Author Games: World Seasons

Task Three - Buttons - Bonfire Tributes

Epethemeus Ash

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Fiametta Embers

“Is she always like this?” I ask; one eyebrow raised with a disbelieving curiosity towards Love. She skips ahead of us apparently revelling in the new setting of rolling meadow. Lyrics of romantic nonsense escape from her in an absent-minded hush as if she is subconsciously compelled to spread joy through song. It is a far cry from the hardened frowns of untameable opinions desperate to break free from oppressed cages that occupy the majority of the Bonfire District.

“There is never a day that passes where she does not greet the morning with a beam on her face.” A slight twist of a smile flickers momentarily on Rubyn’s expressions. It leads me to believe that behind the archaic poem of his words hides an observation concealed for his own amusement.

But my comments do not shy from exposure. I drop my features into an unresponsive glance of judgement and allow my words to drip slowly from my lips with a hyperbolic pronunciation of each syllable.

“That is truly sickening.”

Rubyn studies my expressions carefully. As with all new company he is searching to discover where sarcasm ends and genuine begins. I always shield that information from obvious detection. Why offer the depths of my character on a plate when it is far more entertaining to remain the eternal question mark of enigma?

“She’s joking. Etta finds it amusing to toy with people’s emotions; much to the annoyance of others.” Epethemeus gives away the game and grants the smirk of mischief freedom over my expressions. He rolls his eyes.

“You are very lucky I have thick skin. No one else would put up with you… Eppie.” The idea of adding a nickname suddenly occurs to me. His response widens my smile to a grin. The severity of his reaction concludes in my mind that from now on he will only be referred to as Eppie for my amusement.

“Do NOT call me that,” he snaps behind a darkened frown of vexation.

“You will soon learn that Eppie and I are fire against night. He says precisely what he truly thinks without thought of who he offends whilst I rarely say what I truly mean with planned thought into the victim of my words.”

“Is that another joke?” Rubyn asks. Amusement glints in his eyes as he stares on ahead.

“You tell me,” I conclude with a smug grin and a turn of my head to mirror his glance into the distance.

Wrapped in a shimmering glow of companionship it is hard to accept that this place, these fields of stretching green, are a setting of murder. Beauty exits in this cruelty. Just like the twisting maze of daisies to the left of our path. They will kill us at a touch. The flower with the serpent underneath.

Somehow we all find a way to ignore the shadows of guilt. Most of all Love. Lost in a trance of a melody she breaks ahead. At first by a few paces but her separation soon stretches into a substantial difference. To a greedy eye of murderous intent she is in the grasps of solitude.

The whistling of a knife mutes Love’s resonating joy. The flight of the weapon sears so close to her that for a moment I hold my breath; unable to ascertain if my ally is moments from death or unharmed. But she stumbles out of the way and lands safe in a heap on the grass.

I feel the burn of my scream grate against my throat before the rattling screech of anger sears into the arena. Shadow from the Halloween District. No knife, no allies, no hope but that leering smirk remains on his face and those eyes keep staring as if he is planning all the ways to best break my neck. It must be the weapon he prizes most. A stare that could resonate fear into the depths of bones. But I am protected by the shield of arrogance at our higher odds. But he hasn’t lost the game yet.