Dark Destinies- Clare Siobhan (Fanfiction) Magical Generation

Chapter Eight- Wreck

There are many things I regret in my life.  Things I say, things I do.  But something I cannot help but have to accept me coming here in the first place.  No matter what, I cannot change that.

Even so, it is my greatest regret of all.

Birds chirp cynical melodies past the sun's sunlight.  The wind engages a torrent of darkness among the gusty pine trees.  As rays stretch out, grazing its warm palms against the field's flora, spearing into open cuts in the forest, broken branches dig themselves into the ground surrounding the beauty like claws ready to scarify.  Like thorns on a rose, the area pronounces the radiance of beauty and will for shed blood.  Emerald eyes blare at the pages, scrutinizing the ancient markings and swirls.  Days of exhausted dirt held hostage under his fingernails, fingers brush against the pages, underlining the words as he mouths them in rhythms.  

"Are you sure about this?" a modulated voice queries amongst the muttering in his brain.

"Of course I am, I studied this for weeks," 

"Yeah, but Ro..." Ambrose doesn't answer as his eyebrows furrow and his lips continue to spell out enchantments.  A chuckle disrupts the silence, choking the process as the young boy looks up from his concentration at the young warlock before him.  Postured with crossed arms, his sleeves are rolled up in untidy bundles across his forearms.  Catching Ambrose's gaze, he tilts his head lazily as strands of raven-black hair fawn the spark in his eyes.  A smirk is etched on his face as a slur of clear words leave his mouth, "Isn't this dangerous?"

"You're one to talk.  Can't even keep a blizzard to himself,"  

"It was a mistake and you know that.  At least your room isn't hot anymore?"  Scoffing, the boldness in his eyes shimmer as Ambrose lowers his gaze back to the book.  Kneeling over, he feels his knees root into the grass, thin turf curling up his legs reaching up to his skin.

"My room turned into a wreck thanks to you.  It looked like a winter from Narnia.  Had to ask Val to clear it up-"

"Would that make me the Ice Queen then?" Vireo cheekily replies as he flicks his finger producing snow from the tip as it shoots out mercilessly.

"Sure..." Empty words answer back as Ambrose's attention slowly drifts away from his words.  The sense in the literature speaks to him.  "Oh... so that's how you do it..." he mumbles.

Groaning, Vireo brings his hand to the hanging strands on his face and pulls them back, revealing the freckles into the sun's light.  Like sprinkled dust of magic on his cheeks and nose, they bounce up and down as he smiles.  

"Ro, come on.  Are we doing this or not?" 

"I don't see why you are being impatient.  You're just standing there doing nothing,"

"Exactly..." he sighs.

Memories flood Ambrose's thoughts as he closes his eyes, shutting the cruel world he was born in.  Magic surrounded the life he lived, yet none lived in him.  His spirit danced at the thought if finally owning a whisk of magic.

Why, in this world, with so much magic... Why must Vireo be overflowing with power while I am drained from it all?  

Like a parched riverbed that pleads for water, his spirit yearns for it.  His soul cracks, desperate for a taste of magic, something nature had robbed him of.  As his eyelids reveal his glimmering emeralds, he brings out his hand and freezes as he peers down at it, the lines edged into his skin, the dirt piling in the soles and pores.