Before the Fire Comes

Chapter 6 - Dusk On A Forgotten Land

[This Section Has Been Reserved by Etheridge]

A/N: This'll be short.

I know, I know. This wasn't what you were expecting, was it? Third Person to First Person and with me, Etheridge, as narrator (at least in the context of the last few chapters) no less, must be difficult for you to start a new chapter of an average-looking chapter of an Owl House fanfiction, but you're gonna have to get used to it for a little while. There's a message by the end that you should pay attention to, since some important things going forward won't make sense without you understanding what goes on in the last few passages. I'll clue you in on that at least.

"Stay away from Florence," The black liquid dripped from my lips and landed on his lap. I reached my hand out and the tendrils dropped the bastard's left hand, allowing him to reach for mine. As he stood, he went still. I had undone the conscious portion of his mind, and now he was left with a jumbled mess of neuron connections and memories that would never come to light.

I laughed. He really was an amateur!

This wasn't the first time I had done this to him. Various times he passed out, I had taken the opportunity to give him a proper lead on how things were supposed to go. I was almost like an author, weaving my own story to fit whatever mold I thought would be best.

In all fairness, even Anti-Magic infants are supposed to be able to block mental magic such as my own, yet he'd fallen for this trick several times despite his heritage. Now he would have no idea what I was saying, however, the suggestions would lay dormant in his brain as if I were a hypnotist leaving hints for someone to have more confidence, or I was more like Freddy Kreuger appearing in his dreams.

"Lesson one: Guard your mind at all costs," I uttered, loud enough for it to stand out in his memories when I inevitably let go of his conscious mind. As instructed by that manipulative bastard. A few things needed to be done: First, ensure he didn't kill himself the next time he ran into an enemy. Second, prevent him from killing his next opponent. Third and most importantly, I needed to make sure that he would appear at Hexside when needed, no matter what.

With all that listed in my head, I grinned.

"Okay. Let's begin, Ishmael."

"[Hell yeah, I'm in.]"

I chuckled to myself, the bastard still agreed to join their group somehow. I expected him to want a fight with me, but he took it a step further almost threatening to kill me. I shook in my black boots.

C.C. wanted me to tell him about the history of Anti-Magic, but I figured that he should have a general understanding of what an Anti-Magic witch is in the first place. You know, the basics of the basics. Anatomy. How spells are rejected. Aural projections. All of that stuff.

"That sounds like a great idea, Etheridge! You can teach him that then."

"Why can't you do it?"

"I think that a peer helping another will—"

"Peer? I'm not his peer—"

"I was just saying—"

"I'm forty years older than him."

"I know, Etheridge."

"I don't think you do."

"[What are you guys—]"

"Etheridge will teach you the basics of Anti-Magic, then."

We spent the afternoon (well I froze time, C.C. left for his own devices) interacting, for lack of a better term. I went through all of the simple things, to which he picked up quickly.

"[So, that's what that water coming out of your mouth was?]"

I nodded, "Anti-magic floods out of your body when you refuse to use it for a while and manifests in a unique way for each person, like for me, it manifests in water because it's where Etheridge spent most of his life."

"[But aren't you Etheridge?]"

Amateur.

"I am Etheridge, but I'm also not," I said, "I, like you, was sent to the Boiling Isles because of reasons outside of my own control. The difference between us is that I had to lose my life to do it. Kinda like portal fantasy, y'know, Gulliver's Travels."

I could tell this was a revelation for him because he took a long pause, gaping at me for a moment, his brown eyes flashing over his white irises all over in confusion. He had great trouble understanding, so I spelled it out for him, "[So, who were you in your past life, then?]"

I paused. "I was a lover. A father. A soldier. A few things. I can't quantify what I was in a single sentence, nor can I do it in a single conversation with a bastard like you."

Then he got indignant, those eyes he had returned with a vengeance – deep resentment that I returned, with a light grin – but then he replied, the anger exiting the tone, "[Why are you so adamant on hurting me?]"

"You make our relationship sound like some kind of pretentious fan fiction," I objected with an alogism, giving the audience a little wink, "It's not that simple, really. It's nothing per—" I couldn't say that, it was definitely personal, so I backtracked, "There's a reason I treat you the way I do, trust me. When I saw you getting all buddy-buddy with my sister of all people, that set me off. Now? I just want to spite C.C. and his attempts to get everyone to agree with each other, which is, to me at least, impossible."

He could see that I wouldn't give him a straight answer and conceded, giving in. I proceeded with my lesson for a while before he asked another question. The lesson was essentially over, and he understood the common knowledge of the Anti-Magic witch. By then I had a good understanding of him, looking at him and knowing to pause to allow him to inquire about whatever he wanted to.

"[Why do you call me Ishmael?]"

I smiled. "What is your name?"

"[Kurt Noceda.]"

"That's your name?"

"[Yes. I was named after a novelist.]"

"Hm. Well, I heard that your name was Ishmael a while before you got here, so I'll continue to call you that." I knew that would confuse him enough for me to brush past the topic and move on with no resistance. "Now, that's enough dawdling. Let's finish this up."

When the sun goes down during July, there is a chill that runs up my spine, a loathsome and unformed feeling that makes my hair stand on end.

C.C. and I since we have so few things to do in the time after school (he hides as a member of the administration, occasionally subbing in for the teachers) we use the time to eliminate some of the Emperor's Camps in towns that used to be Anti-Magic witch predominant. This afternoon was no different. We spent the time destroying the scout camps, swaying my arms side to side, and sending waves of darkness over them, crushing them under a tidal wave of telepathy from an unknown source and holding them in place with black tendrils.

That's not to say that it wasn't a challenge. It is. Fighting as a person would consider a beverage to drink, as often as the tongue tingles for the sensation of water, I perceive a desperate need to overcome the odds, face death and survive. I feel a release when the pressure snaps their bones, blends their organs, squashes their muscles and lights up their nervous system with white-hot pain. This night, though, differs greatly from the usual nights. Tonight, the smell of blood fills the air. Tonight, someone died in the process.

C.C. told me that "it's no great casualty," and that I "should have taken better care to not allow her to die." That the work we do supersedes this death and I shouldn't feel bad. but I can't help feeling that I'm made for this. To kill, I mean. It feels like this feeling, dismal and cruel, is the essence of me.

The only thing that comforts me on nights like these is the mirthless silence of my room, devoid of my sister, mother, or father, or the many others, the shadowy gloom acting as a mirror for me to reflect.

However, today, I was dragged away from this meditation, in favor of a sleepover.

Florence pulled me away from my room, having brought two members of this party to the house, one Willow, and one Gus, to escort me to this sleepover of theirs. Willow, the tall, chubby-cheeked white girl that accompanied the nincompoop and his sister, and Gus, the black kid with the fade and heart-shaped face.

I knew she wanted to get me out of my mood, as she had for the last few months, trying and praying to make some escape from my dark demeanor, the distant mourning that encompassed every waking moment with me. When the opportunity came to leave the house, Florence took it up for me. I did not stop her, though if I wanted to, I could escape again. I could not tell if it was because I was tired of these long periods of sundry grief, or if I had decided to allow this year to be bereft of the presence of death over my shoulder.

"Hello," Willow said, "You're… Etheridge, right?"

I put on my best fake smile and nodded, my hands sliding into my pockets, unknowingly clenching my fists till the knuckles turned white. "Yep. That's me." I responded, trying to hide away my anger. "I heard from my sister you were having a get-together."

"Yeah! We're going to have a Moonlight Conjuring!"

"What, is that some kinda brewing thing?" I asked, realizing my mistake, "Oh, wait, that's moonshine…"

"No, this is a get-together for witches where the moon's influence on our magic is maximized, and we are able to turn an inanimate object into a living being for a short time," Willow explained. I could hear the rich accent seeping from her voice, almost bourgeoisie, California showing out in her tone. "We heard that you came back to school yesterday after being sick for the past month or so, and we thought it would be nice to invite you since you know Luz."

"Uh, sure," I replied in a flat tone, wholly uncaring of what they said. By then I was committed to getting away from Florence and the others from then on. Maybe save the fury for a proper verse, adhere to foot and strict iamb, control the burst of angry words or they might boil and break the dam.

I walked with them in silence as they went on and on about the conjuring, whatever that meant. The only thing on my mind was seeing another human for the first time in a long time. Crossing the hills and climbing the high cliffs didn't matter all that much to me, since witnessing this myself was something I felt made today more apt, for all the good that did on my mental state. Today was the only day I'd allow myself to do this.

"So, I hear you're a half-a-witch like me?" Willow uttered with a self-deprecating chuckle. The conversation must have been getting dark, since before she spoke there was a long silence between them and I contributed nothing to it. Unfortunately, I would have no good mood to add to the group. "They say you can't use magic…"

"Yeah, so what?" I replied.

"Witches used to say mean things about us, too." She gestured to Gus, who nodded in agreement.

"They still do," Gus whispered.

I had enough of this topic before it was even brought up. "And is this the part where you say that it gets better? Or that you know how I feel?" I didn't say any of the other scathing remarks that lay dormant in my head, prepared to fire.

"It doesn't and it doesn't get any more bearable. Trust me, I know. But, you have to share the pain with others," Willow lectured, "Hopefully we can help you with that. Who knows, maybe you'll find friends in us?"

"I don't trust anyone," is what I was tempted to say, instead choosing to fake an amen to her little spiel, humming in response. I didn't want to ruin this night for them or myself for any reason whatsoever. The truth was that I felt heavy, insufferably so, the burden on my shoulders and head feeling like I was being dragged through a swamp or being drawn and quartered. The reason wasn't the walk or having to deal with the two teens, but rather my own bitterness chugging through a slog.

"Are you sad?"

I paused, they picked up on things fast. I didn't realize it then but they noticed it when I walked as if I finished carrying droves of boxes. "About?"

"Anything?"

"Yeah, this day is very sad for me," I explained.

"Why?" Gus asked.

"I'll tell you when I get bored with your little Moonlight Conjuring slumber party," I uttered, still having not a single idea about what it was.

"Oh, trust us, you'll have a great time."

I did not have a great time.

The interactions were stilted, awkward, unlike anything I had experienced prior. Luz was a bubbly girl, with hardly any inclination for social cues or empathy, though I would not fault her under any circumstances, the conversation became harder for me on that front, and their unabated interest for me in the form of questions did not make things easier. Willow instigated her and Gus stoked their enthusiasm. I brought up that we could play games instead of trying to interrogate me about my history, maybe cards or something?

Willow nodded, her eyes fixated on me. Damn do I feel uncomfortable under her gaze! What the hell are you looking at? I just met you and you're already staring at me like I'm a charming new neighbor. Fuck you, go look at your friends. "That sounds cool, Gus?" Jesus I don't need another person goggling at me like that. New kid on the block, I understand. Unfamiliar faces stand out more, I get it. Yet, for some reason, I feel a hidden anger under everyone's eyes, like a nexus of radiation burning my skin.

I stayed silent throughout the games, choosing not to engage in competitive badinage or any close losses. I won every game.

I didn't use my powers, they were just awful at poker faces. I sustained my silence for a while as they lamented the losses. By the end of it, I felt guilty about my near outburst on these children earlier.

"Maybe we can tell some ghost stories?"

"I-I don't have any…" Willow muttered.

I raised my hand, "Maybe- Maybe I can?" I half-expected them to laugh, but instead, the three of them looked at me in surprise and responded with great enthusiasm.

"Sure!"

"Yeah, tell us!"

"I'm cool with that!"

I sat up, my back becoming straight and my arms reaching at my sides and clawing at the wooden floors. "Really?" I asked genuinely. Hadn't I been cold? Wasn't I an asshole? Why would they suddenly change their tune? "I thought I was being mean…" I wanted it to come off that way, that's for sure, but now I began to realize that I didn't want these kids to suffer the indignity of embarrassment in front of me. These were good kids, not like the older, much more silent counterpart.

I had a frown on my face, sighing only a little as I awaited their replies, I think I wanted a reaction the whole time, I was searching deep within these children for some modicum of evil—some bit of wickedness.

"Why aren't you talking?"

"You're an awful person aren't you?"

"What's wrong with you?"

Any of these reactions would have given me peace of mind, but being here only made my future endeavors feel that much worse.

Gus moved toward me and responded, incredulous, "Why wouldn't we like you when we haven't gotten to know you?"

I leaned forward, a cough escaping me as I began to tell the story:

"A long time ago, in the time of our ancestors, there was a story that spread across the villages and towns. A young man had disappeared in one of the many forests that filled the area, known specifically for their danger. The young man went in as a witch, then came out as a demon. Destroying a flourishing county with sinister might and after he killed everyone there, he went on a rampage tearing through all the villages on the coastline before going into hiding. This was a common story that parents told the younger children to avoid having to explain the great war between colonies, to keep the children from leaving the house at night, reinforcing the demons as scapegoats, and (if there was to be an attack) they wouldn't complain if they had to be taken from their homes. For the time, it was a benign story meant to avoid harm to the villagers.

As the children grew up, some were never taught that this story was an allegory for war, entirely untrue and complete nonsense. Witches don't turn into demons, of course. Demons don't attack witch villages for no reason. Yet, as the kids grew into adults, their hatred for demons and demon-like creatures grew to a peak.

So, there was a child named Kit.

Kit had never been told the story by his parents and grew up to fall in love with a demon woman, and they had a kid. Kit stayed with his wife, day through the night as she gave birth to a young witch-demon girl. He ran across the town to the well, collecting water whenever she needed it, which, of course, was often. Every seven minutes.

Kit named his daughter, Tiziri, which meant Moonlight, because they said that the light made her glow a pale gold gleam.

Now, there is another person, named Leo.

He had grown up being taught of the evil of demons, that when your back was turned, they would devour you. Yet, twenty-three summers after his birth, he was married to her.

The story between them goes like this:

Six summers before they were married, Kit was headed on a religious trip out of the slums and into the major town, three days away to worship the Titan. He promised Tiziri that he would find her whatever gift she wanted and thus, being a teenage girl, she demanded that he find her a suitor. Her mother did not exactly agree with this, believing that she should stay abstinent until she turned eighteen, but he managed to convince her that it would be alright (their relationship – which started when they were sixteen – being proof).

So, after his pilgrimage, he sent out a request. That if anyone could find him a pigeon that dances alone in the meadow, then he would allow them to marry her."

"Isn't that a little backward?" Luz objected, crossing her arms.

"Yeah, it is. This was the time before time. At a time when men were killed first in wars and couldn't cry, women were restrained to the kitchen and tending to children, and that was the binary. It ain't an ideal I'd assign to myself, but it was something that they believed when this story was told."

"Where was this story told?" Willow, too, interjected with her reflections. "I mean, if they're thinking of demons like war-mongering beasts, then it has to be a backward society, right?"

"Yeah, if the guy – Kit is worshiping the Titan, though. Why would they think of demons as animals if—"

"Okay! Hypocrisy wasn't invented yet. Lemme finish my story alright?"

"And where's the ghost stuff?"

"Jesus Christ it's an ancient tale—" I slipped, "I mean, just let me finish, okay? There's weird stuff in there, you jus' gotta be patient."

They all nodded, but I noticed Luz eyeing me.

I ignored her and continued, "Okay, back to primitive times. So, there were a bunch of witches who tried to fake him out with illusions, incredibly tangible ones, but he saw through them all. Kit wanted the real thing. So, of course, Leo comes in and gives him the real thing, having seen it on his way back from higher-class houses to middle-class ones. Kit, impressed by his gentle hand which held such a delicate bird and the care he gave it, accepted him and gave his blessing.

Kit told Leo that he would be brought in by way of pack animal to an illustrious bedroom, the door would lead to a hallway full of wonderous decorations, then out that hall, there would be an open space, the space he and Tiziri were to enjoy the winters in front of the warm brown fireplace. Yes, he exaggerated, but it was another surprise he had lined up for his daughter and wife, that they would be able to live in a larger house.

Leo grew excited and awaited the demon that would arrive, he told everyone he knew. His father told him only a few months before he died that Leo should not get on the back of the animal. If he did, there would be hell to pay, if he did, death would come.

Leo grieved for his late father but refused to abandon his new wife – probably because the town he lived in was what is known as a carnivore drought – and he leaped on the beast going exactly where he was told.

See, here is something I didn't tell you. Tiziri and her mother were demons of a unique kind. They could transform into whatever creature they wanted for however long they wanted to, almost like Basilisks, but a much more powerful primitive ancestor of them.

Leo notices someone coming to his bedroom every night saying that he must not light any lamp. They learn about each other in the darkness, they don't see each other, yet they feel as if they already do. They grow together."

I realize that I am divulging something sacred to them, I am telling them of my past life, my life on earth. My wife and I, two opposites. She, knowing of me, and me, hiding my true self from her. The days I had spent angry at the world, fighting for a war I knew nothing of, I would ask her to turn the lights out on me, "let's talk more about you." Why had I been so superficial? Why am I so superficial now?

"Some time later, his siblings visit him, and they tell them he has lived a comfortable life, but he has never seen the true face of Tiziri. His siblings convince him to spy on her when she comes at night. That night, he lights a candle and conceals it with a pot lid. His wife comes to bed and falls asleep. He takes off the pot lid and raises the torch at her: Tiziri is a beautiful youth. He also notices some little wisps near her body. The little wisps tell him they are weaving a gift for Tiziri's husband. Tiziri wakes up with a startle and admonishes him for breaking her trust. She burns the gift and leaves it in the smoke and smog.

Tiziri enters the house and her mother greets her. She says she will fetch some water to drink from a nearby fountain. Tiziri's mother goes to get a jug and to try getting a glimpse of the boy she heard so much about. He hides when he sees her approaching and she notices him on the tree and tries to convince him to climb down. Leo tells her she must first promise in her daughter's name not to harm him.

Tiziri arrives and introduces the boy as her human husband. Of course, she disapproves and plans to test him to see if he is adequate for her daughter. The next day, Tiziri's mother orders Leo to clean their wide courtyard as soon as she departs, and not to leave any speckle of dust, or she will banish him. Leo recounts to his wife. Tiziri knocks on a rock to summon floods of water to clean up the courtyard in no time.

The next morning, her mother orders her son-in-law to fill a cushion with the plume of all demon avians by nightfall. Tiziri orders him to head up the hill and scream that she is sick and needs some pillows, and flocks shall appear then give him their feathers. The third task is for Leo to return every single feather to its original owner. She has him go summon the birds, thank them for their help, and return their plumage.

The final task is for him to separate water from milk that Tiziri's mother has mixed up. Tiziri says they can't do it and admits they might have to move to a new town. That night, she returns home and sees that the task was not done. And…"

"What happens?" Willow asks.

"Leo comes up with a clever plan, to kill her behind her back," I couldn't remember what the plan was. All I knew was the outcome. This was always my least favorite part of the story, the tragedy of the story. I felt angered by the story when I first heard it from one of my friends who had come along on a tour with me. It felt wrong and out of place, "After Leo kills her, he tries to ask Tiziri to stay with him forever. She declines. He asks if they can still live together. She declines. Leo tries to keep her with him by threatening her, but all this makes her love wane and wane, like the crescent moon. Then—"

"Are you okay?" Luz asked.

I must have looked sick, like I was going to throw up. But I had come so far, I might as well finish the story, right? I needed to tell someone this. "She left. As she should have. Leo became a conqueror, having had his heart broken, he turned the demon's land to ashes." I added something about their souls wandering the land in search of something to kill.

"Dang." Gus shook his head. They were used to tragedy here. "Hurt people hurt people."

I never agreed more with anything he said.

In my first life, I was named Xaviel.

I was raised to be better than my predecessors, my parents, grandparents, and so on. Physically and mentally fit, avoidant of people perceived as stupid, morally desolate, the debauchers and the lechers, all of them. My father wanted me to be a soldier and I wanted to make him proud, though I enjoyed literature and poetry, my trade ended up being the trade of war, blood-soaked children, ruined homes, lifeless trauma bonds, and wanton murder. When I was a child I saw my father staring absently at the sunset rocking in his chair, a shotgun in one hand, a glass of whiskey in the other, whenever we asked him what he was doing, he said he was protecting us from trespassers, people who planned to kill us because we were black.

I used to think he was a hero, but now having seen the fire rain from the sky, rise up from below, obliterating living people around me, blam like red fireworks on the ground, hands legs, intestines, livers, brain, flying, and sitting all over the place, he seemed to wish that he was a firework, too. He wasn't there because of the possibility of trespassers… he was there because he wanted them to appear. He wanted the feeling that his comrades were blessed to have experienced. The feeling of being a shot in the night, loud, echoing, and short-lived. Bang. Then gone.

And why did I get a second chance at life? Why did I live longer? Who am I to tell their story? How could I be so self-centered to explain things about dead people, unable to defend themselves or correct mistakes, tell a story with my own pain as the center and ignore all else? This isn't my tragedy to tell. Was this supposed to be some way for me to relieve my anger or was this just some grab at attention when I was too stupid to even consider that there might exist someone else who could say it better than I?

Maybe I am ashamed of my own narrative, embarrassed of what words I might spew to defend my actions or ignorance, and possibly ignore the bigger picture before me, but this story should be told, either to prevent it from happening a second, third, fourth time to someone less able than I to empathize or conceive a notion of what it was like for other people, to be entirely shallow and unkind. I have deflected and pointed to others for too long. Stories are meant to be told no matter how painful and inaccurate they may be, because our perspectives matter. I hope you keep this in mind going forward.

"How was it?" Florence asked, not taking her eyes off the book. I preferred it that way.

I answered, "It was a chore. Actually. I had to do housework and of course, I carried because of all the chores you made me do way back when."

She turned around in her chair, facing me. She saw my drenched pants, dusty and soot covered face, and my apparent multicolored headscarf, and she promptly fell into a giggling fit. "You've become a maid! My poor little brother!"

"Yeah, yeah, get it all out now. This was your fault anyway since you wheedled me into this," her laugh was infectious and I smiled a little. "Those kids..."

"Etheridge, you're a kid too."

The statement gave me pause this time. She always said that, but for some reason, it never felt true, until now, "Whatever," I sniffed.

"Besides, I asked you if you had a good time. I didn't ask what you did."

"Chores are boring."

"They are."

"And we cleaned the entire house."

"I know."

"I swept, mopped, dusted, cleaned the chimney-"

"Did you have fun with them?"

"That Willow girl, she animated the behemoth of a house!" She turned back to her work as I spoke.

"Wow. That's—"

"Amazing, yeah. Even for more competent witches."

"But it was fun, right?"

"We played cards."

"Uh-huh."

"I won. Every time. It was like taking candy from a baby."

"Hm."

"They have such bad poker faces."

"Sounds nice." She quipped.

"Yeah."

"Sounds like you enjoyed yourself."

Then I became still. My breathing hastened. "I-I almost lost it in front of them…"

"Etheridge?" She turned around again.

"Jesus, I sat there and told them about my life story—"

"Etheridge—"

"—why did I do that? I've only known them an hour! I-I told them about being an orphan… and-and that I'm-I'm- oh, god—"

"Etheridge." She was out of her seat now since I had fallen. The stone floors blended together like a serene and murky lake. Gasps escaped me as she reached for me. "Did they hurt you- I will hurt them if they..."

"No," I said, "They didn't do anything like that. I-I just..."

She held my shoulders calling our mother as more tears escaped.

"I'm sorry."

"You don't have to say anything."

"I-I'm sorry."

"Sh. Let it out, E."

I sobbed.

I realize now what I had wanted to say to her. A deep epiphany rang out in my heart and resonated in my body. I spent fourteen years here, half of it with her, the other half wandering. Those three, in three to four hours, disarmed me. That night, there were no enemies, there was no panic, and it had been decades since tranquility had set into my heart, sending its little ripples in me.

And somehow, that scared me.

My mother entered with my father, patting me on the back as my sobs turned into stifled gasps and hiccups. "It's okay, Etheridge." She whispered in a way only a mother could, calming me down and making me sadder. "It's okay."

"It'll be okay, Etheridge. You'll get through it." My father said with firmness. He continued to give the little tidbits that only fathers would say. "You just have to persevere."

A/N: I'm being told that this chapter requires me to write a few acknowledgments and announcements since I'm the author of this chapter. Whatever. Okay. Let's start with the ones I have no idea about: First, the Wolf Playlist has been posted to YouTube and the link is in ThatRollingStone's profile. Be warned that most of the songs are indie and classic rock.

Second, two images of the characters have also been posted to Deviantart (whatever that is) which can also be found in my profile. They're drawings of me and C.C., huh? You better not have done me dirty or given me a bad hairline or something.

Lastly, a few shout-outs. One to LostKagamiWitchInTheIsles who did an in-depth review that you should read sometime along with having a fanfiction: The Owlcast which is written just as meticulously, if not more, than this story. Read it. It'll be worth it. A shoutout to those of you who messaged me about this story, I'm glad to see that it's so entertaining. Especially since this is the only story of mine that lasted longer than a year.