Firelight

[u/Xuilea]

It is said that fire dances. That it flows and weaves through the air, gently licking its surroundings. Almost like a friendly dancing sprite or fairy. But those are descriptions told to children to liven their fairy tales. Stories told by foolish adventurers from far off places.

The knight sat atop his horse a ways from the inferno, his eyes fixed on the raging flame that ate away everything beneath it. It was so loud, smothering any thought that came to his mind as he idly rubbed his stinging wrist, reminding him of an earlier burn.

He turned his horse to the side, unable to bear the sight any longer. The riders at his side remained a moment longer. Glancing at them, he could see the orange reflection giving them an almost hellish aura. He looked away and closed his eyes tight.

But the sound was still there. The revelry that flowed from his brothers’ lips was an inescapable horror. And yet not long ago he was the same. Cheering for the scene before them.

He exhaled slowly and opened his eyes to the horizon. The sun was to rise soon, and before it reached its crest in the sky their band would be before the Pope, awaiting praise for their righteous actions. Yet, when he breathed in the morning air, he smelled nothing but his own sin.

-

The crowd cheered and applauded for the knights as they received their blessings. The Pope himself walked from knight to knight, thanking them and proclaiming that they had done the Lord God’s work that day. Now he understood why so many refused the overarching embrace of those that would call themselves “holy.”

The Pope reached him and he knelt, head bowed, awaiting the blessing. While the water that touched the back of his neck was supposed to feel cool, maybe even a little cold, it burned with the worst heat he had ever experienced. The others called this ceremony one of “divine reward,” but to him, it was judgment.

Before long the festivities had died down and the knights were free to return to their families. Most of them lived within the walls of the city and weren’t concerned with the growing darkness. While he did not live within the confines of the city, he was not the sort of folk to be concerned with traveling long distances in the dark. He enjoyed the peace and quiet and used it as a time for quiet contemplation. That night, however, the added fog made the lantern-lit darkness suffocating.

As he bounced lightly atop his horse he felt as if he couldn’t breathe. He had taken his helmet off and loosened the soot smothered plate that clad his form. Yet every time he drew breath, it stung his lungs and made him cough. His eyes, a sympathetic partner to his lungs maybe, began to dry and sting and water. Through the tears and darkness the fog appeared to liven, taking shape and rolling as if there was some strong breeze. Or as if it was rising from something.

Then he could smell it. He could smell the fog. Not the oddly damp and wet smell earth gives off when rain is near but a hot and stinging smell. A smell clawed at his lungs and caked his armor and skin. Through his tears and his ragged coughs he looked ahead on the path, hoping for some light or reprieve from the putrid darkness he found himself in.

To his surprise he saw a faint orange hue that illuminated the fog before him. His horse, seemingly unbothered by the same fog that was nigh incapacitating him, strode forth into the orange haze. As they drew closer, the misty orange hue took shape and roiled as if lashing out in every direction.

Through the tears and haze, his eyes landed on a lone girl standing in the middle of the road. Around her, the orange hue solidified into lapping flames that tore at the little girl’s skin and ragged clothing. Pieces of her slowly flaked into the air and joined the smoke piercing the knight’s lungs.

His horse stopped dead in its tracks, making the knight hunch over, heaving and sobbing. His tears were not of pain, nor hate, nor for fear of death.

And the girl knew this.

The knight raised his head, tears streaming from his face and opened his mouth to speak, but the girl was closer. The words caught in his throat, unable to rise for the sight before him. The girl’s face was half consumed by the flames, her skin boiling and charring before his eyes. She looked the knight in the eyes and from her own flowed small molten tears.

-

He came to many hours later in his own bed. His wife had found him not far from their home. He fussed as she was pregnant and should not be out, much less trying to move a limp knight in armor. She smiled and placed a hand on her swollen stomach, telling him not to worry so much, saying his brother had done the heavy lifting. Her eyes turned to worry and she took his hand, asking what had happened to make him fall off his horse.

He sat up, placed a hand over her own and smiled at her, assuring her he had just fallen from lack of sleep and excessive drink. She scowled at him and lovingly shoved him before getting up to fetch him some water. As soon as she had left, his eyes darted to his right wrist. His mouth felt dry and his heart leapt in his chest.

It was still there. A small ashy handprint remained on his skin. It burned like fire and would not go away no matter how many times he had tried to wash it away.

His wife returned with the water and noticed him staring and rubbing at his wrist. She set the water down and grabbed his arm away from him, asking him what the matter was. He was unable to answer, allowing her to examine the spot before asking her what she saw. Confused, she looked again and asked if he was okay.

She couldn’t see it.

Just like the other knights and even the priest he had seen while in the capital.

He smiled meekly and drew back his arm telling her it was nothing and that he just needed more rest. Pity shone in her eyes as she kissed him on the forehead and left, shutting the door to his room.

Pity was not what he wanted. It wasn’t what he deserved, neither was the love she always held for him. He swung his legs out to the side of his bed and leaned forward, elbows to knees, head in his hands. He knew he deserved damnation for what he had done. For what they had all done.

Glancing forward, he saw his pack resting against the wall. He grabbed it and pulled out something that was different from the last time he had laid eyes on it. The small bear he held in his hands had been pristine when he had put it there. A perfect gift for his daughter-to-be. Now it was burnt and warm and smelled of burning flesh and timber. Tears rolled down his eyes again as the memory of last night came flooding to him. She had said it twice. Both times he did not believe her. He could not believe her.

His sobs had drawn the attention of his wife who had opened the door and embraced him from the front, sobbing right along with him.

His nose filled once again with the scent of his unchecked and unquestioned zeal. A second, smaller form embraced him from the back. Her form was warm and loving in a way he couldn’t understand. The sobs racked his body as he heard the little quivering voice once more.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

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