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 Fire and Blood

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Wyatt
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PostSubject: Fire and Blood   Thu Sep 03, 2009 12:40 am

Michael watched them from behind a bush on the nearby hillside. His best friend Jodhud was picking blueberries in the field below with his parents, and his other friend, Sarah. The image seemed perfect to Michael. Jodhud and Sarah were racing to see who could fill up their buckets fastest, and as the sun shimmered in the morning dew on the bushes, the two parents smiled happily to each other and moved on at their steadier pace. Jodhud turned back quickly to check on his mother, who gave him a smile as warm as the sunlight. He nodded and smiled back, then returned to his frantic gathering while Sarah taunted him playfully.

Michael watched quietly in awe. He watched longingly. There was a family; the likes of which he never got to experience. Where is my father now? he thought, and lines creased his forehead. Probably at some party two thousand miles away. And where is my mother? He knew exactly where she was, however, as he blinked back tears. She was in the sixth row, second from the right in the town cemetary. He had visited her many times. His fists clenched and unclenched, and he peered back through the bush.

A flurrying mass of feather-moths had taken off from the feast of the blueberry patch, agitated by the invading family. They all watched in silent wonder at the cool, shining colors of the birdlike insects in flight. They swarmed off towards the blue north horizon to the Verenian Mountains.

Suddenly, laughter burst out from the family, and they looked at each other with excitement and surprise at the sight of the feather-moth swarm. They began to walk side by side down the field, in the opposite direction of Michael's hideout.

Looking down at the dirt, Michael thought about nothing. His eyes blanked, his mouth hung slightly open. After many minutes of listless existence, long after the family had departed to a new field and the sun was high, Michael backed his way out of the bush. As he did so, a thorn caught his hand and tore open a slit on his palm.

"Ahh!" he gasped in pain. He tore off a part of his undershirt and wrapped it tightly around his bloody hand. After a moment of calming his pain, Michael exploded in anger, kicking up loam from the forest floor and pacing back and forth furiously.

"Why does this always happen to me! Why are you hurting me?! Why are you taking more?! Haven't you taken enough?!" He shouted accusingly at the patch of clear sky peaking through the forest. 'Who am I shouting at, anyway?', he thought. 'No. All this pain, this unfairness, can't just be a coincidence. Someone IS responsible.' he spoke again in his head. He continued to glare at the sunny heavens.

As he watched the sky, that great golden orb dominating the sky reminded him of the library back at home, with the tall, elegant windows, facing the rising dawn. He thought back to a moment with his father, several years ago.



"Father," he had said quietly that day to the man who seemed in a hurry to leave every time he entered a room, "what does this thingy mean?"

His dad's sharp face turned to the open page of the book Michael held in his childish hands.
"My dear son, that 'thingy' is called an Aya fire seal. The old magicians used that as a way of invoking fire," he said with discomfort, thinly veiled by false cordiality. It was the sort of way one would act at a party full of strangers. Michael saw through his father's expression, but pressed on anyway.

"Could I ever use this to... invoke fire?" he asked hopefully, and ashamed of his hope simultaneously.

"Oh! Ha ha, hell no!" he laughed loudly, "The Dargaras have never needed magic to make our mark on this world! You, boy, don't have an ounce of blood in you." He turned back to his papers. Then he froze.

"Unless... your mother..." he said, but his voice trailed off. His face turned stony and his gazed through the floor, far away into his lost memories. After a moment, he gulped, shuffled his papers, and stood. He gave an awkward glance to his wide-eyed son, and said, "I'm... going into town. Don't worry Mrs. Gardener too much while I'm gone." He gave a half-smile that attempted to be encouraging, then whisked out of the room, leaving Michael alone with the morning sun pouring through the windows.

The younger Michael looked down at the seal, studying its details. His father rarely talked about his mother. Michael looked from the seal to the sun outside, and hoped. 'Maybe there's a chance. Maybe I can do magic.' And he thought of his dead mother and her blood coursing through his veins... But then he thought of his father, stumbling home drunk, just at the mere mention of her. Michael shut the book, walked back through the vast study, and placed the ancient tome on the shelf. Everyone told him he was just like his father...



Michael returned from his reverie, sullenly kicked a nearby ash tree, startling an old crow, and walked back to his bush. He was so tired of his father, tired of being like his father! They had the same mannerisms, grown to the same height, had the same color of hair, the same slant of the nose, the same arrogant smirk.

He looked at his injured palm, and the blood had seeped through the makeshift bandage, dripping onto his expensive jacket. He jerked off the scrap of linen and threw it fitfully at the thorny bush in front of him. A massive white bulk of clouds drifted silently from the west, overshadowing the forest. Michael stared at his face-up palm, absent-mindedly tracing designs and patterns in his own blood.

'My only hope,' he thought, 'is if your blood still runs in mine.' The clouds passed over the sun, cooling the still woods considerably. "The worst thing is," he said, fury rising in his voice, "Father" he spat the name harshly, "won't even tell me" gritting his teeth, he stood before the hiding-bush, "how you DIED!"

At that moment, Michael's left hand finished tracing the Aya fire seal over his right palm, with his own gushing blood. Thunder boomed along with his furious voice, high in the darkening sky, and something deep inside Michael awoke. A tingling, rippling sensation jolted through the young man's arm, and a pillar of orange flame erupted from the lines of the fire seal on his outstretched palm.

Michael, suddenly howling in pain, fell onto his back and pointed the fire away from him, where it caught the bush aflame. Moment after moment, the torrent of fire continued to break from the magical energy emanating from his body, and moment after moment, he screamed from the intense pain from his burning palm, until it disappeared as soon as it came, running out like a turned off water faucet.

Although the pain took longer to subside, and the bush was now in full blaze, the torrent was over. Michael just lay there, looking at his smoking, yet strangely undamaged hand, and the charred mark of the Aya symbol covering the now-sealed wound from the thorn earlier. After a moment, Michael jumped to his feet, a new light fueling his eyes. As he ran off through the forest towards home, rain began to fall.

***

Michael walked through the front door to his father's estate. Rain pattered on the windows and grey sky loomed over the large house. As Michael walked on down the hall, passing old suits of armor and ornate tapestries, he froze at the image he saw in the mirror out of the corner of his eye. He turned and looked with amazement at the red hair that now spiked throughout his typical blonde. At this change, Michael thought of the painting of his mother, with her long, scarlet hair, and smiled.


Last edited by Wyatt on Thu Sep 03, 2009 2:37 pm; edited 1 time in total
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Wyatt
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PostSubject: Re: Fire and Blood   Thu Sep 03, 2009 12:42 am

hehe, it's been about a month since I wrote this, and I really don't like it now.
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Renmulus
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PostSubject: Re: Fire and Blood   Thu Sep 03, 2009 2:02 pm

i liked it, it was nicely writen and like at the end when he looks at the picture of his mother and her scarlet hair, very cool. The flash back is confusing.
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