The Suggestion Box, Vol. 4: A to Z Challenge

Letter F: "The Flames of Farthen's Eve"

The folks at Farley's always said he had a gift. That's what they would call it.

"You're so talented, Fern!" They would gush. "The fire is like clay in your hands, you can make it do anything!"

A bitter smirk curled his lips as he sent a few stray flames skittering toward an unassuming corner, where they would fester until he gave the word. He would make the fire do things tonight, things these people had never seen before, things they wouldn't be prepared to stop.

The market square ahead of him hummed and clattered with activity. Most merchants had their booths already secured, prepared for the Farthen Festival beginning tomorrow. Normally, the celebration lasted a whole fortnight. Fern smiled to himself. With any luck, these folks wouldn't even see it begin.

As he made his way through the alleys, he reflected on how this town remained the most familiar to him, out of all the cities he'd performed in. Yet this town, out of all other towns, held that special magic that returned him to a small boy of eight years old, running down the narrow, twisting streets, down alleys barely wide enough for him.

He didn't have a prayer of fitting in them now, but the fire could. He let the small, glowing bundles roll like living embers into the spaces.

The quick slap of feet caused him to turn, a splay of flames in his palm.

The big round eyes in the tiny face before him held the glint of reflected fire.

"Pretty flowers!" The tiny person gushed, her mouth gaping in awe.

Fern clenched his fist, squelching the gleam and the fire.

The little girl wilted without the light, and she scurried away back to the square without another sound.

Fern stood rooted to the spot. It wasn't the first time a big-eyed little tyke had been drawn to the flame like a moth to a candle. Most children huddled behind their terrified, resentful parents, trying to withdraw themselves as far away from the flame as they could.

Not Fiona. Nothing he could do ever fazed Fiona.

Fern hesitated the merest fraction of a moment, tiny wisps of flame in hand. He knew exactly what she would say, what she would do, if she were there. He could just picture her, standing in the street just behind him. Watching.

He would turn, and meet her gaze.

"What are you doing, Nando?"

Only she understood his name. Everyone else could only manage as far as "Fern", and besides, Freddy Farley told him that nobody used names like "Fernando" anymore.

Except Fiona.

The flame puckered and hissed, the heat of it nipping at the quick of his nail. Fernando dropped it and sent it on his way.

Fiona wouldn't stop him. She probably believed the news he was dead. He remembered spreading that rumor himself, just to keep her from searching.

Almost the same way she fought to keep him from searching.

She would try to outsmart him at every turn. Her persistence made him regret ever confiding in her.

"Please, Nando!" She would beg from the mouth of his tent, the minute he opened his eyes. "I want to help you find your family!"

"No, Fiona!" He would growl. "Your place is here with Farley and the others."