Awakening: A Splinterlands Story

At last, after aeons in the abyss, I am let free. ‘The scourge of the realms’ they used to call me. What do those of the unkindled know of scourge? Beaten with stone and quenched with water, they locked me in a cavern, sealing the entrance with their vile mud. It was not what I considered my fate when I first ventured from my clutch. With no thanks to them, I can once more roam the lands.

All I wanted was to explore — to find the wonders that I knew awaited me. An idea my kind abhorred. With my flames alive again and the mud come to ruin, the cavern releases me from its darkness. No longer do I hold the urge my younger self had. Instead, it has been replaced with a yearning for the fiery comfort of my youth.

With haste carried by swift legs, I scurry from the cavern and into the world. My destination lies ahead over those mountains. Home. Will any of them remember me? Can they forgive such a spirit that no longer dwells under this shell harden with age and regret? Will they recognise the fires on it, fuelled by desires of vengeance? Or notice the stench of water that yet lingers in the kindle? It weighs me down. The flames don’t burn as veracious as before.

Through the meadow before me, I trample the dried grass. Disgusting. Drops of flame fall and devour them too soon to enjoy. The forest I’m entering will make for better fun. Twigs and leaves of the cooling season crack and powder under each foot. They too are consumed by my fire within a moment. Stopping deep inside the woods, I rest my shell against the trunk of an old tree. The fungi don’t settle on this one with how dry it is. This tree will expire shortly of its own nature. Setting it alight now wouldn’t be a mercy, would it?

Doesn’t matter either way. Once it is ablaze, the entire forest will follow. And this will be my mark on the world! With all my might, I focus my breaths to fuel the flames on my shell and fan them to their peak extreme. But it isn’t enough. Again on all my feet, I inspect the old tree. Some blackened bark where I leaned, but nothing deep enough to catch and hold. Sap pours from under the burnt area and sizzles as it comes into contact. I lean closer. My flames lick the bark but the thick orange liquid quells them, leaving a dance of smoke as evidence of the defeat.

Curse this abundance of life and their fluid-sucking nature. My flames should bring them all to ruin. And yet, here I stand in the midst of a forest with nothing but the ash of dried leaves and twigs under my feet. Is this my legacy? I am not worthy of my home, of my kin. I scrape a foot along the floor and a small heap of leaves form. Perhaps there is still a way?

I scamper through and across the entire forest, bringing the fallen and dried remnants together into heaps, and soon into mounds. Yes, there is hope after all. The forest floor is clear of debris and the creatures who once took refuge under them scurry around in panic. They, too, will burn. After three days and four nights, my work is complete. Six large mounds of dried forest waste wait in strategic positions. Just like the brood mother taught us. This will make her proud.

I wait for the evening wind to pick up and scurry to the northern mound to set it alight. The flames take and the mound burns. With haste, anticipating the change of wind, I rush to the eastern mound. Sure as the day, the wind blows west. Another mound lights the dark. Thick grey plumes weave through the trees as the winds pick up speed. But I’m faster.

With all six mounds aflame, I make for the centre of the forest and get comfortable. Heat envelops and the smoke purifies the air. It smells just like home. One by one, the trees take to consumption and ash snows over me. This is my legacy. My land. Home.

The forest burns for days, tapering off until barely a dozen small fires still kindle. Soot blankets me and I succumb to a deep sleep I had not had for aeons.

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I shake the soot from my shell with the dawn and stretch my wings, blowing my flames. Ash evaporates from the heat. Fully rested, it’s time I inspect my work and new territory. Anything yet standing will not be for much longer. The sweet scent of burnt fat and fur hangs in the air. This is how daybreak should be.

As I take a step forward, I pause when my forefoot lands beside a sapling bursting through the ash. I lean closer, cocking my head from side to side. How is this pitiful life here? With a thrust of my hind legs, I kick off a ball of fire from my shell onto the sapling. The flame dissolves the ash but leaves the sapling intact. Again, I kick and throw a larger flame onto it. Still nothing. How dare this newborn defy my power?

Flame upon flame I send over this growth ruining my landscape. And it remains evergreen and wet. I slump to my knees exhausted and rest beside the sapling. The flames on my shell tickle it but nothing catches. It’s futile. The smell of the quench is still too strong in my fire. A wound too deep for dimensions.

At least I can bury the abomination with ash. Heaping it at the sapling’s base, I cover it as much as possible before the ash rolls down on itself. A strong wind rushes past, throwing the heap across my face. I scan my burnt home. Nothing to break the wind with in sight. Why aren’t there any large boulders in forests when I need them?

Some trees would do the job.

No. They deserved to be consumed. Their pungent smells will not assault my senses any longer. Once the wind dies, I start to heap the ash over the sapling again. It rolls over itself, but some sap will keep it in place. I get up and search the remnants of tree trunks, collecting their vile juices. Mixing it with my ash, I bury the sapling. Now my landscape is complete.

I shuffle my shell and kick at the ash until I’m nestled in it and covered. Warm and safe. The sky darkens but it’s only midday. Shuffling more, I can’t cover myself properly. The ash is too little. A drop of rain falls on my flames, sending sharp cold shivers into my body. My fires hiss at the onslaught. Another. And again. I screech at the sky, begging for it to end its cruelty but it booms its delight at my suffering.

The sky opens all its death upon me and quenches my flames. Shame. Disgrace. Like my captors, the sky strips me of my heritage, my pride, and my identity. The lava caverns of home used to protect me from this. But I’m left with nothing. Not even the thick smog that hovered over the homelands. Before I can claim this area as my own, I’ve already lost it. This is no place for a fire beetle.

Rain washes away soot from the waste of trees, creating a web of black streams across the forest floor. All my hard work destroyed by the poison of water. What little smog I managed to work together is pounded to the surface, clearing the air of its purity. I bury my head deeper into the wet ash. It doesn’t smell like home any more.

From under the heap, the sapling pokes out its stem and leaves. It holds the ash, keeping it from running down with the rain but the sapling still rises through it. What strength is this that it has and I don’t?

Still growing, the sapling becomes a small tree. Large leaves tower over me, shielding from the rain. I’m not wet any more but the cold is too sharp to rekindle my flames. Still the rain pours, for days and days. Unending torture. The ash-sap heap now lies to one side of the tree’s young trunk. Grass grows over it. All my destruction and, still, life is created.

One of the tree’s leaves shed and fall over my shell. A blanket that comforts despite its nature. Where are my captors now? If they could see the life spurred from my scourge, they would regret their actions. The rains cease slowly until once more the sun touches everything. It dries the leaf.

At the coddle of heat, my flames spark again and consume the green-brown blanket. The grass growing over me succumbs to their intensity as well. Wet, green grass. I heave out from under the muddied ash and shake off the filth. Fanning my wings, the flames roar on my shell. Alive.

Their power surges through every joint. The scourge of the realms has returned.

I observe the change of my landscape as I walk out from under the protection of the tree. Black spots mark my movement across the grass.

Twice have I survived the quench. My pyre stronger for it. They burn to consume again. Looking up at the tree, I kick my hind legs and let the flames free. This time, they burn the green and young to ash at the base of the tree’s trunk. And I realise now my role.

From my scourge, new life will come. My flames will remodel the world.

It is all my domain.

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Copyright © Anike Kirsten 2019