Page 35 of Burned Alive to Be His
My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic, terrified bird. I look at his face, at the fierce pride warring with the raw vulnerability in his eyes. I look at the vast, dark wings that promise both flight and a fall into oblivion. And I remember the feel of his hand on my arm, his voice whispering my name in the darkness.
I take a deep breath and step forward.
He moves with a surprising gentleness, his good arm wrapping around my waist, his other, broken arm held stiffly at his side. He pulls me against his chest, my face pressed against the warm, hard plane of his tunic. I can feel the solid, steady beat of his heart against my cheek.
“Hold on,” he commands, his voice a low rumble in my ear. “And do not, under any circumstances, let go. I’m not supposed to fly, but there’s no other way to cross this. Surely, the Mother will understand.”
I wrap my arms around his neck, my fingers tangling in the thick, dark strands of his hair. I press myself against him, making myself as small as possible. I feel the powerful muscles in his back and shoulders bunch and coil.
And then, we fall.
He does not leap. He simply steps off the edge of the world. For one, heart-stopping, stomach-lurching moment, we are plummeting into the abyss. A scream tears from my throat, swallowed by the howling wind.
With a great, powerfulwhooshthat takes the air from my lungs, his wings catch the air. Our descent stops with a gut-wrenching jolt, and we begin to rise. He is flying. We are flying.
The wind is a physical force, a battering ram that tears at us. I cling to him, my eyes squeezed shut, my face buried against his neck. I can feel the strain in his body, the tremor of exertion in the arm that holds me. Every beat of his massive wings is a monumental effort, a battle against gravity and his own injuries.
He says nothing. He simply flies, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps. The crossing takes an eternity, a lifetime suspended between the sky and the abyss. Then, with a final, powerful beat of his wings, we are across. He lands on the opposite ledge, his boots hitting the rock with a solid, jarring thud. He stumbles, his body trembling with the aftershock of the effort, but he does not fall.
He holds me for a moment longer, his chest heaving, his heart hammering against mine. Then, he gently sets me down on the solid ground. I collapse to my knees, my own body shaking uncontrollably, my stomach churning.
I look up at him. He leans against the rock wall, his wings folding slowly, painfully, back into his body until they disappear, leaving only the faint, raised lines of scars on his back. His face is pale, his lips pressed into a thin, white line of pain. He has paid a price for this passage. A price for me.
“Thank you,” I whisper, the words inadequate, pathetic.
He glares at me, his eyes burning with a mixture of pain and pride. “I told you,” he rasps. “I will not be shamed by your failure.”
He pushes himself off the wall and retrieves our gear, his movements stiff and deliberate. He hands me my cloak and pack without a word. The unspoken thing hangs between us, a fragile, terrifying bridge of trust built across a chasm of death.
The rest of the climb is a blur of pain and endurance. The summit is a different world, a place of thin, biting air and a cold so profound it feels as if it could freeze the very soul. The fur-lined cloak he gave me is a godsend, but it is not enough. My human body is not made for this. My lungs burn with every breath, my muscles screaming in protest.
Xvitar is a silent, grim presence at my side. He is suffering, I know he is. I see the way he favors his broken arm, the way he grits his teeth against the pain in his side. But he does notfalter. He is a creature of this mountain, and he will not be broken by it. He pushes me, he pulls me, his good hand a firm, steady presence on my back, guiding me over the treacherous, ice-slicked rocks.
After an eternity of struggle, we reach the summit.
It is not a peak. It is a caldera, a vast, circular crater, and in its center, a lake of fire. A roiling, bubbling cauldron of molten rock that glows with a malevolent, orange light, casting a hellish glow on the underside of the oppressive grey clouds. The heat from it is a physical blow, a dramatic contrast to the biting cold of the air.
And in the very center of the caldera, on a natural, obsidian bridge that spans the lake of fire, is the altar.
My breath catches in my throat. It is exactly as I saw it in my memories. A single, massive block of black, unadorned stone, its surface strangely smooth, almost liquid in the firelight. It hums with a power so ancient, so immense, it makes the hairs on my arms stand on end. The air around it is thick, charged, vibrating with a silent, terrible song. The coiled flame, the symbol of the Hearthkeeper, is carved deep into its surface, the lines of the carving glowing with a soft, internal fire.
“This is it,” I whisper, my voice a breath of awe and terror.
“The Altar of the First Flame,” Xvitar says, his voice becoming a low, reverent rumble. He looks at it with the eyes of a true believer. “Where the Hearthkeeper herself first set foot upon this world.”
He takes the small, leather pouch containing the fire-crystals from my pack and also my obsidian crystal. “You must walk the bridge. You must place the crystals upon the altar. You must ask for the goddess’s blessing. I’m also offering my most prized possession, my crystal.”
I look at the narrow, obsidian bridge, at the lake of fire that roils and spits beneath it. My heart is a frantic drum against my ribs. This is the final test.
I take the pouch from him, my fingers brushing against his. The contact is a jolt of warmth in the freezing air. I give him one last look, a silent question. He simply nods, his violet eyes intense, unreadable.
I take a deep breath and step onto the bridge.
The obsidian is warm beneath my feet, a steady, comforting heat. I walk slowly, deliberately, my eyes fixed on the altar. The roar of the fire-lake is a deafening thunder in my ears, the heat a physical pressure against my skin. I am a moth flying into the heart of a star.
I reach the altar. I place the pouch of crystals on its smooth, black surface. I close my eyes, and I do not know what to say. I am a human slave. I do not know this goddess. I do not know her prayers.
So I speak the only truth I have.
