Fire Heart

by Dan Avera

  He felt strong hands on his shoulders then, pulling him back toward the litter, and Castor said, “Will, come on. It's alright. Get back on the—”

  Will shrugged away from his hands and got unsteadily to his feet, lurching wildly as his head did a swooping pirouette. He turned and grabbed Castor's arm somewhat harder than he had intended. “Where's Clare?” he rasped, shaking his friend. “Castor, damn it, where is she?”

  “I'll show you,” Castor said soothingly, easing his arm out of Will's grip. “But you need to calm down. Are you feeling alright?”

  Will nodded and waved his hand dismissively. “I'm fine,” he said with a cough. “Show me Clare.”

  Castor nodded, a troubled look on his face, and Will suddenly noticed that Castor was sporting a particularly vicious cut along his jaw. “Are you alright?” Will asked, and then truly looked at his surroundings. For as far down the trail as he could see a river of people shuffled, limped, or rode on horseback in a ragged line dotted with intermittent torchlight. They looked bruised and bloodied—beaten and broken. Will was surprised to see civilians among the soldiers. He was also surprised to see that he was once again wearing a clean shirt and breeches.

  “I'm fine,” Castor said. “We had a fairly easy time of cleaning up the last of the yaru after you killed Pestilence. They just sort of scattered and ran. A few still tried to attack us—more on accident than because of any real intent, I think. That's how I got this.” He traced one finger down the ragged wound. “Hook put something on it. Stings like a nest of hornets. Here, I'll take you to Clare.”

  “Shall I unhook this thing, then?” Katryna asked from atop her horse, indicating the now vacant litter, and Castor nodded and thanked her. “Will?” she asked, giving him a piercing look. “Are you well?”

  “Fine,” he rasped, reaching up to give her an awkward pat on the thigh. “Just...just fine. But I need to see Clare.”

  “Will.” The word was so soft, so uncharacteristic of Katryna, that he looked up at her once more. She reached down to gently grip his shoulder. “She's going to be alright.”

  Will nodded, and then Castor led him a short way up the line to another horse drawing a second ramshackle litter similar to his own. Castor bade the rider stop and the man eased his horse to a standstill, patting its neck and shushing it with a soft whisper. People shuffled past them, glancing disinterestedly at their little group before continuing on their way. Will, in turn, barely noticed them—his attention was focused on the bundle of blood and bandages before him.

  That can't be her, he thought desperately. Clare's torso had been wrapped with obvious haste in linen that had, perhaps, at one point been clean. Now the material had been stained dark red, and it glistened wetly in the flickering light of the rider's lantern. Her left hand was also heavily wrapped, and most of the skin on her forearm was red and blistered as though she had spent too long under the sun. Her neck was covered in dark bruises where Pestilence had strangled her, and what unblemished skin was visible was ghostly pale. It can't be. Will fell to his knees on the ground next to her.

  “No,” he whispered. “Oh, god, no. I told you to leave. Why did you come back?” He said the last through gritted teeth and blinked furiously in an attempt to clear his suddenly moist eyes. The memory of the sword sliding through Clare's stomach flashed through his mind, and it was followed by the infinitely more painful one of her skin melting in his grasp.

  A hand settled lightly on his shoulder and Serah knelt down next to him. “She chose her path,” she said softly, “and that path was to stop you from destroying yourself. Such bravery is to be commended, not condemned. We can still save her, but we must go quickly, yes?”

  “How?” Will asked in a hushed voice, not taking his eyes away from Clare. He brushed her cheek gently with the tips of his fingers. “How can anyone come back from this?”

  “Feothon,” Serah intoned, and the word sent a shiver down Will's spine. The name sounded somehow familiar, though he could not place where he had heard it before. “We are nearing the entrance to the Dark Forest. He will be able to keep her alive.”

  “We were this close to his forest the entire time?” Castor asked, looking around expectantly. “That's convenient.”

  Serah laughed humorlessly. “It is convenient that we were near any forest. The Dark Forest is connected to them all. One must simply walk into the woods and find the deepest, darkest part...and be welcome, of course.”

  “What happens if you're not welcome?” Will asked hesitantly, though he thought he knew the answer.

  Serah's dark eyes met his own. “Terrible things.” She let the words sink in for effect. “But never fear. He is the Titan of life, and our brother; he will let us in.”

  “Then what are we waiting for?” Will asked, rising to his feet. “We need to get Clare to him now.”

  The rider pulling Clare's litter urged his horse into a walk at Castor's signal. “Are you alright to walk, Will?” Castor asked. “I'm sure we could find another horse here.”

  Will waved dismissively and started off, never straying more than a few paces from Clare. “I'm fine,” he said. “In fact...I feel wonderful. Better than I have in a long time. Hey, hold on...” He rolled up his shirtsleeve and saw, to his surprise, that the scar on his arm from his first fight with Pestilence had vanished completely. He realized that his thigh no longer pained him either, and when he touched his fingertips lightly to his face he found that the skin was healed there as well. He looked at Serah in confusion. “How...?”

  “Your true self has awakened within you,” she said with a smile. “Now even you cannot deny it: you are the Dragon King. Your soul is Koutoum's; fire is your element. It heals you, just as the wind heals me.” She pulled back her cloak, exposing the ragged hole in her chest armor. But beneath it, rather than the bloody wound Will had seen in Prado, she had fresh, smooth skin. “Fire cannot hurt you now unless it is your own,” she continued, “and even then only if you lose control.”

  Will thought back to the pain he had felt after killing Pestilence. “In Prado,” he said slowly, “it hurt. Right before Clare saved me, I felt like I was in a furnace. Like I was...dying. Burning to death.”

  Serah nodded. “You do not yet know how to control your power, but I can teach you. You drew too much in the city, and you almost did die. It felt...” She trailed off, and Will was surprised to see her shudder. “It felt like I was in a furnace as well.”

  “Me too,” Castor said softly. “And we were a long way away.”

  Will looked down at Clare. “Then how did she...?”

  “I do not know how she survived,” Serah answered with an inquisitive look at the comatose woman. “The only reason I can think of is that perhaps you were controlling it more than you realized, no? You may have been unconsciously shielding her from the heat, or...” She shook her head. “This is a question for Feothon. He is old, and wise beyond imagining. He will know the answer. But we must reach him first, yes?”

  Will's hand went unconsciously to the flute around his neck, his fingertips catching on the charred edges. It and Clare were the only things to survive his outburst in Prado. The flute was my guilt, he realized. So what was it with Clare? Guilt? Or...love? His gaze fell back to her bloodied form, and the implications of what he had almost done made his stomach curl in on itself.

  “I almost killed her,” he whispered. He felt his heart twist.

  “Yes,” Serah said, and her expression was troubled. “And that is why we need the Phoenix Empress. You both have the role of controlling one another. Without her, it is...dangerous, to say the least.” She shook her head. “We should have found her by now. I do not understand.”

  “But Clare saved me. Maybe I don't need the Phoenix Empress.”

  Serah gave him a hard look, and he wilted. “Indeed,” she said sharply, “and the next time you lose control, perhaps you can finish the job you started in Prado, yes?”

  Will was unable to respond; his mouth opened and closed like
a fish. A feeling of intense stupidity washed over him, and he lowered his gaze, his face hot with embarrassment.

  “I apologize,” Serah murmured a moment later, surprising him. Her face fell, and she looked ashamed. “I should not have said that. I—”

  “No,” Will said, his rasping voice choked with guilt. “No, you're right.” He covered his face with one hand and rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. “What in the name of the Void was I thinking?”

  They were quiet for a time, an uncomfortable silence settling over them. The sounds of low conversation and softly-plodding feet permeated the air around them, and the steady clop of horse hooves provided a beat for the quiet din to follow. The dots of light along the line of people bobbed and weaved like fireflies, providing an entrancing juxtaposition to the stars above. Had their situation not been so dire, it might even have been considered picturesque.

  Will barely noticed any of this. He had eyes only for Clare, whose face he searched ceaselessly for any sign of wakefulness. But she slept on, dead to the world around her, lost in the depths of oblivion as injuries no mortal could withstand took their due. Even her eyes did not move beneath their lids. The wound from her sword had drained much of the blood from her body, and her pale skin made her seem a corpse. The fact that her bandages were still wet frightened Will—it meant the wound had yet to clot. He did not imagine there was very much more blood left for her body to lose.

  Finally, unable to bear the heart-wrenching pain of watching her any longer, he tore his gaze away. “Where is Grim?” he asked suddenly, realizing that he had not seen the warhound since waking.

  “He's around,” Castor said in a hushed voice. “The beast has been following us since we left. He shows himself every once in awhile, but only briefly. Then he just disappears back into the shadows. I think he's watching Clare.” He shuddered. “Gefan's Light, but that thing is terrifying.”

  As if on queue, a massive shadow detached itself from the treeline. Will saw a pair of yellow eyes flare in the torchlight, and he stopped. “Grim?” he called, and he heard an answering whine. The shadow trotted over to him, and a moment later the warhound was nuzzling his hand. Will scratched him behind the ears. “Are you alright, boy?” he asked softly, running his hands along Grim's body. Pestilence had thrown him very hard, and Will worried about broken bones. Thankfully, it seemed that there were none.

  “Tough bastard, aren't you?” Will said with a small smile. “Shall we go back to Clare?” Grim wagged his tail and bounded off with Will close behind.

  It was perhaps another belltoll before Serah finally called a halt, and during that time Clare's condition continued to worsen substantially. She paled even further, something Will had not thought possible. Her lips were blue, her skin cool to the touch, and the wound in her stomach had still not stopped bleeding.

  Will knelt down next to her as the column came to a halt, and he touched the tips of his fingers to her bruised throat—her pulse was there, but it was weak and erratic. When he leaned in and tilted his ear to her lips, he could just barely hear the faint sound of her short, stuttering breaths. “We have to hurry,” he said, looking up at Serah. “Clare won't last much longer.”

  But Serah seemed not to have noticed him. She was staring with a vacant expression deep into the heart of the woods, and after a moment Will followed her gaze. For an instant he stared in confusion, unsure what had caught Serah's attention. Then a chill went up his spine, and he shivered despite the warm night air.

  There was...something staring back at him, he was sure of it. The trees, normally peaceful and benign guardians, seemed foreboding now. A breeze rustled their leaves, and Will thought he could hear voices whispering on the wind.

  “Serah...” he said softly, reaching up for his sword before realizing that it was not there. He looked back at the Titan, but she had not moved. “Serah!” he hissed more urgently.

  Again she ignored him, and slowly raised a hand before her as though feeling a wall. She traced her fingers lightly through the air, which seemed to shimmer as it touched her skin. “It is in there,” she breathed, closing her eyes. “The deepest, darkest part of the forest.”

  Will heard a groaning creak, and his gaze flew back to the trees. Beside him, Grim growled deep in his throat and raised his hackles. “Castor,” Will whispered, “I need a sword. Now.”

  “No,” Serah said, and Will gaped at the untroubled calm with which she spoke. She began to walk into the darkness, her hand still held out before her. “We are welcome here.” Will reached out to stop her, but she moved away from his grasp. He snatched his hand back as the wind whispered through the leaves again, a soft hiss that wrapped itself around his body and slithered through his mind. The thing in the woods was closer now—so close that Will thought he could almost see it. It was a shadow darker than the rest, so dark that it not only swallowed the light but his courage as well. It had no form, no substance—it was so insubstantial that it could not even be called smoke or vapor, and yet it was there. The trees began to rattle angrily, and the wind blew harder, whipping his clothes about his body and making him squint his eyes against its frantic fury.

  And still Serah walked into the eye of the maelstrom.

  “Brother,” she called softly into the woods, and Will felt the dark presence's attention center on her. With a chorus of groans the birches turned toward her, their branches reaching for her like the spindly fingers of a starving man. They sought to touch her, to grab her and tear at her robes and her skin, to rend her into countless unrecognizable pieces.

  Behind him, Will could hear voices raised in fear. One of the trees suddenly lurched forward with a creak, tearing itself halfway from the ground, and somebody screamed.

  “Brother,” Serah said again, still walking into the darkness. The trees were touching her now, tugging at her hair and plucking at her clothes. “I come in the name of the Titans. Let me pass.”

  At her words the trees seemed to hesitate for a moment, and the tips of their branches lightly brushed the Lady of the Sky as though contemplating her words. “I have the Dragon King,” she called. “He has returned.”

  The reaction was instantaneous. The wind was suddenly silent, and amid a symphony of creaks and groans the trees returned to their original, motionless positions. In a matter of moments it looked as though the nightmare they had encountered had never existed.

  “Come,” a voice whispered, and the word echoed through the darkness to the ears of each and every person present. Will heard it internally as well, and in his mind the voice added, “Welcome, King of Flame.”

  Serah turned back to Will and smiled. Jhai and Zizo materialized next to him, making his heart jump in his chest, and they went to stand to either side of their lady. Without a word, all three began to walk deeper into the forest. Soon they were gone, swallowed by the darkness until Will could only barely hear the soft sound of their retreating footsteps. He gulped and threw a look at Castor, who was ghostly pale.

  “Will,” Castor said slowly, “I believe I have had my fill of the supernatural for today.”

  “Agreed.”

  They were silent for a moment, staring into the abyss. Will could feel thousands of expectant stares boring into his back—could hear the hushed whispers waiting for him to lead the way. “Well,” he said softly, in a voice that cracked rather more than he would have liked, “shall we?”

  Castor nodded, and Will stepped forward into the darkness.

  ~

  She is in a dream. Her eyes are closed; she can feel grass against her skin, and she realizes that she is naked. The knowledge, oddly, seems trivial, as though this is a normal occurrence. Something soft and light lands on the tip of her nose and she opens her eyes. It is a butterfly, its brilliant golden wings fanning serenely in the summer breeze. It rests briefly, and after a moment it flies away.

  She sits up, and her eyes slowly rove the landscape surrounding her. In every direction foothills rise and fall until they are swallowed up by the
horizon; tall stalks of grass cover the ground, reflecting the sunlight in waves of shining green as the wind tousles narrow swathes at a time. Wildflowers dot the landscape, and butterflies flit to and fro between them in a never ending dance of blissful indifference. The skies are bright blue and broken only sparingly by fluffy white clouds that drift lazily across the heavens. Off in the distance, a single tall oak stands atop the highest hill. She feels a small compulsion to go there, but ignores it for the moment.

  The dream is very beautiful—very peaceful. And it is very vivid. She can feel the heat of the sun upon her bare skin, and the cool breeze that stirs her hair and makes her shiver. The grass beneath her is soft, like gosling down, and does not itch. Another butterfly alights on the tip of her breast, its little feet scrabbling for purchase against her smooth flesh, and she giggles as it tickles her. After a brief struggle it loses its grip and flies away, defeated, but now her attention is drawn by something else entirely. She traces her fingers over the muscles of her abdomen until they reach a long, thin line of raised flesh. The scar is pale white. Curious, she reaches around behind her and finds another on her lower back—an exit wound. This is frightening; she does not remember how she got them.

  Then she raises her left hand before her. The skin on her palm looks like melted white wax. She is horrified. Her breath comes more quickly now, and she tries to articulate what she feels but cannot. She is no longer enjoying this dream.

  “Come.”

  The voice is soft, sweet, beautiful. It is a man's voice, and somehow it sounds familiar. She hears it, and is instantly calm, her worries momentarily forgotten.

  “Come,” it says again, and her gaze moves of its own accord to the oak tree. She feels the compulsion again, a strange tug in the pit of her stomach, and she thinks she can see someone sitting in the tree's shade.