I finally wrote a story that I've been wanting to put to paper (or binary) for something like a year now. Well, more specifically, not this particular story, but the world and the characters. So far the working title is "Control".
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Thamadir knocked firmly, and then settled back on his crutches, waiting on the off chance that Niayn happened to open the door. When, after a few minutes, he had failed to make any sort of appearance, the sorcerer sighed and, awkwardly achieving a rather pyrrhic victory over his crutches, opened the door. Disentangling his staff from its place on one of his supports, he made his way confidently down the small hallway to the workroom. Here sat the young boy, surrounded by string, hundreds of sundry knots, pages of notes and unused paper, several burned out candles, and an oppressive heat that permeated the shadowy air. The child had deep bags under his eyes. Thamadir gave another sigh, this one louder and sadder, and Niayn looked up. There was, for a fleeting moment, hope in his gaze, but it was gone almost as soon as it had appeared, noticeable only by the deepening of despair that replaced it when the boy recognized his visitor. While the magician had always seemed too old for his years, the feature was especially pronounced today; his face was worn with lines of care and worry, and when he spoke, his words seemed to carry the wisdom of ages.
“Niayn, have you taken up your brother’s trade?” Anger flashed into the forefront of the child’s gaze, and with it some strange pride, and yet neither made any further change than to tint the longing hunger lying beneath. The boy refused speech; he simply sat and stared, his answer in his eyes. “You fear not the flames?”
“No, no more,” he said softly, breaking his silence, though as he spoke he lit a candle and took up string. Thamadir gazed levelly at him. “No, you’re right, that’s not true. I am afraid. That is why I do this.” When Thamadir said nothing, he tied a knot, scribbled something, relit the candle, and continued.
“I’m starting to think my brother was right. We need to control fire. We need to know how it works, how best to contain it, what knots to tie when we see its glow; otherwise we will all blaze away.” A different longing blew across the surface of his eyes, but did nothing to disturb the older languishing in the depths.
“Who are ‘we’?” asked Thamadir gravely.
“All of us. Human kind. Magicians. Our guild. You. Me.”
“You brother, too? Is that what you think of him?” When Niayn maintained a determined silence, snuffing the candle yet again and setting down the knot, Thamadir gave yet another sigh. Sometimes he wished that he hadn’t happened upon the village that fateful early morning, that there had not been a bird singing in that tree to rouse him before dawn, that he had not decided to go out of his way to visit a friend. When he came over the crest of the hill and saw the village burning, he never expected to become so wrapped up in the lives of the last of its people. But he knew better than to give these thoughts any consequence.
“You say ‘Our guild’. Do you consider yourself a magician?”
Again the yearning in the boy’s eyes took on a shade of anger, but now also a barely noticeable touch of betrayal. “Take one of those,” he said, pointing to a pile of knots nearby. “Not by the bow, though. Now use the fire to do anything you want; it will work!” Desperation emerged from the abyss of his gaze; his labors ceased in his excitement. “I swear, it will work!”
“Easy, child,” Thamadir said soothingly. “I’m quite sure it will.” He scrutinized the pile for a moment, and then delicately pulled out a knot. As if unaware of Niayn’s intense stare, he minutely inspected the chord, running his long fingers over it. His examination finished, he gazed off into the air for several moments, his lined face taking on a pensive countenance, while Niayn began to grow agitated. Finally, giving the boy a glance holding a mixture of warning and compassion, he began to concentrate, fingering the ends of the thread. Finally, his hands began to move slowly apart.
A red light leaked out of knot to coalesce into a fiery picture hanging in the air. If he had been more cheerful, Niayn would have smiled broadly at his success; as it was, he sat numbly, only showing a small glimmer of savage satisfaction. The burning drawing showed a bustling village; several children played in the forefront, laughing and running about. Then came strange disturbances in the fire; gaps that mimicked the shapes of wolves, but their forms fell short in disturbing ways. Soon the openings in the fire spread, themselves taking the shape of flames. Soon nothing was left but a few flame people. And fear welled up in the child’s eyes. One by one, those remaining walked out of focus, wisping away as they did. Finally, only two remained, but as they began to take on more defined features, the view shifted, closing in on the smaller figure, until only it was visible. And the image continued to close in, till there was only a face of flames, about whose identity there was no question, and fear and pain and anguish and the ever-present longing surged out of the depths of the child’s eyes to confront their fiery counterparts in the inferno, and with a wan smile the burning image vanished. But the fear, the pain, the anguish, longing, and grief had brought water with them, and now it streamed silently down the boy’s cheeks, while Thamadir, exhausted, slowly lowered himself to the floor, level with Niayn. Any tears he shed made their way out of sight, through the furrows of his face, and his mind numb, he put an arm around the child. “A well made knot,” he said, and as Niayn wept, he simply sat.
