A Touch Of Darkness

8 || A Different Weapon

I don't know how long I remain there. Sitting with my knees hugged to my chest, I watch the black in their eyes gain a glassy shine, and listen to the wind stir in the branches, and sense the faint sting as their souls ebb away. The flames are gone from sight, but their whisper remains. I'm cursed to feel the effect of every drop of their power.

No, my power, and the consequences of what I have done.

Only when the last spark of life has faded from Tyler do I tear my eyes away from their bodies, staring downwards. My hand runs across the grass, letting the blades tickle my palm. Beside me, their colour is not the shaded green of the rest of the woodland, or even the usual brighter hue of the grassy plains. They are dull, lifeless brown, bordering on an ashen grey, and their mark forms a near-perfect circle around me. Their tips droop towards the soil.

At the touch of my hand beneath the flimsy layer of a glove, the grass shrivels further, strands coiling into themselves as if cowering under the shadows of my fingers as they play across the earth. The grey tinge deepens.

I sigh, the sound tight. Great. I can even murder simple grass.

As if to mock me, the dulled circle ends right where a different kind of death begins. Camdyn, Edita and Tyler, three friends and soldiers who had only minutes ago been full of such fierce determination, now lying dead beside one another where they had once stood as one. Blackened cracks cover every scrap of skin that escapes their armour, and even the rest is tinged as grey as the grass, stained with death. With me.

There is still fear writhing through me, not yet subdued, but I no longer have any place to direct it. I clench my fist, attempting to smother the flames still licking my palm. Rough leather scrapes my skin. Without thinking, I tear the glove away, then the other with a sweeping strike, as if their removal will somehow wake me from this nightmare. It doesn't.

Bowing my head, I wrap my arms tight around my ankles, clawing at the buckles of my boots. I wish the cool metal wasn't so smooth. If it came to a sharp point, I could let it slice deep into my skin, deeper than flame. It might numb the pain inside.

Pain. A slice. My hand flies to my chest in a burst of realisation. There is a ragged tear in my shirt, soaked in my own blood. My stomach clenches; it slithers between my fingers, warm and sticky. But when I battle through that to trace the skin beneath, it is smooth and unmarked. The wound is gone. I search for the edge of a gash, even the ridge of a scar, but there is nothing left.

My fire doesn't just kill. It heals too, made to deflect harm and preserve only me. Somewhere deep down, a memory sparks to life, matching with the lingering sensation of blood with no source clinging to my skin.

Shaking my head hard, I jolt to my feet, dragging red smears across my shirt as I try to peel the blood away. I can't unlock that train of thought. I've worked too hard to bury it.

My head spins from the sudden movement, the world swaying. I stumble back, throwing out a hand to clutch at the thick tree's trunk. For a few moments, I stay there, catching my breath and waiting for focus to return to my vision, shoving any flicker of the past into the dark where I can't reach it.

The fire comes to my rescue again, bursting up around my wrist. I shoot it a glare, too tired and in need of its calm to bother fighting it. The pounding in my head fades the longer it blazes.

I trace the bark, fingers scraping on the worn grooves. Tyler's arrow impales the tree at my chest's height. Another weapon meant for me. Its feathers are surprisingly soft given their ragged nature, but certainly sharp and streamlined, well-designed for rapid movement.

Their touch brings two realisations. One sends me drifting away from the tree, placing my steps carefully while the fire keeps me steady, back to the circle of dead grass. The other weighs more gradually on my mind, filtering through a lingering sense of dread.