The
Gift.
The boy stands alone in
the dark. Normally he would be afraid to be out here by himself, but tonight
there’s no room for fear. Tonight, it’s going to happen. He knows it, feels it
in his bones. It makes his hands shake to think about how much he wants to
prove them wrong.
His eyes see nothing -
just blackness all around. There are no stars. He can hear the sea rushing
against the shore, far enough away that he can’t feel seaspray on the air; so
close that he can hear nothing but the constant suck and crash of the waves. It
helps him to block out the rest of the world, helps him to concentrate on his
task. Nothing else matters now.
His hands are rigid
with the strain, knuckles white and fingers curled up to the sky like claws. He
can feel the energy gathering, growing, piling up on itself in the tips of his
fingers. With every passing second it grows stronger, and from somewhere deep
inside himself he wills it to stay alive, to take that final leap to spark and
combust. The energy is building, hot and burning, but he ignores the pain,
trying not to think about running to the sea to plunge his hands in the waves.
He cries out as the heat intensifies again, a sudden burst so strong it must
surely be making his blood boil.
Then, the flames
appear. They dance and flicker on his fingertips, crackling against the cold
night air. Furls of smoke rise from his hands, illuminated by the bright white
fire that was once a part of him. The pain is gone now, replaced by a
satisfying sense of power.
A triumphant grin
breaks across his face.
