Fiery Dreams
Characters: Maharon.Rated PG-13 for sexual content. Warning: homosexuality.
A slender, tawny-skinned demon sighed as he shut the door behind him, relishing the passive silence and seclusion that his own bedroom offered. It was a small room, really, and plain; pale yellow walls were smeared with odd red-brown streaks in places or seemingly charred black in others, and a thin but clean burgundy carpet made the floor warmer in winter. There was no window nor closet, as the fire wraith kept his clothing in a dresser and his meager personal belongings atop that same piece of old but well-kept furniture. Even so close to adulthood as he was, the young pyromaniac had amassed very little in the way of possessions.
Ever since his family was slaughtered and he in turn killed their murderer, a Subishi assassin, Maharon had trained too diligently to care about material wealth... despite the loss of his parents' fortune, along with their lives. He had made the transition from rich to slightly above poor without blinking, from loved to ignored without a flinch, from weak to strong with a small, tight-lipped smile. He could do nothing but train and become more powerful, so the fiery youth focused all his considerable wit and will on doing so. Because, at night, the only comfort he had was knowing that an assassin would become the hunted should it ever target himself.
Futalo was the only individual who never thought less of him because of his drop in wealth and relatives. The volcano wraith was his mentor; she had trained him at his chosen martial arts school before the tragedy and, despite the fact that she was no longer being paid to do so, she continued training him afterwards. She was powerful and far more intelligent than her gentle-looking human form made her seem, and she was the only being alive whom the rebellious fire demon would obey without question. She, of all demons in Ruken City, held his respect... she never once pitied him.
Maharon hated pity.
It was like a disease, eating away at one's inner strength, the infrastructure of codes and personality and flaws that made them. His former classmates pitied him, and when the fire wraith reacted with anger and violence, they either shunned him or ridiculed him for being 'in denial'. But they were wrong; the youth knew full well that his world had died along with his family, his future vanished as quickly as the wealth of his parents. He simply didn't care any more. Pity was useless, and so was grief, and pain.
Ah, but hatred. Hatred and anger - those were power. Futalo had taught him to use his emotions to tap into a once-hidden storehouse of raw spirit-energy. Maharon had become one of the strongest demons in Ruken City, whose warriors were renowned throughout Serutaya. Futalo had taught him well... perhaps too well. As Maharon's skills accumulated and his power grew, his arrogance and carelessness with life increased, as well. More than once, his sensei had berated him for killing a promising student of hers out of annoyance or, even worse, sheer boredom. Perhaps she sensed that her penniless orphan was becoming dangerous, for more and more these days, she kept him apart from the rest.
There was no soft breeze to bring the fire wraith gently from his dusky thoughts, so it was only imagination that the air stirred and brushed his black-streaked cheek. Maharon stepped forward two paces, pine green eyes flicking to his right; propped up on two rickety legs and leaning awkwardly against the wall stood a long mirror. It amused him to watch himself, though more than once he was unnerved by the images his spirit-fire reflected in that old glass. Tonight was boring; in the darkness, there was only gold-rimmed green eyes staring back at him, slitted pupils marking him a demon just as much as the dim silhouettes of long, pointed ears.
It was too early to sleep - three hours until the Ghosting Hour - so Maharon lit a tiny emerald flame on his right index finger. It was difficult to control his spirit-energy when he used his right hand, but it was something that he needed to master. There was much more power in his right hand than his left, but his left possessed a deft control over his fire that left little to be desired. The flame flickered, lengthened, shrank, and slowly stabilized as the fire wraith bent it to his will. It cast a pale green light over his tawny skin and the rich green hair that was growing longer than ever; the straight, silky tresses reached his elbows when loose and had to be constrained into a topknot for training, only let down in the privacy of his own room.
Slender fingers plucked the leather cord from its place snugly enmeshed in untangled strands and tossed it, in the same smooth movement, into the shadows of his small room. Keen ears heard it land near the foot of his bed, but for the moment, Maharon was absorbed in watching the almost surreal vision of emerald green cascading down in slow-motion waves, obscuring his face and slithering down his bare shoulders. His tunic, blood-red to honor his sensai, was tucked into his belt at his waist; it had been a very taxing session.
Objectively now, the wraith eyed his reflection. His muscles were compact but almost lean; he had never lost the slim build that he'd been born with, no matter how hard he trained and how much his strength increased. His skin was unscarred and the same creamy hue as his face and hands and, against it, his hair seemed more green than before. In turn, his golden-furred ears were stark against the darkness of leaf and vine, creamier in hue inside than on the outer surface of the pointed lobes. Thin lips twitched briefly into a smile before the youth's roving gaze settled on the black streaks. Three on each high cheekbone, they were jagged in shape and horizontally scarred across his face, a constant reminder of the day he had learned to kill. Similar markings were on the backs of his hands and wrists; they would not fade or wash off. He had tried.
The slight surge of anger that accompanied that particular memory made the emerald flame flicker wildly, nearly singeing the demon's long bangs. Maharon scowled as he put a bit more effort into controlling himself, and the small blaze calmed. He met his reflection's gaze again, searching his own eyes for signs of weakness. But instead, his attention was drawn to the fire's reflection; though the flame itself was burning brightly and mellowly, its mirror image was dancing wildly. In the strange duality of mirror and reality, Maharon opted to watch the mirrorflame this time, instead of immediately extinguishing the real thing as he had done every other time that this phenomenom had occured.
For some reason, his eyelids refused to fall in a blink as the heat emanating from his flame dried his eyes - but his gaze was firmly held to the mirrorflame, entranced by its exotic writhing. As he felt clarity depart from his vision, Maharon began to see blurry, indistinct images embedded into the flame, created by its movements or the shadows it cast into the mirror. The feeling of surreality and the danger of losing himself in the mirrorworld nagged only slightly at the wraith's mind as he became absorbed in identifying and understanding the symbols he saw. It was though the mirrorflame was trying to teach him, starting out with very basic concepts - love with a heart, violence with a drop of blood, speed with a whirling motion - and moving on into more complex ideas, like a dragon hunting, or a demon dying in the woods nearby.
'I understand you,' Maharon found himself whispering in awe, unable to move more than his lips. It unnerved him to notice that his mirrorself didn't appear to so much as breathe. The flame in the reflection seemed to calm briefly, then it flared, greenish hue changing abruptly to the normal colors of red, orange, and yellow. Pupils dilating at the sudden switch of hues, the young demon watched with bated breath as the mirrorfire slowly, almost deliberately so, formed into two figures recognizable as demons. They didn't have faces, but both were nude and obviously both males; after a moment of almost motionless hovering, as though to make sure the demon understood, both figures merged in a great show of sparks and light.
The mirrorflame became green and, just as suddenly, the reflection accurately portrayed reality once more.
The fire wraith inhaled and exhaled slowly and silently, bare chest moving in a measured rhythm, though the hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end. Such an explosion indicated power to him, but faceless, the two figures could not mean that two specific individuals working together could create that much power. For the first time in years, Maharon was confused, and at the uncertain emotion, his flame died out.
He swore under his breath and raised his left hand, lighting a smaller blaze to hover on the tip of his index finger. It was easier to control when his emotions were not bowing to his will. Several silent minutes of deep, probing thought elicited no conclusion nor insight to the mirrorflame's enigmatic message and, frustrated, the youth sank heavily onto his bed. The mattress wheezed and creaked in protest, earning it a solid thump with his free hand. The slight stress of overworked muscles alerted him of their own protest with a tingle of pain, and Maharon sighed as he flexed his right arm, then made a fist, sharp claw-like nails digging into his callused palm. Confusion was useless. He would figure it out tomorrow; right now his body needed sleep, even if his mind was begging for answers to this new riddle.
The flame was extinguished with a single thought, and in the darkness, Maharon tossed his tunic to the floor, followed by his cloth belt and then worn, dirty trousers. Futalo was making him clean his own clothing now, and that particular menial chore was one thing the fire wraith refused to do... even if it meant wearing filthy clothes with a rank smell rising from them. But if she didn't relent soon and clean his few outfits for him, the youth's nose would demand that he bow to her wishes, yet again, and do laundry. What a repulsive thought.
Lips pursed to sigh audibly as the demon fell onto his bed, cringed at the mattress's outburst of noise, and pulled the thin covers over his tired body. His sleep would probably be deep and dreamless tonight, though on most nights he went through several dreams... most featuring violence and death. He always liked those dreams, because it was he who dealt out the misery; he was rarely on the receiving end, as such nightmares were too close to life for his dreamself's taste and he usually awakened quickly.
Tonight, he was sure, would be a mild night in the dreaming arena. With that reassuring thought, Maharon forcefully shut his mind off, relaxed his body, and was asleep within thirty seconds of settling down.
The first things he noticed were the odd, almost intoxicating colors. It was a dream sequence he recognized; the sky was pale yellow, the 'walls' (though he was apparently outside) were pastel pink, and the ground was a mottled mix of light blue and sea green. As usual, he was in the middle of a sparse crowd of attractive female demons, though they all ignored him... again as usual. Accustomed to this dream, the youth searched out the one beauty who had made such an impression on his mind to continually rerun this dream; unfortunately, she was walking away from him.
Maharon started forward, ignoring the strangely realistic pad of his bare feet against what felt like a smooth marble floor. The warm, flower-scented wind played with his hair, and that's when the fire wraith stopped mid-stride. Before in the dream, he had been in training gear, hair tightly restrained and throwing axe strapped to his thigh, but now he was dressed in a loose olive green tunic that fit more like a kimono than a real tunic. And why was that beautiful demon turned away? In previous incarnations of this same dream, she had at least stopped to talk to him.
The demon shrugged to himself, forcing his slender frame into a light jog towards his target. So what if the dream was altered a little? He usually woke up pleased either way, despite his consistent failure to ensnare the woman with his youthful tries at seduction. It was nice just to watch her move and listen to that sultry alto voice, almost too low for a woman to have--
Maharon blinked as he realized he had traveled a long ways on some sort of cobblestone path into pastel wilderness. There was no foliage, but some distance away, he could see two figures sparring. With a grin that bared sharp fangs, the wraith changed course. It was always more fun to fight in dreams than try to be charming, which was something with which he had no luck. As he approached in a surreal haze of swift-yet-slow movement, typical of dreams, the figures became clearer but not quite distinct. The blurring effect was due not to the dream itself, but to the speed at which they were both fighting; Maharon felt his eyes widen as he stopped nearby.
Despite the seemingly-intangible ground, both warriors were moving with amazing speed and agility; one had a pair of katanas, and the other wielded a whip in his left hand and what looked like half of a spear in the other. Although Maharon would figure the swordsman, being more muscular and just slightly taller, would have the skinny demon beat within seconds due to superior weapons and strength, as he watched, the wraith was disappointed. But his eyes never left the dueling pair, and without surprise this time Maharon felt himself unable to blink. Just like when he stared into the mirrorflame...
The faster one was the whip-wielding demon, darkly tanned and with coarse black hair slung into a messy braid that reached to his elbows; he was thin, almost lanky with long legs and deft fingers that manipulated the length of his whip with surprising control. His opponent was built more like a warrior, broad-shouldered, and with pale blue skin and buzz-cut cadet blue hair, it was easy to identify him as a water demon of some sort. For a long while, Maharon watched them move, slowly becoming entranced by each attack and reaction.
They moved too fast to be seen clearly, but every once in a while, one or the other would pause long enough to let their watcher get a good look at his face. For some reason, Maharon didn't find the fact that they were sparring nude odd at all, but that was no doubt part of the dream. Time seemed to fly past, and the fighters became wearied, their movements more deliberate, but their expressions never altered from one of pure bliss. It was as though the sparring match was a work of art, every action and reaction a brush stroke and color on their canvas, and the intensity with which they watched each other was beautifully hair-raising. Some of the moves they pulled were insanely dangerous, attacks or counterattacks that Maharon himself would never try with Futalo, but the demon pair seemed to know each other so well that no scratch marred their sweat-soaked skin.
The sharp, distorted clash of metal against metal jerked Maharon out of his daze of observation, and with some surprise he watched both swords and the half-spear clatter out of reach. That left the leaner demon his whip, and the other was unarmed. For a split second, they stared at each other, gazes locked; then the taller demon threw back his head and laughed whole-heartedly. The other grinned wolfishly and relaxed from his fighting stance, straightening and rolling bony shoulders back. "I win, Mesetin," he said jauntily, a strangely intense light flaring in his purple eyes.
The broad-shouldered warrior bowed lightly, greyish blue hair bobbing from where stubborn strands still poked outwards, though the rest of his short-cropped hair was plastered to his neck and forehead with sweat. "Aye, Rallis, you win. As usual."
Maharon watched, unnoticed by the warriors, as the leaner man sauntered up to his friend, tossing his whip to the ground on the way over. The youth briefly blanked out, reviewing what he'd seen in the mirrorflame - two male figures uniting in an eruption of raw power. Perhaps it meant these two; they were certainly formidable fighters. But why would the mirrorflame tell him what he was going to dream that night? It was no big...
...deal...
The fire demon's thoughts ground to a halt as his eyes flicked back to the two men. When he'd begun his puzzling over the mirrorflame's connotation to this dream, a foot of space had separated their bodies. And now there was none.
Rallis was leaning into the taller demon, eyes half-closed and long-fingered hand running through pale blue hair, and though Maharon was at a bad angle for a decent view, he knew with certainty that they were kissing. Not as brothers or cousins embrace and kiss each other on the cheek; that much was obvious from the spirit-energy beginning to gather sporadically around the two. Mesetin sank into the kiss, handsome face obscured by loosened strands of the other's thick black hair, muscular arms encircling the slender demon and holding him tightly.
Maharon nearly choked. This couldn't be what the mirrorflame meant. No bloody way. But he couldn't look away as the realization that they really had sparred nude dawned on him again, this time with a different reason attached to it. They were... No. Impossible. Such powerful warriors could not possibly be weak and love each other.
Wide green eyes followed the movement as the taller demon's hand slid down his companion's spine, its mate curving around Rallis' neck almost gently. But the long-limbed demon was not as tame as the other, balancing onto the balls of his feet as the kiss never ended, only intensified; his own hands were busy out of Maharon's sight, but as Mesetin suddenly broke the kiss with a muted groan, the wraith could easily guess what they were doing.
This could not be what the mirrorflame meant, Maharon decided, almost frantic in his own mind. Love is weakness. Lovers could never spar like that. The youth tried to distance himself from what was happening, wanting his objectivity back. But for some reason, raw curiosity and a strange warmth in his belly thwarted his intellect and refused to let it regain control...
With the kiss finished, Rallis' hungry mouth slid to his partner's neck, nipping in delicate bites down to Mesetin's muscular shoulder and further down the taller demon's well-defined chest. Maharon's eyes widened again, his keen vision allowing him better clarity in this part of the dream than any before it, as the lean demon gently kissed the other's taut nipple and hovered over it, pink tongue flicking out to tease another groan from the bigger man. The youth was fascinated as Rallis slowly kneeled and brought Mesetin down with him, the swordsman clearly at the other's mercy. So that's what he gets when he wins a match... Maharon desperately shook his head and tried to tear his eyes away. This was ridiculous.
But there they were, a mere twenty meters distant, the blue-skinned man on his knees and the other crouching, mouth and hands working expertly to pleasure his companion. The fire demon tried to regain his composure and closed his eyes only briefly; a sibilant hiss drew his attention, Rallis' head thrown back now and angular features slack with pleasure as Mesetin had a chance to return the favors, mouth making its way down his companion's neck in turn. The lean demon gripped the other's shoulders tightly, biting his lower lip in an attempt to restrain a very guttural groan and failing. Low laughter echoed as the taller man pulled his lover close, whispering in his ear with a smirk on his lips, "I get to play too, you know, win or lose." Rallis laughed breathlessly, those strange violet eyes bright to the point of radiating light, and with one long finger turned Mesetin's face towards his and kissed him.
Maharon swore in the silence of his own mind, managing to backpedal only one step before something inside stopped him. Why was this scene so intoxicating, so commanding of his attention? The youth growled under his breath, cattish ears flattening against his loose emerald hair; he had no interest in lovers. They were too weak, and if these warriors wanted to relinquish their power and do... what they were doing... then they were fools.
So why did some little part of him feel so delighted and warm?
Slender, sharp-nailed hands rose to massage his temples, almost automatically brushing against the black scars on his cheeks in passing. Really, this was all ridiculous. Maharon was barely interested in women and didn't have any urge to gain a lover or even to kiss someone. If the mirrorflame meant that he would have this dream, then well and fine, he'd had it. If it meant that this is how he should be, well... it was wrong. Maharon began to turn away from the addictive scene. Ridiculous. Absolutely n--
A feather-soft touch on his shoulder made him jerk and spin wildly, but the skin-to-skin contact merely solidified into a firm hold. Maharon found himself staring up into unnervingly bright violet eyes and sucked in a quick, surprised breath. His gaze broke the stalemate to flick over to where Mesetin sprawled, motionless but breathing. Satisfied, no doubt, as he slipped into slumber.
Rallis spoke in a low voice, but the quiet words rang in the younger demon's ears. 'What's wrong, Maharon? Denying yourself again?' There was a pause, but the wraith was too stunned to manage a coherent reply, other than a rasping growl. 'The divining flame will serve only your true self. Pretend to be someone else, or lock away the 'weak' emotions that make you whole, and it will leave.' Maharon found himself unable to look away from the other's lips, lips that had so recently brought a man to his knees effortlessly like warrior skills had not. Those lips curved into a wolfish grin as the taller demon noticed the other's point of focus.
'Listen to me, wraith. There is one and only one way to prove to yourself whether you're denying something or not, isn't there?' Green eyes blinked in momentary confusion before Maharon's usual quick-wittedness leapt into play. He snarled and backed up a pace, a swift gesture intending to knock the other's hand from his shoulder, but to his surprise Rallis' grip didn't waver. 'Scared, Maharon?' The tone was chiding.
Unable to back up or break free, the youth met the lean demon's gaze with fire crackling in his green eyes. 'I am never afraid,' he spat, his typical fury instinctively summoning whisps of emerald spirit-energy to cling to his tawny skin.
Rallis grinned, baring sharp fangs much like Maharon's own, 'Good.' And before the other could protest, Rallis leaned down and brushed their lips together.
The result was electric; a thrill sprang from Maharon's belly to his throat, a power surge of such sudden and shocking strength that it left him unable to speak, and unable to move away. Surprisingly gentle fingers sifted through silky viridian locks, moving the wraith's long bangs out of his face as the demon's other hand cupped the youth's face lightly. Maharon felt his entire body drain of anger as he gazed helplessly into those hypnotic purple eyes; he'd never been this close to another's face since he was a young child, and the sheer proximity was mind-numbing. He couldn't move.
'What was that, wraith? You don't fear me, but why do I smell terror on the wind?' Rallis leaned down slightly, resting his forehead against Maharon's. 'If you fear who you are, you will lose every real battle you fight. Love is not the weakness of a warrior. It is his strength.'
The youth's lips twitched into a fleeting, bitter grin, 'Then why am I weak now?'
Black brows furrowed over those glittering eyes, and the lean demon smiled. 'Because you're still denying yourself.'
Maharon half-lidded his eyes, trying to think past the distracting closeness of the other demon, but he didn't try to pull away again. If Rallis was right and love was not a weakness (he couldn't yet accept that anger was not the ultimate fuel for power), then the dream would make sense. But it was only a dream. Not real. 'I can't trust a dream,' the youth muttered, gaze unfocused.
Rallis spoke, unsurprisingly contradicting him. 'Then you cannot trust anything.'
Maharon nodded in agreement, but at a light touch, he looked up again. 'And you're trying to tell me to trust a dream.'
Rallis nodded and smiled. 'Trust what you feel. It's the only truth that matters.' The youth started to shake his head, disagreeing with such sentimental foolishness, when the fingers that framed his face shifted to grip his chin and still the movement. When Maharon opened his mouth to speak, his lips were claimed by the older demon and the shape of the first word ruined as a playful tongue slipped past parted lips and twined around his own. If the first feathery contact between lips had produced a small spark to race up the wraith's spine, this new feeling elicited a lightning strike. All control over limbs seemed to fail at once and were it not for Rallis' experienced hands supporting him, Maharon would have crumpled to the ground.
So this is a kiss...
The semi-coherent thought departed along with Rallis as the taller demon pulled back, a pleased grin tugging at his lips at the total loss of composure that the youth had suffered. Maharon's breathing soon deepened and slowed, and he was able to stand without trembling; shadowed green eyes half-glared into violet ones. 'Trust what you feel, wraith.'
'It's all that you have.'
With a sound like a whipcrack snapping through his skull, Maharon awoke with a start, fingers gripping sweat-soaked sheets tightly.