Chapter 4 - Flames of the Heart

Wer mit Ungeheuern kämpft, mag zusehn, dass er nicht dabei zum Ungeheuer wird.

5 Duskar 499 CE

I haven't had the mood nor strength to start this with a nice simple Dear. So, here it be.

Sigh.

I woke up.

I did not appreciate that. I laid there like a corpse for however many minutes. Eventually, I forced my body to move. I went downstairs and skipped breakfast while the others had fun at the bar. I helped the villagers build a pyramidal pyre to burn the bodies. Not once did I move my mouth over the course of the morning. Of course, there was bound to be questions and answers from the lowly folk. I nodded, shook my head, or shrugged at every inquiries made at me. I however talked to Agenor about me doing the honors of torching the bodies. I don't know what compelled me to ask, but I'm glad I did. I felt right to me.

As we were finishing up the pyre, the other four has had their fill and finally joined up. I ground Durandal's blade against its scabbard, creating sparks and flame upon the dark metal. My hand brought the flame-wrought blade upon the pyre, it lights up akin to the first morning of spring, when the welcoming warmth of the sun began to melt all the cold snow.

I stared into the blaze, and it stared back into me. The heat radiates from within the rotting flesh, emanating warmth and light upon the darkness. But the flame destroys whatever it eats. It hungers for more fuel. The heat sways away insects that would have otherwise use that flesh for nutrition. It greedily swallows anything and everything that isn't made of metal nor stone. And even then, in fires great enough, even bronze bend to its will, and stone move according to its wishes.

I feel within me a reason sparked anew. Heat. The will to bend. That flame to continue. The courage to be. The acceptance of the concept of me, of myself. That I both belong to me, and to my people. Even with illogic, I must continue. Fires care not if it is logical nor rational, it just burns. It differentiates nothing, no friend nor foe. It is a paradoxical tool of warmth, light, purification, death, destruction, annihilation.

It is a tool. It is neither good nor evil.

As I realize that sentence, I woke from my frozen state. I entered the establishment one last time, to do something I should've done before. I sat down at the well worn bar stool, and drank a cup of tea. Aetala seemed eager to talk to me, but I only came here to apologize. And apologize I did.

Before I could leave, she asked me of my origin. where I came from. And for the first time this week, my mouth had uttered a complete truth.

Mytros