Fire Heart

by Dan Avera

  “Will...” she began, her voice very soft, and that triggered a reaction.

  “Clare, I...I have to talk to you about...something.” He ran his hands through his hair and breathed a heavy sigh that ended in a quiet, nervous chuckle. When he turned to meet her gaze, she noted with some trepidation that the crimson traces in his irises had grown. He did not notice her alarm, however, and continued talking, his next words halting and unsure. “When I'm around you, something happens to me, I...it's like I...wake up. No, no, that isn't right.” His eyes took on a distant look as he searched for the proper words, and the lines of red intensified.

  Memory struck Clare like a hammer blow, and her mind pulled her back to only a short time ago in Prado. An image of Will, screaming and engulfed in flames, sent a shock of fear through her. His eyes were red then, she remembered. Glowing crimson, and churning like magma.

  “There's someone else inside of me,” he said in a hushed voice, and Clare suddenly realized that the air around them had grown much, much warmer. “I think...I think it's Koutoum, and every time he sees you—”

  He stopped abruptly, his eyes widening in shock, and his hand flew to his chest as though he were in pain. “Oh no,” he gasped, and then squeezed his eyes shut. “I can feel it again, inside me—it wants to get out—”

  “Will,” Clare said, cutting him off, and though she said it in a soft voice the effect was instantaneous. Will cracked his eyes open—eyes now almost completely crimson—and looked at her. “Will, remember what I told you in Prado. It doesn't have to be this way. You can control this, just like you did then.” Her words did the trick—the temperature dropped noticeably, and she could see several lines of red slither back into the edges of his irises, disappearing from view. The sight was disturbing, but she did not mention it.

  “It's—so hard—to control,” he gasped. “Please—go before I hurt you again.”

  She did the exact opposite; she reached up to him and placed her hands gently on either side of his head. His skin was hot to the touch, but it was not enough to hurt her. She barely felt it at all through the scars on her maimed hand. “Will,” she repeated, looking deep into his eyes, “come back. You have to come back, just like last time.”

  And he did. With another gasp and a grunt of pain, his eyes narrowing and sweat beading along his brow, he slowly began to banish whatever presence was inside of him. The crimson lines snaked back into dormancy, leaving behind the beautiful icy blue that she had come to love. His skin cooled rapidly, and soon, with a heavy sigh, he slumped forward, catching himself at the last moment before he collided with Clare.

  “Thank you,” he whispered, and she caressed the sides of his face with her thumbs. His hand came up to cover her maimed one, and they stood like that for a long while. Clare could have stayed that way forever.

  “You're always taking care of me,” he said with a small laugh, breaking the silence. “My guardian spirit.”

  “You're...a god, Will,” Clare said softly. “But you don't know how to control yourself.” She ran one hand gently along his cheek. “Maybe I can help.”

  “Clare,” he said finally, “I have...feelings for you. Strong feelings.” He swallowed nervously. “I've never felt this way before.” The last he said in a voice barely above a whisper, but he might as well have screamed it.

  Clare could not move. For some reason, his admission held a real, tangible finality to it that her feelings, until that point, had not. What should I do? Oh, spirits above, what should I do? Her mind was a whirlwind of activity—she loved him, she knew that, but he would live forever. Could she live like that? Could she watch him remain young and vital while her own body withered and aged? If she led a life like that, would she be able to keep her sanity knowing that the man she loved might at any moment grow tired of the old woman she would become?

  She swallowed, and her mouth opened and closed like a fish. Why was it suddenly so difficult to speak, when it should have been so easy? Hadn't she been wishing for him to say what he just had?

  Or had she? What should I do?!

  His face fell as her silence stretched on, and she felt her stomach do a backflip. Say something, damn you! her mind shrieked furiously. Say anything!

  “I'm...I'm sorry,” he said finally, and he was unable to meet her gaze. He pulled away from her touch, and his face was a mask of hurt and confusion. “I shouldn't have said that. I just...I thought...” He closed his eyes and shook his head, and his next words came in a whisper. “I thought you felt the same way.”

  And then he turned to leave. She reached for him as he vanished into the darkness of the forest, but still she was unable to speak. Soon he was gone, his soft footsteps fading away and leaving in their wake the nighttime sounds of the Dark Forest.

  She would not ever remember how far she stumbled through the thick vegetation, which parted before her despite her wish for some root to trip her, or a branch to tear at her face. She remembered seeing a wolf, and welcome thoughts of a grisly end dashed through her mind. But she was in Yalkul, the Dark Forest, where nothing would hurt her. The wolf faded quietly back into the underbrush.

  And the next thing she remembered she was kneeling on the ground and sobbing into Grim's fur—Grim, the beautiful beast who had accompanied her all the way from Dahoto, who had saved her life countless times, who had thrown himself in the path of the Fallen One for her, and who, even after all he had been through, was now comforting her the only way any living thing could.

  “Grim,” she sobbed, and the warhound pulled her closer into his warmth with his chin. “Oh, Grim. Why is this happening to me?”

  She did not know how he had found her, but it didn't matter; nor did she know how long she stayed like that with her arms around his great neck, but somewhere along the way she finally ran out of tears, and her sobs died away soon after. Even then, though, she did not move. The sounds of the forest covered her like a blanket, and she felt herself begin to drift off into peaceful oblivion.

  “Talyn?” said a voice from behind her, startling her so badly that she tripped over her legs in her wild attempt to get to her feet, and crashed back down to the soft earth below. Her head whipped around so fast that she cricked her neck, and she grunted in pain.

  “Who's there?” she asked, her voice shaking, and she rose hesitantly. Her hand went to her sword out of reflex before she remembered that it was gone. Strangely, Grim did not growl, which surprised Clare very much.

  And then the old man she had seen at the ceremony stepped out from behind a tree, his blind eyes questing from side to side and his hands waving out before him like an insect's feelers. “Is that you?” the man called in a trembling voice. “I am sure I felt you. Where are you, Talyn?”

  “My name is Clare,” she answered softly. “I'm sorry, but I think you've got the wrong woman.”

  The old man stopped and turned his head in her direction. He was very, very ancient, Clare realized, and then she remembered that someone had said he was, in fact, over five hundred years old. He must be confused, she thought. Didn't Feothon mention that living to see the next Dragon King was this man's final duty? I imagine he's very close to death now.

  “Forgive me,” the man murmured. “My mind drifts more and more of late. I thought it was many years ago. But I...I felt compelled...” He pointed with a shaking finger off in the direction he had appeared from. “A little bird led me here. I followed its calls.”

  Clare raised an eyebrow. “I haven't seen a bird.”

  “Ah.” The old man—Borost, she remembered now—was silent for a time. Then, rather abruptly, he said, “You have been crying, child. What ails you?”

  Clare sniffled, her tears suddenly threatening to return, and murmured. “Nothing—it's nothing.” She did not ask how he had known.

  “But you are lying.”

  Clare stared at him. “How would you know that?”

  Borost chuckled and gently tapped his temple next to his eye. “I cannot see, and so I do other things
better. So tell me—why have you been crying?”

  “It...It's my heart,” Clare answered lamely, and inwardly berated herself for such a response. What was she, a tearful princess in a fairytale?

  “Oh? Are you sick?” Borost asked.

  “...Yes.”

  He smiled. “How so?”

  “My...heart...tells me to do things.” Clare wondered why she was telling the old man her problems. How had he gotten such a response out of her? But she continued regardless. “I want things, but I know I can't have them. So...my heart is sick.” Go away, Tearful Princess. I want nothing to do with you.

  Now Borost laughed, a dry wheeze that made Clare feel self-conscious and mirthful at the same time. “You young people,” the old man rasped. “You never realize what you have until it is too late to get it back.”

  Clare was taken aback. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Only this,” said Borost with a kindly smile, and he walked haltingly up next to her, stopping less than a pace away. “What you need—everything you need—can be found right here.” He gently prodded one finger over Clare's heart, and she wondered how he had been able to locate it without the use of his eyes. “Listen when your heart speaks, young lady, and never think twice about doing so. Otherwise, you will end up like me—a lonely old man.”

  And then he began to laugh again. Grim cocked his head and looked at the man quizzically, but otherwise did nothing. “I think, perhaps, my time here is finally done,” Borost whispered, and he held his hand up to one of the first rays of waxing moonlight. It shone dimly on his wrinkled skin, and his fingers gently stirred the motes of dust that had gathered in the air. “I am finally set free,” he breathed.

  Clare gasped and took an involuntary step back; the dust was the old man—he was dissolving before her very eyes, crumbling slowly into sparkling particles that trailed away like miniature stars on the wind. His hands and feet were the first to go, and they drifted off into the night. Soon only his head was left floating in the air, and his blind eyes turned to look at her one last time. “Remember, child,” he murmured, “your heart knows what is best for you. Tell Serah...tell her I said I will be waiting.”

  And then he was gone, the last of his twinkling remains tumbling slowly away. For a long time, Clare could only stare numbly at the spot where moments before there had been a man. Finally Grim nudged her hand, and she shook herself. “I...I suppose we should be getting back,” she said softly, the old man's words ringing loud and clear in her mind. “I wonder if Will will even talk to me...”

  She turned to go with Grim close on her heels, and it was then that recognition dawned on her. Wait, she thought, looking slowly around her, I know this place.

  It was the clearing she had awakened in; there, just to her left, was a patch of dead plants, their shriveled brown husks marking where her life had been spared for reasons still unknown to her. She knelt down next to their corpses and gently brushed her hand over them. “Thank you,” she whispered, and stood once more.

  As if in answer to her words a sudden flash of light blinded her, and she shielded her eyes with her arm. There was a steady, low hum, and then a heavy thump—the sound of an active portal—and this time Grim did growl, low and deep in his throat. A moment later the light faded away and she let her hand fall to her side. A man stood before her, slumped as though from exhaustion. She could only make out his dim outline for he stood in shadow, but then he pitched forward drunkenly. She caught him in her arms, staggering from his weight, and was shocked to feel something wet and warm and sticky touch her skin. Blood, she realized. She knelt, lowering him to the ground as gently as she could.

  “Borbos,” the man gasped. “Have to see...Borbos.”

  “What's happened?” Clare asked, trying unsuccessfully to keep her voice level. “What's wrong?”

  “City in the Waves attacked...” he whispered, and his head lolled to one side, a thin stream of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. The plants, Clare noticed, had already begun to creep toward him. “Have to tell Borbos...traitors attacked...City in the Wa...”

  When the plants paused in their delicate advance and then began to slither back into the earth, Clare knew it was over. For a long while after the man died she could only kneel and hold him. And then, when realization finally struck her, she set the man gently on the ground and turned and dashed off with Grim at her heels. She did not notice, but in her wake a single rose petal detached from her dress and drifted lazily through the air, tumbling and twirling and wilting as it went.

  Its final resting place was on the dead man's lips, and as his blood stained the petal an even darker red, its crimson edges crackled and browned, curling in toward the center until it was as lifeless as the body it lay on.

  Fifteen

  But the Dark One would not be beaten so easily. For his divine family, he created three special nightmares—nightmares which would persist until the death of the cosmos, each an unstoppable force of destruction that would harry the Titans to the end of their days.

  First were the Gruund, a race of monsters given the intelligence and free will to accomplish what his other creations could not.

  Second was the Black Fortress, an immense structure of power that blighted the land around it and turned all it touched to evil.

  And last was the Behemoth, the Great Devourer, hunger made flesh.

  And Keth, locked away in his prison of madness, gave his power to the Dark One unquestioningly.

  ~

  “Hurry, Will. You must hurry.”

  “Follow our voices quickly, for there—”

  “—is no time to waste. The—”

  “—City in the Waves needs your help.”

  “Hurry!”

  Whumpf.

  Will stepped forward out of the light and into almost complete darkness. He stopped and blinked rapidly in an attempt to let his eyes adjust. His disorientation was only exacerbated by the din that assaulted his ears—the clank and rattle of weapons and armor, the tramp of hundreds of booted feet, and the intermittent wails and snorts of warhorses all combined to dull his senses for a short time.

  He was used to the constant racket of war, though, and blocked it out. Such noise had long ago ceased to have any lasting effect on him. His vision adjusted a short time later, and in the dim light of the forest he could see perhaps the strangest-looking army he had ever laid eyes on.

  Clare's news had sent the Faellan into a frenzied rush of activity; Will had not thought a group of people as peaceful as Feothon's would be capable of mobilizing for war so quickly, but the more the idea danced around his mind the more he realized that they must have been trained for such action from childhood. Each Titan had a legion of loyal souls ready to die for them at a moment's notice; it was small wonder, then, that they had readied themselves with such speed.

  And now, with the combined forces of the Faellan and the new Dragon Guard, they were much stronger than the Ravens and the Pradians had been. These were no youngblood soldiers. Each warrior was a veteran, each had battle experience, and without fresh recruits to watch over, each would perform to the peak of their ability. Now, Will realized with some surprise, his Dragon Guard were the ones who were outclassed. Though each had fought on many varied battlefields, they were used to quick strikes under the blanket of darkness, or harrying their opponents' flanks on horseback while a much larger force took the brunt of the enemies' attack. Now, though, they would be going into terrain that they had never before encountered, fighting in a way they had been forced to do only a few times before. The forest people, though, were a different matter entirely.

  Now that they were no longer at peace, Feothon's warriors carried themselves with a quiet, chilly dignity that belied the violence Will knew without a doubt they were capable of. Each wore boiled leather and scale armor covered in the gold and green livery of the Forest Lord—Will and Clare had been given similar raiment to replace their ruined equipment, albeit in the more modern form of Sou
thland plate—and each man carried some form of weaponry that, Will could not help but notice, had all seen much use over the years. He could only imagine the antics Feothon's people had been up to in secret; perhaps they had been quietly and efficiently beating back the darkness in the world, and their feats had simply gone unnoticed by the oblivious humans who ruled the Inner Kingdoms.

  Stranger to Will than their obvious battle prowess, though, were the women in the army. He knew it was not an uncommon thing, especially in such modern times as they lived in; it was not unheard of to use women to man siege engines or fire arrows, or—in extreme cases—to have women such as Katryna in an army, who had few practical skills other than the ones necessary to inflict pain and suffering. Rather, what surprised him was the fact that every archer in Feothon's army was a woman. When questioned about it, the Forest Lord's response had taken Will aback.

  “They've a better arm with a bow,” Feothon had said simply, as though the answer were obvious.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Their hearts beat more slowly than a man's. It makes their aim truer.”

  Will had raised an eyebrow in consternation, but Feothon had only shrugged and told Will to see for himself.

  Now the Forest Lord was riding atop a chestnut stallion that snorted and pawed fitfully at the ground. Feothon himself was clad in beautiful bronze battle armor, with a helm fashioned in the likeness of a stag's antlers atop his head. His face was still visible, and he wore a grim mien on his normally passive features. The changes in the Titan's appearance startled Will, who had grown accustomed to the man's easy bearing and disdain for clothing.

  He's not the only one on edge, either, Will thought, and his gaze roved across the other Titans. His eyes settled on Serah who had, like the soldiers, adopted a visage of grim stoicism. Her bodyguards Jhai and Zizo sat tensed and on edge atop their own mounts, her mood apparently having worn off on them. Then again, Borbos' city is under attack, Will mused. Serah's mood probably has nothing to do with theirs. Everybody wants a crack at the Fallen at this point.