Burned

[Chiangtao]

Petyr returned to his humble quarters after a hard day of training in the hills. He quietly shut the door and removed his shoes, as he had done all his life. Barefoot, he padded to the dresser and changed into a loose, comfortable gi.

On top of his dresser sat a wide collection of candles. There were thick ones, thin ones; small ones, tall ones; one of every color; and scented ones. He selected a fat one, thick with cream-colored bees wax. He set this candle in the center of his room, then took a seat, cross-legged, facing it. He lit the candle and began to meditate.

He focused on that one fire and emptied the day's thoughts from his mind. Soon, the room dimmed in his mind, and there was only he and the flame. The dancing, wonderful flame.

"Used..."

The single word invaded his mind as though spoken from another man. But he knew it was his own voice - his own thoughts. The room came into focus again.

He struggled, but washed the thought away, and with it all but the flame. It flickered randomly, at whim it seemed.

"She used you..."

The thought returned. Again, he shook it away as he had been trained so many times. Empty your mind and see only the...

"You were used - burned by her greed."

The room whipped into full focus. He smacked the candle away. It tumbled over the hardwood floor, splatteirng wax as it went. The flame went out in the process, and he was left in darkness with his thoughts.

I shouldn't have stepped in. I thought I saw passion and fire in her, but it was only greed. This little hin, Fran, was only after the gold.

She lied about her friend - where was this corpse? This mission behind the door, it was all a ploy to get her precious gold. She used you for nothing more than six-days-worth of booze - and you let her.

In the cold darkness, he stewed. It wasn't anger that drove his thoughts, but inequity. And the damnable part of it was, fire was never fair. Kossuth was not one of plans - his flame burned with rare purpose. It simply consumed what was there to consume, in any direction its fickle mind chose. Yet, Petyr's thoughts were on retribution - tit for tat. He fiercely wanted to settle this inequity; he wanted retribution.

[Chiangtao]

A week had passed since Petyr's encounter with Fran, and so had his passion to "get even" with her. The event still irked him, but his temper had cooled. He felt embarassed on two counts over the event: once for letting it happen to him, and twice for getting so overworked about it. He would be more careful in his training over the days to come.

He had learned from the event, at the least - there is no such thing as an unspoken promise. The deeds you perform with comrads, even of the altruistic nature, do not bind them to you in any way. Expectations will always differ unless you spell them out.

Trust and loyalty - these things exist and are earned over time, he confessed to himself. He was loyal to his Brothers, after all. They raised him and were under no obligation to do so. They earned his faith and trust, and they would always have it.

And there were those who gave their trust freely as well. The captain and her swordsman Rex, they were bound by only by circumstance, he thought. As near as he could tell, the swordsman was not hired nor endentured to the woman. Yet, he kept his word - no, his unspoken word - to return her safely. This is the unspoken bond between comrads, thought Petyr. Altruistic, for certain. But foolish? Maybe. He'd never know how the noble captain would act were the situations reversed.

His thoughts turned on that final adjective: noble. These are the men that expect loyalty and trust, but do not earn it. They see promises in their birthrights, Petyr knew. They were all spoiled, unworthy children with deep pockets and shallow realities...

Petyr snuffed out the last candle in his room and sat alone in the darkness. He pushed aside his envious thoughts and rested.

[Chiangtao]

Petyr stood still in the woods as his three recent companions departed. They were going to "restock" for another raid of the Viridale villages. They were after scrolls, potions, and bandages. They told Petyr they would return shortly; but Petyr would not be found.

After the three were out of sight, he left the beaten path. Again, his mind was full, and he sought to empty it. He darted quietly from tree-to-tree, making scarcely a sound. After twenty minutes, he settled on a small copse where the sun was barely penetrating the thick leaves above. He always meditated best in darkness.

He secured with copse with string and bells - makeshift tripwires to alert him of any possible intrusion. Then he wrapped himself tightly in a wool blanket. Sitting cross-legged, he closed his eyes.

"Demonblood."

"Devil."

"Tiefling."

"Monster."

He wouldn't clear his mind until he resolved these insults. It wasn't the first time he'd been called these things. His smooth red skin was both blessing and curse. He could endure temperatures most humans could not, but was forced to endure names and disdain by anyone who looked closely. A trial by Kossuth - flamekissed, he liked to call himself...

"Tiefling."

The word repeated itself once more in his head, as though being corrected by his own inner voice. He could feel the conflict within, the questions and doubt.

It was nonsense, thought Petyr. I am flamekissed. I am a bastard, the burned blood of Kossuth's favored nobile house. I am Pendraig.

And, as though to answer, Ghal's words echoed in his head: "Then how do you know the language of devils?"

Petyr lashed out with his hand and scattered the dry, dead leaves on the forest ground into the air. They rained down about him in a torrent of brown flecks.

Maybe it I learned it when I was young, thought Petyr. I've learned many things at the monestary. I've forgotten much.

Maybe I should speak with my mother, he finally resolved.

[Chiangtao]

"I have learned that the truth can hurt." Petyr spoke these words not one week ago. They were tattooed inside his skull now and weighed him down.

Ghal had offered him a gift, but Petyr turned it into a bargain. So, simply, Ghal asked Petyr what he had learned recently, in exchange for the would-be gift.

Petyr never took gifts. It felt wrong to him - it always had. For one thing, charity was bad. It let people go on who lacked the fire inside to carry themselves. But personal gifts were rarely charity. Regretably, Petyr also acknowledged one of his many flaws - taking gifts creates bonds, and he liked to stay distant.

But beyond that, layers deeper than that, Petyr just intuitively felt they were unnatural. Tit for tat; an eye for an eye; proper contracts. These were hackneyed stereotypes for him now - now that he knew what he was. The truth hurts, he thought, and I will never forgive them for showing me.

Petyr opened his eyes. Meditation had run its course for the day.

Petyr, still sitting before the fireplace, reached to his left side. He picked up a carved, wooden duck he had made recently. It wasn't painted yet, but he had sanded it down and smoothed it to a recognizable shape. Before the paint, he would need to carve features. The devil's in the details, he mused to himself.

Then, on a whim, Petyr placed the poker into the fire. He left it in the hottest coals and waited. The fire danced for him, sparking its protest now and again, sending ash into the chimney. After about ten minutes, he relented and withdrew the poker - now red hot at the tip.

He turned the clumbsy tool to the duck. He held it at the hot end - a feat his kind could do without harm, he now knew. He pressed the poker to the wood, searing it and tracing a line. Carefully, he burned lines and curves into the base of the duck, working patiently until they spelled out a word in black letters: CAPTAIN.