Rewriting His Past

Summer Air

It was more intense than Dusk could have imagined, and to be honest, when he had conceived of this scheme, he had not expected to fall down so far. He felt a sharp, scorching pain in his back, as if it were a steak being seared. Miss Thyst was screaming and burning up in front of his eyes. And in the midst of everything Dusk had experienced, the image made him queasy.

The flames had burned her skin the same color as her fist, but she had changed in both appearance and response. Screams of pain replaced rage-filled screams. The pitch had veered from intense rage to intense, understandable agony. Her hands gripped the front of his robes so tightly that he felt like his ears would bleed, and he was surprised that more of him was not hurting. Even though the fire did not seem to be interested in acting on him, it was still burning the floor as they fell together, causing them to fall again and again.

His eyes and brain did their best to stray from her face and complexion in general, but they were motivated by a sick need to see. It was impossible for him to look away, he realized. Her pale face, which he could omit, was once fairly pretty. Large areas of it had begun to blister and turn red; the edges of the blisters had even begun to turn black. This applied to her entire body; not even her clothing prevented him from seeing anything that took on the dark glow of an ember. Only at the height of the fire had Dusk ever witnessed the logs in the fireplace turn. It seemed as though she was on fire from within.

What to do? Dusk struggled to get her hands off of him without touching her, an impossible task. He tried to wriggle out of her firm grip, but it was impossible. He was mostly on his back, and she was on top of him, but he was able to see her hands in the struggle that had them twisting and turning. Would he be able to remove his robe?

Dusk found it difficult to accomplish that; his robe was loose over his clothes, which was one advantage he had. The easiest part was pulling his arms in; the harder part was getting it over his head. If she was saying any words, Dusk couldn't make it with her screaming and pitching. It seemed as though the fall would never end. He was able to pull his white robe over his head as the fire flickered brightly behind it. When it flew in Miss Thyst's face, she became tangled and blinded.

Good. Dusk thought, and given a moment to breathe, he went on to a second part of his plan. It depended heavily on chance. Dusk has managed it twice now. Once during an attack when he was about to be hurt by a fireball, and once when Miss Thyst assumed the identity of Duchess Black. All he had to do was master that prickly sensation—the sensation that, with the help of that so-called instructor, had drowned him. Mr. Summerset, at best, was a self-important idiot, but perhaps...

"It was that attitude that let him bend his magic to his will." Dusk's face split at the pain of his smile. Not out of joy, but rather from the insane, frantic rush that was magic. Something magical was bubbling up inside of him and tingling. It was his to control, or he would die trying. He laughed, knowing that this was literally true in this instance. He might not survive. His life could end right now. The white of his school robe burned in front of his eyes, exposing a face that resembled charcoal and flame rather than flesh and bone.

It was a representation. Dusk mind rolled in his, unlike the tales that said that life flashed before your eyes. His thoughts and life experiences swirled through his mind as his eyes took in what was in front of them. Moments that revealed the timidity that had guided his life. Because he could not trust people who tried to help him—he had fled from them himself—he avoided them. The hand that extended its assistance was the same as the one that did not. It was how he survived. Dusk wanted more than that; he wanted more than to survive. He wanted to live.

He needed his magic to listen in order to accomplish that. Dusk experienced a tingling sensation and fueled it, causing it to burn even hotter than the flames attempting to consume him. Her cries went unheard because of the blood that raced through his heart and filled his ears. Her howl was not so much human as it was that of a monster. Though it hurt less than it should have, his back was stuck to the stone floor. It is dangerous not to feel the pain. It meant that his injuries went beyond the burns that were developing on his hands and arms.

"Give him to me!" Her voice rang and screamed harder than a banshee's cry.

Dusk calmly replied, "No," in spite of the flames that covered her like a coat on backwards. He took her by the wrist. Like everything else that injured him at that moment. Dusk didn't feel the effect of that choice. He was numb to the pain, unable to tell if he was experiencing it all.

"I want out of here." Dusk told his magic, no command. Imagining that blue sky, he would manage to show it to Word before he entered the dorm. If it had not been so easy for him earlier, neither he nor they would be here right now. He had never felt more strength and peace than when he thought of his mates. Maybe it was the acknowledgement he received for experiencing the fabled connection for the first time. He hadn't had the time to think about it now.

The magic, the magic he had struggled to understand and still didn't. Worked. The crisp, warm air of the summer sky was beneath his body as he felt the pull and rise of the magic. Looking past the horrors that were clutched in his hands. He lifted a leg, though he was completely devoid of bodily sensation. Pushing away with his hands and kicking out with his foot. He kicked the now monstrous form of Muss Thyst away.

"No!" She shouted and blacked bones, and whiffs of skin tried to latch themselves onto him. She yearned for safety but provided none for herself.

"Back at you, Miss Thyst." Dusk was polite all the way to the very end. Giving her a final shred of humanity. Before kicking her away once again. Pushing her aside until there was only a few feet separating them, far enough for him to safely extend his hand and ask for assistance.

"Word!" With a cry, Dusk's body flipped in the sky, landing on his stomach, and he started to see grass and screaming students more clearly. He regained his balance by spreading out his arms and legs. Making him feel in control, even though he was not foolish enough to buy into it. Even so, he wished it were true in this instance.

"Word!" Relying on their newfound connection, he called out once more. Never questioning, fully and unwaveringly trusting it. For the first time, rather than because it was the only thing he could do. He meant it from the bottom of his heart—truly, truly. All he had to do was hope, once again, that his unwavering belief had not come too late.