Ernest stood from the position of lying head-first on the bed, his tears soaking into his pillow. He mentally berated himself for his breakdown. Forge onwards, Ernest, he thought, you still have a long way to go. No need to feel sorry for yourself.

It was true. Until Ernest could fend for himself in this growing, new world of his, which would be a considerable number of years, he had to deal and make do with what he had, the comparisons with the other, more normal orphans.

Ernest felt he was abnormal in many ways; he could make people forget, an ability that freaked him out, and it was a pity it did not erase feelings towards him, or Ernest may have liked it a lot better; he could light his room on fire, an ability he couldn't figure out and was just a weird, but it made him feel like a danger to others, like his brain was screaming, beware, everyone else! I'm coming, in a thousand different ways; he could take in information at an abnormally fast rate despite his dyslexia, crippling him from reading books and forcing him to listen to audiobooks instead, while some said his rate of information intake was fine, most thought different; and he was completely fire resistant, which was also curious, but he was grateful, as without it he would have died about a million times.

With that, he noticed that the fire he had created had not been put out; the flame still spread violently, unrestrained. He mentally kicked himself for forgetting, but putting out the fire had become such a routine thing that he had completely forgotten. Besides, the teachers had taken to making everything in the room fireproof, including metal tables, fire-resistant bed sheets and more. Ernest barely noticed the fire alarm was still ringing, as he had become so attuned to it he mostly tuned it out.

He turned his attention to the raging flame, and focusing on it, he raised his hand and flicked his wrists. The fire shot up in one channel, slowly separating into two fiery infernos. Upon Ernest's beckoning, the snakes of fire slithered in the air towards him, wrapping around his wrists. Soon enough, all that remained of the fire was part of the fiery wristband Ernest had donned. Ernest gradually clenched his fists, the fire ring shrinking until it sank beneath Ernest's skin, emitting a warm glow before fading completely. The fire rejuvenated Ernest, giving him new energy.

Soon, the fire alarm faded from the background noise, a sudden silence breaking out. Ernest chuckled with raised eyebrows, slightly amused as he thought of the fact that no one had come to check on him. Suppressing the inevitable bout of uncontrollable laughter, Ernest realised that the teachers must have learnt to sleep through the ear-piercing noise, which was ironic considering the fact that they could immediately hear when one of their students even whispered during class.

He suddenly realised something. With a jolt, he saw that no light came through the window, no warm rays of sun he could bask in. The room was only lit by the dim glow of his lampshade, illuminating the room. Panicked, he checked his clock.

Just as he had thought. With a sigh, Ernest buried his face in his hands, embarrassed. It was midnight. Why had he gotten dressed? Pulling open the semi-translucent curtains, he saw the only light was that of the shining moon, in its ethereal-looking silver, along with the twinkling stars in the vast night sky above.

Ernest looked dryly at his bed, on which he did not feel like sleeping anymore. He felt oddly energetic in the radiance of the full moon, and therefore was placed in an impossible dilemma. Go out and explore the orphanage grounds, and risk getting scolded, of course, or stay awake in bed, considering he would not be able to go to sleep, and have to go through the whole process of undressing.

The orphanage grounds looked simply heavenly, governed by the bright moon, its hilly terrain giving a marvellous view from the top of the North Tower; long hill-shaped shadows spread on the ground, though not foreboding, almost as if welcoming him with open arms. It was winter; the ground was frozen solid, a thin layer of frost caking the surface. The night looked glorious; Ernest stared wistfully out of his window.

The bed, its sheets wrinkled in places where Ernest had lain, and the two pillows fallen in a heap onto the floor, did not look enticing, nor did Ernest feel like going to bed. A darkened patch of bed near the bottom end settled his decision; it was true when his classmates and teachers said that he was intelligent for his age, even spoke and thought like an adult, yet he was not excused from the growing up process; once more, he had subconsciously wet his bed.

Bearing a look of absolute disgust, Ernest slipped on a pair of socks and black shoes before quietly opening the door, turning the handle at such a slow rate it did not squeak. Sliding out of the room, he silently closed the door, making sure it would not slam. It felt like the whole process was under a silence spell; even the door complied, not giving a creak or any other terrifyingly large sounds.

He swiftly tiptoed down the stairs，carefully placing his feet to ensure the absence of sound, which was a giveaway for the keen-eared adults. He grinned wryly when he thought about what the adults had always said at weekly teachers' meetings, which he always peeked in on.

"...always such a nice boy, such a pity he's so different from the others…"

"...never naughty… certainly the best behaved in class…"

"...asks such well thought-out questions… never does anything wrong…"

If the teachers knew that a pair of keen ears was listening carefully, their conversation would surely be different. But little did the teachers know that the nearby slatted-door broom cupboard was perfect for eavesdropping.

Still, though, it was funny to listen to someone praising you on good behaviour to someone else while you were there doing something wrong. While sneaking in to listen to various meetings and lessons was not on a typical six-year-old's daily routine, Ernest was more of atypical. With his dyslexia, he'd found the fastest way to learn was to listen to lessons, and when the boring classes they'd given six-year-olds became too simple… Well, let's just say the acoustics were very different in the lecture hall in every grade six and seven biology and physics class due to a plastic cup pressed toward a certain broom cupboard door.

And now, sneaking out of his room at midnight? He was really practically breaking every rule in the St. Johns Rule Almanac. No orphans awake after eleven… none roaming the corridors after the nine o'clock lights-out… really, if his parents were alive, what would they think?

His parents. Ernest's blood ran cold.

His train of thought was abruptly cut off at the thought of his parents. As he had been told, his mother was a mathematician while his father was a blacksmith. Apparently, they had both died…

Shoot. What had Ms Romilda said during that meeting?

Oh, yeah, right. A car crash. Didn't she also say…

Ah, she didn't want the teachers to tell him. Now he remembered. No that that was of any use - regardless of whether the teachers had told him or not, Ernest still knew, now. The teachers really needed to check that broom cupboard once in a while.

The sight of the orphanage main door awakened Ernest from his thoughts. Ernest grimaced. He hadn't thought of this problem. A four-part problem, at that.

Firstly, large heavy iron bolts were set into the door, coated with brown rust, or iron oxide. These were locked into place by safe-style locks that needed to be turned to a specific orientation, which was easy to set as a lock yet next to impossible to guess. This did not faze Ernest; he knew exactly how to pick those kinds of locks. The hard part would be pulling the five iron bolts out. The iron bolts were heavy, making it hard for Ernest to pull at, but were unbelievably rusty, increasing friction. Pulling out all five, without even counting the time for picking locks, would take nearly the whole night.

Secondly, a metal bar was set across the pair of doors, designed to lock the door from outside. The bar was not locked in place; it could have been easy to remove. But again, two sets of difficulties presented themselves. The bar was too high for Ernest to reach, let alone remove from its holder, and even if Ernest did reach it, the clanking sounds created while removing it would wake the whole building, maybe even the whole town.

Thirdly, the door had not been used for a long time, let alone oiled, as the back door was more frequented, and the children inside were rarely ever let to roam the grounds. This meant that it would creak dreadfully, even louder than sound produced from the metal bar set across it.

The main door presenting itself as an impossible option, Ernest set his sights upon the tempered-glass windows on either side. The windows were tinted blue slightly, making it impossible to see out, but it was common sense that they led out.

The windows were set three metres off the ground, slightly horizontally rectangular, only big enough for a six-year-old such as Ernest to squeeze out. Even from his eighty centimetre vantage point, Ernest could see a small lock dangling from each window. He sighed. Getting out could not be more difficult.

He contemplated using one of the trash cans lying around to smash the glass, but that would indefinitely wake others up. Besides, he would risk getting scratched or severely wounded by the shrapnel, and would make the already-difficult drop down infinitely more impossible.

With a sigh, he decided to focus on getting up there, and hoped to be able to pick the lock. His sights were set on a tall broom cupboard fixed to the wall that reached up beyond the windows. It was a typical slatted broom cupboard he was so familiar with, and Ernest was glad.

Rushing over, Ernest curled his fingers around the thin wooden slats, praying silently that the slats would not break and launch him into freefall. Channelling energy into his forearms, he grabbed onto one higher wooden slat after another, his upper muscles tense and his legs dangling limply in the air. He laughed to think about the matrons' reactions if they saw him now.

Soon, he had scaled the four metre broom cupboard. He swiftly transferred one hand over the windowsill, then realised the obvious flaw in his plan. There was no way he would be able to pick a lock in his position. He gritted his teeth in frustration. There would only be one choice.

Getting a firm grip on the windowsill, Ernest swung his whole body over, precariously dangling one-handed on the windowsill, and made a desperate grab with his free right hand for the lock. By sheer luck, his hand grasped the lock. Now for the hard part.

Ernest breathed in then out deeply to calm himself, then focused entirely on the task ahead of him. The continuously running processes at the back of his mind switched off, channelling all his focus and willpower to the lock. He knew the power to set fires was in him, he just had to figure it out…

Ernest closed his eyes reflectively. He imagined all his thoughts being pulled into a vacuum, his mind blank and empty. He drained himself especially of all doubt that this ramshackle plan would work. He pushed all his frustration telepathically towards his right hand, imagining it being the fuel to a torrent of fire.

Miraculously, his hand burst into flame. The previously faded glowing rings around his wrists reignited, empowering his flaming palm. Opening his eyes, Ernest concentrated the heat to one specific place, his index finger acting like a blowtorch, heating the lock until it separated, giving off a satisfying snap.

He pushed the window open, willing it not to creak, and surprisingly it cooperated.

Slipping the now charred and mangled metal lock into his pocket, he pulled himself upward bit by bit upward, his arms trembling from the effort, until he managed to pull himself into the windowsill.

To his horror, momentum launched him upwards, causing him to flip suspended to the air. His heart raced as he did a three-sixty somersault, and parts of his life flashed before his eyes.

Getting scolded for reading after lights-out.

The ember when it first jumped on his arm, then ignited into a flame.

The coils of fire sinking into his arms.

Getting shunned by the other orphans.

And a woman's face, with amber eyes that seemed to gleam with fire, its features comforting.

Another woman's face, with sharp features and silver eyes that glinted in the moonlight.

And the last, bespectacled and with striking grey eyes that Ernest was familiar with.

All this circulated in his mind in the few seconds he was up in the air, until, much to his relief, he plopped back down onto the windowsill.

He sat on the windowsill for a few moments, desperately trying to regulate his breaths and calm his heart rate. He composed himself, taking deep breaths.

The three faces swam before his eyes. A million questions filled his mind.

Who were they?

Which, if any, was his mother?

Why was he only remembering now?

His mind raced through these thoughts at record speed, and soon Ernest had sat there for a few minutes, only noticing when he looked downwards, upon which he gave a small yelp.

While the inside had been a three metre climb, he now faced a five metre drop. Two metres of doorstep stairs led to the door itself, getting down would be no small feat. He scanned a small radius for something that might help. Dense grass for a soft landing, bushes that would break his fall… just anything.

However, all he found was a holly bush a metre off from straight downward; Ernest wasn't keen on getting pricked and scratched in places he'd regret. He decided to go old school. Removing his belt, Ernest scanned the windowsill for protruding things to hook the belt buckle on. He settled on a small nail not entirely screwed in, the little nook just enough for the thickness of hsi copper belt buckle.

Hooking it on, Ernest gauged the length of the buckle. Certainly, the belt wouldn't be able to lower him the full five metres, not that he had been hoping for that. Instead, he had his sights set on a young oak sapling not far away. He clasped the belt with a death grip, then leapt off the windowsill.

In midair, Ernest lowered himself as far as he could, before the belt swung him closer to the building wall. Manoeuvring himself for his legs to be in front, his feet struck the wall first. Getting his grips after that daring move, Ernest kicked off from the wall, swinging towards the oak sapling, around which he wrapped his legs around. Slowly, he moved himself to a standing position, letting his belt go in favour of a thick tree bough.

Deftly, he slid down the tree trunk, wincing slightly as he struck the ground. He inspected his hands, which were red and bore a shallow cut from the leather belt. He clenched his fists, grimacing in a bid to subdue the stinging pain. His efforts were in vain; Ernest decided it was best to ignore it.

The task was not hard. Upon turning around, Ernest was dazzled by the vast hills and dense forests, the serene lakes with small cranes flying across. He was amazed by the beauty; the view was even more breathtaking from there.

Walking around the grounds, he was taken aback by its natural beauty. He didn't understand why they were rarely let out onto the grounds; then again, if he had come here before, he would probably never have left.

Ernest listed out the plants he saw, having learnt them in the third-grade biology class by Mrs Stephanie. Laurel, oak, bougainvillaea, dandelion, fern, he mentally listed.

Not long after, Ernest had wandered far into the wild, only the roof of the dormitory, peeking past the mountain valleys, was visible to him. He had found a small alcove, a small cavern imprinted on the side of a hill, half-sheltered by rock and half-sheltered by willow trunks. A small spring ran across it, bubbling in the background. Ernest sat down on a small boulder, his legs well tired out. He closed his eyes, enjoying the peace and solitude. Hoots of owls rang across the night, accompanied by ripples on the lake.

He glanced up at the moon, full and bright that day, and spotted water voles scurrying along the riverbanks; indeed, he was one with nature.

A sudden screech of birds broke the solace of the night, a low flying raven the culprit. Ernest stared amazed at the magnificent bird, surely, it was bigger than a raven, its feathers seemingly metallic and glinting bronze in the light of the stars.

Then Ernest's eyes jerked open in panic; this wasn't a raven - he had observed the beaks in the third-graders' class, certainly, it was different. This bird's beak was curved, ending with a sharp point. Ernest's neck hair bristled warily. His heart beated nervously.

Indeed, Ernest was alone with something much, much more sinister than an innocent raven with its jet-black plumage…

But it was too late. The bronze bird, a hungry gleam in its metallic eyes, swooped down on Ernest, burying its needle-sharp beak into his shoulder, causing a jolt of pain to shoot through his arm; a dull ache spread from the area, and blood flowed from the wound, making Ernest pale as the bird removed its sharp beak, now stained with blood.

Ernest now got a good glimpse of the bird. Its body was made of a metallic bronze which exhumed a gleaming glow, a bronze certainly not normal. Its feathers, made of the same material, had father hairs imprinted on the metal, surely very painstakingly. They were extraordinarily detailed, each curving the same amount before ending in a single sharp point.

Ernest's observation was interrupted violently by a screech courtesy of the bronze bird. He had a foreboding inkling of what that meant…

From the sky, a whirlwind. A whole flock of bronze birds, easily twenty to thirty strong, glided into the alcove, the previously peaceful place now deafening with flapping wings.

Ernest's eyes widened. He knew what birds these were now, yet the truth was too large for him to grapple with. These were Stymphalian birds, crafted by Ares. That was the trouble. Ares was a god of Greek mythology, and this shouldn't be possible.

Ernest's train of thought was once again interrupted by the birds. The first bird had joined the others, doing an interesting manoeuvre in the air. Before Ernest could register, a hundred bronze feathers, their pointy ends towards him, flew through the air at a terrifying pace, some so fast that fire sparked along the sides: Stymphalian birds could shoot their feathers.

Ernest, now desperate, dodged the missile barrage, successfully avoiding about three feathers. The rest, unfortunately, met their mark. Each feather sank deep into Ernest's body, piercing the skin. Ernest stifled a scream as an unbearable amount of pain crashed down on him in an instant, and cuts formed in a hundred different places at once. He collapsed backward, wishing he had never come out in the first place.

But the birds weren't done with him. As if acting as a hive mind, they launched down on him at once, razor sharp beaks at the ready. Their talons were stretched forward, their sharp tips glinting in the moonlight from above. Ernest braced himself for the impact, but he had never before experienced anything anywhere near this excruciating pain.

The birds pecked and scratched all over him, the bronze they wielded delivering a pain he had never known before. The bronze feathers still impaled on him were doing him no favours either; they seemed to sink in deeper every second.

Looking back, Ernest had no idea how long the torturous injury lasted; the birds, which seemed to stop at nothing, wounding him unmercifully and relentlessly, until Ernest could bear it no longer.

Gazing sadly at the night sky, Ernest took a long, deep breath in, then closed his eyes. He would never know the origins of his demise, how these birds were even possible, yet…

Ernest exhaled, silently telling himself that this was his last breath, that he would be in pain no longer.

He would be peaceful.

He would be restful.

He would be fine.