Interlude - Katla

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Think of our nations; all those years of shared history. Let the tragedy of Laneby bring us closer instead of driving us further apart. 

"Burn."

A soft whooshing sound followed the whisper, then came a giggle, happy feet pounding the floor above him. Old sawdust whirled around.

"You did it, flamey. Now move."

Katla grinned as he threw a bucket of water over the dirty dishes sitting in the sink. The boy hadn't been a quick learner, but now that he had mastered the basics, he was eager to practise.

Even when he should be preparing for the night.

He let him. The high-pitched cheering and the stumbling were easier on the ears than the wailing that filled the cottage every night.

He had himself to blame for that, hadn't he?

Memories of the warm Jade sun resurfaced as he twirled his hand. A thick fog of steam formed. The water boiled.

"Now move again, flamey." Fox was no longer whispering. "I did it, Katla, just like you taught me. The fire didn't go out once."

"Well done, son."

"I'm almost ready for bed."

Katla hummed, treasuring the moment. For now, there was joy in his heart again, giving him the energy to pursue trivial household tasks. He wiped the cups, plates, and cooking pot clean, then pushed the dirty water through the silver pipe the previous owner had driven through the wall. With a snap of his fingers, he conjured a miniature tornado that cast warm air over the dinner set.

Clang. The prongs of the forks bent. The tornado was too strong for what it had to do. He clapped his hands—gone was the wind. A crack on one of the plates. Scratches on the knives. A chip off the cooking pot.

Damn the Gods, he should have known.

Outside, the sun sunk behind the pine tops; it happened earlier and earlier with each passing day. The dark cracks that always bubbled beneath the surface were growing again. Soon he would have to embrace the darkness and cold. Why did winter have to come so soon?

From the shelf by the window, he grabbed one of the bottles of Jade Islandic red wine he had bought earlier. He tapped the neck; the cork popping out, and poured his cup full.

"I'm ready. Good night, Katla, sleep tight!" Fox yelled louder than necessary.

"Don't let the bedbugs bite." Katla put the cup to his lips. He doubted tonight would be any better than the previous ones.

Fox blew out the flame he had been training with, the force of a potential Air Magician behind it. Then the house grew quiet, just long enough for Katla to take a sip and let the crisp taste of wine spread in his mouth—a zest of home.

Midway his second sip came a shrieky mumble from upstairs. "Katla? Does this bed have bedbugs?"

Katla snorted, drops of wine entering his nose. He coughed. Of course he received a question in return. Instead of blood, naïve curiosity coursed through the boy's veins.

"Well, does it?" Fox insisted.

"No, son, it's just a saying."

A short silence. "Are you sure? Can I kill them with fire if I see any?"

"Sure. Just don't burn down the house. We'll have to live in Mage Tower if you do."

Fox gasped. "No, no. I don't want to live with Hawk."

"It was a joke, son."

"It wasn't funny."

"A stupid joke then," Katla admitted.

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