She stared up the white barrier behind which thousands of fires hid. Felsia, definition of city behind walls of white, didn’t mean anything to her. So delicious it looked, with all its hearths and lamps and furnaces burning to mock the night. She always tried approaching it cautiously, knowing she would soon die for reasons unbeknownst to her. Wildfire didn’t learn, no, learning implies a brain, a certain thought process to, at least, avoid or embrace stimuli. Learning was too big of a word for the visceral reaction. The fire-patterns of Felsia caused on Wildfire no discernible behavior changes. She was cautious this time, yes, but that was like a weather forecast. Cloudy, sunny, cautious, bold and stupid. She cycled between her approaches at seemingly random intervals.
Three little flocks of fire she could never consume started circling around her head, and soon became six, twelve. It began speaking to the last figment of Felsian that could be found in Wildfire’s mind.
“These are the fires of Felsia, town of our uncles and aunts,” the calm, mysterious voice reverberated in the mind of the abomination, lulling yet enraging her. “It’s not yours to consume, they will never be so long a Felsian with the will to drive you away exists between the walls. “
Pain, the words inflicted what nothing else could. Wildfire heads ached and she cried, lactating molten rock everywhere, turning about to try and get rid of the fork that pronged into the only part of her soul that was still untarnished enough to feel.
“They call you Wildfire. They have given you what nature and your parents never did: a name to go by. A writ upon your very existence, a name: it allows you to be known to others, to those you see as mere collections of meager flames.”
She jerked, clawed her head and bled pressurized vapor from the pulsing wounds.
“You shall not find me inside your head, my darling. Allay your worries, Wildfire, burn slowly, like an ember once the forest it originated from has been consumed. I stablished communication because I derive amusement from talking to you, my sister. They call us Masterworks, too. That’s a nice word, that’s a word for things so beautiful.”
Yet, and the presence knew it, all words were torture for Wildfire. The world was simple when the only sound in it was the crackling of a flame. She didn’t know how to say it, but if she could have chosen a word, any of the English language to say, it would have been “stop” or “halt”.
“Leave Felsia alone for now, they have worse problems to loss sleep to than your hunger fits. Want fire to eat? Want a gargantuan one to consume? I can give it to you. Come, Wildfire, wander off, girl.”
Now, if she could have a second word, it would have been “No”.
The presence commiserated its sister. Wandering into her mind, it had learned that the scariest thing about wildfire was being her. Not all masterworks were as fortunate as the presence. Most didn’t have enough consciousness in them to enjoy existence, not as it did. To appreciate the world and its wonders. Wildfire was not the exception, but the rule. The little group of flocks of flames in Wildfire’s vision was dammed to be eternally alone, and it knew it. Alone, but taking care of the madhouse that its cousins and brothers composed.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“There’s no rescuing the Felsian from inside the abomination, is there? Yet I will try again in your next life, and in the one that follows afterwards… Doesn’t matter, this is causing you pain. Just follow the fire, little thing, follow the fire…”
And the flocks of flames danced and intermingled, shining brighter, hotter in Wildfire’s mind’s eye. She, deep down, knew she had not to follow, that those fires were not edible. Yet her legs pushed forward, boiling saliva gathered in her mouth, and she pushed forward, away from the walls of Felsia, deeper into the forest, trying to catch the rebelling flames with her tongues, always seeking the faint singsong of all that burns.
And as they flew away, the presence, there and elsewhere, lamented this betrayal, this drowning of the nearest thing to happiness Wildfire could ever have. Yet the misshapen needed the Felsians. They needed new blood for their always-degenerating ranks, and there was only one source of it. To protect Felsians from their own patricidal children was, at least, amusing, a purpose to fill the eternal void.
“Come, Wildfire, come; follow the candlelight, my dear moth.”
And so Wildfire marched away from felsia, toppling over some trees, melting others, fighthening local wildlife if not outright searing or crushing it. For hours she followed the flames, drawing ever closer and closer, with the fire getting brighter and hotter with each passing second.
A couple of guards stationed at the eastern stretch of the Great White Wall watched over the forest intently. A curtain of smoke rose from the snake-like pathway the fires described on it. It was a clear night, and the way things burned didn’t seem natural. To them.
“Should we give alarm?” said the younger of them, his gaze darting between the fires and the cards in his hand.
“No, the trail goes away from the city,” he answered, not even looking away from the pieces of cardboard on his hand. “That snake-like pattern for surely is a consequence of Wildfire going on a rampage, and it earned her her name, but it’s not our job to make sure the thing dies every time she appears. We only attack her if she comes for the wall.”
A raven landed on the oldest guard shoulder, and looked at the cards too.
“You are late, little fellow,” said the old guard, taking a cracker out of the pocket of his uniform and giving it to the bird. Then, he drew another card from the deck.
“Well, it seems I win this round,” said the old man, playing the five of cats from his hand.
“I swear that bird is an omen of poverty for me,” the youngster said, handing the coin they had bet on that round. “By the way, have you named it yet?”
“She belongs to nature, not to me. Isn’t it right?”
“It’s right,” agreed the raven, probably not even knowing that she had agreed to something. Then the old man rose his hand and scratched the underside of the bird’s neck, with her rubbing against the old guard’s rough skin and nails.
The raven then laid her gaze on the columns of smoke rising from the forest. IT was a shame, for all that beauty to be consumed. Then she turned, and looked at the city of Felsia, with all its little lights, round buildings, tall, inclined structures, and somewhere down there, the songs of a couple friends that had something to celebrate. Yes, Felsia was the right choice, Felsia was worth more than a bit of the forest that would soon grow back.