— i would rather learn what it feels like to burn than feel nothing at all —
She cannot remember a time when she did not hate her fire.
She knows there are some that long for power—some to use as a sword, others to use as a shield. To inflict pain or to hide from it. She had never asked for either; plain-born and content to live what she assumed would be a normal, if unremarkable life. There are stories of those that had asked for power and been gifted a twisted version of what they desired, a reprimand for their greed, and Brinly had searched her mind over and over, trying to recall a time that perhaps she was guilty of something similar.
Because it would be easier, she thinks, if she had someone to blame, even if it is only herself.
If there were somewhere to redirect this flame she had never asked for, if she could set ablaze whoever or whatever had landed her in this fiery misery.
But there isn’t, because every newfound curse is as much a mystery as the one before it—from boiling blood to flaming skin to an aura of fire, she is soon consumed by it, and she can do nothing but watch, helpless, as she becomes something she never wanted to be.
Her fire was supposed to be a sword, but she uses it as a shield.
Hiding behind a fortress of flames, it was easy to succumb to the very thing she had been avoiding—to let the fire swallow her whole, and pray that maybe she can be born anew from the ashes.
When she is alone at the river today she had not expected to find him. His memory sits somewhere in the charred remnants of everything else she has burnt, afraid to look at it, afraid to let herself continue to pine over what might have been if both of them were different from what they are. She had more than one of those situations in her life, which is strange, giving her inhospitable nature—Brazen and Illum burn on their own pyres, though she never thinks of them—but he is the one that she revisits the most, sometimes in dreams, and sometimes in sudden moments when her guard is down. It is difficult to not wonder what they would be if their broken pieces fit together instead of forcing them apart.
She would know him anywhere, even when frozen in ice, and the laugh that sparks like embers on her tongue is humorless and sharp as she steps in front of him. The fire that reflects off her dark eyes is almost not enough to hide the unexpected sadness that floods through her, a cold and unfamiliar sensation that feels like an ocean wave trying to sweep her away.
Of course he is made of ice.
Of course he is something so incompatible with fire, that how can she not laugh at the absurdity of it all?
She wonders how much this would have hurt if she had let herself miss him.
“Hello, Brigade.”
She knows there are some that long for power—some to use as a sword, others to use as a shield. To inflict pain or to hide from it. She had never asked for either; plain-born and content to live what she assumed would be a normal, if unremarkable life. There are stories of those that had asked for power and been gifted a twisted version of what they desired, a reprimand for their greed, and Brinly had searched her mind over and over, trying to recall a time that perhaps she was guilty of something similar.
Because it would be easier, she thinks, if she had someone to blame, even if it is only herself.
If there were somewhere to redirect this flame she had never asked for, if she could set ablaze whoever or whatever had landed her in this fiery misery.
But there isn’t, because every newfound curse is as much a mystery as the one before it—from boiling blood to flaming skin to an aura of fire, she is soon consumed by it, and she can do nothing but watch, helpless, as she becomes something she never wanted to be.
Her fire was supposed to be a sword, but she uses it as a shield.
Hiding behind a fortress of flames, it was easy to succumb to the very thing she had been avoiding—to let the fire swallow her whole, and pray that maybe she can be born anew from the ashes.
When she is alone at the river today she had not expected to find him. His memory sits somewhere in the charred remnants of everything else she has burnt, afraid to look at it, afraid to let herself continue to pine over what might have been if both of them were different from what they are. She had more than one of those situations in her life, which is strange, giving her inhospitable nature—Brazen and Illum burn on their own pyres, though she never thinks of them—but he is the one that she revisits the most, sometimes in dreams, and sometimes in sudden moments when her guard is down. It is difficult to not wonder what they would be if their broken pieces fit together instead of forcing them apart.
She would know him anywhere, even when frozen in ice, and the laugh that sparks like embers on her tongue is humorless and sharp as she steps in front of him. The fire that reflects off her dark eyes is almost not enough to hide the unexpected sadness that floods through her, a cold and unfamiliar sensation that feels like an ocean wave trying to sweep her away.
Of course he is made of ice.
Of course he is something so incompatible with fire, that how can she not laugh at the absurdity of it all?
She wonders how much this would have hurt if she had let herself miss him.
“Hello, Brigade.”
Brinly
