Campfire's Story

"The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window,” the campfire said in its deepest, purest voice. Red-gold coals at its base swirled like leaves in a gentle whirlwind, flaring with the fire’s every crackle.

“It wasn’t one of my flames, though, obviously.” The fire hmphed a small puff of smoke.

Rezo was relieved when a small throng of villagers began to form around the site, filling in beside him and seating themselves to add to the previously limited audience.

Even with Sainar blood in his veins, the idea of a private story from Fire seemed far too intimate to Rezo. Especially in front of Gira, he thought, before turning his focus back to the campfire’s words.

“… No, this candle was far too … unique … to be of my light,” the campfire sputtered at its growing crowd. “Its wick held a pale, flimsy green flame that flickered between a solid yellow or blue; it seemed unable to make up its mind, you see. The color was nothing quite so bold as my vibrant orange-reds. Naturally,” Fire said with an annoyed tone that was just shy of a hiss.

Rezo had always loved coming to the campfire. To hear its many tales, its poetic recitations. They were always so fantastical. Always so much more exciting than the monotonous life he had grown accustomed to. The life that he had cultivated. That I’ve made for myself … he thought, feeling only slightly resentful.

He studied its crooked, dancing sprites, listening as the campfire went on about Travan’s abandoned woodland cabin and its flickering green candle in the window. Fire’s heat rippled the air above it as it spoke its deep, enunciated words. Its voice seemed to come from its red-hot belly, its flapping flames like the tongues of a tuneless choir that was somehow in perfect harmony.

Paper pages flickered gold among the tumbling embers, adding light that further illuminated the campfire and its many tall, waving arms.

“Papa,” Gira said too loudly, squirming in his lap to face him. “Why do we feed the fire papers and books?”

“Shhh,” Rezo said, holding a finger to his lips. “We feed the fire stories, Gigi,” he whispered, taking his finger down. “As long as the Yrraduni keep this fire going, it will never forget a tale we tell it. It hasn’t to this day; since its making. This campfire is our history, Gigi. This one knows nearly the complete history of Yrradun, all the way back to the Foundings.” Rezo poked Gira on the nose with a gentle pinky finger, reclaiming her fading attention before continuing.

“And did you know,” he went on, Gira staring up at him expectantly now, “that our family has been in charge of protecting it for over four hundred years?” Rezo winked at his daughter. “We should listen now, alright? Fire’s stories are always worthwhile.” Albeit quite dark lately, Rezo thought to himself.

These days, most of the campfire’s stories weren’t about adventurous heroes anymore. Those had been Rezo’s favorites when he was a kid. Back when Fire was warmer….

“Travan was a cruel, harsh man,” Fire spoke, its tone sounding angry to Rezo’s ears. Its dry, crunchy voice was like crisp autumn leaves under stomping boots. “But that was not always the case for the one we all know so infamously. No, Travan was once a good man. In fact … he was a hero once. A true hero. But sometimes … even the most shining examples of heroes … can be swayed to the darkness….”

Rezo was beginning to wonder if Gira was too young for this story. He knew quite a bit about Travan the Vengeful, most of which he had learned from the fire itself, but … she’s almost seven, he thought. Her head was also glued to the speaking flames now; she was clearly interested in hearing the campfire’s tale. Seems about right, Rezo mused. I was the same way around her age. Fire’s stories had been enticing for as long as he could remember.

“Hold your tongues and stow your hearts as I recount the tale of a spurned hero. The tale of a savior turned slayer. A messiah turned menace!” Fire roared, its flames bulging with the voice’s sudden jump in volume. The flames seemed to recede a bit as the campfire lowered its crackling voice to a whisper and continued, drawing in the crowd that had gathered.

“Now … allow me to tell you all the long-forgotten tale of Travan Silvertongue … and how his impassioned quest for goodness … turned into a lustful hunt for vengeance.”

Rezo held Gira tightly in his cross-legged lap, his arms curling around her in a fatherly, comforting way. He gave her a gentle squeeze.

“Travan was a brave man. Pushed out of his home as a young boy, he was forced to live on the streets of Merendis, pick-pocketing his way through his youth until his eventual capture by the City Guard,” Fire’s tone was calm but powerful, its voice a gentle boom.

Rezo assumed half the village would be in attendance by this point. He turned his head left and right, verifying his assumptions; there were quite a few more people in the crowd. Even some foreigners, by the looks of them. Yrraduni or not, Rezo thought, Fire’s stories are hard to ignore.

“Jail served Travan well, however, in more ways than one,” the campfire sputtered, its flames licking up, scratching at the sky. “Travan learned subservience, he learned honor, knife combat, swordplay even, but … more than all that … Travan learned his place in the world. Where he stood.” The campfire blazed.

“Several years later, after his masterful escape from prison, Travan moved west. By carriage, by riding, by canal boat, by foot, he made his way until he finally hit the western coast. Upon where he found a small trading village … known as Yrra.” Fire burped a small cloud of smoke.

“Standing on that coast, looking out at sea and seeing the vast wooden ships in the port, Travan finally understood his teachings. He had learned his place in the world, where he stood. Though he hadn’t known what it all meant yet. What his purpose was.

“Seeing those ships changed that in him. He knew where he stood now. And he was standing in the right place just then. You see, young Travan was made to sail the seas.” The campfire fanned a flame as if waving an emphasizing hand at its still blossoming audience.

A large crowd had partially encircled the campfire, though Rezo didn’t think much of it. Villagers always came out for Fire’s stories. That wasn’t new to him, of course. His family had been responsible for protecting the campfire since before his great-grandfather’s grandfather. He had watched the village gather around for campfire stories since as far back as he could remember. Still, he couldn’t shake the sudden itch he felt in his spine.

There was a dark flash of movement in the corner of his eye. Rezo turned, gazing among the semi-circle audience, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. He sighed, taking a deep breath before returning his attention to the campfire’s ongoing story.

“… Travan spent his first few years at sea as a low-level mercenary, protecting ship captains from ill-negotiated deals. And other such mishaps…. Travan slew seventeen men in defense of his crew members in just the first ten months of his time at sea. After three more years, he was known around the area as the ‘Pirate Killer’ for quite a time.” The fire croaked its last word with a puff of smoke as if clearing its throat.

“Until he sought a different name….”

Gira squirmed in Rezo’s lap, trying to turn. He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently but firmly. “Just wait, Gigi,” he whispered in her ear, “Fire’s stories always have good endings. Or … maybe good is the wrong word … impactful? I don’t know; meaningful is better, I guess. Anyway, just listen.”

“Shhh,” a man said from behind Rezo, nudging his shoulder.

Rezo turned his head to apologize, mouthing “sorry” to the bearded man before bringing his focus back to the campfire and its story.

This one was undoubtedly darker than Fire’s old stories, but still, it was one he had never heard before. Rezo thought it would be unjust for a Sainar to miss an untold tale from the campfire. He couldn’t afford not to listen.

“Travan eventually ingratiated himself among the nobility,” Fire continued. “Councilmen and the like sought him for his … efficiency … out on the water. Soon enough, that led to his need to defend the noblemen on land. And that,” Fire belched a burst of gray-white smoke, “led to Travan’s first step inside Yrra’s courthouse.”

The campfire seemed to shiver, its orange-red flames flickering—colors fading—slightly before it spoke again. “That’s where Travan Silvertongue was born. Within Yrra’s spacious, marble-walled courthouse.”

“Oohs” and “aahs” poured from the crowd, but Rezo knew the story wasn’t over. He took a deep breath and even gulped. He nudged his daughter’s elbow to ensure she was still paying attention. Her head straightened up a bit.

“As we all know, the old Yrra fell in the war; the land torched by phyre,” the campfire said with contempt. “The devastating phyre blazed away most of Yrra’s buildings. Houses, cabins, huts, and hovels…. And yet the marble courthouse remains and functions in the same capacity to this day … here in Yrradun….”

More “oohs” and “aahs” escaped the … less intelligent … onlookers, but Rezo simply shook his head. This is all too obvious anyway, he thought. Get to the good part, Rezo glared at the fire. He knew there was more to come. Fire knew how to tell a story, but, more importantly … it knew how to end one.

“If you have heard but a handful of my tales, you will know that Travan the Vengeful was the cause of the Green War all those years ago.” Fire paused with a brief smoke puff before growling, “And the creator of the abominable phyre. The menace!” Fire roared, its flames spiking upward with such height and speed that it seemed determined to stab the sky.

Another puff of smoke, this one a smoke ring, was enough to calm the campfire’s tone if only a bit. “But for now, I am not speaking of that man. No, I am speaking of the man who would become him. I am speaking of Travan Silvertongue. And the tragedy that pushed him over the edge of darkness.”

At that exact word, the last of the sun’s looming red-violet rays vanished from the now black and starry sky. The campfire’s flames seemed to grow in vibrance, in hue. It looked redder. The shadows it created also grew, spreading out from their origins like lazy, slow-stretching cats.

“To keep this tale from drawing on too late into the night, I’ll skip ahead a tad,” the campfire said with a soft crackle. “From prisoner to small-time soldier, to personal bodyguard among the elites, Travan had lived an … experienced life. This experience gave him a unique perspective. One that he was eventually able to leverage into a low position among the court, transcending his former soldier persona.

“After a mere handful of times addressing the councilmen and the people of the court, Travan Silvertongue was finally born. He spent years working for the good of Yrra, challenging the nobility on human rights issues and the like. Fighting for the people.” Fire grumbled.

“Four years later, Travan Silvertongue had found himself among the Yrran councilmen. He had beaten the weakest of the Nine in that year’s election. Travan wished to do such good for the people of Yrra,” Fire said with a hint of suspicion. “Or so his journaling claimed. Still, his winning the council seat marked the beginning of the end for Yrra….

“Less than a week later, the eight other councilmen, all reelected as expected, invited Travan to a private gathering on the east side of town for a joint celebration of their shared victories.” Fire huffed.

“Travan, living more frugally than was necessary for him at this point, lived far away, in a lowly wooden cabin in the woods on the western hills. As such, it took him quite some time to trek all the way through town to the eastern tenements, the tall wooden buildings looming in the distance for most of his trip.

“It seemed an odd place to Travan for noblemen to put on festivities. But, this land was still new to him in some ways, even after all these years. The nobles were just as new to him, it seemed. Just as hard to read…. If not harder.

“From here on out,” Fire choked a bit, its embers sparkling a brilliant gold, “I will read the first-hand accounts straight from Travan Silvertongue’s personal journal. Delivered unto me in the Year 782, on the Third Culling Day of the Month of Jzenshan, at a quarter to high noon. It was drizzling that day,” the campfire said, its voice changing, softening, yet solidifying. “And ash was falling from the sky….”

~

“I approached the tall, four-storied building. It stood proud, free of the other tenement buildings that lined the street, this one like a lone watchtower that stood slightly taller than the rest. Its stonework only reached halfway up the first floor; the rest of the walls and higher stories were constructed of wood by one of Yrra’s finest teams of carpenters, by my estimation.

“The craftsmanship in the details was expertly done. I remember taking note of it, wondering if the men who built it had been paid well enough for the job…. It was a stupid thought, of course. None of the workers on the east side were paid what they deserved. That was part of the reason I accepted the invitation….”

~

No “oohs” or “aahs,” but “hmms” instead escaped the audience from here and there around the semi-circle crowd. Gira’s hum added to the mix, just a heartbeat behind the rest. Rezo laid a hand on her shoulder.

“As I said,” Fire’s voice was back to its standard crackle, “Travan used to be a good man…. A very, very long time ago. But this night, in particular—according to his journal—is the night it all started….”

~

“I entered the tall building without a welcoming but thought little of it. I didn’t expect the councilmen to start treating me with any less arrogance. Even having joined their rank. If anything, I expected worse at the time. Little did I know how right I would be.

“The entryway held unlit sconces on its walls. I almost turned to leave, thinking I’d been played for a fool, until the clang of a ceramic bowl shattering in a distant room caught my attention.

“The room was at the other end of the hall, on the back side of the building. I approached, but as I did so, I began to feel lightheaded, and it grew harder to breathe with every step. When I pressed my hand to the tall, wooden door, I nearly cried out at the sudden shock of heat. I kicked open the door unleashing a cloud of black smoke that billowed out at me like an angry demon that forced me to my knees.

“Crawling into the room on hands and knees, I kept my eyes closed to the overwhelming rush of smoke that assaulted my senses like a tempest. After a few more feet slithering across the inferno-hot cobblestone flooring, I opened my eyes to a scene of pure debauchery. Beneath the thick clouds of dark smoke that gathered overhead lay several naked women—girls—spread out on the sooty stone floor.”

~

Rezo moved fast, reaching to cover his daughter’s ears, but he was just a moment too late. He held her still like that anyway, hands over her ears to block her hearing. He tilted her head back ever so slightly and gave her a gentle kiss on the forehead before whispering to her, “Everything’s going to be alright.”

This is definitely too dark for Gira, he thought, keeping his hands over her ears to muffle the campfire’s voice. Even with most of his attention on his daughter, Rezo didn’t miss out on Fire’s continuing story. He couldn’t…. He made sure to stay focused, refusing to miss a single crackling word.

~

“Intertwined among their petite bodies were the larger, chubbier forms of the councilmen. All eight of them, in their silver-white robes—now dirtied with ash stains—were as unmoving as the poor, exposed girls. There wasn’t a living thing in the room that stirred but for me and my aching joints. That’s when I heard a faint cough…. It came from one of the councilmen near the far back of the room by the lone window. I stumbled to my feet before rushing clumsily to the old, mustachioed man, Jecei, he was called.

“I dragged all eight men out first, thinking them a priority as politicians. Before I could go in for the first of the girls, the building lurched. It made a crunching sound, and then, like crippled logs on a campfire, the building caved inward in a sudden flash of fire and heat that shakes me still … even as I write this. If not for anyone but myself, it relieves me to spell it out here, to ink it into reality: I tried my best, I really did. I did what I thought was right. Even now, knowing the horrible outcome, there was nothing I could have ever done to save those girls. Nothing different … nothing better. Nothing….”

~

Fire’s voice slowed, returning to its characteristic crackling, “Again, for the sake of efficiency, I’ll skip by some of the slower parts of the story, but all you need know is that Travan Silvertongue agonized over the loss of the young women. He couldn’t stop thinking about it; their soft, ash-stained faces haunted his dreams. Travan fought for the people of Yrra with words and actions, but he had never faced such a devastating failure. It ate at him, gnawed at his soul.”

“Papa, what—?”

“Shh, Gigi,” Rezo whispered, cutting her off. He had removed his hands from her ears as soon as Fire’s voice returned to its normal tone, but he was ready to cover them at a moment’s notice if the campfire’s telling of Travan’s story turned dark again.

“The councilmen had survived, thanks to Travan’s heroism,” Fire sputtered. “After several days of recovery, the eight other councilmen finally called a private meeting of the Nine. Travan wished for nothing else but to stay in his quiet woodland cabin and stew in his gloom, though he was not about to risk losing his role on the Council for his inability to attend a scheduled meeting. And so he went to the courthouse. With fire in his heart and burning anger on the tip of his tongue yearning to be loosed.”

~

“The courthouse was dark and quiet when I arrived. The other council members were seated in their respective chairs behind the long rectangular table on the elevated dais that stood several feet higher than the rest of the grand courtroom. The councilmen were sitting there in the dark. No sconces bore torches; not even a single candle lit the room.

“I approached the men from the stage entrance, coming up from behind them and heading for my seat at the far end of the table. As I crossed the center of the dais, something felt off. The air smelled … strange … different. Something wasn’t right. That’s when the chairs squeaked against the marble floor, and, in a flash, all eight shadowed figures jumped up in a rush and swarmed me. They were not the councilmen…. They were thugs, tall, muscular brutes armed with long metallic clubs, knives, or daggers.

“They did … horrible things to me. Things I struggle to write on this page, but … I must. For the sake of Yrra, I write these things. For the sake of all that is good in the world, I share these words, this warning. I am truly sorry for all that I’ve done. For who I’ve let myself become, for all the damage I’ve caused. For all the destruction I’ve yet to unleash….

“I don’t remember exactly what they did to me in that moment. The torture was brutal and long-lasting. My fingernails were removed first. One at a time as I was being held down.”

~

Rezo fumbled to cover his daughter’s ears so quickly that it was nearly a double slap to her small, round face. Gira let out a yelp that fit in with the gasps and groans that floated around the audience now. Fire didn’t pause its story, though. It barreled on, unaware of the discomfort in the air.

~

“… Simultaneous rods slamming against my sides alternated with the nail-pulling until all ten had been pulled and most of my ribs shattered. Then came the cuts on my face. They checkered my cheeks with small, deep slices until I was unrecognizable. I don’t remember when they took my tongue either. I was in such shock and agony that I don’t think I even felt them remove it. I thought I would never know another second without that intense, piercing pain. That I would never know another second without hearing the weakness in my soul that was crying out, begging for death, for the end.

“And then it did, eventually; it ended. Looking back on the experience, the torture was nothing compared to the pain I felt in my heart. That I still feel to this day. The pain of failure. The pain of not being able to save those girls…. I will never let that go.

“I’m not mad for what I did to repay them. The thugs and the councilmen that hired them…. They had me beat and flayed, disfigured, and mutilated. But they let me live, I assume, out of some semblance of appreciation for having saved their lives.

“Based on how they treated me during our time together in court, I think they thought me nothing more than a dumb soldier turned councilman out of sheer luck. A dumb soldier with nothing more than broad shoulders and the occasional silver tongue. So they stole it from me. But they did not account for my ability to write! For my silver words.

“Now that I’ve repaid them all in kind, I will take this account to the village campfire and share my story with the people. So they may know all that I have done. And why I can’t stop there….

“I took care of the brutes first, giving them swift deaths at the end of my sword. They may have been the torturers, but they were not the decision-makers. They were not in charge. They deserved to die, true, but not so brutally. They were simply hired thugs trying to improve upon their livelihoods. It was them or me.

“Money did that to people on the east side of Yrra. Money does that to people everywhere, as far as my understanding goes, but … no, these men did not deserve retaliatory torture. Not, as I assured myself, the way the councilmen deserved it. They would suffer at my hands…. I made sure to uphold that promise to myself. Even now, I can still hear their screams.

“I eliminated the councilmen one at a time. Like eight fingernails that needed pulling to prove a point. All I had to do was break into their elegant, castle-like homes and catch them off guard. It was too easy. I hadn’t expected that. Not just the act of sneaking through their lavishly decorated corridors, avoiding the innocent servants at every turn. Not just tracking the men down in their grand, gilded bedrooms without being seen or heard. No, not just that…. The killing also came too easily. And the torture. I … I was good at it. Too good, I fear.

“Barstann’s blood matched the rich red drapes that hung from his tall, arched windows. The councilman’s neck leaked a crimson river that snaked across the cold stone floor. I left his head—bereft of ears, eyeballs, lips, and tongue—upright on the snow-white duvet at the foot of his bed. The quilt was more red than white by the time I left. I climbed out his bedroom window, looking back at my mess with pride before dropping down and sprinting across the well-landscaped grounds.

“My second target, Deldan Frahm, was even easier to dispose of. I caught the chubby man in his privy chamber. I flayed the skin of his left arm and right leg before removing his toes with a sharpened chisel. I took them one at a time and force-fed them to the councilman until he began to choke. Then I took his tongue with my knife. I rammed that down his gullet as well before slitting his throat, slicing through the thick jowls. I left him there atop his mighty ‘throne.’ There was a chill in the air that night, though my blood was hot in my veins, warming my body. I had never felt so alive.

“Murmec, Ulden, and Carr fell by my hands a short time later. I made sure to take each of their tongues by the end but allowed myself a bit of … creativity … before putting them out of their respective miseries. ‘It wasn’t me!’ They had all said. ‘Jecei! It was Jecei’s decision. Not mine!’ They had all screamed the same words, Barstann and Frahm too before them. ‘You want Jecei!’ They had all said.

“‘Yes,’ I told them. ‘I do.’ I told them. ‘And I want you too,” I whispered to each one the same before gagging them and beginning my work.

“Chemal and Valsek came next. I struck them down in their opulent homes within an hour of each other. ‘Jecei!’ They had cried. Just like the others.

“I took Valsek’s eyelids with a razor—leaving the eyeballs this time—before removing his tongue and slitting his neck. I hacked Chemal’s limbs instead, but I finished him in the same fashion. It was becoming customary to me by then. I would’ve liked to savor the moment for longer, but the night was growing late, and there was still one more councilman to destroy. High Councilman Jecei Sainar. The man in charge. I saved him for last….”

~

What!? Rezo paled at the name.

~

“Jecei was the only one who didn’t cry out another’s name. Much as I hated him, I had to admit my slight respect for the old politician. He bore the responsibility like a man. I gouged his eyes out with my thumbs, mocking him all the while for not having them removed when he could have. I tore his long, white mustachios with my bare hands, ripping up clumps and chunks of pale, wrinkled skin.

“I cut his tongue out, and … it was green…? I tilted my head, confused, as I scanned the dying councilman, looking him up and down. His bloody, eyeless smirk almost seemed to say, ‘I know something you don’t know.’ I raised my blade to his—”

~

Fire hissed a puff of smoke.

Suddenly, a shadowed figure emerged before the campfire; its silhouette seemed that of a hunching, broken beggar. It put something in the coals. And then … Fire’s vibrant reds turned to yellow before flashing to blue, then yellow, then blue again, flickering so fast that the campfire was burning green to Rezo’s eyes and likely everyone else’s around him based on the outcries pouring from the crowd.

Gira suddenly pried herself from his grip and sprinted away from the congregation, running in the direction of their home, her cream-colored skirt flapping in her wake. Rezo sat in shock, watching her fade out of sight around the hill.

Then—

“Phyre!” He heard someone yell from the crowd. Then another, “phyre!” A woman’s voice shrieked. “It’s true!”

The crowd panicked, dashing away from the campfire in all directions, trampling each other with no remorse. It was utter chaos. Rezo sat there frozen in his confusion. Trapped in his fear. Waiting. Watching….

Right before his eyes, it happened. Rezo hadn’t expected that. How? He asked himself. How was I so stupid? I … failed. My ancestors … my family. I forsook all of Yrradun with one dumb mistake….

The hunched, silhouetted figure turned around, evil eyes and scarred-up face scowling at Rezo.

I … I didn’t mean … I was listening to the story! I was … distracted. I’m not … I’m….

The figure’s presence was nothing shy of menacing. Rezo turned his head to scan the crowd. There was no one else there. Just him. A private show at the campfire, he thought, tensing up.

Rezo tried to back away slowly but found that he was still sitting cross-legged in the grass. He tried to stand, but his legs wouldn’t cooperate. Even his arms seemed to lock in place at his sides. I’m frozen stuck! Rezo screamed in his head, his mouth unable to move. Something cold fell across his tongue….

The hunching figure lurched toward him. Its hand flashed a silver streak. Then everything went black.

~

“And so,” the campfire said. “That’s the story of how Rezo Sainar, Firewatcher of Yrradun, lost sight of his duties, allowing his people’s histories to be burned away in the toxic devastation that is phyre.

“Let this be a lesson to you all, now … a warning that you should never forget,” the campfire hissed. “Don’t. Neglect. Your Fire.”