Playing with Fire

2

The first time I'd been beaten, it'd been at the hands of the Master.

It was a small act, a simple thing - a backhanded slap. It was a sharp crack that rang throughout the room. Who knew hitting a seven year old could be so loud?

It turned my head so forcefully that I'd landed on my stomach. My vision had darkened around the edges and before I knew it, I was dry heaving onto the floor.

I could never quite remember why I'd been slapped so suddenly. It had come without warning, without a reasonable enough time to help me brace myself for impact. Had I made an offhand remark? Did he notice a mistake in the way I'd poured his wine? Maybe he'd been bored and felt the need to lash at the creature that tainted the air around him.

I did remember quite clearly that I'd started bleeding. His knuckles had split my cheekbone. If humans had backhanded someone with that much force, it probably would've fractured their hand but the Master showed no outward signs that it had hurt him.

I'd glared at that hand - the hand that was now reaching for his goblet like there was nothing amiss and I'd had the vivid desire to cut that hand off.

"Are you going to cry?" His back was still towards me, silver hair long and loose. The Master rarely let his hair loose. He deemed it an unworthy portrayal of the Si that commanded the full might of the Aeds forces.

I swallowed my anger and turned away. My eyes had started to blur and I tried desperately to shred the mounting frustration that threatened to boil out of me.

"Answer me, Little Ashling."

"No," I forced out. I'd meant it to come out neutral and soft but even I could hear the strain of resentment that colored that one response.

Fae were fast. I only heard the snap of a closing book before I felt the barest brush of a finger against my cheek.

Startled, I scrambled back looking straight into the Master's crimson orbs. I couldn't read the emotions that flitted across his face.

Surprise?

Curiosity?

Elation?

He was sitting cross-legged, his forefinger raised as an elegant prop. It was too dark to make out but I knew what he was showing, the point he was trying to make.

"I detest liars." He smiled. It was beautiful. It was serene. It was a promise that if I ever did so again, I'd find myself plucking my eyes out of my head and wrapping it neatly as a gift to him.

"You mean, humans." A wave of dizzying fear crashed through my body. Correcting the Master? It was the kind of thing that earned your tongue a knife against the cutting board - for the day if you were lucky, otherwise, you would have to rip your tongue from the cutting board yourself and hope you survived the shock.

"Aren't they one and the same?" he asked. "Humans," he trailed off, inspecting the tear that winked in the moonlight. "So fickle."

"Just because you can't lie, doesn't mean your kind are any better." I should've spat that with muster. Instead, what was meant to be a bold defense for my brethren came out as a weak stutter.

The Master was unnaturally still and for a moment, he painted the most striking picture. His linen robes were splayed about him elegantly, his hair a radiant halo. His face - pale, sharp, and delicate - concentrated deceptively on the lone tear that had started to trail down his finger.

"I never said we were better," he laughed. Then his eyes captivated mine and my fear magnified tenfold. "But we are better at it."

"At what?"