On days like this, Hope hates how empty the world feels. A color like gray did not deserve the space the Earth gave it, she always says. Why the heavens would choose to don a stale gray sky when so many other colors exist is lost to her. Looking at it, even now, causes her head to hurt. Hope lowers her gaze and continues her trek across the yard. Her curly hair dances in the wind as more cold air rushes over the mountain, spilling into the foothills. As she reaches the garden, she calls out. 

“The sky is not much to look at without you in it, and the garden is lonesome.” Her voice is playful yet contemptuous. She does not expect an answer. The garden, being rendered lifeless every year, does nothing to endear her to winter. Not to mention the cold months being the hardest for families in the mountains. Rubbing her gloved hands together, Hope kneels in front of the last lavender bushel remaining from Summer. The thought of it being the last one alive causes a sinking feeling deep in her chest. She thinks about how she has failed to keep the rest alive. 

“I hope I can lift you, little one,” she says, sliding closer. Hesitating, she removes her gloves and stuffs them in her pocket. “I have been practicing,” she whispers to the lavender. Despite her best efforts, her breath catches. Quickly, she squeezes her eyes shut. Reminding herself that her tears will not help her or the flower, she slowly releases the air trapped in her chest. She thinks about the rest of the garden, lifeless. Surveying the flower in front of her, she wonders if it will meet the same fate. A different kind of chill crawls over her skin as she pulls at the magic in her veins.

At first, only a few specks of green and gold embers appear at the palms of her hands. Her body stiffens as a single light leaves her palms. Her breath catches in her chest. As it glides toward the flower, sweat forms along her brow. Remembering to breathe, Hope draws in a deep breath and releases it. More tiny embers join the first. The flower rises slowly, little by little. 

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Behind her, the bare arms of the oak tree lift. A few piles of snow fall and land on the ground beneath the tree. The Earth below the flower begins to shift. Cracks begin to form in the bedrock. The green and gold embers glitter as they hover around the flower, quickly multiplying. 

Hope's breathing quickens. Her parents and neighbors begin to notice the ground rock and vibrate under their heels. The impact does not go unnoticed by the creatures lurking just below the surface of the garden. As the ground cracks and splinters beneath them, they scramble towards the exits. Hope tries to close the palms of her hands to stop the magic, but it keeps pouring through. Blinding green and gold, rays of light escape between her fingers. 

She inches backward, wincing as her knees press into the tiny stones embedded in the dirt. Uncurling her fingers, Hope watches as her magic continues to sink into the soil. As another glowing wave floats from her hands to the lavender, she hears the crunching of snow underfoot. Tears stream down her cheeks. Looking over her shoulder, she recognizes the figures running towards her. Her thoughts race as she tries to stop herself. She hates how little control she has over her powers. Her little brother, Rowan, can do it. He is strong, he has control of his powers, she screams without opening her mouth. Taking a deep breath, she tries to seal it off before her parents reach her. But the ground crumbles under her hands. The flower topples over as the soil around its roots gives way. 

Suddenly, the ground shakes with an enormous amount of violence. Hope struggles to keep her body upright. Casting her eyes above her, she sees her father with his arms extended. The lights leaving James' palms are thick and mimic the color of olives. Her eyes shift to her mother, who is quelling a fire Hope does not remember starting. Disappointment and frustration pour over her as she takes in the mangled earth in front of her. Dropping her gaze to her palms, she sees only a few sparks remaining, dancing between her fingers. A tightness rips through James’ chest as his lungs try to expel the smoke in the air. Terra pushes out a raged breath as she snuffs out more of the flames. The base of her hands are raw as she drags the fire from the ground and spins it between her hands until it cools. James closes his eyes, the bedrock begins to soften. The tips of his fingers tremble. Slowly the rocks begin to harden, the bedrock solidifying. Sharp pains erupt along his forearms, while he knits the earth back together.