When Darkness Dawns

Flaming Desire

"Sweetheart, it's time to wake up. Wouldn't want yer folks to get angry," Sylvia's loving voice is enough to wake me softly. I feel the bed dent at my feet and a gentle touch on my covered calf, and I know she's made herself more comfortable.

My lids flutter open on their own accord to a brief, blurry sight and immediately shut when the bright rays of the sun shining through my windows greet me. Man, I should've closed my curtains last night.

A groan of irritation escapes my lips as I roll over and bury my face into the bed. With a sound of reluctance, I grumble, "I don't wanna." But the words are jumbled in the mattress, causing them to sound more like a slew of gibberish.

This makes Sylvee laugh, and suddenly her weight has lifted off the bed and my blankets are being snatched right off me, making me yelp in surprise and curl into a little ball, trying my hardest to shield myself from the sun.

"Ugh, Sylvee, why?" I whine like a child.

She only giggles again, then says, "Come on, my little cub, it's time to wake up. Yer father's gonna be home soon, and ye will need to be dressed and ready by then. Oh, and don't forget about yer parents' banquet tonight. We'll need to get ye all prissed up for that too."

I grumble one last time before opening my eyes again and sitting up in bed, reaching over to my nightstand to grab my glasses and slip them on, so that my world isn't a cloudy haze. Then, with a groan and a pout, I say, "Come on, Vee, you know I hate it when you call me cub. And besides, why do I have to go to this banquet anyway? He throws one, like, every month. Would it really be so bad for me to miss just one?" If I go to a banquet, I won't be able to keep the streets safe tonight, and that worries me.

But something else catches my attention: her nickname for me. As much as I pretend to hate being called little cub, I've always secretly loved it. And I think she knows that too. That's why she only smirks at my whine and throws me a cheeky wink, her slightly crinkled blue eyes shining with mirth.

Completely disregarding my first statement, she replies, "Well, cub, ye have to go 'cause yer father will be angry if ye don't. And besides, most people really only go to see ye perform, anyways."

Ah, yes, I do hate performing. Being forced to sing and play the same old songs over and over again is starting to wear thin on me, even more so than my late-night rendezvous in the town, the ones I spend beating bad guys to a pulp. To me, that's considered fun. But being forced to learn how to play eight different instruments growing up was really taxing along side the other things I was forced to learn.

I wouldn't say I have a didactic memory. No, I don't remember everything I learn just by seeing or hearing it once. But, I've never had to go over the same lesson more than three times before I was basically a master at it. And yet people don't often see that. They only see my face and claim I'm perfect. But they're so far from the truth, it almost hurts.

"Now come on, my sweet. It's time for ye to get ahold of yerself before the she-devil comes in and sees you like this." That gets me up and moving almost instantly, fearing a punishment from her. Normally, it isn't a physical one--like, usually she'll just make me clean up the whole house or go without dinner. But sometimes, on that really rare occasion where she's in a terrible mood, she'll slap me and call me a whore, or make me sit on a stool for hours at a time, or sit under freezing cold or super hot water for hours as well. And the most dreaded, the punishment she's only used a total of six times, she'll make me drink lemon juice and vinegar, a terribly acidic concoction from hell.

I give her a kiss on her soft cheek, smiling at her tiny form, standing at only about 5'2". But that's still a half inch taller than me, so I'm definitely not here to judge. Again, her blue eyes shining with love and warmth seem to smile on their own, but she also doesn't hesitate to give me a beaming smile with her slightly-thin lips. Her brown-gray hair is pulled into a tight bun in the back of her head, and despite the black dress pants, white shirt, and fancy shoes she's forced to wear as a uniform, she looks comfortable, like there isn't any other place she'd rather be than with me. God, she really is the best damn person I've ever met.