Dying Fire

Chapter Twelve

“I am terrified

By this dark thing

That sleeps in me.”

~Sylvia Plath~

He staggers in a drunken stupor out the door, down the street, no direction in mind except the need to wander. A need to be one with the night, to walk aimlessly and absently, alone with thoughts he can’t articulate, only feel. Shadows shift as he passes under streetlights, swirling around him in a soft caress, though they don’t dare attempt to enter his Fire.

It flares with a strange energy, a kind that shouldn’t exist in such a desolate child. The light in his eyes shine dully, but his expression is slack, unfeeling. Flames lick the walls that enclose them, deep inside him. These walls are crumbling, splitting and cracking with each step he takes towards the dawn. He knows this – can feel it happening despite the efforts to blank his mind – but doesn’t understand.

He doesn’t understand until the sun is over the horizon, glaring in its deadly beauty, proposing a challenge he can’t comprehend: Can he make it through a new, bright day with his mother gone from the world? Can he make it through this day, and the next, and the one after that, until a lifetime has passed without her presence?

Can he live without her?

People trickling into the streets snap him into partial awareness. He maneuvers the city as though it were a toy, slipping in and out of hiding spots and hidden paths to avoid people in general. He doesn’t know where he’s heading, once tempted to run for Araine until the thought’s banished. He doesn’t know until he’s there, standing on the top step with both hands braced on either railing, his head bowed and eyes closed tight. His Fire rages, fluctuating surges rippling throughout his body, his very being, causing his breath to quicken and eyes to snap open in an unwavering need. A need not for inward contemplation, but outward destruction.

His fist hammers the door for several long moments before his body bursts with energy. The small moveable piece of wood nearly falls from its holder, he slides it away with such force. “Master,” he screeches through the opening. He collects himself, though, and says in a calm, threatening tone, “May I be of service? I wish to be of service. Now!” He throws the wood back into place, nearly losing it again, and steps back to wait to be beckoned inside.

At the sight of Scoire in the open doorway, Calex snaps. It takes only one punch, accidently aimed perfectly for the previously dislocated jaw, to put the other boy down without so much as a muffled objection. He kicks the unconscious boy inside and closes the door behind them before gluing his eyes to the floor as he walks to stand in front of where the ringmaster is always perched in his solidary seat.

“If you’ve come for Annora –” begins the ringmaster.

“I wish to be of service,” interrupts Calex. “Now, please.”

“Oh?” The older man clasps his hands together, trying to conceal his please smile.

Finally, he thinks, he’s broken this boy. In one way, he’s right. Calex is broken. But not because of him, and not in the way either of them think he is. The boy stats confidently, “Yes, Master.”

“I have some people waiting for a show…” Master muses. “I’m sure Vaughen –”

“No, sir.” Calex interrupts again. “Not Vaughen.”

“Oh?” asks Master. “Then who?”

Calex raises his gaze from the floor to meet the ringmaster’s, the stars in his eyes seeming to explode into nothing only to reignite in a shifting cosmos the next second. “Ondine.” His hands ball into fists, eyes turning up at the edges with the emotion threatening to overwhelm him. “I wish to fight Ondine. Now.”