Work Text:
For as long as you could remember, you always felt cold.
A chill that must’ve still lingered from the fountain. Some twinge that shifted deep in your bones that locked and twisted your tendons. It made the Lost Temple heatwaves bearable and the cold nights suffering and miserable.
Then one day, you stumbled upon the church. It was quaint, but more lively than anything you had seen for a while. A choir of voices, a delicious smell— warmth. And at the center of it all, was Firebrand. Tens of demons were crowding around the deity, making jokes, commenting on the festivities, he welcomed all commentary with a smile on his face, but a particular distance in his features kept you wondering about what was masked beneath it.
He said a line that particularly stuck out to you in a speech to his followers. “Let us enjoy this hearth and pray it keeps us warm.”
And so, like a moth to a flame, you began to visit the church more. You never saw yourself as anything close to a devout, but the practice came naturally for you.
The nights passed before you knew it, gradually traveling up the ranks with your piety, until—
“Firebrand would like to see you.”
You look up from the pile of papers you had been scribbling at, towards the young follower positioned by the door, somewhat subtly fidgeting with the curtain. Pen ink is smeared across your fingers, scrolls are scattered throughout. It takes you a second to process the words. It must have been something important if the king requested it by his name and not title.
You nod quietly at the follower and step out of the room. Large crimson curtains hang from the floor to the ceiling, separating and decorating the halls instead of doors. Though the church is large and a room wasn’t exactly specified, you know there’s only one real place the deity could be at this hour.
Your footsteps echo against the marble floors as you idly consider whatever the king could have called you for. A sudden food surplus? A new business in need of funds? You at least knew it wouldn’t be anything heinous.
Unlike other deities, Firebrand preferred to be more.. equal with his followers. He only asked for company and an open mind, instead of demanding unquestionable devotion and ordinate statues. Though, you think of the extravagant artwork lining the central halls and think that– perhaps, he didn’t even need to ask.
Firebrand’s church doubled as a sort of government alongside religion, often helping out citizens as much as possible as Firebrand advised. He saw Lost temple as a sort of ‘storm in need of easing’ from all of the issues in the faction— and things have improved.
Sooner than you realize, you reach the expected location. The glass doors creak open and you step onto the balcony, intricate copper vines acting as the railing. It has one of the best views of Aithne’s heart that any inphernal could get in Lost Temple. But at the center of it was the deity in question.
“I see that you received my invitation,” says Firebrand, casting a glance at you from behind.
You murmur back your own greetings, going to take a place at his side, as you’ve gotten so used to in the last years.
“The stars look beautiful tonight, do they not? Illuminates the city well.” He had a fond look on his face, the same sort of amusement that appeared whenever he saw any of the inphernals mess around in the streets. You nod and think about how the dark blue compliments his glowing orange.
“.. I wanted to say that you have done a lot for this community with your presence,” He starts and immediately, words come to your head. As much as you’d like to blindly agree, what brought you here was your own solace, that biting cold. You don’t allow yourself anything other than the idea that it was solely luck that happened to guide your self determined selfishness. Only because you’ve kept us warm. Only because you saw something in this city. Only because you gave us a chance at all, you think. And, somehow, your tongue manages to slip.
Firebrand doesn’t look all too surprised. The deity half-heartedly sighs, “Naturally, I have done much. Though, that doesn’t understate your own effort.”
“.. Like I said, Lost Temple has eased its troubles in part to you no matter how things got there. Every spark deserves its praise for feeding the fire.” His gaze darts between you and the sky, you get the feeling there’s something else he wants to say. “..I would like to show my gratitude for that, if you’d allow me.”
You blink. And then nod idly as your brain has finally processed the expression on Firebrand’s face: Hesitance.
He slowly leans down, taking a slight step forward. A gloved hand is placed on the crook of your neck, guiding the angle of your head. Firebrand’s horn clinks with your own. you feel his breath right against your skin, and then—
He leans in to kiss your cheek.
Warmth immediately ebbs into you. He pulls back —briefly— and you see the soft crinkle of his eye. You still feel the outline of his lips against your skin.
Although you’re sure you’re flustered too, Firebrand’s own immediate heat completely overwhelms it.
It wasn’t unheard of for Firebrand to be close with his followers. A variety of high ranking ones could’ve all been seen cozying up to his sides in one way or another and the iconographers never failed to shy away from more salacious depictions of their favorite muse— still, Firebrand viewed them all the same.
But that praise still certainly meant something. Something enough to stoke that hunger in your heart. Before the deity can open his mouth again, you indulge.
You pull at his coat and to bring him closer, stumbling. Your lips brush Firebrand’s and then shift ever so slightly to kiss the edge. You linger, taste the embers of his skin and imagine what the complete sensation of his lips would have been like.
Slowly, carefully you press deeper into the little corner of soft flesh you allowed yourself. Gloved hands brush against the outline of your sides, and the tilt of his head welcomes your persistence. Firebrand makes a shaky, all too soft rumble.
Now that’s a real kiss.
You pull away lest your greed grows even further. He burns, uncomfortably so. The tips of his horn glow with heat. It’s almost unbearable. Almost. Because knowing yourself, you’d go back in again and get scorched for the chance of indulging in him if you didn’t have more restraint.
Firebrand makes another low rumble. He exhales —relief? Bashfulness?— his breath is still caught, but his hand is still at your side. From how his eye still lingers on your mouth, as if expecting another kiss, it seems you weren’t the only one thinking of more.
“Ah.” the deity chuckles, only a murmur. “I’m glad my token was well received.”
You would say it was a little more than well received, but alas, your mouth remains closed.
The two of you spend the rest of the evening idly chatting, the moon shining bright from where it hangs. Before you even realize it, you’ve started leaning against Firebrand from exhaustion— perhaps that paperwork did more of a number on you than you thought. But instead of stepping away, the deity brings you closer, keeping you warm against the cold desert air.
As the heat of his embrace ebbs into you, you allow yourself to close your eyes and drift off to sleep.
—
Lost Temple was burnt down five years ago.
The city of Aithne was reduced to a burning wreckage. Tens of lives were lost, artworks destroyed, the sands scorched for a lifetime. The flames spread all of the way from the east of the faction to the center. Some say it was because Firebrand got sick of dealing with mortals, others point to some eccentric sickness .
No matter how much the stories changed, the reason didn’t matter. The belief in him was completely disbanded. With their deity scorned and the heir gone, the followers were with little faith to remain.
For you, that suffocating cold came back. Worse, biting at whatever it could.
You, too, were left with nothing but ruin. All you worked for was gone in an instant. Nothing but miserable ashes left in its wake.
It was enviable that the church never had a chance at withstanding.
But despite all of that, you ended up here.
You look upon the ruins of the church like an old mistress. It’s more akin to a pyre now than anything. Piles of burnt wood, cracked stone, the majority of the roof is still standing —which made it considered ‘in good condition’ compared to the other churches. This one was only ‘spared’ for being built on the north side.
You step over the wreckage. Your coat fits just right in with the burns, ripped, burnt, hanging on by a thread. The once holy robes were all discarded, because nobody could afford to wear white anymore.
A few remnants of art work still remain. From the little light, you can make out the painted details of those familiar scaled wings— ghosts of a better time. You step around it and try to not look too hard.
Soon enough, a distinct shade of red and orange catches your vision and you realize a whole colony of Lacrimae Flammis has nestled in a nearby wall, gradually climbing up the crevices while still puffing bright orange pollen. These things have infested all over Lost Temple after the accident, often the only living things left in the wreckage. Their blooms after the fires used to be seen as a blessing, a blatant example of how life persists despite disaster. Now it’s regarded as a parasite. A reminder of the one who condemned us in the first place.
You follow the broken pews and ashen moss to the very back of the chapel. At the center, an ornate stone arch frames the altar each follower prayed to. Moonlight from the holes in the roof trickles in. Various offerings still remain on the stone slab: rotting fruit, corroded metal charms, orange rocks. Each little gift was a dream once worth something. The wax candles lining the altar still burn despite all of the neglect. You aren’t too surprised, after all, He was the one who lit them.
Of course, right above you is an image of Him, the focal point of this grand offering. Even if the paint is faded— Firebrand is painted meticulously, every scale, and fold and crevice of magma accounted for. He looks sort of like a ghost. Beautiful, but the chipping corners and encircling flames make him just out of reach. You would’ve given your applause to this artist for capturing him so perfectly, or well,—almost. The eyes weren’t right.
In every interpretation of Firebrand, the eyes were never the same. That was the one thing the followers could never agree upon. Some tried to go as accurate as possible, others made him blind and drew the eyes in his fire, a few even engulfed his entire face completely in one radiant, blinding light— but no depiction ever really captured his expression right.
Firebrand waved off their attempts, saying that the depictions already depicted him well enough.
But, on that day he kissed you— in that second of hesitancy he had before cradling your neck— you thought you could put a name to that expression in his face: Hunger.
Hunger that was burning and bright and sharp, before being snuffed out by the warmth of the contact. You wonder if that hunger was why he bothered so much with mortals, or in creating that failed heir.
On the wall, the flames and flowers painted on the borders keep him company, but it didn't do much to make the black negative space on the canvas any more welcoming.
Warm, Content.
You wonder if Firebrand really felt that way.
Uncomfortable with the silence, you shift your gaze away from the altar, staring at your feet.
Before coming here, you had been mindlessly wandering around for ages, that cold infesting your body being the only thing keeping you tethered to the ground you stood on.
You walked for a long time.
Endlessly, agonizingly. You walked until your shoes started to tear and your robes frayed from the friction with sand. You walked and walked. And there was nothing to see and nowhere to go.
Until there was.
It was only after you caught a glimpse of the silhouette of the church that something changed— That maybe that flicker of warmth you felt looking at ruins of the last thing you ever had could have filled something.
Did it?
You look around the desolation. There is nothing here. And yet there is something.
Old art works made by intricate mortal hands are all around you. Likely from those who have been burned alive— but where their bodies failed, their creations still stand. His light burns only by the grace of a handmade candle. The wax has dripped into a lumpy mound onto the table, but it still glows just as fervent.
You are still here. Living and breathing despite what you feel should have happened, just alive enough to still feel a sliver of opportunity when you look at your god.
Perhaps the only godly trait about Firebrand was the hope he could’ve instilled in others. The belief in taking another breath, in trying once more, that ‘tomorrow’ could still be more worthwhile than today.
As the candlelight flickers, you find yourself staring into its inconsistent— but undoubtedly radiant light. And for the first time in a while, you don’t feel cold.
Even if the fire is gone, those flickering embers still remain.
That night, you leave the remains of the site. Sand blows harshly against your clothes in the cold, barren dessert. Every step certainly isn’t easy, but bearable.
This burning warmth in your heart, you decide you’ll see it until the end. Maybe one day your path will lead you to him again. Maybe it won’t. You’ll accept that risk.
After all, what else is a follower supposed to do?