer just the reluctant breath of lungs, followed by one other.
The matchstick dies in his hands, a last sigh and it's gone. He lays it to his feet in heavy boots. Ignites a new one. Watches the flames bending the light brown wood, crunching it until it bends and turns black.
"Let me help you clean up and then-"
Smell faint, crisp ashes and sour gone eggs, coppery blood almost like a taste on the tongue. and the snapping of a desperate predatory instinct forced in some corner on bare stone.
"Don't touch me!"
But the hand never does what it is told when it comes to them, and reaching out there's fire in a short bust, warning, and hissing.
The boy will not be fast enough later, now he steps back quickly. Hurt in pride, why? I just want to help- Retreat.
I am sorry, he will say later, I am sorry.
He suppresses the memories. Instead, his head returns to an almost technical retelling of his self perched in the window with a gun.
He tries to angle it, measure it. He was patient and calm up until the Queen was in his head, burrowing. He could have moved his finger, brushing along the trigger softly and with care. He imagines it would have been a clean one.
A whisper with a rotten dead shell of a brain can't creep up anymore. He prefers to shoot anyone in the head, swift and efficient. Just to make sure.
No one has yet done it to him. He knows that even his ability to breathe again wouldn't stand a chance to a piece of metal splattering pieces of his skull and brain matter over the ground.
Bit by bit, the calm ends and gets replaced by something else.
His body bristles under the nervous energy flowing through his system.
If he gets knowledge of the Ghost's appearance and his attempt to shoot him or his mother, he will not leave him to die. He is no longer a boy in the midst of wartime, he is no longer a second son and prince.
Use and abuse and then drop the ballast off. Isn't that how most silver people see the world? Why would a prince and now king see the world different?
And not any king, but this one.
King of Norta, the letters read, and the Ghost stares at the sharp-edged face, the way he holds his head, dark hair curling along his ears and neck, a crown gleaming. He folds the paper, pressing it against his chest- Why do I still care? I don't want to- As if he could smother the essence of the boy he once knew and the boy the Ghost was once, suffocate him without ever having to touch him to bring impending death and doom.
Would he even recognize the Ghost? He doesn't recognize himself most times he sees his reflection.
And if he does recognize him, does he care? After all, he left him to die and then just threw him away.
He wasn't visiting in the hospital. Just his mother making offers and attempting to keep him quiet.
He'll be less than pleased for any scornful attempt for his life. The Ghost supposes if he was to get hold he'll be squeezed out for all the little secrets before they will kill him, and nothing will stop death now that luck has run out. Everyone wants their enemies dead in the end. Even if they play and make them suffer a little before finalizing the solution.
The thought makes something in his scars tingle. Tapping fingers of tension tickle him.
What if he wants him alive?
The Ghost remembers the shrill unnatural way he laughed on the bridge. He doesn't feel like laughing anymore.
No. No, he would not want the Ghost alive. The Ghost may have weak spots regarding their memory and he tries to shield and dance away from the soft aching pain and bitter putrid hate, but he was willing to pull the trigger, under the force compelling his body and stopping him.
He would maybe keep Thomas alive. But that boy has been set on fire and died in horrible pain, engulfed in flames melting his face.
Nothing is left but ashes, and blood. And for the best, because how would they ever be anything again when there is nothing but old wounds and scars?
The flame cackles and dies in his hands again.
He remembers Jon again, guiding him. Giving him a push.
And what a push. A push to be faced with a face he once loved and a finger ready to pull the trigger even though something bloomed inside his chest, flowers of red blood and love, desperation and memories.
A push off a bridge. Sailing into the darkness of the water ready to be consumed.
The Ghost is very sure he won't see him again any time soon.
Gone again towards his truthful future, the Ghost doesn't want to even try and understand and is far from caring. After all, even with intentions that aren't malicious towards him, the long term game of manipulating time is something that affects the whole world. A great responsibility, maybe a burden but definitely a strong power to behold.
The Ghost is wary about big power. He is no leader and he doesn't want to be. People would be very mistaken looking for steady guidance at his side. The last time he did lead a group of limping and tired men through a forest, he gained nothing but questions and witnessed them die and suffer until he decided to leave.
A sound behind him wakes the Ghost from the memories that disturb him. His hand wanders down one side to the handle of the small silent friend that is his knife.
"Time to move," The woman says. In the dead dark silence, the Ghost makes a decision. He may not have been able to kill or harm Maven Calore, but he will rather die than getting captured. A nice sentiment, a selfless sounding one, almost. It may feel idealistic enough for his companions to carry on and through, he is sure. But death is no reverse sweep, and there will be no escape soon enough. Because whatever questions will be asked, he is sure he'll be used in the best appropriate way. And that would be out somewhere, lurking, waiting, until he can take the shot.
He takes a step outside, hands clasping around the doorframe and blinks in the light twice.
A weapon doesn't lie about its purpose.
A Ghost only haunts the living.