A Lightning Storm of Spark and Flame

Chapter 4

That night, Phoebe's dreams are strange. At first, they start out bland and generic, utterly unremarkable things that she would most definitely forget by the morning. But the truly memorable part comes as quite a shock. Suddenly, her unconscious is somewhere she's never been before. She sees a small house built in a clearing in a lovely forest. The few leaves that still cling stubbornly to the tree branches are bold, beautiful shades of red, orange, and yellow. Most of them, however, lay in a thick carpet over the ground. Silvery moonlight peaks through misty white clouds in the dark, star-filled night sky. At first, the scene is quite peaceful. But then Phoebe spots the elderly woman standing in the shadows. She freezes. That white hair and the shape of that figure are impossible to mistake. Grandmother. She looks different somehow, though. She stands taller and straighter, and she carries no cane. Slowly, the much younger version of the woman who had raised Phoebe approaches the house. Even though the forest floor is nothing but fallen leaves and twigs, she still somehow manages to move without a sound. When she reaches a small open window, she doesn't even hesitate before slipping through it. Phoebe watches, mouth agape, as Grandmother emerges a moment later with a white bundle in her arms. Her dread only intensifies when she takes a step closer and identifies it as a child wrapped securely in a blanket. The tiny girl appears to be about three summers or so. All she can really see from this angle is the top of her head and her golden brown curls, but Phoebe would recognize that hair anywhere. She's brushed it every morning since she had been old enough to operate the comb on her own. Still in profound shock, she follows Grandmother as she sets off at a brisk pace through the woods. It doesn't take long for them to reach a worn path extending from left to right in a seemingly endless line. Grandmother does not pause, turning left and moving with increased speed now that the terrain is no longer treacherous. A short while later, the child stirs, her head coming up and her eyes opening. If Phoebe had needed any more confirmation of her identity, it is given to her by those very familiar gray orbs. Her mind recoils. Hasn't Grandmother always said she'd taken charge of raising Phoebe because her parents had died in a shipwreck? She shakes her head. Of course that's what happened, she thinks. This is only a dream. The much younger version of herself looks curiously up at the stranger carrying her and coos inquisitively. The old woman makes a Kurt shushing sound and continues walking. But it doesn't take long for the small girl to become restless. She starts to squirm and cries out in distress when she is not set down. Finally, Grandmother stops in the middle of the path and shifts the child in her arms. From an inner pocket, she removes a glass bottle and uncorks it. Before the captured storm inside can escape into the world, she presses it to the child's lips. The real Phoebe screams in horror. What kind of sick nightmare is this? But instead of being hurt, the baby seems pleased by the offering and Relaxes back again, contentedly holding onto the bottle for herself. Then, Grandmother speaks, and the words that Phoebe knows so well emerge from her mouth. "Child of my child, blood of my blood. I bestow upon you three gifts." The young woman sits straight up in bed, breathing hard and in a complete panic. Nightmare or not, she can't escape the feeling of dread that lingers like an illness. What had that been about? As warmer days give way to shorter, colder ones, the dream continues to relentlessly plague Phoebe's nights as she works on battling storms throughout the day, trying to control them instead of just subduing them. Just like with every attempt to master something new, the results are mixed at first. She slowly determines what combination of her own raw power and Abiding by the rules best suits this particular endeavor. At last, on one icy cold December afternoon, she takes the bottled blizzard from her pocket and smashes the glass container. Though she's braced for it, the cold blast is nearly enough to knock her off her feet as the wind picks up and The snow whips into a frenzy. Shoving her discomfort to the back of her mind, she focuses her full attention on calling for her power. When it responds readily, she smiles to herself. It's taken much practice, but these efforts have definitely paid off. Experimentally, she draws a clockwise circle in the air with one finger, and the winds change direction to follow the path she had drawn. Elation fills her body, success making her feel warm and happy even though her current surroundings are anything but. Flattening her hands in front of herself, Phoebe next envisions a kind of protective bubble around her body that would repel the needle-like chunks of blowing ice. Just like that, the stinging snow is no longer able to touch her. Deciding to try one last thing, she slowly raises her arms above her head. Swirling winds gather around her, and suddenly she's lifted off the ground like she had been the first time she had tried and failed to harness a storm. But this time, she feels much more controlled and unafraid as the icy cloud of white carries her higher until the walls of the training room are far below. A joyous laugh bursts from her as her hair flies out behind her, never having felt so free in her life. Using various movements of her body, she carefully begins to move. Up, down, left, right, every which way until the creeping fear that her power would unceremoniously abandon her in the middle of the sky begins to ease. Her grip on it is iron-strong, and it feels like an almost inexhaustible source of strength. Likewise, the blizzard seems tireless in its punishing rage. When she finally begins to go numb from the cold, she reluctantly lets her arms slowly fall until they come to rest gently at her sides. In response, she is lowered by the buffeting winds, coming in for a landing on the snowy ground much smoother than her first time. Instead of passing out with exhaustion, Phoebe merely staggers unsteadily. From the porch, Grandmother watches her granddaughter in complete amazement. Her sinister, calculating smile is unseen by the girl, but it is seen by another presence who now watches them both. This presence knows what the elderly woman is up to. It knows that she'd originally intended the young girl to be her apprentice, but is now afraid she will be overthrown by the infinitely stronger elementalist. The presence knows all of this, and he has vowed to make sure it never happens.