#when you consider the amount of death either directly or indirectly caused by the wol's exploits

[aethernoise]

7. noisome

The smell was the worst part.

The sight was lovely - fire was always pleasant to watch. The flames danced with blue feet, and white, flailing arms fading into smoke. The shadows joined, curling about as the conflagration spread and grew. The fire climbed effortlessly over its fuel, blazing paths across every surface it could reach, until the entire mound - a small one, this time - was engulfed in roaring heat and light.

Fire lit with flint and tinder and sometimes fed with oils would serve its purpose well enough, but there was an advantage to magical fire. Fire lit with words and channeled aether burned hotter, and quicker, and required less encouragement and less supervision. It could burn in the wind and rain and even in the heavily falling snow - it could cut through a blizzard like a beacon until it had been extinguished.

Alyx was good at lighting fires. Her techniques changed over the years, as did the effort required to cast the spells. It was “convenient” and it was “like nothing” for her, to hear others tell it - for that’s what thaumaturgy was for, wasn't it? Starting fires? Why waste a match when you have with you a living, seemingly inexhaustible source of cleansing flame? She could burn things with a snap of her fingers or a flick of her wrist - even spells cast with a practiced wave of her staff were easy for her, after all.

Not always. Even after her elemental prowess grew to such lengths that lighting a hearth barely took a thought, this sort of blaze would still exhaust her. Each time she had to say the words and watch as the flames feasted voraciously upon their meal, her heart would turn to lead and lay uncomfortably in her chest.

It was no easier when the fire was quiet, as it sometimes was, for not everything screamed while it burned. When the fire was quiet and only spoke with its own voice rather than the voices of others, the sound was soft, like blood rushing in her ears. She likened it to the distant crashing of waves at times, all the while acknowledging the irony. 

With a deep breath, a feather touch, a sacred word, and her powers of destruction would create something new. She would break down the bonds of matter before her and turn it all to heat and light. The flames would dance and she would have fulfilled her duty once more, until the next time she was called upon for the sake of convenience.

It was lovely, in its way. But no matter how many times she lit the fires, Alyx could never get used to the smell of bodies burning.