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The darkness—with its wailing, gnashing of teeth and ripping claws—chases me. I run and run and run. I have magic; I blink and have none, I step over a crack and it returns. I run through a forest, and across worlds. Time does not exist here, and yet I must flee the darkness as its cries bite at my heels. I have to be careful. I have to be cautious. As I learn to hide in the dark, I fight against becoming one of these monsters. I will not become the darkness, no matter how it calls to me. (It knows my name. No one knows my name.) I do not know why, nor how, but something changes. I see light, far, far away from me. I see light, and I run for it. I run. Across fields of frozen ruin, through dead forests, across the sky and the sea. I run. I fall onto a set of familiar spiral stairs. I go down and down and down. Nauseously, I run down the stairs of my old tower, past every pitted step and ancient stone block. I run far past where the stairs should stop, continuing all the way to the center of this world, the median, the core. The stairs release me into a vast cavern that is also another forest. The trees are alive. The trees are not caught by shadows and darkness. The trees are the deep green of summer. The trees are normal, beautiful, fantastic. I walk quietly, wondrously, hopefully through them. I trail my hands along the bark. The roughness beneath my palms is glorious, magnificent, lovely. I weave through what appears to be a game trail, rustling undergrowth on either side of me, towards the light. No matter how far I travel, the light has not once disappeared. As I come closer, I see it’s a large, beautiful, leaping campfire. I stop at the edge of the wood. Squatting by the campfire, is a magnificent, improbable, unexpectedly frabjous man. I have been alone, running from the dark and now he has brought me light. I don’t know him, but the fire jumps and soars at his tending as I watch. He speaks as he works. “You are welcome to join me.”I don’t hesitate. I run across springy ground and I crash into him, another person. There is another person in this place I have wandered. He grabs me and holds me, and as I tremble and weep, he sings softly to me. When I am more composed I move away. “Who are you?” I search his face, his eyes. (Beautiful, brown eyes, glittering and dancing with firelight.) “Where did you come from? How did you find me?”He winces, and puts a hand to his head. “I am sorry, I cannot say.”“Cannot?”He shakes his head. “I have much to tell you. If a name is wished of me, you may call me Fireheart. I am—I wish to help you.”The fire grows again at the sound of that name. He does not tend to it, but places a hand on my cheek. “It is alright. I am glad to be here.”“Where are we?” I whisper. “Why is the dark not here?”“It cannot fight against the fire,” he says. “And I am the one who knows how to hold the fire. You need not fear darkness while I am here, and I will not leave you.” He wipes tears from my eyes. I fear asking how he came to be here. I am afraid to know the truth. “I have peered into your fire,” he says. “And I know the name you called yourself. I fear to use it, however, as I cannot say no one else can hear me.”I stare at him. “You may call me Tor then.”He beams. Oh. That grin is magnificent. There is an eagerness in him, a beauty, a fullness of life that I fear I have lost. I nearly grab for him again, in a desperate bid to hold onto something so precious, someone so alive.He feeds me soup. I had not noticed he was cooking, but he has a cauldron in the flames.“I am glad to be here Tor. I am glad that I can tell you what has happened. Are you ready to hear it, or shall we sit and enjoy the night breeze for a while?”I take his hands in mine. I don’t think I can bear to not touch him. It is—it has been so long since I have had any kind of contact like this. “Tell me your news.”His face does an odd little spasm, and his gaze is momentarily distant, then he shakes off whatever thought has come to him. Fireheart smiles softly, sweetly, sadly, at me. He tells me about the breaking of the Empire, he tells me that I am trapped in an enchanted sleep. “Astandalas has Fallen,” he says again and again when I question him. I do not need to press for details; he freely describes the broken magic, the shattered time, and priest wizards trying (failing?) to correct it. I cannot comprehend it, but he presses slowly onward, giving me summations when he can, and going into more details when he must help me grasp the hardest topics he mentions. Fireheart does not tell me how he ended up here, and he never says a negative thing about the priest wizards. Yet, Fireheart cannot tell me his name, and does not dare to speak my own. I fear what has happened to him, how he ended up here.We eventually stop talking of the Fall. We talk about his childhood instead. He tells me of his four hundred cousins. When he moves onto his sisters, it is my turn to hold him while he cries. I do not know when I learn he has no idea if his beloved islands remain nor how his family has fared. He is so afraid for their well-being, despite his own uncertain state. The timelessness of this place means that we share countless things, but the sunrise never comes, and eventually we fall into silence, watching each other, watching the fire, watching the stars. He shows me dances, and he is magnificent. I could watch him dance forever. He is apologetic when he tells me, “This isn’t the time for the greater fire dance.” “You are splendacious,” I take his upper arms in my hands, pressing our foreheads together the way I know he loves. We breathe each other in. His voice trembles, his words uncertain in a way that makes me squeeze his arms in reassurance. “I can teach you the dances my family knows,” he gulps loudly and rushes to add, “or the ones everyone knows.”“Yes,” I press my hands to his cheeks and kiss his forehead. “Please, Fireheart, yes.”I notice that the fire always brightens when he dances. He chose the perfect name. “Fireheart.” I whisper. “You are magnificent.”He blushes at that, but he takes my hands and pulls me to an open spot covered in moss and shows me his family dances, step by step. We never need sleep, and the night never becomes day, but sometimes I unroll sleeping mats and we hold each other as we rest. Through it all, I never touch the fire, I never pass my hand across the pearls that encircle it. Only Fireheart tends to it.And then, after I’ve learned his lesser fire dance, after we have played our harp and oboe together so often we need only a shared look to know which song to play, after I have sung for him every song I can think of, and he has sung for me his Lays—while I am still learning the language of his people—the bells ring. He presses his forehead to mine, and tells me again, “I will not leave you,” as the bells toll. I wake.~•~•~Emperors do not run. They do not rush about. Upon waking, the man stands at the feet of his unwanted throne and waits for the world to make sense. He questions his guards, then goes to meet the Lady of Zunidh. Emperors do not run. She thrusts another duty, another unwanted responsibility, upon him. The man could slip away. He could leave. His empire is gone. He watches the room of wary, tired faces. He feels his guards at his back. Men of honor stand their ground when there is something that needs doing. He does not run. However, it is quickly apparent the men he has been—before the Emperor, and the Emperor himself—remain too vivacious and alive. The Lord Emperor of Zunidh, they call him, and the Lord Emperor is not to be anything as substantial as a person. Over the hundred years he slept, others made the Hundredth and Last Emperor of Astandalas into a god. There is now no space remaining in this vast palace for him to be a man. He builds a mask, a carapace, a wall between the Lord Emperor and the men he had been. There is no one left who can look beneath the layers. No one who will dare use any name he might once have answered to. The Lord Emperor does not run. He is allowed enough space in his chosen cage to pace, though.~•~•~You do not know how much time passes (time does not pass. It is broken. Someone told you once it was broken.) You are swamped by unhealthy, flailing, tremulous magic. You dare not touch your own. You can hardly remember who you are. (I am no one). The magic blurs everything, except the moment of your waking, the loss you mysteriously felt even though you found Zunidh claiming you. You belonged somewhere; finally, a place laid claim to these once-wondering feet. You wanted to help when you woke, and you want to help now, that is why you accepted the position of Lord Magus. It is too much for you. You belong to the world (the world needs you), you are serene. It is too much. You cannot think. You cannot breathe. To see if you are real, if the world is real, if reality exists, you nudge things out of order. Small things, small actions. Wiped away long before you return. It is too much. You pace through your rooms. You pace through your tower. You have no space. Sometimes (rarely) the tide goes out, and you struggle against your chains. In such moments, such hard won breaks in the magic, Nightmares of Dark Things are chased off by the ghost of a warm and welcome campfire. You (I) struggle against yourself. No one sees you struggle. (The tide comes back in; splintered magic besets you.)You are serene. ~•~•~You do not know how long it takes you to find your fire. Your magic. You don’t know when you first dare to slip into a trance. You are shocked to find a man there. You are appalled when he acts like he knows you. You are most disturbed when his gladness turns to sadness. He walks to you and presses a hand to your cheek and you throw yourself away from him, but it does not work and you both end up on the ground. “Tor,” he says. “Tor, you forget yourself. I promised I would be here. I promised I would hold the fire for you. Did you not believe me?”You stare at him. You (I) do not want to remember. You (I) start trembling there, on the moss, as the fire spits and hisses, and the stranger (Fireheart) holds you (me).A single tear rolls down your (my) face, and he catches it on his fingers.“It’s too much,” I whisper. “The magic is so broken.”“I know nothing about magic, but I am good at fixing things. Let me help.”I don’t question it. I am selfish. I don’t want to be alone. I take him out into the world, I show him what I see, I tow him from the campfire to display the magic of the world for him.He audits the Magics, accounts Time, probes the deep foundations of the world. When he asks, we return to the fire and he says, “you need a competent secretary. There is only so much I can do from here.”“How do I find one of those,” I laugh wetly. His face is serious. “Send for Princess Indrogan and tell her you need someone good at analytics and who can sort the world into numbers that make sense.”“I do not like numbers.” I might sound a little petulant. “I do,” he says. “I will make a report you can start with, and then you can bring me the reports of your Secretariat back to me. We will figure out how to fix the world. Together.”My shoulders relax. My eyes blur. “Together.”~•~•~When you come out of your trance, I (you) smile at the Groom of the Chamber when he gives me (you) a fresh cup of tea. “Magnificent,” I (you) say. It is not lost on me (you) the way this makes him flush with pleasure. ~•~•~After some struggle, you get a slate of secretaries from Princess Indrogan. It helps that Fireheart can understand their calculations. You do not like keeping numbers in your head, but you (I) do it for him. He puts all the information together for you in a report, and you are in your trance—I am at my fire—we are talking over all that there is to do and what will help my magic settle when the scab on the fractured world breaks open, a war wakes, a darkness floods Zunidh. I grab onto Fireheart, and he holds me, and I hold him. When you leave your trance, you find yourself abed. You find the Ourantha there, and your personal physician. You send them away and call up your Groom of the Chamber. “Make plans to travel,” you say serenely, “We are going to Littleridge.”You travel with your bench of secretaries. You travel with your guards, which includes one who might be good as your spymaster. You are running (I am running) towards the darkness, hopeful that Fireheart will help bring the light with. ~•~•~As promised, Fireheart holds my fire. He knows my magic. He knows my heart. And together we create a treaty. We are working to settle the world, to save my magic, to force time to run the same speed. The more time I spend by my fire with Fireheart, the more I see what he sees, and I am excited to build this treaty with him, to stabilize the government with him, to sit there and sing songs that are absolutely illegal, forbidden, illicit. ~•~•~It is a long time before the magic calms enough that I think to question Fireheart closer. There are so many things he cannot say. His predicament is a badly tangled thread, a poem with swaths of verses cut out, a dance missing an entire phrase. We have done much work on the government, and I have begun to fiddle with the Lights. One day, while I rest from the Great Magics and yet remain at the fire with him, I think to ask, “where is home?” And when I come from my trance, I am pointing the direction he says. (I make note of it, knowing one of my first Lights will be pinned near there.)Over the years while I work within my magic, Fireheart learns to wander Zunidh in the shroud of my magic. It is not true freedom, but he always seems happy to see the world, despite the fact he cannot interact with it.No matter how deeply I question him, nor what magic I attempt to use, Fireheart cannot break through his restrictions. The clearer I can think, the calmer the magic of the world is, the more disturbed by his fate I become. It is the fact that he cannot tell me his name, that he cannot even remember what it once was, that makes me certain that Ourantha is at fault for his predicament.~•~•~Often, when you are in your tower, pacing without him, you debate what to do about the Ouranatha. You will not allow the continued subjugation of another. You will not allow them to steal anyone else’s name. You are strong, for Fireheart tends to the center of me. An idea germinates. ~•~•~I ask Fireheart questions I’ve asked before. “Where are you physically, right now?” Fireheart still cannot tell me.“What do you remember from right before you ended up at the campfire?”Fireheart knows no more than he’s said before. He was working under Princess Indrogan, he was analyzing information coming out of Western Dair, when he realized he was out of coffee. He noticed it was late, later than even he usually worked, so he decided he should sleep. He walked out of the office and a page flagged him down. They told him there was an emergency and so he took their letter. And then he was here. I try new ways to make him remember, or give him the ability to say more. Nothing works. Unable to think of anything else, I consider the viability of my idea and decide it has grown detailed enough to at last be given a chance. I tell my Groom of the Chamber I want clothing to exercise in. I tell him I will dance as part of an arcane ritual. ~•~•~My Groom of the Chamber delivers. Not just the clothes but a practice room in the tower. I allow none to watch me except my guards and Conju. It takes me days of dancing before my body can do the steps all the way through. Months pass before I can fall into a trance while I dance. (I dance so much that my thighs grow muscle mass unlike any they have had before and I show them off to Fireheart who tells me I have done well, to practice so. I can tell by his flush that he is pleased. I step up to him and whisper that his thighs will always be more magnificent than mine, but he ignores my flirting to tell me that bodies are all different and I should not try to compare myself with anyone else. It is good, preferable even, that he passes over my blandishment, because I did not set out intending to flirt. It is not something I (you) should do).It takes a year to learn how to mix singing with dancing. I wait until I can do it perfectly before I know I am ready to add the magic. It is a sunny day when I begin the ritual. I dance the dances Fireheart taught me, singing the Lays that go together with them. It does not take more than the first or second dance for me to see him laid across the world, slightly transparent. I call forth more of my magic, and together we dance. I dance through the palace of stars, following his trail, following the magic, following the fire at the heart of me.I am the Last Emperor. No one stops me. As I dance through the palace, people fall to their knees, to their faces, my guards jogging to keep up with me. I am sweating when we find it, a room under the throne room that might once have been for storage. There, chained to a table with gold and black chains, is Fireheart. I dance to him, and I see the pattern of what I must do. I finish the dance there in that room, and Fireheart dances with me. We take the last leap; we do it perfectly. My song spirals to its end. I realize that he is singing with me—we are singing together and I can hear him. I can hear his echo mixed with mine as the words fade to silence. Gasping only a little for breath, I firmly take the hand of the phantom I called. With my free hand, I rip the chains from his body. I rip the chains, and the palace shudders and rumbles. Fire blooms between our hands. It trails across me, in the same pattern as the chains. I place his phantom hand on his body. I am shaking with fatigue. Fireheart wakes with a shout. He takes my hands as I crash to my knees. Magic crackles through my body. “Fitzroy,” he whispers. “I am glad. I am glad.”I stare at our hands, horrified anew. What of the taboos?“They are broken,” he says. I stare at our hands. Fireheart cannot know that. “I do, Tor—Fitzroy—you yourself just tore them to shreds.”“You have no magic. How can you tell?”“They bound me to you,” he says. “And now I can see you, I know what your magic is like, and I can see you are freed.”He is correct, he is veracious; he watches the fire burn through the restrictions placed on my body. I feel it as the last vestiges of the Emperor’s bindings all break open and wither into smoke. I think my body—my magic—might be hissing like a steaming kettle. I want to kiss Fireheart, suddenly and overwhelmingly. He presses his forehead to mine. “You were magnificent, my Tor, my Fitzroy.”Shuddering, I breathe him in. And he breathes with me. Conju arrives as I get to my feet. “My lord,” Conju says with awe. “My lord is all well?”“Get someone to bring food.” I grin so broadly at him that he takes a step back. “And Conju, my dear, ignore the taboos. I have a hankering for fruit! Oranges and nectarines and peaches and—and anything I couldn’t have before.”His eye twitches. I didn’t know it did that. He bows. “Yes, my lord.” Conju sends someone off then goes into another room and has others bring back cushions and blankets.That is when I take in Fireheart. His eyes are bright, but his frame is wasted. His legs are too thin, so are his arms. His dancer’s body, his sailor’s frame, is withered. I don’t let him stand. I wrap him up and sit Fireheart against the wall. I sit with him, gripping his hand. He smiles at me fondly and I know his name. I know his name.“Cliopher,” I say. “Cliopher Mdang of Tahivoa.”He shudders and sobs. Relief washed through him, through me. To be named one's most correct, truest, honest name is a wonderful, tremulous, heart wrenching thing. I draw Cliopher to me while Conju continues to mysteriously find things from other rooms. He sets up a little table where the food gets laid out. It is a banquet in miniature, and I stare at every piece of food, every tidbit I could not have eaten this morning, and I hold up a hand. “Conju,” my voice wobbles with emotion. “This is spectacular, you have outdone yourself.”He bows to me in thanks, his very correct posture cannot hide the way he trembles.I tug Cliopher closer. He slips an arm around my waist. His head rests on my shoulder. It is a posture we have taken up often at the fire, and it feels natural now, though I know it is going to fuel many, many rumors.“This is Cliopher. I wish to give him quarters.”“In the tower, my lord?”I want to say yes, I want to keep him to myself, but the palace will be in an uproar after all I’ve done today and I cannot force Cliopher to recuperate so near me, where danger will be at its worst.“The suite for the Lord Magus of Zunidh will do.”“I will see to it.”I grin warmly, dashingly, heroically at him. I cannot help it. He freezes for a moment. Something, some deep emotion, washes across his face, as does a flush. And then, an added miracle, The Cavalier Conju an Vilius smiles back at us before withdrawing. I like that even more than the eye twitch.Only after I’ve stashed Cliopher in my tower, with my healer, do I charge off to crush any who would do that to a man. My magic licks tongues of flame into the air. I stride on a carpet of flame. I do not run. The destruction of my enemies is inevitable, so long as I will it so. Cliopher’s…voice(?)…thoughts(?) brush against me, at the center of my fire, as I shadow my enemies.
‘You do not need to destroy them, Fitzroy.’
‘They have—your body! You have been their prisoner, when they have no right to do such a thing! And to do such Magics on you—they took your name—and for what purpose!’
‘You do not need to destroy them. You do not need to make them hurt. It was my pleasure to hold your fire, Fitzroy.’
‘Fireheart—my dear Cliopher, your legs!’
‘It is not so bad.’
‘But—but—’ I search for a way to explain the rage, pain and fear wrapped around my heart like thorns. In response he opens his own heart, to the pain and fear of the Fall. The way he’d started the kitchen fire and fed everyone soup. I could taste that soup, in Cliopher’s memory and my own. It is the soup he’d fed me at the campfire of my heart. That stops me in my tracks, near one of the doors leading deeper into more public spaces of the tower. ‘Beloved,’ his thoughts whisper to me, ‘Beloved.’I close my eyes. I focus on Cliopher. ‘Beloved,’ I whisper back, ‘I will not act in anger.’With a deep breath, and rigid shoulders, I call back my fire, I spool in my rage, and it is my Serene and Glorious mask (it is you) that leaves the tower. You glide through the halls, you go to the priest wizards, you will not allow this to slide. You will make them answer. However, you listen to your Fireheart, you listen to your Cliopher, and you remember that you have long made it your practice to never be a tyrant. They will not break your honor, even now; you will, always, be just. Your fire wraps around you, not burning you nor your clothes as you step into the domain of the priest wizards, into the maw of darkness itself you (I) tread as a light, a flame, burning bright, and We call them to account.