Lähdekoodi sivulle 3K Story of a Pyromancer

A happily grinning boy was running along the streets of the small town. He could not wait to see the look on the faces of the other kids when he'd show them what he could do. Even now he could see it with his mind's eye, just a thought away from reality...

	It had come to him during his sickness. He had been bed-ridden for two weeks, wracked with fever and headaches that waxed and waned. As it didn't seem to be anything lethal – not that they had any money to get him checked up even if it was – mother had insisted he'd stay in bed, separated from the rest of the family until he was better. In meanwhile he was told to be a good boy and try to sleep as much as possible.

	During one of the sleepless nights, alone in the dark, it had come to him. He had been sure he had heard something, but was too weak to move. It was shameful to admit, but darkness made him a bit nervous and jumpy. At that time, he could have sworn someone – something – was moving in the dark corners of the room. As It moved from shadow to shadow he had desperately imagined a flame to cast away the darkness – and suddenly it was there. Bright, cold and soothing and so quickly gone by the startling realization it was really there. He was so surprised that he had completely forgotten the It in the shadows.

	Since then he had spent rest of the night trying to summon it back, only fitfully sleeping when the exhaustion and headaches became too much to handle. It was like fever of different kind had taken over him. Fear of the dark was replaced by the need to prove to himself that the tiny flame had not been his imagination. That the fever had not claimed his mind.

	It was the second night after he had first summoned the flame that it came back. This time he could hold on to it for longer – a full minute – before it flickered and vanished, leaving him in astonished silence and darkness. Rest of his time in sickbed had been spent learning to summon the flame at will. After the first few successes it quickly became easier – he could now call it easily and maintain it as long as he wanted. If he tried hard enough, he could even make it jump from palm to palm.

	Reminiscing the lessons learned in sickbed the boy burned with another kind of fever. He had never been the center of the attention before, being so average in every regard. He wasn't strong like Bart or quick like Hastus. Neither was he quick-witted like Quint or stupid like Dorn. The boy, Bosh, had finally found something that put him apart, something that made him... Special.



The faces Bosh saw around himself were quite far from what he had expected... What he had hoped. Only Dorn was showing signs of honest astonishment. The rest... Bosh could not read Quint's facial expression, Hastus seemed ready to bolt, his eyes fearfully darting between Bosh's face and the small orb of pale fire that was dancing on his palm. Some of the other kids were muttering between themselves. As his anxiety grew, the pale fire flickered and died. When it did, it was like a switch had been flicked.

	Bosh never knew who started it. A small stone hit him on the forehead and for a second nobody moved. Then, as one, the kids started stoning him. All he could remember afterward was running, being scared and the pain when one of the stones scored a hit. That and the one thing that hurt him the most: the cries of “witch”, “heretic” and “abomination”. When he finally got home, Bosh ran all the way to his room, slammed the door shut behind himself and fell on his bed, exhausted and wounded both in body and mind.



Fires danced all around Bosh. They took shapes, some familiar and comforting, some alien and frightening. The warmth was there, at times tender, at times sweltering. As he observed the flames, Bosh was overcome with the irresistible urge to touch them, join their dance, feel them with all of his being, no matter how briefly. Slowly, with shaking hand, he started to reach towards the flames. Slowly, the fire started to lick his hand. It was gentle and cool, like a caress. Bosh took a step forward, then another one. Just as he was about to fully step into the fire, Bosh heard a voice somewhere behind him. The voice was weak and muffled, as if coming through a wall. As Bosh turned, the voice seemed to fade further and further away. The air was full of smoke, which obscured his vision. It was entering his lungs, too, making him cough. It was getting harder and harder to breath...


	He woke up, sweating and coughing. It was night, but something was amiss. As the dream slowly faded away, giving way to clear though, Bosh realized that the smell of smoke was still there. He started to quickly dress and headed out. As soon as Bosh got outside he saw flames reaching for the sky. It was coming from the direction of Bart's house. Filled with dread, Bosh started running towards the flames. 



As Bosh arrived at the burning house, half the town was already there, some simply staring, others hastily trying to organize efforts to put down the flames. Among the adults there were kids in varying degree of clothing – some of the boys had apparently decided that missing the action was worse than missing a shirt. Among them was Bart, distraught. He was struggling in the firm hold of an elderly woman, yelling how he had to go back in to look for his parents. The woman looked sad, but held firm, trying to soothe the young boy.

	By the time Bosh had arrived, the house was entirely enveloped by the flames. Unlike the fire in his dreams, there was nothing nice or comforting with these flames. They house he had seen and been to many times before had turned into a raging inferno, devouring the structure like a hungry beast. Yet beneath the savagery there was something that was calling to him. He felt like moth, being drawn to this house-turned-pyre. He stared at the flames as if in trance.

	A sudden commotion snapped Bosh out of the trance. The townspeople had all turned towards him. In front of him was Quint, pointing with at him with an accusing finger. Bosh could see Quint's mouth move, but he couldn't understand the words. It was as if the world had become somehow unreal. Unable to move, Bosh watched as the faces of the townspeople turned from surprise to anger, how their faces twisted and the air was filled with muttering he could not understand. He watched as one of the menfolk stepped forward, how his father and mother, late to the scene, tried to stop him, only to be dragged out of the way by the townsfolk-turned-mob, towards the burning building.

	Still unable to move, still feeling unreal, Bosh finally started to make out the words. Witch. Heretic. Abomination. Burn, burn, burn! The words he had heard before, now multiplied, chanted, violent, threatening. Suddenly he wanted to run, flee to the safety of his room, wished to slam shut the door between himself and the world. He took a step back, then another. It was too late for the third.

	A man's with iron grip had taken a hold of his arm. In the man's face there was hatred and a hint of fear. Without a word, the man started dragging Bosh towards the burning building. Among the cacophony of sounds he could hear the chant of “burn the witch!” Suddenly understanding just what was waiting for him, Bosh started flailing and struggling, trying to break the iron grip on his wrist, to no avail. The man hardly seemed to notice his efforts, let alone unhand him.

	In middle of his struggle, Bosh heard a shriek. When he turned his eyes towards the sound, he stopped struggling, his body falling limp. The mob had thrown his parents into the burning building, for their crime of fostering him. As he was dragged like a rug towards the building, Bosh watched the fires. The pleading form of his mother, wreathed in flames. The flailing form of his father, trying to fight his way out of the fire, with no hope. Inside his mind, something snapped. The fact that the man dragging him had come to a stop, nor the fact that he was being hurled into the flames didn't even register anymore. Bosh closed his eyes.



The flames danced around him. He could hear their hungry roar in his ears, their welcoming warmth, the soothing caress of fire licking his body. A persistent voice in the back of his head was screaming that he should get away from the flames, flee away from it while he still could. Bosh ignored it. His dream had come back, the nightmare was gone. In his dreams, nothing could hurt him...

	Slowly Bosh stood up, eyes still closed. The persistent voice in the back of his head was assuring him that he shouldn't open them, that he should get away from the fire. It was getting quite annoying. Bosh opened his eyes. What he saw broke the illusion of a dream.



	The mob was slowly backing away, fear slowly overtaking the hatred. Slowly, almost ponderously, the seemingly fragile form of the boy they had thrown to the fires was making its way out, untouched by the raging inferno that had so eagerly consumed his parents.

	The boy stepped out of the burning building, slowly but surely making his way towards the man that had thrown him at the mercy of the flames. Even as he left the fire, the fire did not leave him. Wreathed in clothes of fire, his footsteps seemed to echo in the night. The boy stopped, the echo rang on. The boy raised a finger, pointing at his would-be executioner. With a hungry roar of the flames, the man catches fire. The spell of calm is broken, the mob stampedes. Over it all, a bellowing laugh echoes from the mouth of the child, unnaturally deep and loud.



The world was filled with wondrous voices and sights. In background, magnificent orchestra of the inferno played it's wondrous, roaring crescendo, while the townspeople followed their complex choreography, seemingly trying to escape the spectacle. One by one they were dressed in silks of flame from head to toe, adding their voices to the grand melody of it all. In middle of all this, Bosh waved his hands like a conductor orchestrating his masterpiece. The townspeople danced their desperate dance like puppets to him, until they fell down, their strings cut, leaving the stage to the next one performance.

	The sweet smell of burning buildings and flesh filled the air. Later, after his masterpiece was done, it would be time for the feast. He was saddened by the fact that his parents would not be able to join him – the enthusiastic performers had been adamant about granting them the honor of acting out the intro – but they had played their part so well. Ah, but maybe his dear younger sister would like to join him? Fey was such a sweet child. But maybe she would insist to dance instead? She had always  been ''such'' a good dancer, after all...

	As if the mere though had magicked her there, Fey appeared, still dressed in her pajamas. Oh, he would let ''her'' choose, oh yes he would! With a flick of wrist he let a nearby performer show her the steps of the dance – not that she'd have to copy them all, for every performance was unique. With a smile he turned to his crying, frightened sister... Crying... Frightened...

	The little voice, pushed to the back of Bosh's mind took over then. It willed out the flames that still surrounded him. Suddenly the heat of the burning buildings surrounding him felt more real somehow, less like the friendly ones from his dream. The small voice, knowing it could not subdue the Other for much longer, left the shaking girl behind with but a single sentence, forcing the boy to escape and never look back.