Fire Heart

by Dan Avera

  Our bond grows stronger each day, the Other whispered. It is difficult to speak, though. My thoughts are...muddled. This opportunity may never rise again, but for now your rage gives me strength.

  My rage...

  Yes. Use it, Willyem. Think of the flames. Embrace your fury.

  He did.

  The experience was completely different than before; in Prado, it had been fear that had summoned the Other—fear for Clare, and for his friends, and that fear had resonated inside of his power, corrupting it and turning it against him. In the City in the Waves, his mind had been calm and at peace, and his soul had responded in kind.

  But now...now he was angry. Furious. The rage burned through him like liquid fire, bolstered by the Other inside of him and tempered into a weapon by the power of his own sheer will. He screamed once more, long and ragged—

  And the manacles binding his wrists melted and boiled away, splashing to the floor in little pools of glowing light that smoked and sizzled and scorched the stones they touched. His body was completely engulfed in flame now, the fire roaring and snapping, reaching its fingers out for something to burn. He looked down at his arm, and beneath the flames he saw not skin, but black coal webbed with glowing red veins—his true form, he realized. The stones beneath his feet cracked from the intense heat, sending tiny glowing fragments zipping off into the air.

  He turned back to Castor then, and saw that his friend had a look of both awe and terror on his face. “Will?” Castor asked slowly. “Are...are you alright?”

  “Better than I have ever been before,” Will answered, and his voice was no longer his, but one of bubbling magma and crackling flame. He reached out to Castor's manacles and bent the power to his will. A twisting tongue of fire snaked out from his fingertips and wrapped itself around the chains, burning through them in the blink of an eye.

  “Why can't I feel your heat?” Castor asked softly as he massaged his aching arms. “I could in Prado, but not now...”

  The fire will bend to your whim, said the Other. So long as you wish it, it will not harm those of your choosing. Be cautious, though—your mind is not at peace, and you risk losing yourself to the power.

  “I am in control,” Will said aloud, the response as much for Castor as it was for Koutoum. A flurry of smoke and sparks trailed from his mouth with each word. “You are no longer in any danger.” He extended his hand again, and the manacles binding the rest of his friends melted and clattered to the floor. The black and red energy, however, still held the Titans. He narrowed his crimson eyes, and the ropes of fire coiled around the dark bindings, wiping them from existence as though they were no more than smoke. The Titans awakened abruptly, as if the dark energy had forced them into an involuntary slumber.

  “Leyra,” Will rumbled, for he could feel that she was the strongest. Both Serah and Feothon were strangely weak, as though they had just recently expended vast amounts of energy. When the Lady of the Mountain turned to him her eyes widened in shock, but he cut in before she could speak. “Free the others. Meet me outside of the city.” He turned and headed for the door, leaving a trail of smoldering footprints in his wake. “I will take care of everything else.”

  The door might as well have been made of parchment; with only the barest hint of mental effort, it flash-burned and crumbled to ashes. He stepped through the open portal and into the hall beyond. And then he smiled.

  Two guards had been posted to keep watch; now they stood dumbly, staring at him with mouths agape and faces full of terror.

  “You have betrayed the gods,” Will snarled, and the fire engulfing his body flared with his anger. “That was very foolish of you.”

  “Please,” one stammered, “have—have mercy!”

  “Mercy?” Will roared. “For you?” The fire twisted and writhed in anticipation.

  Willyem, said the voice in his head, temper your anger. It gives you strength, but you must not let it control you.

  I have tempered my anger for long enough, he growled.

  The men screamed as they died, but only for an instant—the flames melted the skin and muscle from their bones in the span of a breath, and then their lungs ignited. When Will was finished, only two blackened, greasy scorch marks remained on the ground and walls to mark their passing. He growled, deep in his chest like an animal, and continued down the hallway.

  Willyem, the Other said, a note of panic edging its voice, please, you must listen to me. You are becoming irrational. I can sense your thoughts, and they will only take you to dark places.

  Another pained cry echoed down the corridor, and it was followed by a wracking sob. The guards laughed again; they had not heard him, it seemed. With a wave of his hand the door at the end of the hallway exploded inward, disintegrating and flinging burning shards of wood through the air. There were three men directly on the other side, and Will's charred face twisted into a feral grin as dozens of massive, flaming slivers tore through their skin. They screamed, and then screamed louder as their clothing caught fire. Their deaths, unlike the others before them, were slow.

  What was left of the door frame ignited as Will passed through it, and oily black smoke began to drift up to the high ceiling. The three dying men feebly tried to drag themselves away from the inferno walking toward them, but Will paid them no heed; his attention—and his rage—was completely focused at the opposite end of the room.

  There were six other guards, all roughly ten paces away. They stood much as the first two men had—mouths agape and eyes wide. Two had their breeches around their ankles, and Will's gaze centered on the table they stood at. Clare and Katryna, their clothing shredded as though by a wild animal, had been bent over the edge. The beginnings of dark bruises were just beginning to form on their skin. Blood stained both of their faces, but it was their tears that pushed Will to the brink—the wet trails glittered in the light from his flames, dancing like a dozen tiny suns, and something deep inside of him broke.

  White-hot fury exploded within Will, and the flames engulfing his body roared like never before, casting a blinding crimson glow upon the room and making the soldiers shrink back in terror.

  Willyem, no, Koutoum pleaded, spare them. Show them mercy. They have been tricked by the Fallen—but you can save them.

  “Redemption,” Will snarled, and his voice was a nightmarish sound, a twisted thing wrought with hate that sounded nothing like the Will of old. “They do not deserve redemption. Men may be redeemed. But monsters...”

  Four tendrils of fire snaked out from his body and seized the still-clothed guards. The burning ropes melted their flesh and ignited their clothing and hair, sending thin clouds of acrid smoke trailing up to the ceiling. He flung them away, and they crashed against the opposite wall and fell screaming to the floor. Their cries were sweet music to his ears—he wanted more.

  The guard standing next to Katryna died first. Will moved forward almost lazily and seized the man around the throat. He screamed as Will's fingers seared his flesh, and the stench of burning skin intensified as the guard's bubbled and blackened beneath his grasp.

  Willyem, please...

  He ignored the voice, and brought his other hand up to the man's chest. With only the barest effort, he plunged his fingers through the guard's ribcage and wrapped them around his heart. “You have made a grave mistake,” Will growled, and then he squeezed. He tossed the man to the side a moment later. No blood pooled on the floor; as the body began to burn away, it left in its wake only bones and grease and ash.

  Something strange happened then: Will felt the most peculiar sensation, a deep impact that rocked his body a fraction of a finger's breadth. He looked down in confusion and saw the glowing point of a sword protruding from his chest. He brought his hands up as though unsure what it was, and it melted at his touch, flowing through his fingers to pool in a steaming puddle on the stones below. He turned to see the final guard—the one with the scar on his temple—staring at him with complete, paralyzed terror.

  Will exting
uished the fires with a thought, and in an instant his body had reverted back to its normal form. His eyes, however, did not change—the fire was still there, flickering and glowing. There were no pupils in them now, no whites—there was only the ever-churning crimson, twin pools of unhinged fury that dared the world to challenge him. The wound in his chest spat fitful flurries of sparks into the air until it closed a moment later, sealing itself and leaving behind only smooth, flawless skin.

  The guard fell to his knees and soiled himself; the stench of refuse mingled with the smell of fear and wafted sickeningly through the hot room. Will wrinkled his nose in disgust.

  “Please,” the man gasped, and tears poured freely from his eyes, evaporating as they touched the air, which wavered and danced like the breath of a forge. “Please, mercy, please...”

  Will towered over him, staring in mute disdain. He turned and looked at Clare.

  She was gazing at him fearfully, tears drawing streaks through the filth on her face. One eye was swollen shut, and blood trickled from her nose and the corner of her mouth. She had slid to the floor and was now sitting with her back pressed against the wall and her arms around her legs. The one eye that Will could see looked...broken. Dull. It held none of the luster that he remembered. The image of the woman he loved, beaten like a wild animal, brought tears to his own eyes again; they sizzled and disappeared without ever touching his cheeks.

  He turned back to the cowering guard. “Do you know what we do to traitors and heretics here?” Will spat, his monstrous voice a choked whisper. The guard's eyes widened in fear, and within them Will could see the man's realization of his own doom. There would be no salvation, no god to swoop down and rescue him; he was going to die.

  Will's hand darted forward and seized him around the throat, and he lifted him into the air so that his feet dangled above the ground and his face was in the smoke pooling across the ceiling. “We burn them,” Will snarled, and his free hand ignited with an angry hiss as it rose toward the man's face. The flames reached hungrily toward their victim as though they had minds of their own, and the guard's terrified eyes were locked on their dancing forms. When Will spoke again, his voice had lost any trace of humanity; it was now the voice of a vengeful god. “But not before we teach them why it is a fool's errand to harm the friends of the Dragon King.”

  He clamped his hand over the guard's face and a scream tore through the air, brutal and terrible. The sound of sizzling, popping flesh mixed with the scent of burning skin, and thin tendrils of smoke trailed lazily into the air. The man's flesh blackened around Will's hand, curling in on itself to reveal the raw muscle beneath. He writhed in Will's grasp, his fingers scrabbling uselessly at the Dragon King's arm, and then Will withdrew his hand and hurled the man across the room. The motion was effortless, almost lazy, as though he weighed no more than a child's toy. He hit the wall with a sickening thud and fell, sobbing, to his hands and knees, smoke still drifting from the burnt ruin where his eyes used to be. “Please,” the guard begged, his voice choked with terror and anguish. “Please, mercy...”

  But Will's booted foot connected with the man's chest, and there was a sickening, squelching crack as his ribs broke. The blow lifted him bodily into the air, only for him to crash against the wall once more. He did not cry out in pain; what little breath he had left came out as a thin wheeze.

  “No mercy!” Will screamed, and then with a roar of bloody rage he picked the man up by his hair, drew his arm back, and slammed him face-first into the stone floor. There was a wet crunch, and the guard's fingers clawed weakly at the floor for an instant before going limp. His body twitched spasmodically, and blood seeped out along the ground from where his ruined face lay against the stones. It ran in little rivulets before collecting in a wide, growing pool of crimson at Will's boots, where it bubbled, dried, and blackened instantly from the intense heat.

  Will stood, breathing heavily, and turned back to Clare and Katryna. Both were staring at him with wide eyes.

  “Oh, Will,” Katryna whispered, and oddly, there was sadness in her voice.

  “Can you walk?” Will asked, directing the question to both of them.

  “I—I don't know,” Katryna said hoarsely, and she made to stand. Her legs wobbled beneath her, though, and she fell back to the floor with a grunt of pain. “I think my leg is broken,” she said through clenched teeth.

  The sound of booted feet behind him made Will whirl around, and instantly fires blazed to life in his palms. He crouched, ready for the first attacker—only to see Castor dash through the ruined door frame. He skidded to a halt, his eyes wide as he surveyed the carnage. Will noticed that he had retrieved the longsword Fang.

  Castor slowly turned to face Will, who let the fires in his hands die away. “What...” Castor began, but he seemed unable to finish. His gaze roved down to the remains of the guard with the scar.

  “Help Katryna,” Will said, his burning voice a flat monotone. “She can't walk. Where are the others?”

  “They're...the Titans are freeing the rest of them,” Castor said weakly, and after a last, lingering look at Will he sheathed his sword and went to kneel next to Katryna. He picked her up gently, cradling her in his arms, and then turned and made for the door. “Thank you,” he said softly as he passed Will.

  “Go,” Will said. “Gather the others, and then take them to the city outskirts.”

  “What about you?” Castor asked.

  “I will make sure they do not follow us.”

  Castor nodded once and left.

  Will turned back to Clare and knelt down next to her. She flinched as he drew near, recoiling as though from a rabid animal, and he narrowed his eyes in confusion. “Clare?” he asked, and when she flinched again he exerted his will and cleared his throat. When he spoke again, his voice had regained some of its normal quality. “Clare, it's me,” he murmured. His only answer was a sob, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

  He had no idea what to do, so he reached out tentatively and put his hand on her shoulder. “Will,” she whispered, her voice muffled and choked with tears, and he drew her into an embrace. She wrapped her arms around his neck and sobbed into his shoulder.

  “Nobody is going to hurt you anymore,” he said softly, and ran his hand gently along her hair. “Not ever again.” He slid one arm under her legs and lifted her off the ground, cradling her against his chest. He felt her tears wet his skin, and he gently pressed his lips to her brow. Her arms tightened around his neck and she sobbed even harder.

  It was not difficult to find the others—in fact, he was sure he could almost sense the presences of the other Titans. Hadn't Feothon said something about that? Auras, or the like? He couldn't remember. Anger was clouding his head; the only thoughts his rage was allowing through at the moment were thoughts of Clare, and getting her to safety. Something itched at the back of his mind, a little niggling sensation that seemed to be trying to get his attention, but he ignored it. He could not afford any distractions.

  The stones heated around him as he went, turning bright-red and warping the air so that the hallways of the keep seemed surreal and nightmarish. When he passed wood or cloth, it burst into flame, leaving behind only little flurries of ash. And yet, held back by his will alone, Koutoum's power did not touch Clare. She hung in his arms, safe and protected from anything foolish enough to try and harm her.

  There were more soldiers along the way, better armed and armored than the guards. They put up only a paltry fight, and deep within his mind Will felt a twinge of disappointment each time one died, choking and screaming. He craved a fight on equal ground—one where his abilities would truly be put to the test, and victory would not come easily.

  “Weak,” he muttered as another soldier died, his eyes gaping stupidly as the lower half of his body melted away and his mind found itself possessed by shock. The heated stones cooked him in his armor, blackening his skin, and it was only just after Will passed him that a high, thin, keening scream echoed down the hallway, distor
ted into a ululating wail by the intense heat. The scream lasted for a very long time.

  And then, finally, at long last he reached the front gate to their dungeon. The great wooden doors had been smashed asunder and lay many paces away on the ground. A cool sea breeze wafted in through the yawning archway; it did not reach him. “We are almost there,” he said soothingly. His words were beginning to distort again; he was having trouble reigning in Koutoum's terrible voice. “I will get you to safety, Clare. I promise.”

  A long dirt path led up to the barracks, and on either side the city's gardeners had carefully tended great fields of fresh green grass. It turned yellow as Will neared, and then blackened and died, the earth beneath it scorched and made lifeless. The barracks was not far from the city proper, and Will could see people dashing madly to and fro some distance away. The others must have already passed through, he thought, remembering the shattered doors and taking note of the bodies strewn about the grounds. Good.

  A woman screamed then, high and piercing, and Will winced. It had an effect on him like the guard's sword had not, and he cringed from the sound. He whipped his head around quickly, searching for its source, and saw on the road ahead a young woman with a little boy, who she was shielding with her body as she backed clumsily away from the terror before her. “Harbinger!” she cried. “The Harbinger is here!” Her screams were taken up by more and more of the people around her and suddenly everyone was staring at him in wide-eyed terror.

  Why do they look at me so? he wondered. They have no reason to fear me. Not unless... His gaze roved down to the woman in his arms; she was staring back up at him with wide emerald eyes. There seemed to be more gold in them than usual, but he passed it off as a reflection of his own fires. They have no reason to fear me, he thought again, unless they mean to harm Clare.

  His eyes narrowed and he brought his gaze back up, the fires engulfing his body once more in a flare of crimson fury. No one will ever hurt her again. He began to walk forward, and the screams seemed to intensify a hundredfold. The first woman scooped up her child and stumbled away to hide in a shop. Not...not ever again...