Prince of Fire

Chapter 2

A soft lull echoed in the blackness around him. He recognised the tune: their song - the one they always danced to at balls and even behind locked doors where no one would see if she accidentally stepped on his toes or if he spun her the wrong direction, resulting in a tragic fall.

The voice humming was angelic, heaven to his ears.

The face looming above him, with its turquoise eyes and blonde hair, belonged to an angel. He could see her halo glowing above her head in the blinding brightness that surrounded them both. And that must be the silhouette of magnificent wings looming behind her.

This is it, he thought, I have died.

He was convinced of this. He died and Death was mocking him in the cruel, cold way only Death could. Maybe he already made it to Hell and was facing his eternal punishment: seeing the one he loves but never being able to touch her, to reach her, to love her-

"And he's alive," the voice sighed, then the angel disappeared from his vision.

He now looked up at the painted ceiling of what he realised was the infirmary. The hand painted masterpiece depicted imagines of the aftermath of past battles. Dead soldiers, covered by their armour, lay on the blood soaked ground as healers flew above them on their angel wings, hands glowing with life.

The memory surged up in his mind.

Night had fallen, which meant bedtime stories. Laurent climbed into his bed in his mother's room, too frightened by the storm to sleep in his room alone tonight, and waited for his mother to emerge from the small kitchen below.

Soon she did, carrying a glass of milk and biscuits in her hand. Chocolate covered biscuits; Laurent's favourites.

She sat on the bed beside his and pulled forth the story book from her drawer. It was a heavy looking volume bound in black leather with a golden phrase on the cover in a language he could not understand.

She read to him about the Battle of Ostrevar, a fairyland long gone. The humans raged a war against the magical beings in their land, proclaiming they leave the lands to the humans. The battle was messy and vicious, lasting several weeks.

After the first week, the humans' loss was evident in their dying numbers; only a thousand were alive and fighting against the unending number of fairies and goblins, vampires and werewolves, witches and spirits.

And so the angels came down from heaven, their hands glowing with golden powder, and sprinkled their magic on the dead human soldiers. They came back to life, but they were no longer regular humans. They possessed elemental powers: manipulation of water, air, fire, and earth.

The humans won the battle and their powers continued down through the generations, fading and weakening the further they got from the angels.

The painting resembled the battle to the exact words of the story. Laurent spied Inanna, the Queen of Heavens, amongst the gods. He saw a human soldier with fire on his hands, a burning fairy crumbling beside him.

Groaning, he tried to sit up, bracing his hand on cloud-soft sheets. Bad idea. His head throbbed in pain, his vision blurred and he fell straight back down.

Fast as the waves, Victoria was beside him, steady hands on his shoulders. "Careful," she warned. "You hit your head badly."

Laurent lifted a hand to his throbbing temple. He felt no bump there, but the cold touch of his fingers sent a sharp, stabbing pain piercing through his head. Dried flecks of blood rained down on the white sheets.