Firesong, Page 2

  "I am glad you are feeling better," he told Sasha. "I was afraid at one point—"

  Sasha sent him a sad smile that cut Miller off. He stroked Miller's cheek one last time, then removed it from under Miller's hand and turned back to stare out the window once more.

  The silence grew heavy and long, so much so that Miller feared this improvement had only been temporary and Sasha had relapsed. Miller was about to say something, anything—he didn't even know what himself, he just needed to break this frosty wall between them—when Sasha's lips opened and out came another wondrous melody.

  It was beautiful and sad, and Miller swore he could feel it swirling through the air, all around, above and below him, and in his mind's eye images began to appear.

  There was an egg the size of an adult chicken. It rested in the middle of a circle of stones on twigs that were aflame. Cracks appeared, deepened, spread. Soon the shell was falling into two halves, revealing a human-shaped baby. The mother, in her bird form, alighted next to the newborn, visibly concerned. The father followed suit. Both turned into humans and looked at each other. Baby Sasha did not cry; he merely watched his parents, sensing already that something was not as it should have been. Then other firebirds came fluttering, squeaking excitedly to see their new sibling. When they saw their brother, however, they started laughing.

  As the song went on, Miller witnessed all that Sasha's life had been. How, day after day, his siblings and his parents harassed him with lessons to try and master his shapeshifting ability. It didn't matter that he tried his hardest—the more he tried, actually, the harder he failed and the more they laughed.

  With Sasha's mood, Miller realized, the temperature grew or lowered. When the room became so cold Miller could not hold back a shiver, the song took on a sinister, haunted rhythm, and Miller discovered that one day, Sasha had awakened to find himself alone in the nest. He'd waited two days, but no one ever came back. Miller saw him searching through the seven skies for his family, driving himself to exhaustion.

  Slowly, as his own melodic tale came to its end, Sasha began to weave other notes into the tune: trust, friendship, the will to share. He was glad to feel that Miller willingly opened to him in return, and Sasha's life was soon replaced by Miller's in their minds' eyes.

  Miller had been a happy child, running around getting his clothes dirty in the animal pens, scratching his knees and hands in his fairly usual falls.

  The only downside to his life at the time was the same as now: the Council. For days on end, they would come to the house and try to bargain for the property. Whenever they grew fed up with his parents' refusal, they would leave them alone for a few months.

  Once, in his eighth year, the argument escalated into a fistfight. It was the last time the Council sent someone to buy the land. They no longer had a chance after that.

  That very night, Miller wasn't able to fall asleep. He had witnessed the fight and the memory bothered him every time he closed his eyes. He sneaked out of his bedroom and went to the sitting room to get his wooden horse. Momma had always forbidden him to touch the oil lamp she left on his bedside table, but he didn't like to walk around the house in the dark so he brought it along.

  Looking around the sitting room, he couldn't find the toy. He set the lamp on the floor next to the wall so he could look under the trunk under the window where Momma kept her sewing equipment, but it wasn't there, either.

  As he stood up, he heard a noise that startled him. The flimsy grasp he had around the lamp loosened. He watched, horrified and helpless, as it clanked on top of the trunk, spilling oil onto the curtains. He gasped when the lamp fell over and the flames caught on the trail of oil and spread to the curtains. They caught fire with a whoosh. He'd tried to grab them, yank them down to drown out the fire as Papa had once told him, but the curtain fell on him, the burning corner slapping his cheek.

  Miller had kicked and flailed until the curtain was off him, then he'd hurried to his parents' bedroom, but the smoke was already too heavy and they wouldn't wake up, no matter how strongly he shook them. So he ran out into the night, screaming for help that never came.

  Sasha brought the song to an end with a flourish that expressed his sympathy. He looked up at Miller, about to apologize for meddling and prying, but Miller smiled. "Thanks. I never guessed how relieved I'd feel by sharing that with anyone. Not that I ever had anyone to share it with."

  The flames in his gut roared as Sasha looked into those blue eyes, swearing that he would not let anyone bring tears into them again.

  Chapter Five

  Power

  It was true. Knowing someone else had seen what happened had lifted some of the weight off Miller's heart, but still he couldn't meet Sasha's gaze for very long. From the corner of his eye he saw Sasha cocking his head sideways in that bird-like fashion of his.

  "You should not feel guilty," Sasha said softly. "It was an accident—a terrible accident, but an accident nonetheless."

  Miller shook his head. "They died because of me. If I hadn't disobeyed, if I'd just stayed in bed. They probably hate me from the other side." He buried his face in his hands, wishing that he had just died with them.

  "No, they don't." Sasha's hands tugged Miller's wrists away. "They're proud of you, of the man you have become and the life you have made for yourself. Proud beyond telling of how you've fought to keep the land and rebuild the house all by yourself. Never doubt the love they have for you. They've been watching over you from beyond."

  Miller stared into Sasha's eyes; they were wide and shining with immense power as the phoenix looked into the world of the dead. "Thank you," Miller whispered. Sasha frowned. His forehead creased and was soon beaded with sweat. "What—what is it?" Miller asked.

  Sasha's voice grew raspy. "They're saying ... They said, 'Be careful, there are—' ... Uhn!" Sasha's eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed into his chair. Miller hurriedly bent over the table to keep him from falling.

  As he gathered Sasha into his arms, Miller's mind was torn between the memories of a month before when he was carrying this very body in almost the same manner and the fact that Sasha had just been in contact with his parents. And they didn't hate him!

  Worry for Sasha and what his crippled magic had done to him warred with relief over knowing his parents still loved him from beyond.

  He settled Sasha into the bed and went to get water. Sasha had only just started getting better; Miller couldn't let him go back to how he was before.

  Sasha awoke to a cold cloth dribbling water over his forehead. His eyes fluttered open. Miller was sitting on the edge of the bed, dipping a piece of white linen into a wooden bowl.

  "Hey," he said softly, a relieved smile on his lips when he noticed Sasha was conscious.

  "Hey yourself," Sasha croaked back. "How long—?" He tried to sit up, but Miller held him down.

  "Don't. And not long." He looked out the window and back. "I'd say half an hour, maybe three quarters."

  Sasha tried again to sit up and was once again thwarted. He glared at Miller and puffed up like a bird ruffling his feathers. "Stop doing that," he protested and his voice was shrill like an angry bird's.

  "Then stop being stubborn. You just fainted; you need rest."

  "I had enough rest to last me for this lifetime." He pushed against Miller's hand on his shoulder, but he was too strong. "Get off!"

  Miller set the bowl down on the bedside table, got on the bed, and straddled Sasha's hips. "I said no. You are going to rest until I deem you fit enough to rise."

  Flames literally leapt in Sasha's eyes. He bucked up, straining against the body weighing him down, bringing his face to Miller's. "Do you have any idea who I am?"

  Miller didn't flinch. He thrust his own face closer to Sasha's. "Yes. You're a stubborn, ill-tempered, snub little brat. Now shut up and go back to bed."

  Sasha could feel his own skin burning up with his anger, but to his credit Miller didn't relent—if anything his hold only tightened on
Sasha's wrists. If Sasha kept going, he could very well kill Miller, burn the skin and fat straight from his bones … Despite his fury, that thought was appalling; it drenched Sasha in a cold sweat that doused both his temper and power.

  "Fine," he squeaked, slumping furiously down onto the mattress. "You win. For now."

  Chapter Six

  Wish

  It took all of Miller's self-control to tear himself from Sasha. He wanted to lie down on the phoenix, press his mouth against those infuriating lips, even if it meant coming up with more scars. Instead, he let go of Sasha, stood, picked up the wooden bowl of water, and left.

  He needed to cool off—and not just rhetorically. Glancing down, he saw his palms were raw, the skin abused almost to the point of peeling off. They would have to work on Sasha's temper, and they would have to do it quick: before he burned down the house again.

  Miller sat heavily on the couch he used as a bed, pondering. Was it really his responsibility? He'd saved Sasha, sure, but he wasn't even certain anymore that Sasha had been in any danger to begin with. Wasn't that how it went? Phoenixes died and came back to life in fire …?

  Still, he had taken Sasha in, provided him shelter, food, and company. He didn't have anyone else anymore. And he would be lying if he said he was ready to see Sasha go. Even when he had been a silent mess staring up at the ceiling of the bedroom, Sasha's presence had, from the beginning, been like a balm to Miller's heart.

  The backs of his hands were on his knees, on either side of the bowl, palms upwards. Smiling wryly, Miller thought, Sometimes balms hurt before they can start healing.

  He lifted his right hand and lowered it into the bowl. His wince was drowned out by the hissing water as steam instantly shot up.

  Who did that man think he was, talking to and hindering Sasha like that? He was a phoenix, a god of life and death, lord of fire and master of the skies! Just because he was crippled didn't give that insufferable mortal the right to look down on Sasha!

  Sasha tossed and turned, repeating the mantra for the thousandth time that day. It had slowly built up his anger again. Furious, he kicked at the blanket, punched his pillow. All around his fist, fire instantly sprang. He growled, recalling the flames.

  What was it with this man that made his magic even more erratic than it ordinarily was? It didn't help, either, that every time Sasha closed his eyes, he saw the scene again, as clearly as he had when it had happened: him lying on that very bed, Miller straddling him, pushing him down into the mattress.

  Except the argument didn't play out entirely as it had in reality. In his head, Sasha pressed further upward, forcing his lips against the damnable Miller's. And when he'd fallen back on the bed, it wasn't in frustration but eagerness to have Miller lying on top of him …

  The door slammed open and Sasha started. He looked up to see Miller stalking towards him purposefully. Once he reached the bed, Miller sat on the edge and bent forward, leveling his mouth to Sasha's.

  Sasha groaned, pushing up into the kiss. He fought with the blanket to try and get his arms out and around Miller, but when he did they closed on thin air. Sasha opened his eyes. He was sitting up in bed all right … and hugging emptiness. Just another daydream.

  Well, blast Miller. Sasha threw the blanket aside, dropped his legs over the edge, and stood; he wasn't getting any rest anyway. How long had he been there? A month? Two? Anyway, it was high time he saw what the rest of the house he had almost destroyed looked like.

  Chapter Seven

  Date

  "I told you to rest," Miller greeted as Sasha walked into the living room. There was no anger behind the words, though. He was too astounded by seeing Sasha out of his bedroom to care too much.

  "And I did. For a grand ten minutes, Mother."

  Miller turned back to the water bowl in his lap, hiding his grin. He wasn't used to being challenged as he spent most of his time alone. Sasha's sass was a nice change. The couch sagged a bit as Sasha sat next to him.

  "That is my fault, isn't it?" Miller looked back at him. Sasha was watching the hand soaking in the water, concerned and guilty.

  "Actually, I was the one pushing," Miller said.

  He lifted his hand from the bowl to switch with the other one, but Sasha took his wrist and brought the hand to his own lap, cradling it in both of his. "I'm sorry," he said softly, looking sadly up at Miller. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

  Miller smiled gently. "It's all right; we just need to work on your temper."

  As he had done before, Sasha shook all over, the image of a bird ruffling his feathers in anger. "I do not have a temper."

  Miller resisted another smile, choosing instead to hook an eyebrow pointedly. Sasha glared at him. It seemed to take all of his willpower to calm down. He looked away, his shoulders dropping. "Sor—"

  "Don't apologize." Miller turned over his hand in Sasha's lap to grab on his wrist. "You're a phoenix, I get it. Fiery and all that. We just need to find ways to keep you cool."

  "You talk too much."

  With a cooing sound no human throat would have been able to make, Sasha leaned forward and captured Miller's mouth.

  Three weeks had passed since the kiss. In that time Sasha endured interminable hours in which Miller had him sit on the floor cross-legged, trying to control his emotions. Meditation, he'd called it.

  He'd humored him, sometimes barely, but it was worth it when Miller asked Sasha to accompany him on his chores one day. They were going into town.

  Miller was fidgeting with the buttons of his coat, clearly uneasy. Sasha chuckled. "Looks to me like you're the one who's going down there for the first time."

  Miller started. He looked around at Sasha and forced a smile on his lips. "What? No, I'm fine. I was just thinking …"

  Sasha crossed his arms on his chest. "Yes, obviously that's your biggest problem: you think too much."

  Miller glared. "Shut up," he mumbled as he went for the door. "You don't know what they're like," he added as he grabbed the key from the hook.

  "Yes, I do." He dropped a hand on Miller's shoulder, nudging him to turn and look at him. "I heard what Louis had to say, remember? I've seen your memories."

  Miller shook his head. "You've seen nothing." He sighed and brought his arms around Sasha's waist. "I just don't want them to hurt you." He let their foreheads touch. "I don't think I can stand aside and do nothing if they treat you like I know they will."

  Sasha's lips stretched in a broad, genuine smile. "My dragon of shining scales." He kissed Miller. He never got tired of feeling Miller's lips on his. "Don't worry about me. I'll burn the whole place down if they become a nuisance."

  Miller groaned and pushed back. "Don't make jokes like that. Some of them may be bastards, but there are good people living in the village."

  Sasha fought back the rising fire fueled by his anger. How could Miller defend the lot of them when they let a child take care of himself?

  Miller watched him intently and realized what was happening. "I'm sorry. We should just—"

  "We are going," Sasha said with finality. He kept his voice under tight control, tried not to ball his hands into fists. "And I promise not to kill your friends."

  Miller calmed down, hugged him tight. "Sorry."

  Chapter Eight

  Warning

  Miller had to give him credit: Sasha had made a lot of progress with his anger-management. He knew he was being unfair, too. He shouldn't ruin what could be a perfectly great stroll into town because of his own misgivings with the Council.

  None of them had come back since Louis's last visit. They knew better than to test him. After all, in their eyes, he was still the kid who had murdered his parents.

  Miller brought his coat tighter around him. He wasn't cold, not physically, not with Sasha so close by. No, the chill came from within, like a foreboding. No matter what Miller said and what common sense dictated, he was certain something very bad was going to happen in town.

  Instinctively, he walked
closer to Sasha, and Sasha put an arm around his shoulder without a word. Miller snuggled into his side.

  Sasha didn't like this new Miller. He had only known him as a confident, sometimes even cocky, hard-working person; this fidgety man who jumped at every noise and kept looking back over his shoulder didn't do much for Sasha. Things only grew worse once they reached the village.

  He'd thought, upon entering the town Miller would step away, but he did the opposite. Any closer and he would be stepping on Sasha's shoes!

  Throwing caution to the wind—not caring that the villagers discovered what he truly was—Sasha started a soothing hymn. It was only a hum at first, but as Miller slowly relaxed against him, he began a real tune.

  He grew so focused on keeping Miller at ease that he didn't pay attention to the goggling people they passed by, didn't see her immediately. When he did, though, he stopped dead in his tracks. Right at the corner where the thoroughfare branched off into the next alleyway hovered the ghost of Miller's mother.

  Sasha wouldn't have seen her at all if he hadn't been singing, hadn't opened himself to his magic. Yet there she was, shaking her head wildly and gesturing frightfully towards the alley.

  Soothed as he was by Sasha's singing, Miller had not realized Sasha had stopped walking. When the song died on Sasha's lips, though, he did, just at the mouth of the side street, right next to his mother, though Miller couldn't see her.

  "Sasha?" he asked, worry creasing his brow again.

  Sasha was lost to the magic, trying to focus on what Miller's mother, Megan was saying. The Council's men! he heard her otherwordly shout of despair. Murderers!

  He was too late coming back to the physical world. The thugs were already stepping out of the alley, their clubs biting down into Miller's back. He crumbled to the hard, stone ground before he even had time to grunt.

  The one who'd been first to step from the alley marched towards Sasha while his comrade kicked at Miller's limp form between whacks of his club. Sasha's eyes shifted from Miller to his own assailant as he lifted his own club.