She hated the blue fire in her eyes.
A mage had put it there a long time ago.
She’d worked as an assassin then. She was hired to find an elemental mage whose signature move was a burst of blue fire. When she found him he was sitting in the shade of an apple tree, poring over a tome that looked to be even older than he was.
He’d heard her coming, she was sure of it. And yet he didn’t raise his eyes from the script on his lap. His brow remained furrowed, his expression contemplative.
He didn’t put up a good fight – she was surprised by that. But just as she was about to kill him, he blasted her with his fire magic, searing half her left arm and decimating the tendons in her right leg.
She spent nine days in a healer’s room. On the tenth she was fully healed.
But when she held a mirror up to her face, her eyes were different.
There was a tiny blue flame flickering in each pupil.
With the mage dead, she went back to work. She was as swift as ever. But when she closed her eyes she saw things, memories that weren’t hers. They appeared in her mind as clearly as if they were her own.
There were books, lots of books. The text swam before her eyes, filling her with knowledge of dragons, ancient curses and relics from times forgotten.
There were people too. An old woman with greying burgundy hair, and a much younger woman. The younger woman was sick. She couldn’t move. The mage sat by her bedside every day. Her mournful lilac eyes haunted the assassin’s dreams.
The mage was searching for something. (Aphrael, she reminded herself. His name was Aphrael.) It was a pond of some kind, one whose waters could cure any ailment. The assassin’s mind filled with images of this pond. Every time she saw it the fire in her eyes burned.
She couldn’t stand it anymore.
She had to find the pond and bring back its waters for the mage’s daughter, the one with the lilac eyes. If she didn’t the torture would never end.
So the assassin set out to find the pond. The mage’s journey became hers. His memories were hers. His hopes, his dreams, his pain – they were all a part of her now.
Sometimes at night, when the stars were too silent for her liking, the assassin remembered the way she’d found the mage, reading under that apple tree. She remembered how he’d sighed when she showed herself. It was a weary sigh, but there had been no sadness in it.
And she wondered if he’d every truly died at all.
Note: Thanks to the lovely Ckye for her prompt Blue Fire. I couldn’t do the challenge, but why waste such a good prompt, eh?
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