K'shalt Chronicles - Iceflame (B1)

The promise

Scarlett

I woke up with my sheet clinging damply to my skin, and  the memory of what had woken me.  Fleeting images danced in my mind, mostly all of fire.  I could probably draw each one if given the chance, as I had seen them time and time again.  I concentrated on each image, seeing them from another person's point of view.  A little girl, sitting up in bed, wondering why it had gotten warm.  The wall adjacent to her glowing orange.  A woman mid-stride calling her name, picking her up and running.  Flames chasing her, blocking her exit.  And the pair lying outside in a heap of shattered glass. 
     That fire had killed my grandfather, the only one that treated me as I had felt I should be at my young age; as an equal, not as the child I had been.
     I remember seeing the house again... Or what was left. I can't remember exactly what it looked like, but I do remember what I found fluttering by the base of a nearby tree.
    A painting. It had been one of my mother's, she often painted portraits, and this one had been of the family... Grandma, Grandpa, my mother, father and me.

Although it had been charred nearly beyond recognition, I remember my parents had it; I must have brought it to them. In that particular bit of memory, I can almost hear the despaired sobs of my mother as she held my father close.

I don't remember any other house there. Or the name of the place. So, as the years went by, my mind filled in some blanks using things I know now, and didn't then. Things like that, was when my parents decided to leave. To move far away from the place my grandfather had died and to try and start life anew.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Now, we live in a small desert village called K'shalt.  Our village is in a vulnerable place, we're at the edge of a forest on one side, and to all other sides, giant desert dunes. Every few years, the best person in each of the two categories in school- combat with weapons and without- are chosen to help protect us. They have no choice but to work together, even if they don't much like each other. But if you're an exceptional student, there's there is an exception to being chosen - you get to choose your acquaintance.

     Everybody knows who is going to be chosen this year, and everybody knows who he'll choose as an acquaintance - me.

I met him on my first day, and I can still recall most of the details. I had tried my hand at fencing, and failed terribly. People had been laughing at me all through the halls. But then this small, brown-haired boy had stepped through the crowd and said, "You guys are mean! You're no better! You can't tell her to be good her first day!"

I remember almost laughing at him but he had sounded so serious, and had been trying to help me. A single boy, standing up against a crowd; surely, he'd be laughed at along with me. But, I know the crowd scattered, and I was never laughed at like that again.  I figured out his name from things the crowd yelled in their retreat, saying sorry, or trying to shed their part of the blame.

Stunned didn't begin to describe the way I felt then, why had a crowd of people listened to a single boy's opinion? What, was so special about this Pyro? Were they scared of him? And if so, did I have reason to be scared too?

I think I asked why he helped me, because not only did his next actions explain, but his following words changed my life.

"You wouldn't believe me even if I told you" Then something muttered about dreams and parents.

"What do you mean?" I had asked wondering whether to be curious or scared. "I'll believe you, promise." He seems so mature for a kid in my mind, old past his years.

"Maybe..." He started walking to the doors without saying another word, I scurried to catch up to him. We had stepped outside and he had said quietly, almost shyly, "I had a dream that you would come, that those people would be mean to you and that we would be good friends. Do you believe me?" That was strange, but.. he seemed nice, and, why would he want to lie? I laugh at how much of a naïve little kid I was, even if I was only six years old.

"I... think so." His face had immediately brightened in childish glee and his voice, more perky, no longer sounding old beyond his years,

"Okay then, you should probably know something."

"What?" I had asked.

"This" He'd said, showing me his palm, and causing me to freeze, because flickering there, had been a small, glowing ball of flame.

I remember crying, no screaming, no running. Just crying.

"What's wrong?" Pyro had asked, sorrowful.

"Not you" I had sobbed, "Before we came here... house..." I sniffled, "fire..."  I remember he was still there when I had finished crying, which was nice.  And then our most defining moment.

"Fire doesn't always hurt."  With his words, another ball of orange flame had appeared in his hand.  I watched it warily, and jerked my arm back when he reached for my shoulder with it.

"I won't let it hurt you, don't worry." He had said gently reaching again for my arm.

"P-promise?" I had asked shakily, while trying to find resolve; even then, I wanted to be stronger than I knew I was.

"Promise." He had replied solemnly, sounding old again.

As the flame had touched my shoulder, I had flinched, afraid of meeting the same fate as my grandfather. But the pain hadn't come. Instead, warmth, not painful in the least, but comforting; it had been a promise.  A promise that as long as this strange boy was my friend, fire would never hurt me.