BRANNYN
5 Davael 575A.F.
It started with an argument of course, perhaps six months after the incident with the fireplace. My eyebrows had at last grown back, though they still itched and irritated me. It had been an abnormally hot summer, and the fields browned and wilted beneath an unforgiving sun. I sweltered in the motionless air as Reyce and I started the second planting.
The others had retreated into the relative cool of the house, and I resented them for it as I struggled to push our cumbersome hand-plow through the reluctant soil, cursing the loss of Renic. Reyce trailed behind me, a bag of seed slung across his chest, dropping handfuls of corn into the furrows before covering them with soft dirt. It was monotonous work, and he hated it, pestering me constantly for a turn at the plow.
"No," I repeated, for what felt like the hundredth time. "It's too heavy, and dangerous."
"No, it's not," he argued. "You just don't want to plant."
"Don't be stupid." I wiped sweat from my brow with my forearm, squinting across the long length of the field I still had to plow. "The blade on this thing is razor-sharp. I'm not going to let you lose a limb."
"I'm not stupid!" He yanked off the bag of seed, dropping it to the ground with a soft thump. His dirt-smeared hands fisted at his sides. "You're stupid! And lazy!"
I glared, dropping the plow to face him. My head ached; I didn't have time for this argument. "I'm not lazy. The plow's too big for you. Now stop being stupid, so we can get this done."
"I'm not stupid!" His fist snaked out, catching me in the lip. My mouth flooded with the taste of blood.
I lifted my hand and released my fire.
I regretted it the instant it was done. Blue flames engulfed my brother, blackening the ground around us and turning the iron plow red hot. The seed bag was reduced to ash, the corn within exploding and scattering around us like scorched snowflakes. The air was filled with smoke and the choking reek of char.
I was certain I had killed him, my mouth already open in a scream of horror.
But then the flames died, and Reyce still stood in front of me- angry, certainly, but otherwise unharmed.
"You trying to kill me?" he yelled.
"I-I-" My knees buckled. I collapsed onto the ground. My breath came in short, ragged gasps, and black dots danced before my eyes.
He shoved my head between my knees, holding me there until I no longer felt as if I would pass out. Slowly, I sat up, though I continued to shake. Reyce squatted in front of me, his gaze hard and unsympathetic and far, far older than it should have been.
"You shouldn't use your weapons unless you intend to kill." He spoke softly, but I thought the weight of his words might crush me. "Your fire isn't a toy."
"I'm sorry." My voice emerged as a raw whisper, tears burning my eyes. "I'm so sorry."
"The fire will always be there, Brannyn." Something moved behind his eyes, a shadow I didn't understand. "Either learn to control it, or it will control you."
I swallowed, and nodded.
He offered me a hand and helped me back to my feet, a lightning-fast grin crossing his face. "Now, may I please use the plow?"
We never told the others. I was too ashamed, and Reyce seemed to forget about it almost as soon as we were done retilling the ground. The late summer rains finally arrived, washing away what remained of my near-fatal mistake.
I had nightmares about it for months, clawing my way out of sleep shaking and sweating, my nose filled with the stench of char. I would get up to check on Reyce, needing to reassure myself that he was indeed alive.
I think Kryssa at least suspected something, though she never said anything about it. For my part, I resolved again to never use my fire. My fear of hurting the others was simply too high.
I did begin watching Reyce for signs of strangeness, but he seemed to have returned to being a normal, nine-year-old boy. His eyes were bright and cheerful, lacking the shadows I had seen in the field. Whatever it had been that allowed him to live through the flames, I saw no further evidence of it.
Perhaps I did not want to.