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“Do you remember the last time you saw the sun?”
That voice again. Phyre stares at the ceiling, determined to ignore the question.
The presence of this “guest” in her mind still makes her jaw clench.
There is, however, some benefit in her current condition: Fabien helps her navigate the unfamiliar modern world and the intrigues of Seattle’s Kindred. Not always accurately, not always on time — but he helps.
Still, that doesn’t give him the right to cross this line.
“Phyre?”
Dawn should already be breaking. Under different circumstances, she might suggest that the Malkavian go outside and admire the sun for himself. Refresh his memories, so to speak, instead of poking into someone else’s.
“Sorry, that question’s too personal. I’m just… trying to remember my last day before my Embrace. And I can’t. I know who I was, but I can’t remember how the sunlight fell on me. Not the color, not the warmth. As if I never experienced it.”
Phyre continues to stare at the ceiling. Her eyes track every crack, every single strand of cobweb.
“My memory’s failing me. Maybe, I didn’t like long walks? I was probably miserable. You know, people these days link happiness to sunlight? Vitamin D, something like that… Though of course, you haven’t heard of that yet…”
Well. He isn’t going to shut up. Fabien is like the sun — annoying and way too bright.
“Do the Gardener’s visions affect you that much?” Phyre’s colorless voice blends with the creak of the bed she lies on.
“There’s something about them that unsettles me. I just can’t pinpoint what. Do you think the Gardener uses the sun as a psychological weapon? To break our spirit through unconventional means? Like destroying us with the power of beauty?”
“There’s nothing beautiful about the sun, Fabien. It will kill you.”
Her words make him pause.
“Well, it’s a good thing I’m already… completely and irreversibly dead, right?”
Phyre closes her eyes. The chill of the air barely grazes her skin; the curtains stay drawn tight, keeping the dawn from spilling inside. The voice in her head falls silent. Everything is as it should be.
“And yet,” Fabien whispers one last time, “the sun is beautiful.”
***
Behind her, Safia’s scream rings out — a mixture of rage and disbelief. Phyre doesn’t even have time to gloat: her body is already hurtling forward toward the window. Shards of glass blend with the sky. The fall engulfs her completely.
Then she realizes Fabien is right.
The sun is beautiful.
Terrifyingly beautiful.
“Oh…”
The light washes everything away: rage, thirst for vengeance, hunger, paranoia, fear of the Sabbat, loneliness, thoughts of the ruined Masquerade, the disappointment of being merely a victim of someone else’s foolish love. Everything Phyre has ever felt in her unlife — all those pathetic ghosts of emotion — vanishes under the flood of pure, almost childlike wonder.
True feeling.
Human feeling.
For a moment, she simply floats over Seattle, suspended between dawn and inevitable death.
Finally, the pain comes.
Phyre plummets. A scream tears from her throat; molten lead fills her lungs, her ribs burn. Her skin blackens, sliding off her flesh in ragged strips.
She feels her joints crack. Something fragile, long dead, shatters beneath the skin. Heat snakes down her spine, scorching nerve after nerve.
The light pierces deeper. It feels as if her very consciousness melts like wax, dripping down in smoke.
“Phyre!”
Fabien cries somewhere inside, and Phyre tries to grab onto his voice. She desperately wants to hear him, and the idea of never catching what he's saying terrifies her.
“Phyre, close your eyes! Close. Your. Eyes!”
But her lids refuse. They are already smoldering, letting the sunlight in, and she feels as though she is flying through molten gold, repeating Fabien’s words in no logical order:
“The sun is beautiful. Trust me. The sun is beautiful. Trust me. The sun is beautiful.”
The fall slows, and the pain from the burns and the scalding wind dissolves into the shadow of a lone tree. The Garden welcomes her, and for a moment, Phyre thinks this is the end.
Only later, when she realizes that oblivion isn’t taking her, and that Fabien will never, ever return, does Phyre make herself a promise.
She may not be able to pull Safia into the sun. But she will make sure that she burns.
After all, who but a Tremere can turn blood into flame?