Of Blood and Fire

Chapter 19 - ?????

There is something that has taken me seven years to realize.

I am alone.

Surely, this undeniable truth has been deep in my subconscious for an indeterminate amount of time. What did I expect when I ran? My intentions were to flee civilization, to get away from all the people. I wanted to be by myself, relying on no one but Nemur and my own instincts. I escaped. I am free.

But there are ties impossible to cut. Intuition, perhaps. There is a slight feeling that my brother is undertaking a trial right now, one that will decide the path he walks wherever he ends up. I hope to the ends of the earth that he does not choose the same fate as I did so foolishly, terrified for myself and oblivious to the needs of my family. He will need the support of the others to get through this storm - choices, choices, always keeping tabs. I have seen the silhouettes of women in the windows of my home. Or, at least, what was my home.

Nemur is keening by the fire. I must go to him, as I know he has lost like I have. I can see the flash of his fur, turned silver by the glow of the flame, and the blue winter sky of his eyes. He nudges a dead deer toward me, which I must skin, and I do so slowly. Despite the fact that I no longer have responsibilities, other than taking care of Nemur, which is a small task in itself as he is self-sufficient. I have learned along with him the ways of this world, the ways of my secluded life away from my roots. From the start, as he stumbled into my cave wailing and lost, a tiny cub crusted in snow from the recent blizzard, there was a spark - a connection. Both of us were wary. But both of us were also desperately lost. And out of desperation comes the unbreakable - albeit unspoken - agreement of mutual survival. How could I live if he could not hunt? How could he live if I could no longer offer him the shelter I can today?

He is hungry, and so am I.

My spit is suspended over the licking tongues of heat. Nemur prefers raw meat; despite my outlandish lifestyle I consider it unsanitary and regard the practice with some degree of barbarism. He is still skittish around the sparks, not daring to venture any closer than past the circle of embers three feet out from the pit. I do not berate him, though I have created this fire by will of mind.

After all, who else holds an inferno in their fingers? Who else can summon up a blaze with no more than a mere thought?

I am a firehands, and no one else in Arehlia is the possessor of this gift.

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SOOOOOOOO, I bet you're all dying to know: What's a firehands?

You'll have to read on to find out! (not that I've actually written another chapter by the time this goes up, ha ha)