Witches Burn at Dawn ✔

10. Mir

"Mir? Promise me?"

"Yes."

With an approving noise, Father let go of my chin. "Clever boy. Hold some ice against it for a few minutes and come back to the party."

And then was the party. Our penthouse resembled a museum because Yumi, Father's wife, was devoted to her style: gilt-framed mirrors, antique vases, and marble statues everywhere. A place should suit its owner, she'd say. As the best attorney in the city, your father deserves nothing but the best. Perhaps she was right, but she cared about our reputation so much she sometimes failed to see how ridiculous her efforts appeared--behind the luxury, no life was left.

Yet everyone came here for the luxury, not life.

I couldn't count all the guests I smiled at and listened to that day, how many times I heard what a great lawyer I would become. "Just like your father," they chanted. People who'd laugh at my bruise and tell me that I'd soon grow serious and mature, and all my little problems wouldn't matter anymore. "Girls and expensive cars," Adélard's dad told me then. "That's what will soon be the matter."

But how could they know if I, myself, didn't know what the matter was? They spoke about everything I would be and nothing about I was.

I can't recall any of their wishes and gifts, I can't recall what my father gave me for my eleventh birthday, but I can recall my grandfather--and his dog. My dog. A white Husky puppy, his eyes bright as two moons at night.

"He will be your friend when you feel lonely," Grandpa said. "He'll listen, and play, and sleep by your side. And he'll remind you of me when I die."

The simplicity in his tone as he spoke of his own death terrified me then. "You can't die." I shook my head so violently it hurt.

But Grandpa only smiled. "Everyone dies, but that's okay as long as there are others to remember us. And you'll remember me, won't you?"

"Always."

And then the puppy was suddenly in my arms, nothing but a small ball of soft fur and warmth. I stared down at him, bewildered. Every child wanted a dog, but I didn't. Dogs were loyal and selfless creatures, and this one looked like he already trusted me. I did nothing but held him, and his eyes said he'd follow me anywhere. How could he follow? If I just wanted to run.

"So what will you call him?" Grandpa's voice was kind, yet strong, unmoved by my father's grumbling about the uselessness of such gifts, my stepmother's complaints about all the dirt the dog would bring to the house, and my little brother's excited whoops. It seemed nothing could sway the old man. Mr. Praejis was a rock, a bay. He was the only one talking about the things I already was, not expected to be.

"I don't know." But I did. The name was suddenly there as if meant to be given all along. "Aamon? Like in the tale you told me." Like in the story about mages who once lived among people; one of them had a familiar, a dog with the wings of an eagle. That Aamon could grant his master many talents, make one eloquent, or invisible, or immortal. He could reconcile foes, he could start wars.

Grandpa's eyes shone, agreeing. "That's a good name. Powerful."

Yet, it was he who had names for everything. For a dog and a storm and a smile. A special word. An inspiring story. Not those typical ones of dragons and knights who inevitably saved the world, which my stepmother tried to read me before she had her own son, but those which left your mind begging for more, not with the happily-ever-after but with a question mark in the end. Leaving you with a choice. Of Hero without armor who wanted to save the world but failed and was called a villain for losing; of Death who wished to bring life but was created to take it; of Angel who burned their wings and lost their way to heaven.