Page 2 of Where We Belong

Their plumes rose high and encased the air,

And in the storm, Feye’s breath moved once more,

So came Enril and Enara, Ashen Reaches’ heirs,

A people born of prophecy, of ash, and of lore.

Thus were the Four born of the One’s One breath,

Each bound to their God and His fate,

They spread their wisdom amongst the Earth,

Until the jealous gods opened the floodgates.

Chapter 1

Ashley

I believed in no gods, no blessings or luck,

no fate nor destiny,

Contrary to popular belief, I’m not a horrible bitch. I just don’t appreciate ugly old men gawking at me when I’m trying to work. That familiar feeling of pins and needles fizzes in my chest. It scurries down my arm until it sparks in my palm, which just so happens to be wrapped tight around the pathetic tip this genius thought I’d appreciate for having, and I quote, ‘the best tits in South End.’ The copper coins glow orange in my hand. Just before they warp, I hurl them at the back of his head, singeing the last of his grey hairs that were already clinging on for dear life. The other customers pause wide-eyed and pursed-lipped, then, as Brits do, carry on with their soggy English breakfasts like nothing happened. Okay, I may or may not have gone a bit too far, and so, as of 2:41 p.m. today, I am jobless. Wonderful. I don’t know why those men at the Pier Café get under my skin so much. Of course I should just serve them, collect my paycheck, and call it a day. But their eyes always linger where they shouldn’t — when they aren’t catcalling underage girls, that is.

I’m getting really good at this whole “professional disaster” thing. My resume is basically just a list of places I’ve been kicked out of. I should’ve just let it slide, but every time I swallow my anger, it turns into a heat in my chest begging to escape. No one noticed the way the lights above the counter flickered, or how the hobs in the kitchen turned up a notch, but I did. What’s the point of these abilities? They just keep getting in the way. I can torch a skip, but I can’t hold down a simple job. Over the years, I’ve tried to find work that fits around my magic, but everything centered around fire seems to be about prevention or extinguishing. Not for me then. What kind of firefighter makes it worse? Maybe I should take up a proper hobby. Like yoga. Or therapy. Or setting small fires in my flat to ease my stress where no one can see. But no, it seems I like to go nuclear in the middle of a seaside café full of screaming toddlers and slurping pensioners. After a shouting match over the top of my exasperated manager, Brian, no…Barry? Who gives a shit. I was escorted off the premises. Brian-Barry apologised over and over, whilst the senile idiot muttered something about the tea being too watery anyway.

After wallowing in bed for a bit, I’m now perched on a damp, weather worn boulder watching the sunset. My happy place. The frosty breeze nips at my cheeks, and my cardigan hangs from my bare shoulders. How crazy I must look to the townsfolk hurrying past. They’re bundled in thick, fluffy layers, desperate to get home before the storm hits. But I embrace the cold like an old friend. Closing my eyes, I inhale the icy, salty air and a tiny raindrop lands on my nose. When my lungs feel like they’re going to burst, I exhale to ten, like I’d been taught at my most recent anger management class. It’s supposed to help me find my centre or whatever.

“Absolute bullshit,” I chuckle, lips pursed. Flicking my lighter and inhaling my blunt instead. At least I tried, right? I’m not an angry person, not at all. I just haven’t always been able to control my powers, usually at inconvenient times, but what am I supposed to do? Say, “No officer, I did not smash this bitch’s windscreen when she cut me off on the roundabout, I accidentally let magic loose when I pointed at her broken indicator.” I’ll take the classes and driving ban, thanks. Though I’ll admit, today wasn’t an accident exactly. Let’s call it self-defense.

The high kicks in and the waves slow their pace, daring me to take a step. The irritation and sadness simmer down, replaced with that soft blur I chase every day. This is why I smoke. Why I drink. Everything feels…manageable. All those emotions are flushed out of my heart and into my body instead. It’s better this way. I wander to the water’s edge, spinning in slow circles, toes dragging through the sand. The sky’s on fire above me, yellows and bruised blues bleeding behind storm clouds. I rummage through the smooth stones in my pocket, crouch low, and skim one across the water at a perfect angle, just like dad taught me. Eight skips. Not my best, but not bad for being high. Again. Six skips. Damn. Seven. Ten. Yes! He’d be proud as hell. I spin, imagining him scooping me up and swirling me around.

“That’s my girl,” he’d say between big kisses and wild laughs. The memory makes me check my pockets in a panic. I didn’t throw the wrong one, did I? My fingers close around the jagged charcoal lump, thank heavens. I hate that the only place I still feel him is here, on this beach, in a stupid rock. Tucking it safely back into my cardigan, I take a dramatic drag from my blunt and bow deeply to my audience of waves as they roar with applause. Ten skips’ bitches. The beautiful pain of the tide smacks my ankles, and the rain stops flirting and goes full apocalypse. Like the sky decided to throw a tantrum to match mine. My blunt dies in a hiss, my clothes cling to me, and my hair— Fuck, my hair. I don’t want to spend another two hours straightening it again, so I yank my cardigan over my head and grab my shoes. But something in the sky catches my eye. The clouds look like they’re folding in on themselves, charging straight toward me like a herd of elephants. I blink hard, trying to clear the fuzz from my vision. It’s probably the high. It has to be the high. Because clouds don’t do that. And they definitely don’t follow people. The grains tickle between my toes, and I can’t help but squeal as I sprint home, the storm strong on my heels. Figures. Guess I pissed the Gods off today too.

Chapter 2

Aiden

but late one night when lightning struck,

it split the soul in me.

I recline on the warm grass in the courtyard; one leg crossed over the other. In the seas far above me, sparkling starfish wheel in unison around the coral. The perfect evening after a long day of teaching. The breeze stirs my curls, carrying the sweet scent of the cinnamon trees bordering the palace, mixed with a little smoke and burnt meat from the fading pyre in the distance. Only one thing could improve this day, and ah, there they are. Something else I cannot touch.

I sit up far too eagerly, pressing my palms into the ground and straining for a clearer view. Without question, they are the most striking creatures I have ever seen. They gracefully dart across the waters. Thick waves of dark hair that catch the light of the Core burning bright in the distance, conceal their bare torsos. I permit myself the indulgence of watching. Their movements are maddeningly artful, keeping what I seek just out of sight. Their iridescent tails trail in pastels, and they whisper to one another, blowing me heart-shaped bubbles. One whose hair is threaded with seashells the precise shade of green as my eyes laughs as if I were the entertainment. The Core Dial marks the hour for dinner, so I dust the grass from my trousers, and gather my metalwork. Some of the mermaid’s pout and shake their heads. With a wink to my favourite yellow-tailed beauty, provoking more giggling and whispering, I take my leave.

“Good evening, Prince,” Theron says, bowing at the waist, his ash-streaked hand resting upon the hilt of his sword. Dark hair falls across his forehead when he dips, and when he rises, those piercing blue eyes find mine.

“Good evening, Lieutenant,” I reply, as I pass through the towering gates he guards. The gates are wrought with the crest of the royal bloodline, centring around a monstrous beast of legends. The Dracure. Its scales charcoal black and its blood alight with molten fire.

The scent wafting from the palace is simply irresistible. Fresh bread, herbs, and seasoned meat. I smirk. As expected, the head cook I recommended performs admirably. An array of lamb tagine and flatbreads, accompanied by various sides displayed in colourful clay dishes, fills the great table. The gold detailing along its legs mirrors the swirling patterns on the walls. A marvellous view of the current pours in through enormous stained-glass windows, and the King commands the room from his high-backed chair.

“My boy,” he calls out, his hearty voice booming across the room. Mahogany eyes sparkling mischievously when he looks up from his meal. Long locs, greying at the roots and fading to deep black, are woven into an intricate half-bound style. Loose strands threaded with red crystals and shells beneath the crown I must wear one day, fashioned from darkened teeth, scales, and talons of the Dracure.

“Good evening, Uncle. How was your day?” His infectious smile draws a light chuckle from me. I cannot say whether I have inherited it, my own is too rarely worn to know. But we share the same strong jaw and high cheekbones. Though his locs lay where I have loose, dark curls. His crown ornate and ancient where mine is jagged and cold.

“Not as busy as yours, it seems,” he nods toward the metalwork weapon I set beside my usual place at the table.