Herah flinched away from the accusation.
The ash is this coming from?
“What? No!”
“Really?” Rouge tilted her head to the side frowning and raised a brow, “It’s kinda hard to tell. Wouldn’t you agree, love?”
Orange looked between his wife and child, still grinning.
“I rarely take our child’s actions personally, my Precious Tinder.”
“Hah!” Herah shouted, enjoying a small victory as Rouge turned a glare on her husband.
“But that doesn’t mean your mother isn’t justified in her feelings, Petite-flamme.”
Herah’s jaw snapped shut, her small victory matched with an equally small defeat.
“Well,” Rouge looked back at Herah, still glaring, “While your father might not care, that doesn’t change the fact you’re spitting in our faces!”
The fuck!?
“How!?” Herah growled out in offense.
Rouge snarled back in response.
“How? Fucking how!? Herah, you just dropped out of the academy your father and I worked for cycles to get you into! Hunting down Noir, setting a home up here, getting the coward to hear us out, threatening his ass to stop being a bitch! We did all of that, and you just fucking quit!”
Herah leaped to her feet and pointed accusingly at her mother.
“You sent me to a place filled with Manquant de chaleur and Houille who eat up everything they say!”
“Because that’s most of us, Herah!” Rouge shouted back in exasperation, “You’ve known for cycles now that worshippers of La Flamme are a dying breed. The only Brûlé within thousands of etrèmolikas to us is you! Finding another on planet is like searching for your own bullet in a battlefield!”
That’s not the point!
Green flames flared from Herah’s nostrils, her anger rising as a growl slipped from her lips.
“I can learn from someone unlike me. I learn from you and Dad, and I’m willing to learn from Feu Rose. But that academy is filled with the weak-willed! And I have nothing to learn from them!”
Rouge’s head burst into indigo flames, the overwhelming spice of anger clouding her scent.
“And here you show yourself to be but a child! Strength, mental or physical, is never a metric to quantify whether or not you can learn something from someone. Your teachers were weak, I do not disagree, but they still had much to impart upon you. You could’ve learned Science in a proper environment, more about the proper metals to put into weaponry, how we run our empire, or plenty of information and skills which could help you pursue your dreams!”
“Your mother is right, Petite-flamme.” Orange interjected; his grin relaxed. Though the way her father looked between herself and her mother warned the artist of potential intervention. “I have learned much from the weak-willed.”
Even with both her parents agreeing, Herah felt undeterred in her belief.
Why can’t you both just get it!?
“I won’t let weaklings guide my actions!”
Head still in flames, Rouge reeled back for a moment, her scent becoming even spicier.
“You won’t? You won’t? You fucking won’t!?” The mother rose from her seat and marched over to her daughter, walking across the rock perch separating the two. Stopping before the artist, Rouge still towered a foot over her elevated height. “Since you know what you won’t do, tell me Herah, what are you going to do now? What are you going to do to pursue your dreams!?”
“I—” Herah paused, her brain unable to supply an answer. The artist hadn’t thought about what happened after school. There was still sparring and spending time with her parents, working on her art, and worshiping La Flamme to do, but none of these things had a direction to them.
None of it leads into either me smithing for the Nettoyants or convincing our people to turn back to La Flamme. None of it offers a path forward towards my dreams.
The artist tried and tried to come up with something, anything to do without the academy. Sure, the place sucked, but Herah had just made progress with Rouge. Clearly potential was there for the artist to move forward with her goals. But that potential, that progress, had been tossed out as soon as Herah quit. The artist wouldn’t return to school, her word and pride demanded no retreat on her actions.
Maybe I could learn with Feu Rose out of class? But her event is to keep her busy for seasons, potentially a cycle. To work around that and classes just to teach me, ridiculous! But if not Feu Rose, then who or what? What am I supposed to do?
A realization struck Herah.
I don’t know the path forward now.
The artist felt like an idiot.
And her mother smelt it.
“Oh!” Rouge leaned down, the flames around her head dispersing as her forehead bumped her daughter’s and the pair locked eyes. Herah saw the tiredness, the anger, and the sheer disappointment that her mother now stunk of.
The artist felt even dumber, a pit forming in her stomach as shame made itself known. Leaving as Herah had done did nothing for anyone, and as the artist now realized, disrespected her parents.
Both unforgivable.
“Have you only now realized your stupidity? Have you only now realized that you fucked up? Have you only now realized that you’ve walked right into a wall that you don’t know how to bust through? I’m glad you finally caught up! I’ve been waiting for you to see the true pits of your idiocy for over a cycle now!”
Herah’s vision blurred, watching silently as her mother turned away and continued her rant.
“But, of course, I’m sure all you’re gonna do is dig your fucking claws in and keep trying to burn a path forward! You complete and total idio—”
“Rouge.”
Herah dipped her head and plumped down to wrap her arms around her legs as her mother whipped around and turned a glare onto her father.
“What!?”
Herah didn’t look to Orange but could feel his gaze land upon her pitiful self. Not that the artist cared much for it.
Trying and failing to hold back the tears pouring down her face felt more important in the moment.
Putain de bordel de merde! Why can’t I stop crying?!
“You shall cease talking to our child that way.” Herah heard her father say.
“But—” Rouge started.
“—nothing.” Orange finished.
Unwilling to look at her father while crying, Herah couldn’t help but notice Orange reeking of a smell like sadness, but one that felt too soft.
The father smelled of disappointment.
The artist felt her tears come down even harder.
“Far more than I or even our great Mother Flame, your words impact our child. As one of her parents, you are meant to criticize but not ridicule. You will speak properly to our little fire.” Orange spoke soft but firmly, a care filling the words that reached Herah even in her crying. “As I said before, I understand your anger and you have all the right to be mad. But you’re letting it cloud you so much, you aren’t saying what you really want nor need to. Give yourself a minute, and only once you’re together, will you continue speaking. Am I understood, my Precious Tinder?”
A moment of silence filled the home, Herah refusing to look up while still trying to pull in her tears.
Please, I just want this to be over.
“Yes.” Rouge said, her voice soft.
“Good.” Orange responded, before Herah felt his eyes land upon her form once more. "Petite-flamme?”
The artist refused to lift her head, unwilling to face his disappointed eyes without her tears dried.
“Yes?” Herah’s words held neither the energy nor bite normal to them. The artist felt too ashamed, too terribly, to muster anything but meekness before her parents.
“Remember the tale ‘L'’?”
Herah frowned, unsure as to why her father brought up old bed tales now.
“Yes.”
It was a favorite of hers growing up, about a young étincelle who wished to water a dying flower but had no water to speak of. A wandering boar came by and insulted the étincelle, causing them to cry so much that the first and only lake on all of Incendié formed at their feet. Enough water now on hand, the étincelle watered the flower and it became the first plant to fill the only forest on the planet.
Why are you asking me about this father?
“Remember the lesson it taught?” Orange spoke with warm words, words that lacked the disappointment fading from his scent, still tinged with worry.
“We are sensitive people, and it’s good to feel and express our emotions.” Herah whispered back.
The artist felt her father rise and move closer. Once next to her seat, Orange fell to a knee, still towering over his daughter.
“Good, so it’s okay for you to cry. No shame in it. And while I’m sure you feel ashamed realizing your actions, you don’t need to beat yourself up over it, Petite-flamme. You made mistakes, and that’s okay. You’re still moving forward.”
A small peace settled over Herah, her tears stifling. As always, Orange’s words reached where needed most.
The artist looked up to her father and smiled.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Anytime.” Orange responded, winking.
The father moved back to his seat as Herah turned her eyes back onto her mom. Rouge looked back at her daughter, standing next to her bench again with eyes narrowed and lips pursed. The mother no longer stunk of anger, her smell fluctuating into an unreadable mess indicative of the conflicting emotions within.
“Herah.”
“Yes, Mama?”
“It’s unfair that between your father and I, I’m the only one who’s ever made you cry.”
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“….”
Her mother didn’t sound mad or hurt, more defeated in her statement. Herah wanted to respond, but the right words wouldn’t come as her own shame and frustration had yet to fully fade.
Merde.
Rouge raised her hand, causing the artist to pause in her attempts to speak.
“I say that not to make you feel bad, but to admit I’m far worse at talking than Orange is. I don’t know how to filter myself proper.” The mother let out a sigh, glancing away from her daughter, “Sadly, you’ve inherited that from me.”
Herah’s nose twitched, her mother’s scent finally settling into the faint smell of regret tinged with worry.
Why is everyone so worried about me?
“You’ve inherited so much of yourself from me,” Rouge chuckled to herself, letting slip a small smile, “It’s uncanny sometimes dealing with you. You got my rage, you got my stubbornness, ash, the only thing you don’t get from me is your passion and faith.”
Rouge let out a sigh, her tail coiling around her waist as smoke puffed from her nose in three bursts.
“And it’s because you’re so like me that I’m mad. It’s because you’re so like me, that I’m worried about you, Herah.”
An odd look crossed the artist’s face, causing her mother to frown back.
“Don’t look at me like that. Remember why you ended up in Noir E. Blanc Academy?”
“No smith took me as an apprentice.”
“Remember why?”
Memories of fights and arguments with a slew of Cendreux over their disrespect to La Flamme and wholesale abandonment of traditions came to Herah’s mind.
“Disagreements.”
Rouge’s responding expression told Herah her mother thought “disagreements” an understatement.
“Which all have in common?”
“You covered in blood and screaming at me.”
Rouge’s eye twitched and Orange chuckled.
“More than that,” Rouge pointed at Herah, “You started each and every single one of them.”
Herah blinked at that statement, thinking back again to those past encounters. It was always a snide comment or some action the artist saw as disrespectful that set her tirades off. Most weren’t even directed at herself, but Herah took them personally. The artist would love to blame it on them, the smiths, her classmates, her teachers, but the truth of the matter was that Herah in the end always made something into a fight.
Hmm, that might be a problem.
“Herah,” Rouge saying her name caused the artist to focus back on her mother, “You are your worst enemy.”
“What?”
Rouge huffed again before falling to her seat and shaking her head.
“You make all of your greatest problems. You burn bridges like someone who’s strong enough to tough it alone. But you’re not, and you won’t be for a long time.” The mother locked eyes with her daughter, emerald reflected in emerald. “Growing up off planet and without other Cendreux around taught me that well. Death and failure are all that await you down the lonely road you insist on walking.”
Thoughts of her earlier conversation with Rose, after their fight, came to Herah’s mind.
“Feu Rose said something similar.”
Rouge grinned.
“Perceptive, especially for a Feu.”
Rising to her feet, Herah walked to then climbed up the rocky perch that sat between herself and her parents. The artist knelt atop the rock creating an odd sight as her head dipped over its side and its tip rested against her chest.
“I’m sorry, Momma and Dad. I didn’t mean to insult or shame you, yet I have. In my attempts to uphold my Mistress’s honor and values, I have only sullied them and yours as well. Going forward, I will honor you and our Goddess as you all deserve, with my actions.”
Herah leaned up, neither blinking nor thinking as her hand rose to rest against her breast.
Focusing on an ever present but light feeling of something smooth and sharp at the edges of her fingers, the artist felt the sensation grow duller and duller. And as it dulled, Herah directed her attention to her left breast of which her hand currently held.
Numbness blossomed in the artist chest, spreading all throughout as that sharpness at the tips of her fingers grew duller and duller till nothing was felt.
There.
SPLOTCH!
Aware of but not feeling the uncomfortable emptiness in her chest, Herah held her beating heart up to her parents.
“I beg that you accept my apology, though I understand if you do not.”
“Of course,” Orange walked over to Herah and plucked up her heart before crushing it into pulp. “I accept your apology.”
Rouge groaned, smoke leaking out from her nose as her eyes went to the floor.
“Herah, I love you. So, I’ll accept it as well.” The mother waved a hand at the area around the rock perch, “But come on, that’s so much blood.”
Herah glanced down, several large splotches of crimson liquid pooling atop the floor.
Merde, more mess to clean up.
The artist looked back up to her mother, grinning weakly.
“Since I cannot offer my flame, for it is the one thing no Cendreux can give, I offered my heart in apology. As tradition for apologies for great slights.”
Rouge scoffed, smoke shooting from her nose in thin jets.
“Uuh! This is why I don’t follow them.”
Orange’s laugh filled the living room as the father rose and gave his wife a pat on the back.
“Ah, don’t complain, my Precious Tinder. I’ll clean it up.” Orange breathed out a swarm of orange flames that washed over the room then thinned into nothingness, leaving the floor blood-free. “With that said, don’t you two have something you need to do?”
Herah glanced to her mother, the pair sharing a confused look. A second later, the artist’s eyes widened in realization. Her mother mimicked her reaction.
“Do we really have to?” Rouge asked, turning to Orange with a pained glare.
“Yeah?” Herah added, mirroring her mother’s expression.
Though, I wouldn’t honestly hate it right now.
The father tsked; a thread of red flames slipping from his mouth and flying towards an engraved stone tablet on the wall. The crude carvings of Rouge, gentle pressings of Orange, and expert cuts of Herah all marked the tablet written in Ahcendreux but signed by each of them in Cendreuxah.
A lovely, if sometimes annoying bit of doctrine to follow.
“Commandment eight of our Family’s Sixteen Commandments states ‘All arguments, once concluded and emotions settled, shall be officially marked with a hug between arguers.’”
“Why the fuck did I sign that?” Rouge asked with a hiss.
Orange flashed his pristine teeth at his wife.
“Cause you love me.”
“Sure.” Rouge grunted out. “But after the brat heals up.”
The mother rose from her bench and spread her arms awkwardly for her daughter to come forward. Herah looked at her father, who grinned back and nodded towards Rouge.
Neither of you raised a liar. Herah thought as fire burnt away the hole where her heart used to be till it and her breast reformed. Compelled half by her word and half by her genuine enjoyment of hugging, the artist rose up, walked to her mother, and settled into her embrace.
It was hotter than a star, the heat from Rouge’s skin and scales conducting straight into her cooler daughter.
Truly, the second most comfortable heat the artist ever experienced.
Only La Flamme’s had ever outdone her mother’s.
Still, I wouldn’t miss this for anything. Herah thought, basking in her mother’s arm with no sweat or sign of discomfort.
Clearly, Orange would not let that stand.
“Brace yourselves!” The father shouted before snatching the hugging pair into his arms and giving them a big squeeze.
Even nearly a foot shorter than his wife, Orange could easily swing the mother and their daughter through the air while bellowing his warming and love-filled laughs. Without even realizing it, both Herah and Rouge laughed with the father, the family all smiles.
Half an hour would pass, and the family settled into a slightly different arrangement. Rouge now sat with Orange on his couch, laying across his lap while the pair faced Herah with everyone’s back now to the openings in the walls. The artist still sat atop her prism, once again lowered into the ground and her metal block back to its normal height.
All three currently talked about Herah’s future.
“That does leave us with one smith who might be willing to take you in, Petite-flamme.”
Herah raised a brow.
“Why mention them now?”
“Your mother doesn’t like this smith.”
“Iesha is a fucking weirdo! There’s a reason I threatened to bash her head in if I saw her face again.”
“Iesha would love that.”
“My point exactly!”
Her mother’s threat made Herah think back to the beginning of their argument. A question came to mind.
“Earlier, you said you threatened Noir?”
“Yes.” Rouge grunted out, huffing smoke. “The cold fuck didn’t want anything to do with you cause of ‘the bad memories’ surrounding what happened to you and all those kids.”
That must be why Noir’s afraid of Dad. The way they threatened him must’ve dug deep.
Herah felt her flame heating up, Noir’s words from earlier coming back.
“He hated me for it.”
Rouge frowned at Herah, eyes narrowing.
“You will not insult Noir like that.”
“He told me ‘I can’t believe my son died, and you lived.’”
“I’ll kill him.” Rouge said without missing a beat, indigo flames leaking from her eyes and mouth.
“No, you will not.”
Herah looked towards her father, shocked by the quiet and coldness of his words.
A frown adorned his face, his eyes looking past the artist and staring into nothing.
“Ora—”
“The fight between you and Noir would be close. My old partner deserves nothing of that nature for saying such a thing to our child. End of conversation.”’
A pregnant pause filled the air as Orange continued to look past Herah while Rouge looked up to the father with a frown of her own. One sigh later, the mother looked away.
“Fair.”
Thoughts still on Noir and the academy, Herah finally came back to her question from earlier.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Did you tell Feu Rose about my past?”
“No,” Orange looked to Rouge, brows knitted together. “Did you?”
“I don’t fucking talk to people. That’s you shit.”
Orange only frowned deeper as Herah let out a huff.
“Well, Feu Rose seemed to know about it.”
“Maybe Noir?” Rouge offered up.
“No,” Orange dismissed the thought with a shake of his head, “Noir would never talk about it in enough detail unless forced to.”
The father closed his eyes, Herah noticing how his scent steadied in its shifting undoubtedly cause of deep thought. Glancing to her mother, Herah found Rouge looking back just as confused.
Then, Orange’s scent shifted sharply.
“Hmm, maybe.” The father said to himself, his eyes opening once more.
“What?” Rouge and Herah asked together.
“Nothing, I just need to talk to Rose now.”
Herah frowned. Orange wasn’t normally one to keep things close to his chest.
But it’s a losing argument to try and get more out of you, Dad. Momma hurts, and you frustrate.
The artist sighed.
“Feu Rose probably won’t be available till Croissante.”
Rouge raised a brow at this.
“Busy for two days? What the ash has Rose distracted?”
Herah shrugged.
“Busy for some seasons, mentioned going to watch some big event.”
Once again, Orange’s scent shifted sharply.
“What?” The father’s worry overtook his scent, his eyes sharp and lips drawn into a thin line. “Herah, has anything odd happened recently? Anything involving your gift?”
Confused by her father’s hectic smell, Herah’s mind blanked for a moment. Her gift hadn’t acted up in years and her last time using it went off without a hitch. Though—
Whatever that thing that called to me is, I feel like its related for sure. I can feel it in my flame.
The artist nodded.
“Yeah, I’ve been having nightmares about some six-armed figure. During my fight with Feu Rose, I even saw their arm appearing and beckoning me forth three times. The last time the arm appeared, I felt,” Herah frowned to herself, unsure why felt was the right word, “The words: ‘Come to me, Artist.’ “
CRACK!
The artist blinked, the sudden sight of her father’s head snapped to the side and Rouge’s fist jutting past it causing a gasp to tear from her lips.
“You said we’d never have to worry about Recompense!” The mother shouted, head in flames and now on her feet.
“Norwe never comes back to something they quit on.” Orange said, disbelief written on his face and scent. “Not as long as I’ve been alive.”
Norwe.
That name stuck out odd to Herah. For the fourth time that day, the artist had a moment of unfamiliar familiarity. As if Norwe was a name Herah always knew.
Another memory that didn’t fit.
“Who’s Norwe?” Herah asked.
Almost as if in response, a black mass appeared right next to the artist.
Herah and Rouge stared at the mass for a moment, while Orange leaped up and towards the artist.
“No!”
“Wh—”
Before her father could reach Herah, the black mass pulled the artist in and winked out of existence.
ROUGE
Rouge’s heart broke, watching her daughter whisked away before her eyes.
Taken from her mother for a second time.
But instead of terror, instead of fear, the mother defaulted to a much easier emotion.
Rage.
“You fucking swore!” Rouge stomped up to her husband, Orange now standing and frowning at the space Herah once occupied.
“Rouge.” The father said, his tone clearly calling for patience.
The gunsmith would have none of it.
“You swore to me that nothing nor anyone would have any reason to come for Herah again!”
Orange looked down.
“I know.”
Rouge moved in front of her husband, tears streaming down her flaming face.
“Then why is my child torn from my hands once more!?” The mother begged.
Orange looked up, locking eyes with his wife. His pain and shame reflected into her eyes as hers did into his.
“Because I was wrong.”
Rouge let out a sob, falling to her knees and slamming a fist into the floor. Red Cendreuxah appeared around where her hand struck, glowing and flowing across the floor to absorb the impact of her strike.
I must get Herah back.
“Where is Herah?” The gunsmith croaked out, biting back another sob.
“We can’t go,” Orange responded, already knowing his wife’s plan. “The rules don’t allow it.”
Rouge leaped up and right into her husband’s face.
“Fuck the rules!” The mother shouted, her flames flaring from her head and flooding the house.
Still, Orange just shook his head.
“We’d only endanger Herah further if we chased after.”
“So, what!?” Rouge gripped her husband by his shirt, nearly tearing his polo from his chest. “I’m to do nothing as my child is forced to go through that twisted game you told me about all alone!?”
The look Orange gave back, enraged but more importantly scared Rouge.
The husband gazed upon his wife with a look of utter defeat.
“Yes.”
Rouge snarled, but before the gunsmith could try to do something (no real idea on what exactly) Orange caught her wrists and held her body in place.
“But Herah won’t be alone.”
“What do you mean?”
Something shot past the back of Rouge’s head and into the kitchen, tearing through the bar silently. A strong gust flew into the home, ash slamming into Rouge’s side and spreading all over the living room.
BANG!
KRSSSH!
A sound louder than a gunshot then the sound of shattering glass hit Rouge’s ears as outside started to filter into the home from the broken window of the first floor.
Oh, that thing. Rouge thought, not with disgust but trepidation realizing what had just entered her home. While no threat to herself or her family, it still made her skin crawl.
The thing had nearly torn her daughter away forever.
Orange released his wife’s wrist and looked back towards the thing in their kitchen.
“While the rules keep us out of it, they do not forbid a creation of Herah’s from joining.”
Orange walked into the kitchen, grabbing Herah’s bag off the bar and strapping it to the thing.
“Go to your master,” Orange ordered, as if his word held weight to the thing, “Protect Herah from the threats beyond her capabilities. Make sure my little flame comes home, okay?”
It responded none. It never responded to either parent.
Just Herah.
The thing shot over the bar this time and just as it swept past Rouge, the space surrounding it cracked, and it slipped through reality.
Now, space mending behind her and with only Orange as company, Rouge cursed herself. For her weakness, and her only option left.
Prayer.
“By my name, please keep Herah safe, Jeffery.”