From Ash

I was nine when death cast its cold, dark shadow over my people and stole the lives of my parents. We were sitting across from one another, my family, joining hands to say grace so we could eat the dinner my father had so enthusiastically prepared for us that evening, whatever it may have been. He loved to cook. My mother had only just gotten home from work. She was tired but still smiled and hugged us all when we ran to meet her at the door. Including myself there were four children—my twin, Jasper, and I were the oldest, with seven-year-old Elise, and five-year-old Adrien behind us. Father always used to say that together, the five of us resembled a living fire; Adrien, who inherited our father’s almost golden hair, made the image of a flame more real.

Together, the four of us took our mother’s things and walked with her to the kitchen, where Dad was setting the table. They embraced, as they always did, and Dad led her to her seat at the table, her plate already in its proper place. Jasper and I helped Elise and Adrien, and soon the six of use were seated and ready to eat.

We were happy then.

But then it happened. Some call it the Curse, others the New Plague. Others still, who wanted to stop the spread of rumors of the divine and mysticism in its tracks, claimed it was an attack on our great nation, but by who they could not say. Not that its name matters. No matter what we choose to call it; no matter if we choose to believe it was of God or Hell or man, I still watched as my parents died in front of me and my siblings. No matter what it was, on that day, before the sun set, every active and retired member of the military died, struck down by some invisible hand of death.

I was holding my father’s hand when it happened. It was large and warm, soothing to my cold skin. Until it wasn’t. In an instant the smile that typically adorned my father’s face was replaced by an expression of pure agony, and all the warmth I took comfort suddenly froze over. He was dead. Across the table, I saw my mother fall to the same fate.

My siblings and I scrambled over our parents. We begged and pleaded for them to wake up, not understanding what had just occurred before our eyes. When our mother wouldn’t wake, Adrien began to cry, and Elise quickly followed suit. Not knowing what else to do, Jasper and I gather our younger siblings and ran to our neighbor’s home. Dogged from our shock and faces wet from tears, we tried to explain what had happened.

For what it took, the curse also gave. In the days following the deaths, people of all ages across the nation began exhibiting abilities. There was no pattern to who obtained abilities, or what they could do, at least across different families. Within families, similarities were easily spotted. Jasper, Elise, and I quickly realized we had gained power over fire. produce and manipulate it at will. Adrien, on the other hand, could manipulate the air and weather around him.

The years went by, and the pain and hatred that our parents’ deaths sowed in us only continued to grow, and when no cause for the curse revealed itself, our hatred was turned toward the monarchy that did nothing as our people fell apart and crumbled into chaos. Criminals became empowered by the monarchy’s inability to enforce the law, instilling fear in anyone without the power to protect themselves. Eventually families banded together to ensure their survival, forming communities in which those gifted with abilities learned side by side, in hopes of growing strong enough to defend against any who would threaten their homes.

Our flames consumed any who threatened our home—we would never lose anyone we loved ever again. When we were old enough and had mastered all that our flames and wind could achieve, we consumed the crown.

It was beautiful, the fire that sprang from our fingertips, and the lightning called forth from the heavens. I remember how my flames licked my skin, tingling as they traveled from my hands to the streets of the capital, blazing a road of fire to the castle. I remember how the nobility cowered before us, incapable of extinguishing our flames or calming the storm we brought with us. I remember the sound of their extinction—their screams for mercy and forgiveness, and the cries of victory from those who fought alongside us.

I remember it all.

I remember it all as I wait next to my brothers and sister, our knees resting on the cold, stone floor of a reconstructed castle, while our crowns are placed upon our heads—crowns blackened by the ashes from which we rose.