The Isbjørn

Thirty-two

The orange glow of Magic Hour had passed, gone were the shadows of evening and Sri stood alone against the night. Maltecessor clamored around her, yet she felt so utterly alone. Until:

"Bonfire-"

Sri turned at the sound of a human voice. She would never admit it, but it was easy to discern her fellow man from the voice of beast-folk. Whether it was a Lyacoan or a Chyprus, there was a struggle in shaping the words created from human minds. It was as if the maltecessor struggled against them in a subconscious way.

"-I guess that means good-fire, as opposed to the bad sort that burns your town down."

She turned back to the stack of bodies. "And I suppose we have you to thank for that." He and the Lyacoan twins had been their only warning. Had it not been for their quick thinking Landers Weir could have been lost to history.

"Actually, I came here to thank you."

Her gaze switched back to John just in time to see him present her with a messy cluster of speckled geraniums.

"Flowers?"

"It seemed the gentlemanly thing to do."

Sri graciously took the messy bouquet. "Where did you find flowers this time of year?"

"I'll never reveal my source." The dying light revealed a self-satsified grin that he was trying to play off as charming.

"Thank you." She took a moment to take in the floral scent. "But I don't know why you're thanking me."

John shrugged. "For taking care of Daire. For being a gracious host. For all the times anyone of these wretched creatures forget to thank you themselves."

She cocked an eyebrow at his last comment. Of all people, she could tell John did not consider beast-folk wretched. "You say that, but you don't mean it."

"But it's a popular opinion."

"You don't strike me as a man who follows what's popular, Mr. Glass."

"John." He grinned and turned toward the mass of bodies as an eager Lyacoan danced around with igniter fluid with an approving howl from his mates. With the light of a match, the mass of dead were ignited into flame.

A red, orange, and yellow ball of rage roared upward eating its way through the pyramid of bodies intermingled with dry logs at its base. Plumes of black met the night sky, where they were introduced to the late May wind. There was something about the flame that rendered them without smiles, yet content, the echoes of the hearth perhaps whispering of victory, no matter how small.

Sri watched the bonfire as if it could burn up her inner rage; as if her frustrations and anger were the fuel that turned the blue coats into charcoal. She felt the heat dry up her skin, scorching, ordering her a few steps backward, but she did not move. She watched, eyes fully open, posture square to the flames; wishing she could do more, wishing to be more than a woman who could barely handle a rifle in a war that meant the lives of life long friends against people she was meant to call her 'kind'. It was easier to look into the flames when no one else but John watched, there was no need for a mask of docility when it was John watching. Of all the souls there, John understood her struggle.

The smell of the bodies met them soon after. It is a smell that is difficult to describe, but you know it when you smell it. Burning muscle tissue gives off an aroma similar to beef in a frying pan, and body fat smells like a side of fatty pork on the grill- yet your mouth does not water. You will not mistake the scent of human remains for a cookout because a mass of human bodies include all the pieces rejected at a barbecue. When the entire human body is burnes, all the iron-rich blood still sizzles inside and releases the smell of copper. The hair catching on fire produces a sulfurous odor.