New Bronte fic for yaâll :3
Title: I walked across an empty land (I knew the pathway like the back of my hand)
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Bronte remembers manifesting. He remembers feeling ill the night before, feeling as if something were caught in his throat, as if something were clutching his chest, constricting his lungs. He took medicine, crawled into bed, and let his mother kiss his forehead.
He remembers going to Foxfire the next day. Remembers getting into a disagreement with another studentâ over what, he canât remember. Grades or an assignment or simple teasing; things that seem undeniably silly now. Either way, it doesnât matter. He doesnât remember actually Inflictingâeverything in that moment is outlined in red. He does remember seeing the other prodigy convulsing on the ground. The students around them screaming and backing away. People pointing at him, their words sharp and accusing and afraid.
He does remember the knot in his chest unraveling, the ball in his throat disappearing, and being able to breathe again. He remembers feeling powerful.
He remembers turning and fleeing. Remembers bursting into his house, startling his mother. Remembers sobbing into her arms, terrified of himself. Remembers crawling into bed and curling up under the covers. He doesnât let his mother kiss his forehead this time.
(Heâs never let her kiss it since).
He remembers other elves whispering about him. Averting their gazes. Several even crossing to the other side of the street when they saw him coming.
He learns to live with it. Learns to command his power, to ignore the voices always repeating the same things: Heâs not safe. Itâs not natural.
He thinks of his mother, of her agonized face as she writhes on the ground. How she had assured him after, time and time again, that she was fine. That she loved him enough to know he hadnât meant it. It makes him break a little more every time he thinks of it.
He realizes someone is saying his name. He pulls away from his memories and blinks back into the present, finding himself to be the focus of the other eleven members of the Council. Emery looks slightly impatient. Bronte realizes that Oralie, seated next to him, is frowning. Somehow her delicate fingers have come to rest on his wrist. She is reading his emotions. Well, crud. Bronte clears his throat, attempts to come up with an excuse, and then says, quite honestly, âI wasnât paying attention.â
Emery sighs and several other Councillors laugh. âI noticed, thanks,â the spokesman said. âBut what weâre discussing is important. I need everyone to be focused.â
Bronte waves his hand. âItâs the ogres, Emery. No matter what we do, theyâll always be trouble. Trust me.â He thinks of the Ogre Wars and the bloodshed they held. He really should go and visit the Four Seasons tree. Maybe sitting underneath its swaying branches will ease his mind, if only for a little while. âWeâre getting nowhere today. I say we sleep on it. If one of us has a miraculous prophetic dream about how to get the ogres to agree to another treaty, then we can regroup.â
Emery sighsâhe does that quite a lotâ and agrees, stacking the together the notes heâd been taking. The other Councillors gather themselves and make their way to the door, sticking to their usual groups. Oralie stays seated next to Bronte, who stares out the curtain-framed windows. The sun is slanting through, sending shafts of warm evening light across the table. How long had he been stuck in his thoughts?
Oralieâs hand is upon his again. When he turns and looks at her, her lovely eyes are shining with concern. âYour emotions are strange right now,â she whispers, and Bronte notices Emery pause at the head of the table. She traces a finger around the palm of his hand and he forces himself not to pull away. âYou feel⌠sad. Regretful. And angry. ButâŚâ she pauses as if sheâs searching for the right words. âNot at anyone else. Youâre angry at yourself.â
Because I manifested a curse, he wants to tell her.
âItâs memories, right?â Emery asks from the head of the table. When Bronte looks at him sharply, he raises his hands. âLook, Iâm in every Councillorâs head so much that sometimes it justâŚhappens. And Bronte, you⌠feel things pretty strongly. Once I realized it was just nostalgic Ancient memory stuff, I backed out,â he adds. âI didnât know if youâd want me seeing those memories in particular.â
âThose memories?â Oralie asks, and her voice is so soft that Bronte has to pull his hand away, lest she sense his fondness for his best friend.
âInflicting,â he mutters roughly.
She gives a knowing hum. Heâs told her of his struggles, and he supposes that now Emery knows, at least a little.
âWhat made you think of it so much today?â She asks.
âSophie and I had her Inflicting lesson today,â is all he says. Heâs always astounded by how much heâs come to look forward to every lesson they have together. He always gets a warm feeling in his chest when Sophie opens the door and grins at him, a physical reminder that they arenât opposed to one another anymore. Sometimes, when they gossip and trash talk other people, he thinks that maybe sheâs started to actually like him a little bit.
âOh.â A crease appears between Oralieâs brows. âIs sheââ
âSheâs fine.â He interrupts her. âItâs all fine.â He stands abruptly. âLook,â he addresses Emery, âIâll pay more attention tomorrow. Probably. But right now, Iâm going home. Iâve got a headache.â He presses a hand to his temple, trying to ease the ache that has been slowly building up.
âBut your emotions,â Oralie starts. âAre you sureââ
Bronte cuts her off. âIâve lived with this for thousands of years. To be preciseââ he pauses, counting. ââwhatever my age minus sixteen is. I was never good at math. It was the sciences for me.â
Oralie half-smiles and Bronte continues. âItâs nothing to worry about. At least, itâs nothing for you two to worry about. Inflicting is my ability, which makes it my battle. And Iâve handled it alone for a long time.â He thinks of Grady Ruewen, seated in his office, head bowed and shoulders trembling. He should call him and ask how heâs doing. Honestly, thereâs a lot of things he should do. A lot of things he should have done, a long time ago. He grimaces. What on earth is the matter with him today? Usually he can push down the nostalgic thoughts and get on with life. God, heâs not getting like Fallon Vacker, is he?
The thought makes him shiver, and Emery laughs. âYouâre still a few thousand years away from that, Bronte.â
Bronte throws up his hands. âWhatâs it take for some privacy around here? Keep your mind to yourself.â He trails off into inaudible grumbling as his two fellow Councillors laugh.
Emery stashes his notes away into a neatly organized file. âSorry. Maybe you should think quieter.â
Bronte glares. âYou know I canât do that. I canât help the way I think.â
Oralie grins at him. âWe know. I like the way you think. It keeps the rest of us honest.â
âYou mean âhumbleâ?â Emery corrects.
âWell, I didnât want to bring up the fact that he insults us all daily. Oh, sorry, I meant you all,â Oralie corrects herself. She grins at Emery. âPerks of being Bronteâs favorite.â
âI donât have to listen to this,â Bronte announces. It stuns him how easily they can make him feel a little better just with light-hearted teasing. He can already feel his melancholy memories fading from his mind, leaving only a wistful feeling in his chest. It burns a little, but heâs used to the fire. âIâm going back home, where I donât expect to be bothered until tomorrow.â
Oralie pouts, sticking out her perfectly glossed lips. âWhoâs going to play Mario Kart with me?â
âOralie,â Bronte complains as Emery sputters. âThat was our secret.â
âYou two play that without me?â Emery demands. âI am offendedâdonât look at me like that, Bronte. Yes, I have a Nintendo Switch. Why does that surprise you so much?â
âI honestly didnât think you were smart enough to play.â
âYou can play with us tonight!â Oralie breaks up the argument happily. âItâll be fun!â She stands and seizes the two male Councillorâs arms, pulling them out the door with her. Emery shouts that he canât leave his notes, but Oralie cheerfully ignores him. Bronte allows himself to be pulled along by his best friend, snorting at Emeryâs disgruntled expression. He takes one last glance out the window, then shuts the door as they go, leaving behind the melancholy memories.
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The end! I took a while on this because I wanted to get the wording right. Itâs still not exactly how I want it, but itâll do.
- for those who didnât catch it, the title is from the song Somewhere Only We Know by Keane. Itâs great, give it a listen!
- following up, Iâm challenging myself to write a ton of fics based off of every title I can make from that song *smiles cutely*