“Masters of the Gifts, and of this malady upon men, make me the mother of this flame. I will fan this fire and the knowledge of your power.”
As she uttered her spell, her control over Vilfarin and the fire solidified. Her ability to manipulate both strengthened. Her extended left arm began to move, bringing Vilfarin closer to the massive blaze. He started to whimper.
“Oh, fuck, please, Queen Jularra…”
“You truly think speaking my name will earn you any mercy?” Jularra blasted.
She stayed her arm for a moment and clamped down with her fingertips, crunching his ability to speak. He choked and gargled before clawing at his constricted throat.
“No,” she said. “You will not speak. You will not distract or save yourself from this. All you will get to hear is the sound of your own skin baking.”
Jularra snickered darkly and resumed swinging her arm in the direction of the fire.
Suspended and sliding along in mid-air, Vilfarin squirmed, kicked, and waved his arms wildly. The fire grew wider and higher. The base of the flames expanded to the edges of the stones, far out from the center of the fire.
Jularra took her time bringing Vilfarin to the fire. She spoke to him as he grew closer, wanting to do all she could to sear as much terror into him before the fire did its own searing. She occasionally brought him to a stop, or moved him up or down.
“Should your feet burn first?”
She tilted him so that his feet were closest to the fire.
“Head first?”
She spun him the other way. Still he squirmed, like a stunned fly.
Without warning, she began moving her arm again, faster. She leveled him out so that he was looking down on the fire and then pulled him through to the other side fairly quickly. Small portions of his skin bubbled up. His hair sparked as it was singed. His legs still flailed as he slapped at his smoking hair.
After a few seconds, he had mostly recovered. He looked at Jularra and silently begged, mouth agape. But her right hand twisted in a circle, fanning the flames. They grew even higher.
She whipped him back into the column of fire. This time, she kept him suspended over it for a few seconds before pulling him back towards her. She let go of the hold on his throat. His voice ripped the air in terrified pain and climbed to a grotesque scraping sound once he realized he could hear himself again. His feet and lower legs were burnt black. Blood burst through cracks and blisters all the way up past his navel. She waited until he had the presence of mind to look at her, and began to slowly inch him back to the fire. He could only get out one “No!” before his voice mutated into gargles of horror.
She held him in the fire, with no intention of pulling him out again. As the flames made contact once more, she clamped back down on his throat—letting him listen to his skin cook, as promised. As he writhed in death, his hands and feet occasionally shot out from the core of the fire. But in the end, only the fire survived.
Jularra stood in the shifting shadows of the moon and fire. Her arms dropped. She no longer needed to maintain control over the crackling remains of Vilfarin, or her allied flames. The roaring tower of orange and yellow began to speak softer and recede from the outer ring of stones. Jularra walked closer.
She looked into the fire, tilting her head. She thought she spied the remains of Vilfarin's face, skull twisted in a grimace of agony. Guilt started to itch at her soul.
She had felt it creep up a thousand times before. A leadership decision that led to the deaths of her people. Spiteful comments to her closest confidants; Vylas, or Korden. Violent retaliations to insult or injury. Abuse of her power. Abuse of people. Sometimes, the guilt grew and swallowed her. Sometimes, it vanished almost as quickly as it arrived. As usual, she raced through a myriad of assessments of her actions.
Was I justified in killing that man? Did I really want to kill him? Did he deserve death? Should I have captured him and imprisoned him instead? Did he deserve to die that way? Why the fuck do I feel guilty? The bastard was about to rape me!
Jularra slipped down to her knees and reached for her side as the awareness of her sore ribs returned. Her eyes watered. She was second-guessing herself, doubting her reaction to Vilfarin’s attempted rape, and then second-guessing her second-guesses. Something made her feel guilty for part of her reaction, which stained her entire reaction. Then she got angry at herself for feeling guilty. She started to cry, then looked at the fire and spoke to the Gift Gods.
“If it was wrong,” she whispered, “you wouldn’t have let me do it. Right?”
The fire popped and hissed, but otherwise offered no consolation.
The night, always a comfort and friend, seemed to close in around her. She felt as if the forest mocked her for the unanswered question.
Her eyes welled up and grew heavy. Her lips quivered and her nose twitched. She began to assume her guilt was justified.
But abruptly, the fire popped upwards and out, flashing with energy. It threw Jularra back, away from the circle, and climbed twice as tall as it was previously. The stones around the fire began to glow.
Jularra swiped her eyes with her wrists. Her chin dropped in astonishment.
The fire climbed higher into the sky, its burning arms and hands grasping the night. Jularra’s eyes—dry now—flickered and danced in the unfolding event.
The queen gasped in fearful wonder when the burning image of a
