Think it's time. Tried to tuck everything away, like trying to lose it all would make things easier. That's burned up, lost in a cycle of broken noses, heart-aching kindness, stolen beds, and... and...

It's time.

Time to go find them again. Val and Luan and Campion and all the rest that left me hearthless and dry as a tumbleweed. En't sure what I'll say to them yet. Might be I'll yell or cry or pretend everything's fine until some spark-word puts the lie to it. Don't think I'll stay there, either way, but I've been through too much for Val's disapproval to wilt me anymore.

And then...

And then...

Not sure, s'pose. Maybe I'll go try to find Isolde and Wallace, for a little while. Make sure they en't living in a damnable tinderbox like that sweetling-fellow Billy and his lady. And Isolde'll wrap me in a hug like they never left, and Wallace'll be... well, like always he was. And I'll steal some blankets out of the closet to the hearth and it'll be almost like having a home. Maybe they'll try to get me to stay, like that pup that followed Billy home, but I dunno that I want to intrude on them like that, however it's meant.

Maybe I'll leave, and they'll occasionally glance out the window wondering if this'll be the day they spy my silhouette growing on the road again.

Might be I'll go have some other adventure, even if I dunno where, yet.

There's a fire to the thought.

*a tearing of parchment tucked between pages*

Fiery like eyes in the shadows.
So much sound. Echoing. Resounding.
Power that seemed given form.
Scratches upon the stone, edged as though with crystal.

I hate the cold so very much
I hate the way snow turns to slush
I hate the way it permeates
I hate the joy that it creates
I hate the warming by the fire
I hate the crier's suggested desires
I hate the ice and snow and sleet
I hate the way I like its treats
I hate the winter turning fingers blue
But at least I know it hates me too

Still remember when Uncle Val looked away. Luan wouldn't meet my eye. Camp'd hug me to pass off supplies, then walk away quiet.

Wasn't sure how I'd survive those days to come. Could've turned about, gone back to town. Don't know why I didn't. I think I didn't see much on the horizon. Exile. That was the word. Probably a bit formal for us, but Val always was.

I was long familiar with the crier's raid calls. There weren't words for the horror I realized when one went out, and there I was, more alone than I had ever been.

Survival seems most often owed to others.

But I think we've all buried someone.

Sooner burn up all the seas than drown.
Sooner wrestle 'Rifter to never-set than ever-night.
Sooner fly beyond land's safety than fall forever.

Damp, dark, deep.

And then the things that are all and none.

And then the things that make me want to shatter noses. Don't carry if it's a pretty face.

The fire of a word. Words. A touch. A question. A life.

Figurative fires, of course. And in them, the beauty of a lifetime of dawns, or of one dusk, spilling over the cliffside as the ocean washes upon it. So very close to danger and near to safety.

Still not timid.

It is quiet, with a memory of warmth. That is what draws me, I think. Like moth to the flame, I seek those places of warmth.

She did not think I was that kind of person. I wonder why. Do I seem cold?

...

It may not be of the two, but it would be a first, anyway.

There are kinds of kindling. Burns fast. Slow. Bright. Dark until it isn't.

Kindling of kinship.
Kindling of smiles.
Kindling of tales.
Kindling of laughter.
That grow into fire warm as any I've known.

Loyalty - whether praised or contemplated or sought - is a funny word. Can draw a person to overlook things they'd otherwise take offense to. Puts men and women alike prostrate before their liege. Or their friend. I'm beginning to learn that there are different kinds of loyalty. Loyalty that puts an fire claimed never to be quelled in the heart of a candlelit idiot - glory or lovesick. Desperate. Loyalty that is steadfast, quiet, burns like a hearthfire so long as it is tended like one - mature loyalty, and mutual. Loyalty that is even quieter tended, yet not by friendship. Burns as a watchfire, proudly in the open, yet mixedly acknowledged - service or duty. Altruism of a sort.

There was a time when loyalty hurt. Somewhere between the first kind and the second. Wasn't wanting glory. Wasn't lovesick. Was tending. Tending was my part. Tending the fire, keeping it warm.

This loyalty doesn't hurt. Burns mellow, home, and grants safety that's terrifying in its sincerity. Nothing but safety. Home. Thank you, both.

...

Won the dare. Only after nearly losing it tens of dozens of times. Not sure why he wanted that I win.

...

Honor is finding its restoration. The people are strange, but...not a strange that inclines me to irate musings of barrels. Pacifists. Sort of. Decent, if strange.
Some days, decent is more than decent.

...

Wildfire. For one of the first things she said to me, though the precise words escape me. Felt she hurt everything she touched. Wildfire. Though the forest falls, something new will grow - beautifully.
It is my favorite nickname.

...

I find myself long winded. Pilings of thoughts spreading like fire across a spray of pine needles. Mellow fire. That has been mine. Mellow fire, dragonling, because I am content. Mellow fire, candlelight, more isn't yours to know. Mellow fire, dreamer, with dance less heat than fireshadow.
Mellow fire, because I cannot find the balance between calm and rush.

They call me pyromaniac.

And in the word, I hear their judgement.

They call me friend.

And in the word, I hear their praise.

Then I am called coward.

And in the word I hear...challenge.