Children of Fire

Written by Becki

Concepts © Nintendo/Intelligent systems

The feet that step on that clandestine shore

Are bruised with trails passed, one last remains

The darkest path, with terrors vast in store

To claim the beacon's fire, the light and flame

A loneliness now fills the silent road

So cold and black, such emptiness that grows

Of all the tests, how burdensome this load!

A nascent hunger fights, no bound it knows

She raced across the shoals with inhuman speed and dealt a hard blow on his jaw with a crack of her knuckles. The young man staggered back from the impact and held his chin in astonishment. Standing where she was, she defiantly tossed her lovely head away, letting the long tresses of gold fly in the breeze. Though her eyes held a challenging green glare, he remained undaunted.

"Yes, I suppose I deserved that," he said after a few seconds. Behind him his younger brothers were howling with laughter in their small boat. The eldest of them frivolously addressed the maiden.

"Tell us, Lisandre, what did the old fool do now?" She gave them a look that quickly begot silence. With eager expectations, the boys let down their fishing nets to watch the confrontation.

"You were terrible," she said, her voice shaking. The young man calmly held her gaze with clouded gray eyes. "Kiros."

"You're right," he answered meekly. "I should have exercised more discretion."

"You aren't even sorry!" Lisandre accused, for his face held no remorse. "How could you humiliate me like that?"

"Well, I certainly apologize if I hurt your reputation," he said finally, looking away. "Though my apology might not be enough."

"It's not!" Snapping angrily, she retrieved her dropped shoes. "J-just… don't come near me again!" Turning without sparing him another glance, she fled the beach. Her protruding knuckles stung smartly as ran. When she was out of their range, she placed them against her lip and sucked on them.

With such humiliation, any other girl in the village would have been weeping as she made her way back home. But Lisandre, who was nearly two heads taller than almost all of her female peers and possessed the strength to challenge any man, was hardly even mourning her reputation. In fact, though a small part of her was angry, she was laughing inside.

Of course, she was not really angry at Kiros for what he did; they had been friends for far too long for such a petty exploit to sever their bond. Granted, it was devastating for the entire community for a man to steal a kiss from an already engaged woman. It was hardly even a brush of the lips on the corner of her mouth, but everybody had seen it, so therefore it was worse than it really was. Gossip had circulated the entire city by the time she had caught up to the culprit to deliver a well-deserved bruise… but even so, she was not really angry at him. He had damaged her name, but what he had done was a distressing blow against the cultural norm for the entire community.

"I applaud you, Kiros," she said when she reached the top of the hill. She looked down at the harbor where the fishermen were preparing their next cast off. "It has been one of your best practical jokes."

A joke, she thought, as if trying to console herself. Replacing her shoes, she made her way down the slope and did not look back again.

- - -

Alaeta was sewing beside the window, her pale fingers moving expertly with the needle. The gold-haired maiden stopped her own work and watched enviously. Whenever she attempted to sew, the pointed end of the needle somehow always ended up sticking deep within one of her fingers.

But Alaeta was gifted with nearly every skill that was considered feminine. She could cook, sew and weave, but she would never wed. A black garment like dark water flowed over her head and shoulders. She was a disciple of the elder arts, and was dedicated to her work as the village oracle.

"Are the rumors that I have heard true? You have not been exchanging passionate embraces today, have you, dearest?" Alaeta questioned as she worked. She always called her 'dearest,' though in truth they were nearly the same age. It was really an affectionate title rather than a patronizing one. Lisandre sat at her loom, angrily untangling the mess of yarn on the rows.

"I'm sure whatever you have heard, it was greatly exaggerated," Lisandre replied, but her friend had already guessed what truly happened.

"Kiros…poor boy," the shaman said, smiling sadly, "He must have lost his head at the thought of losing the one he adores."

Lisandre pulled roughly, accidentally tearing the fibers. After a few minutes of frustrated silence, she said softly, "I don't know what you mean."

Alaeta tore the thread and wound it into a knot beneath the collar. The embroidery about the delicate neck was complete. It was to be the bridal dress.

"We have been friends with Kiros since we were young. Even as we grew older and eventually went about our own ways, we have maintained this steady friendship. But Lisandre, you can't tell me that you've never seen that look in his eyes?"

"Please, Alaeta." Lisandre lowered her head and rubbed her eyes with a hand. "What does that matter, anyways? I may as well be married; I can't associate with him in any way like that."

"Your father."

"Indeed?"

"He must have given you that impression, worried that Lord Titus may break off your engagement. You may as well ostracize yourself from every man in the village if you want to quell all your father's fears. Old fool. Tell him that Titus wouldn't dare; he's too fond of you."

Lisandre laughed dryly.

"Which one is the fool?"

- - -

The dress was completed by the following week. Though Lisandre had originally intended to help construct it, Alaeta had done most of the work. It lay on the divan beside the bed, the cream-colored folds mingling in soft streams across the cushions. Lisandre looked at it apathetically whenever she passed.

She remained inside for the remainder of the week, contrary to her love for the outdoors. This was not due to her duties overseeing her wedding; in fact, she was rather remiss when it came to that. No, she was doomed to stay in the company of the village women who came to prepare her as a bride. They were worse than Alaeta when they attempted to teach her the lore of a wife.

Surprisingly enough, very few people said anything about the incident with Kiros. Lisandre herself had not seen him since the occurrence, but she knew he had not been punished socially for his impulse. More severe news began to emerge as time crept on, news of a grave incident in the east…

"My in-laws live near the Bavelian border," one woman remarked as she kneaded the dough between her fingers. "I do hope that they are well. They were always a foolhardy bunch. I would have serious qualms about living so close to the dragons, and now that they have started to attack…"

"Near Bavel? Folks from Bavel are quite queer..."

Lisandre absently ignored their hearsay as she pound the dough into the bowl with her strong hands. In her thoughts she was contemplating the past rather than the alarming reports of massacre in the east. It had not once crossed her mind that the gossip disseminating through her small kitchen could have to do with an event that could change the course of her life. She was already anxious about her current situation, and there was no need for further talk to ruin her week, or the rest of the days until her marriage, for that matter.

Her stage of blissful ignorance was often a fragile concept, but she had learned to preserve it well. Even when it had once been shattered by Alaeta's verbal observations of Kiros' affection -- an affection that Lisandre had tried to ignore for many years -- she decided that it was the best attitude for a content life.

"…yes, but I've been told that they are actually very peaceful beasts and…"

Mechanically dumping the flabby mixture on the wooden paddle, she pulled apart sticky masses and tried to persuade herself that life as a housewife would not be miserable. It was all by terrible chance that she had been on the beach as Lord Titus entered the harbor on errands. By fate had her comeliness caught his attention, instigating a desire to have her as his own. Had she known that her candor and bold words would have created further fondness on his part, she would have been silent when he addressed her.

As a rebellious adolescent, she swore that she would never marry or leave her home, yet years later she would submit to her father's acceptance of Titus' proposal and would not argue against shipped off to the other side of the bay to live with her husband.

Sometimes, I wonder why. Her lashes dropped as her eyes lowered. I spent so much of my childhood dreaming of a free life. Oh Alaeta… if Kiros only knew what I once wanted, he would never forgive me for doing this.

"Lisandre!"

She looked up, somewhat disoriented by her reverie, at Irene, a middle-aged woman and the queen of all telltales. She need not ask before Irene repeated her question.

"What say you, child? If the dragons are peaceful, why do you suppose there is this quarrel between us?" Lisandre opened her mouth to say that she did not know.

"If humans are peaceful, why are there quarrels between them?" Eyes fell upon the black-cloaked girl standing in the doorframe, her pale hands leaning on the peeling wood. Lisandre closed her mouth and wiped her hands on her apron. "Why do we fight with each other in our houses and streets, and then ask why others fight?"

Alaeta raised her eyes in a soft challenge. The women were silent and glanced at the hostess in surprise.

"The world is larger than Lystra," Lisandre said quietly and shrugged.

- - -

When war officially broke on the eve of her wedding, Lisandre was yet unperturbed by it. She finally had the courage to try on her white gown and cut her hair to a proper length. When Alaeta's scissors cut off the locks, Lisandre felt as if years of growth were being severed and then thrown away. The waves of gold that once fell down to her waist bounced at her shoulders. As her mind was filled with tomorrow, her friend, however, was anxious about something entirely different. She was more reserved than usual, and prepared Lisandre with actions that seemed perfunctory.

There was more rush and more work for the following hours. That evening her father would give her his final blessing, and Alaeta would embrace her. That night she would hardly sleep with the myriad of regretful thoughts swelling deep within her.

The few hours in the morning were nebulous and passed all too quickly. When Lisandre stepped aboard the vessel that would take her to her groom's house, she pulled her cloak closer to her face to hide her eyes from the coast that she had once held so dear. She would remember little of the ride across the bay, but in her mind she would never forget the lights, the laughter, the sorrow…

When Titus reached over to stroke her freshly cut hair and kiss her brow, she realized that she no longer belonged to herself.

After a few weeks of living under someone else's roof and directing the house's activities, Lisandre learned complacency. She really was not unhappy. After all, her husband was a kind man with the ambition to see to her well-being and contentment. But she was not happy either; her longings caused her mind to think of the sunny shore of her happy town. Sometimes she longed to see Alaeta's wistful smiles and even Kiros' dark, solemn expression after the afternoon catch. So with sighs and silence, Lisandre insipidly carried on.

On occasion she would peer out of her window to see the passing soldiers in the streets. Titus busied himself with his own personal army as word of widespread danger leaked into the public. As more gossip of the burgeoning war dispersed, Lisandre still kept her ears closed. She did not open them to the stark truth of reality until Lord Roland was invited to her husband's table.

- - -

He was young, far younger than Lisandre had envisioned. When she heard stories about a Lystran general recruiting an army to march east, she had never imagined that he was the amiable youth sitting at her husband's side; he was considerably younger than Titus and was a few years Lisandre's junior. It seemed a pity that such a fair lad should darken his future with an ugly thing as combat.

But he spoke earnestly in a remarkably ingenuous manner and surrounded himself with loyal men and loquacious officers. They sat at the long table and enjoyed the meal that she had so carefully prepared hours before. The dinner was full of friendly discourse of the war and of other things, of utter optimism and complete enthusiasm. As the only woman at the dinner, Lisandre preserved a prudent silence. With careful ears and eyes she listened and watched. Her interest lay particularly upon Lord Roland. In her entire life, she had never met anybody quite like him.

"I hope to move by ship, to approach Bavel from its east most coast. My father has the larger army of Lystra moving east by foot. This way, he can save many of the denizens of Lystra-Bavel and at the same time, we can attack from the outskirts. If all goes well in these lands, there will be some brave and able men among your company that will increase our small army and strengthen our cause." His clear eyes were full of a hope that seemed impossible to extinguish.

"In truth, I have little power out of my realm," Titus said, fingering his goblet. "But I will do everything that I can to help you financially. My wife's father holds some respect over the village across the bay; if you tell him that we sent you, he will surely do what he can."

"That is good to hear." Lord Roland grinned and brushed his teal hair from his eyes. "The only possible way we can hope to stand against the might of Bavel is to stand together."

"Truer words have never been spoken in these months of darkness," one of the commanding officers asserted, "They are fearsome creatures, but we hold the advantages of numbers and will."

"And you will not be short of strong wills or courage here," her husband smiled weakly, "I am not a man of the sword, but our fathers have lived on these lands for years. For generations we have learned to defend it from pirates and storms, and we are a stubborn people. I can promise you that you will not leave these coasts tomorrow without a larger army."

Lord Roland thanked him handsomely with sincere words. But after that night, a rising fear welled up inside Lisandre's heart.

- - -

"I have come to say my farewell."

Lisandre glanced up in surprise, and with a creased brow, looked into Alaeta's face. The shaman sat calmly in her seat, and smiled in her usually sorrowful way. When she had arrived at Titus' hall that morning in an unexpected visit, Lisandre had been overjoyed. For the hours they had together, they talked of normal things and took pleasure in each other's company as they had always done. But when those sad words left her mouth, Lisandre was only bewildered.

"Farewell?"

"I have seen many things of late. There is a bright future of Lystra, but the shadows of Bavel are so great... I have come to realize that there is nothing left for me here. Wait, do not say anything yet. There is a great teacher, a man with skills in the elder arts. They say that his proficiency in his magic surpasses even knowledge and understanding, being and nonexistence. His path and mine are inextricably bound together, and I am fated to follow him."

"I--" Lisandre looked down at her untouched food. "I see."

"Oh dearest! Do not look so crestfallen. It is my destiny to play a role in amending this madness, because his path will lead to Bavel."

"So you would go to war!" Lisandre nearly shouted. "With this man that you have never met? Oh Alaeta!"

"…Lisandre, darker forces draw nigh. But how could you know, how could you see? I cannot even begin to tell you what nightmarish visions I have seen in my sleep. I have never been more terrified in my life! You do not think that I made this decision lightly, do you?"

"No!" the other consented, "of course not. I just -- I just don't understand. What have we done to provoke this insanity?"

"Even I do not know. I cannot believe that these long years of peace have been disregarded for no reason; the dragons are far wiser than any human being alive. No, there must be a reason… but I think the truth is far from us now. Only blood can justify."

Lisandre pressed her hand to her mouth and took a moment to think. So all of those innocent people, Lord Roland and his men, the recruits from her beloved land, and even Alaeta, would shed their blood over an unknown dispute. Her heart lurched at another thought. Gripping the side of her chair, she returned her gaze to the shaman's eyes.

"You have other news." The statement was whispered with anxious tightness. Alaeta somberly turned her head away. Lisandre stood up, her green eyes wild.

"Lord Roland came to our village a few days passed looking for soldiers! Who volunteered? Tell me!"

"Almost all the boys… I know that you fear that I will say his name," she replied calmly, looking down at her hands. Lisandre slowly sat down, struck dumb by her epiphany. "Yes, he too, has gone."

- - -

There was one place that was the center of her world once. In the deep gash of a cleft beyond her sunny shore, there was a hidden glade where a small freshwater stream led to a pool gathered in the cracks of rock. The young children would gather in that shelter between the trees to play and drink from the spring. Almost all of the youngsters of the town had been there at least once.

During the summer, when the girls studied domestic chores, the boys came to the glade. As the only child of a widowed man, she found that the company of the fisher's sons was more to her liking. For years she spent her youth competing against Kiros and his brothers. Though she could hardly weave or sew, she could throw a deadly hatchet or accurately spear one of the quick minnows that inhabited the spring.

Lisandre had forgotten about that place. The glade represented a forbidden picture that clung to the furthest recesses of her memory. Her rebellious association with the boys was always followed by disapproval by a quiet, conservative town. When she was coaxed into learning her predestined trade, the spring never entered her mind again.

After Alaeta's announcement, on a stormy night after hours of contemplation and disbelief, Lisandre was enticed into a disturbed sleep. Her visions was ineffably real; she could feel the wet sand beneath her feet and the pelting rain on her face. There was a great storm, with a night darker than darkness. But somehow in that blackness, she knew that she was looking up at the cleft.

With the heavy arms of a dreamy stupor, she began to climb the cliffs, moving toward the glade. The thunder was deafening, but not a single flash of lighting lit up the night sky. Her feet fell on solid ground of the clearing, but cold water washed over her bare toes. Kneeling at the mouth of the stream, she dropped her palms into the current. With those sore hands, she gathered the icy water and tasted it with her lips.

It was so unbearably salty, as if all the tears in the world flowed into that pool. She wanted to spit it out and gasp for breath… but she kept drinking. She drank and drank until all of her fond memories ran dry.

- - -

Somehow, she then knew.

The prophetic images in her dream that had infected her most cherished childhood symbols haunted her in the morning. When she awoke, her bed was soaked with rain. The window had shattered during the storm, and there were glass and shredded curtains all over the floor. Stepping out of the drenched covers, she tied up her hair and left the room.

"I will go with you."

The shaman stopped still. She had stepped out of her door in her customary cloak and tome in hand when an unexpected caller arrived. Gravely, she shut it and turn to greet her.

"I knew you would."

"They are all dead. You knew that they would not…"

"I'm so sorry, Lisandre."

"I -- I'm not that weak. I've made up my mind, I will not flee from this anymore. If I am fated to be a part of this war, I will run toward it instead of crawling away from it." Covering her face, she took in a shaking, weeping breath. "Perhaps one day, he can forgive my blindness."