“Right.” I roll my eyes. “You’re the proverbial father of fire.”
Apparently, sarcasm isn’t his idea of an appropriate response. The clouds in his eyes deepen in color, and I can tell he’s angry without being able to read his emotions.
“Leave us,” he orders the room.
“You don’t like an audience when you set fire to something?” I’m beginning to see how much fun Provoke the Pyro can be. No wonder people want to play it with me all the time.
“I’m not the father of fire. I am, however, the father of you.”
I clench my fists at my sides. There are a million things wrong with that statement. Where do I even begin? I have a father. A stellar father, actually. He raised me on his own. It wasn’t easy for him. It still isn’t easy.
Magnetic pull or not, I don’t much appreciate Fire Supreme sitting across from me and casually dropping a bomb like that. Worse, I can’t tell if he’s enjoying the explosion, has any intention of tending to the devastation it caused, or even realizes what sort of impact it has on me.
I fold my arms, tucking my hot hands into my armpits. I need to cool down. “Is this where you explain how it all happened? Tell me a riveting tale how love and tragedy ruined you for all eternity?”
“No, it’s not.”
He probably has a heart under all that brimstone. Or had, rather. His resting deadpan could stem from a whopping heartache, making it dangerous to feel anything. That’s a plausible explanation for his demeanor. I acted in the same fashion to protect those close to me or, more specifically, didn’t act out. I withdrew. In that regard, I see the genetic similarity. That’s where the connection ends. Where’s his butt chin? I look nothing like him. Honestly, I don’t look much like Dad, either, but it’s easier to see a resemblance to Jeremiah Tierney than the blazing beast in man skin.
He seems to have two temperatures: hot and cold. When he resonates hot, I want to hide behind the first available object. When he resonates cold, I want to warm him up. The chill is tragic.
I eye him warily. “You expect me to believe you because...”
“I’m indifferent to what you believe.” He places his hands on the table in front of him. I burrow mine further into my armpits to stop them from reaching.
“Then why did you bother telling me?” Why am I offended he doesn’t care?
“It seemed logical to explain why you felt drawn to me.”
“You felt it, too?”
He furrows his brow. “No.”
His cold tone effectively counters the fire coursing through me. I won’t be exploding anytime soon, but I’m quick to miss the heat. It’s favorable to his arctic bite.
“You have a choice to make,” he reiterates.
“A choice for what?”
“Two paths have been laid before you, and you’ll decide which one to traverse.” His robotic tone is viler than the extreme temperature responses combined. “You’ll transition and take my seat in the Tribunal, or you’ll transition, and I’ll extinguish your flame.”
“Wow, you’re very direct.”
“I’m not one for sugarcoating, Sheyla.” He sighs. “Nor are you.”
Boy, did he ever not nail that one on the head. Pretty much missed the nail entirely. Sugar plus coating equals icing. For cake. I love cake. What kind of monster doesn’t love cake? Okay, that’s unfair. Love is a strong emotion. Like. I’ll concede to like. What kind of monster doesn’t like cake?
He coughs, commandeering my wayward thought train.
“Fair enough.” Point to you, Fire Daddy. “Those paths have a minor problem. A speed bump, if you will.”
“You’ll transition either way.” He has no interest in making the conversation the least bit tolerable. He wants to get it over with.
“You’re wrong.” I rest my elbows on the table, placing my face in my hands. “I’m not transitioning.”
“You won’t have a choice.”
I lift a brow. “You’re forcing me to transition?”
“We can’t force you into it, no.”
If they can’t make me transition, there’s still hope to avoid it. It’ll require a valiant effort on my part, but I’ve spent a lifetime fighting my nature. I’m not a stranger to opposing forces, and my most common sparring partner is myself.
“I’ll choose the removal sans transition.” The substitution seems fair.
“I can’t remove your powers until you’ve transitioned.”
“Can someone else do it?”
“You and I are the only ones to have this ability.”
Cool, so he’s aware of my newly discovered vaccination, potentially immunization, ability. Must run in the family. “I inherited it?”
“Yes.” He’s not proud or rueful, just spitting straight facts.
“Why can’t I read your emotions?” I half-expect him to ignore the question or respond with some line about not having any.
“I don’t want you to.”
“Why not?”
He leans back in his chair, annoyingly relaxed. “They aren’t your concern.”
What is he hiding? How am I supposed to choose without carefully weighing my options? I’m not a leader, which evidently is his role. The other Tribunal members bow to him, even Earth, to a lesser degree. I don’t want anyone bowing to me. I don’t want to be accountable for anyone but myself. What makes him, or any of them, think I can take on this responsibility? The answer is simple. I can’t. Why even offer it?
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That leaves only one choice, which already would be my preference, even if a power play wasn’t involved. He can keep them. I don’t want them. I didn’t want them in the first place.
The lingering debate rests on my transition. I don’t want to, have no plans to, and, admittedly, they can’t make me. “Is there a decision deadline?”
Is he coming to the end of his energy cycle? As far as I know, Solathair status comes with immortality as a side bonus.
He leans forward again, the fire spiraling restlessly in his eyes. “No, but you’ll decide soon.”
Will I, though? Will I really? How can he be sure? He can’t. He’s making assumptions. Hmm. Maybe Fire Daddy needs to be taught a hard lesson. Who better to teach him one than me?
“You read minds?”
His nostrils flare. “No.”
“Then how could you possibly know that?”
“I have a feeling.”
Maybe he just wants a break from ruling as Supreme. That’s bound to wear on someone after a few millennia. Is he bored of his present role and wants a replacement so he can try something else? Embroidery, perhaps? Definitely not cake baking. We’ve covered his abhorrent cake hating already.
“Can’t someone sit in for you that isn’t me?” I suggest.
“No.”
“Why am I so special?” I’m genuinely curious. “Isn’t there someone else in transition you could use? Another long-lost daughter?”
“You’re the only one in transition right now.” He fidgets in his seat. “You’re my only child.”
Thanks for all the postcards! “Well, can’t you just go make a new one?”
There are several moments of awkward silence.
“Surely there are other fire elemental candidates, ancestry notwithstanding.”
“There can only be one Solathair in transition.”
Their numbers won’t grow if I don’t transition. Yet, when weighed against multiple lifetimes, my refusal to transition only marginally delays the next batter from stepping up to the pancake skillet. The first one is always a tosser, regardless. “I’m not who you’re looking for,” I counter.
“Wrong.”
“You want to use me in your war,” I accuse.
He almost smiles. “You think we aren’t aware of their plans? We fear them? I fear them?”
Is he lying? He hasn’t mentioned me choosing a side. Choosing to be a Solathair or not is the choice. Sitting on the throne guarantees my side selection, but it may also allow me to prevent a war, using diplomacy and arbitration as opposed to battlefield bullying. Shouldering the responsibility will break my camel’s back. I’m not strong enough.
I shrug.
“They aren’t a threat.” He brushes it off like they’re nothing. “They can’t touch us here.”
“What about the ones you send out on missions?”
He doesn’t care a lick about them.
“What about the humans who get caught in the crossfire?”
“They matter even less.”
“How will you perpetuate a population you don’t care about?”
“Not my concern.”
“Well, what is your concern?”
“Do I strike you as someone who experiences concern?”
“Guess not.” I swallow hard. “Then why make me choose?”
“I’m not making you choose anything.”
“Who made the options if not you?”
“No one made them, Sheyla. They’re simply the options available to you. Become a Solathair and take this seat, or I remove your powers. Both require you to transition.”
“What if I transition but don’t take your seat? What if I fight in Tayte’s army?”
It surprises me he hadn’t considered that prospect. “Then I’ll remove your powers.” He’s growing tired of our conversation. With any luck, I’ll find the proper nerve to strike, and he’ll give me a third option: eradication before my transition.
“Do you even care one way or the other?”
“No, I’m agnostic to your transition.”
Obviously, this is his first round at being a parent, and he sucks spectacularly at it. Not that I mind. Aside from whatever genetic connection we have, he’s never been and will never be an active part of my life. This makes the father/daughter bond Dad and I share look like solid gold. Fire Supreme is an energy donor. Nothing more. How could my mother have been attracted enough to this blazing beast to result in my production? I mean, no judgment on the one-and-done, but I have some judgment, generally. Zero points, Mom. Gross choice.
“Do you even care about anything?”
“When there’s an immediate issue, I deal with it. When a threat arises, I extinguish it. I’m not bound by a conscience that chooses between right or wrong. I neither regret my actions nor evolve in a way invoking personal development. I’m apathetic to the benefits of your growth.”
“Isn’t emotion a primary source for a fire elemental?”
“No.”
“What if I blow this place up when I transition?”
“You can’t.”
“What if I don’t transition?”
“You will.”
“What if I get killed before I transition?”
“You won’t.”
“Why am I here currently?”
“Brody thought you were in danger.”
“Was I?”
“No.”
“And, if I’d killed everyone in South America to protect myself?”
“Irrelevant.”
“I’m not in danger from you?”
“No.”
“So, you’re letting me leave without any trouble?”
“Yes.”
“No fight or anything? No kidnapping? No timeline for an answer?”
“None of those things.”
He stares blanks through my line of questioning. Short of being able to verify his words with an emotional response, or even the slightest physical one, I won’t believe any of it. He knows that, yet it doesn’t feel like he’s lying. Poker won’t be a family affair. The stakes are too high when he has no tells I can see.
The wall grinding again startles me. Fire Supreme shifts nervously in his seat at my abrupt movement. Huh. Could be he isn’t void of all concern, after all. He keeps himself tightly knit, but if I loosen a binding thread, would his protective cover completely unravel? What would he do then?
“Sheyla wishes to go home,” he announces.
Brody twitches from the entryway. Why is he twitching?
“Brody?” I’m by his side in an instant. “What’s wrong?”
He glares at Fire Supreme but can’t respond. His mouth opens. No words come out.
“It’s okay, Brody,” Fire Supreme encourages him, smiling in a way I don’t appreciate. “You can tell her.”
Whatever invisible binding was securing his tongue magically loosens, and he calms down substantially.
“Where’s Barry?” Brody won’t look me in the eye. I turn my gaze to Fire Supreme, who isn’t affected by the daggers I’m throwing. “Where’s Barry?”
“As a protective measure, it’s best we keep Barry here since we have no idea when your decision will be made, and we need to see the second you’ve made it.”
“You said no kidnapping!” I roar at him.
“We’re not kidnapping you,” he reminds me. “You’re free to leave.”
“It’s cool to kidnap my friend?”
“As I said, Sheyla, you’ll decide soon,” he advises coldly. “I’m sure of it.”
“You won’t hurt him?” I won’t win his freedom. I’ll have to make my choice, and I’m not ready.
“We’re not brutes.”
“Earth is.”
“You have my word he won’t be harmed.”
“Your word is hot garbage.”
He shrugs. “You can choose now, and your friend can leave with Brody, or you can reflect on your decision, and Barry will leave once you’ve returned.”
“This isn’t fair.”
“Fair? You’ve been extended choices, Sheyla. So many aren’t awarded that luxury.” He smirks and leans back in his chair, far too comfortable in his victory.
He gave me an ultimatum, masked as a choice. He won a battle, but the war is only just beginning, and he hasn’t even begun to experience the depth of my fire. Father of fire or not, father of me or not, holding people hostage won’t get him what he wants. Maybe he doesn’t care about me. Clearly, that’s true. Maybe he doesn’t care about wars or survivors or fairness, but everyone has to care about something. No, not something. Someone.
“Let’s go home, Brody. Mom will help me decide.” A chair flies backward into the far wall. Brody’s eyes dart like pinballs, his anxiety palpable. “I just hope I don’t break her putting her back together.”
A loud crack resonates through the dome. Did Fire Supreme split the table in two? I don’t turn to confirm, but I feel his eyes boring holes into my back, straight to my tinder heart. I somehow keep from shaking until the wall closes behind us.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Brody whispers, lining up the departure stones around us.
“Not a clue,” I admit. “I’m hoping Mom will.”
When the rainbow lights envelop us, I fall into Brody’s arms. I’m not just tired. I’m physically and emotionally exhausted. Mom’s spent my whole life resting up, and it’s beyond time she takes her watch shift. I need a break.