dIVINE INFERNO

Day 99 of 108, The Dark Season

The season was that of darkness. Today, this was very symbolic. It was Jwala's birthday and for reasons yet to be revealed by the universe, she had been 'carved from darkness'. Or so they said. Coincidentally, her birthday was also the day that her parents had died, so it was also metaphorically a night of darkness. 

With all this darkness and symbolism and seasonal importance came a few things: one being a bout of dreariness that she could not and did not care to explain. The second and more publicly known was a gathering between a valley of volcanoes. A gathering of thousands that covered the entire valley floor. The third thing that came with this annual celebration was a headache.

"THERE ARE RULES!"

Jwala slumped in her seat, which was dramatically placed at the top of the outdoor stage. This whole ordeal would have been a lot less intense in the Season of Light.

"RULES OF LIFE IN THIS WORLD!" boomed the palace official, standing centre-stage. The stage was positioned at the bottom of a dark and foreboding volcano, which Jwala admitted was quite the impressive backdrop. "They were made by forces unknown to us, a balance created to ensure justice and peace for as long as life exists, no matter the hardship! No matter those who rebel!

"But those who rebel mark themselves as errors in creation! We cannot ignore the lack of respect for the most fundamental law of the universe! The law of love cannot be broken! The way of light should never be extinguished! It is with this understanding that we take action against those who have wronged nature, and us! For what are we at all if not just? Who are we if not beings who value love and light? We are gathered here today to remind the world of who and what we are. Our kind will not tolerate enemies to the kingdom, to our Maharani and to Agni’s Chosen One. Bring forth the baskets! Bring forth the leaves! Bring forth the blood! Bring forth the bones and look upon the white tree!"

The speech might have been different from last year and the year before that, but even though it was uttered by a new voice, Jwala could not recognise a difference. The baskets, leaves, blood and bones were brought forth in the same manner as always; characters with faces covered by gauze masks climbed down the volcano; like lizards with vestigial wings and flames braided in their long hair.

From where she sat—at her grandmother's side, at the foot of the volcano—she did not see the drae sliding and climbing down the mountainside. She faced the quiet crowd, though did not see a single face. Instead, her eyes caught the Five Guardians in the distant, above the heads of thousands. Four of them erupted like always and because it was like always, nobody acknowledged them. The central volcano stood dormant, but she saw its outline as its siblings blew their tops, sometimes in unison, sometimes taking turns to shoot the highest. Even with the distant competition of the mountains, all was silent and relatively dark.

She hated this part. Because the sound of fierce flames always filled the silence. And of course, she was the only who could hear them, the result of them only burning in her head.

They blazed, they roared, even as she grew bored and quite angry to be here in the first place.

Once the drae reached the stage, fires were lit. The stage became walled by bright, red-orange light, illuminating her and her grandmother to the thousands below; illuminating the ten translators at the top of the stage, microphones in each clawed hand; illuminating the tall white tree standing centre-stage, a tree that had once been of brown bark and pink leaves; illuminating the small river that snaked around the stage and volcano.

She saw some faces now, and she remembered to smile underneath the jewels and silks draped over her body, jewels and veils that hung from the crown on her head and the top of her golden seat.

The masked characters prowled (or perhaps danced) past her and her grandmother, bearing items in their red-painted hands and dressed in black clothing. Everyone in the region wore black today, or the colour of victory as it was known on this occasion. Except for Jwala. She'd opted for purple.

"SET FIRE TO THESE BASKETS AND REMEMBER THE RULES OF LIFE!"

The cheers drowned out the flames in her head for a moment. Such screaming should be saved for massacres, not baskets.

"BURN THIS NET TO REMEMBER THOSE WHO BREAK IT!"

True to their word, the long net caught gold-, bronze-, orange- and red-hued flame.

"WE BURN THESE LEAVES IN HONOUR OF OUR NATION!"

The scream was repeated in the seven official tongues of the Lava Lands, but they overlapped each other in their eagerness to fuel the crowds' fiery hearts. And fuelled they were.

"BLEED THE WHITE TREE AS WE HAVE BLED!"

When choruses in both Laavi and the Modern Speak suffocated the world, Jwala zoned out. She knew the white tree was bleeding blue blood, like that of their enemies, but she was watching the distant volcanoes erupt.

"AND MELT THESE BONES FOR ALL OUR DEAD!"

Thunder. It was like thunder—the onslaught of cheers and stomping feet, almost quaking the earth.

"LONG LIVE THE MAHARANI!"

"OUR FAITHFUL HIGH QUEEN VANHI!"

"LONG LIVE THE PEACE!"

"FOREVERMORE! FOREVERMORE!"

"BLESSED IS THE DIVINE INFERNO, AGNI'S CHOSEN ONE!"

"BLESSED IS THE CROWN PRINCESS JWALA!"

The words changed in each language except for her name and the queen's, and it was almost horrific to hear it screamed a thousand times from the hoarse throats of strangers packed tightly together.

However, after a while, even the crowd's chanting blended into a background muffle, and she sat there listening to the flames in her head.

And they blazed. And they roared.

And, like every birthday since her tenth, she gazed into the night beyond the volcanoes, into the black sky devoid of stars, and imagined what it would be like to be much farther away from here.

**

"Your Highness," came Kimba's voice, behind the door.

Jwala didn't reply. Instead, she simmered quietly in the dark. She pressed her small wings against the door. She'd expected it to vanish by now, but the simmering was all she could hear, her ears oppressed by angry heat, her skin like flint, close to catching fire in this hot air. She breathed it in, felt it fuel her smoke-filled lungs.

"Your court awaits you in the west gardens to plant the annual Flower of Remembrance."

Jwala exhaled a long breath through her nose, releasing tendrils of smoke.

The flower. She'd almost forgotten. The Flower of Remembrance that had escaped her memory. She was supposed to plant it like she did every year. They would watch and she would plant. And they would weep, and she would speak words of hope. They would grieve and find comfort in the symbolism of the flower that was meant to replace her parents in importance. No, that last part was silly, that wasn't true, but that's what it felt like when they talked about the Flower.

But the thought still cut through her mind. The thought seared all sense until she was wild with the feeling that the silks and jewels she wore would melt off her body.

"Your Highness."

She turned and pulled open the door, entering a golden hallway. Her newest personal assistant, Kimba, stood near the threshold, pink wings folded respectfully.

"Let's get on with it then," Jwala drawled, already marching down the hallway, her silks swishing against the floor. Some guards in black and red joined her, matching her every step so that their taloned feet clicked against the floor like a ticking timekeep.

Her assistant hurried to her side. "And, as a reminder," Kimba added, "Her Majesty the Maharani has requested your presence in the throne room before you partake in tonight's festivities."

"I would rather a trip to a hell dimension, if you would be so kind as to pass that onto my dear grandmother."

"Your Highness wishes to make a joke?"

"I wish to ignore a good majority of people's questions," said Jwala as she, her assistant, and her flanking guards hurried down a curving black stairwell, under a ceiling of moving, molten gold. "Do you have any more?"

"I beg your pardon, Princess. Any more of what?"

"Yes, that one will do. Dhanyavad, Kimba-ji, I do enjoy our conversations."

She burst through the grand doors to the west gardens. Warm night air greeted her as well as dozens of faces. Deep greens and golds occupied her vision, the low-cut grass something to mellow the shining sight of the dragon statues. Embers of light floated down from above, perhaps from the softly erupting volcanoes in the distance, perhaps from the torches blazing in these gardens. She knew it was not from her own smoky breaths as she stormed the path, two guards on either side of her. All was simmering and sizzling in her ears, almost blocking out the distant music pouring from neighbouring mountains where hundreds celebrated, 'remembering'.

"Namaskar, Your Royal Highness." "Dhanyavad." "Blessed is Agni's Chosen One!" "Dhanyavad, Divine Heir of Inferno." Dhanyavad, Divine Heir, chosen one, chosen one, chosen one; their greetings and ‘thank-you’s blurred as she halted in the centre of the garden, among several of the court members, all dressed in either ceremonial black saris or black shirts and trousers. And standing there too was The Maharani—High Queen Vanhi.

Jwala didn’t look at her.

The voices stopped, and Jwala forced her eyes to see what was before her. A small bed of flowers, their petals like quilted patchwork.

Somebody started speaking the Modern Tongue. The clouds in the black sky released wind that jingled the chimes of Jwala's wrist cuffs and moved her draping purple silks. She tucked in her little wings and stared at the flower bed as someone spoke to the crowd gathered around Jwala and her court; around her and the palace officials, the Captain of the Guard, a few strangers and familiar faces.

Day of Remembrance. And her birthday. She tasted smoke on her tongue. A day to remember the past. A day to share love? Someone said that now, she heard it being spoken and it confused her. Love? What did that have to do with today? What in Agni's holy name could it have to do with this?

She let out a quiet chuckle.

The speaker paused and all dragon eyes shot to her, everyone as still as the three statues placed around the garden.

Her tongue was dry, she was restless.

A pulse of warm energy coursed through her body, distracting her from the approaching drae holding a flower in a black pot. She could feel the Markings around her wrists (and between her wings, under her feet) and was glad that her cuffs hid them as she reached out and accepted the plant, and in doing so revealed a flash of dark bronze skin as her sleeve slipped. Today wasn't just a Day of Remembrance, it was one of Finality. It was one of Commencement and there had been a time when she'd looked forward to this. But what had happened? What changed? Who was this? —This girl accepting a black pot with a patchwork flower and who cringed at the touch? Who was seconds close to dropping it on the ground and leaving it to crush the old flowers before her.

This girl who hid her Markings of Unknown, wearing a choker of gold around her neck to conceal those moving symbols from adoring eyes. Or confused eyes.

She looked at everyone, dressed in the darkest of blacks, who watched her with confused frowns and disbelieving expressions. She was supposed to pull out the plant and place it into the earth, she'd done it every year since. The pot was in her hands.

The flower was crumbling to dust.

She watched it burn to ash. Two wingbeats and it was gone, and she held an empty flowerpot for them all to see. There was a long silence, interrupted only by the wind and her wrist chimes.

The Maharani stepped out of the row of court officials, but Jwala moved before the high queen could react. She chucked the pot away from her and turned before it could thud against the ground.

Then Jwala ran, all the way down the shimmering path and into the palace corridors, with a furious tapping of her talons on solid gold.

"Your Highness!"

She recognised the captain's voice, but she didn't stop, not for Aalona, not for anyone. She sped up, racing past ten-feet-high double doors, past arches and pillars much higher. The servants and drae of the court did not get a chance to see her face as she raced past, breathless, burning, ripping off her silk cape and jewelled crown along the way, leaving a trail of crystals on the stairs and the shiny gold floors, until she barged into her rooms and hurried for the round tower at the very end.

She slammed the door closed.

The tower room was meant to be silent, but the simmering in her ears prevented that. She tried to look at what lay in front of her, but her eyes couldn't focus. She was dizzy, still panting, still seeing the spotted flower before she'd burned it away. She stared at her fists, tried to summon another feeling other than this rage that split her thoughts. But anger was all she knew these days. Anger at whom? Her court? Her role? Her responsibilities? The damned flower? For seven years this day had been the same, yet she'd never felt so unbalanced. Her fists trembled with unchecked energy, but she couldn't see them through the tears stinging her eyes, so maybe that was why she drove her fist into the stone wall.

Pain burst through her hand, but her chest blazed from within, Agni burning red hot and hysterically, the pain so much louder than the simmering in her head. Again, she smashed her fist into the wall and heard flames explode instead of breaking bones. Blackened fire crackled and spread around the tower room, crawling up the high round wall, hiding the pictures and writings engraved into it, consuming the ancient furniture. She punched the wall a third time, mustering all her strength and power, throwing away any ounce of self-awareness with a loud cry. Black heat encased her bleeding fist as it collided with stone, and a cloud of dust and smoke filled up the space between her and the wall. Panting and burning, she removed her fist from the hole in the wall.

Standing before the hole, she saw the interior of her hallway; saw a fraction of an elaborate tapestry, one of dozens and dozens that covered her walls and hid the damage beneath. Now she would need one for this room too.

A gong went off. She looked to the sky roof where, next to the nearly full moon, a massive timekeep in mid-air struck fourteen. Midnight. The flames around her didn't die, she watched them grimly for a moment or two, listening to their low grumble, the occasional pop. 

Someone would come looking for her—was likely on their way. Some guards no doubt had heard the noise, and they'd come in and console her and tell her everything was fine, bring her to the nearby town where she could lose herself in a magic show or musical performance. And then she'd do her usual speech before the people and continue the preparations for her wedding, even though she was yet to receive an actual engagement ring or meet her soon-to-be husband. But none of that really mattered to them and shouldn't have mattered to her either. None of that mattered when they all knew her prophecy.

She was Agni's Chosen One, and it was common knowledge what that entailed. Somehow it was easier to carry on as if any of this meant anything.

Not so distantly, Jwala heard several drae burst into the hallway of her rooms.

"Princess Jwala!" It wasn't Aalona, so she didn't care whose voice it was. Hand throbbing, she stared at her black flames for a second longer. Footsteps rushed in and out of each of her rooms and chambers.

Then her eyes moved to the ever-blazing fire in the centre of this room. It blazed inside a domed cage of twisting bronze metal. The arched opening was small but enough for her body.

She didn't miss a beat. Grabbing a dull cloak from one of the armchairs, she crawled into the cage, parted the flames into a circle around her and crouched down above the trap door made of stone. The door bore a carving of a Sky Sun. She slid it open as footsteps and voices now approached the tower room. Musty air from below clouded her nostrils but she didn't give herself any time to peer down before jumping through and landing on her feet with a dancer's grace. It was too low to stand up straight, so she was forced to bend her back as she slid the door closed and pressed both palms against it, moving the bright flames into their regular position.

The door of the tower room slammed open, and footsteps thundered above her, but she kept moving, even if she was confident no one else knew of this secret exit. One hand leaking blood, she crawled through the dark passage. At the very end, the moon provided a faint light that glowed down the spiralling stairwell. She reached that stairwell and stood in the beam of light from above, dust motes floating in the air.

Here, all was silent, save for the chime of her wrist cuffs. She started down the spiralling abyss, into the depths of the palace. The curving nature of the stairs meant one could not see the top of the tower, but Jwala was only interested in going down, where no one would find her. The light somehow cast a watchful glow on her as she descended, even as she moved out of reach of the moon. She quickened her pace, passing two archways in the wall, both of which led to dark passages she had never been tempted to venture through. The stairs went so far down that she was convinced she was under the palace, at the centre of Mount Serafina, the volcano on which the Palace of Fire stood. She heard the lazy bubbling of magma on the other side of the wall, the magic stone never yielding despite the heat.

It was a force, the heat. Jwala felt it as she reached another archway in the wall and stopped her descent. She had no other choice but to stop, for the stairwell ended here, before a drop into silence. However, it was neither the silence nor the darkness that made her shiver; what unnerved her was the absence of heat. The smallest tease of an icy breeze made her contemplate bolting right back up to the comfort of flames around the palace. That thought didn't last more than a second, not when she knew what awaited her above.

She lit up her uninjured hand in black fire, the flames acting as a comforter rather than a torch in the dark. She had to get out, lest she choke on the rising urge to explode.

She'd done so well, these past few weeks—all these years—to keep herself together. She had gone this long without losing touch and breaking down completely, and she was not about to ruin that now.

She slowed down in the narrow tunnel, and approached a junction that broke into three tunnels. She knew from experience that two of them led to this same spot, so she took the left one and continued to creep along, glancing over her shoulder at every sudden whisper of wind. It felt wrong walking through here, as if she were on her way to disturbing something that ought not to be disturbed. The tunnel widened, and the ceiling rose until she again met an intersection, but this time of two tunnels.

The left was gated off, the tunnel beyond as dark as a demon's eye. The troublesome thing about this was the scent that came from that gated tunnel. It was the same as before: the tangy smell of freshly cut grass. Grass had an awfully distinct smell, there was no mistaking it. However, the grass in these mountains was never cut, only disturbed by the regular bursts of lava. The grass in the palace courtyards was too far away to be the source, yet what other explanation could she give?

Dismissing the question, she looked away from the gnarled gate and took the accessible tunnel, where a slither of light promised escape. Where she would find a way to finally breathe.