golden houses? (for the "send me a title" meme)
Aubrey watches the light of dawn spill over the horizon. It turns the tips of her fingers a brilliant gold, flashes cold and sharp in her eyes. It was a bitterly frosty night, but now it is a too-warm morning as the Monongahela forestā and the lodgeā burns around her.
How could this even have happened? She wondered. Who could haveā who would even have wanted this?
She feels dumb right after thinking it, though sheās not sure if itās warranted. There are plenty of beings that would haveā well, no. But... maybe they live in the forest, butā tactically, itās a sound move⦠right? Or. No. Nobody would destroy their own home just toā
Aubrey sighs as the answer comes to her. ā...Just⦠just to drive a few people out.ā
Itās not anybody else. She knows what happens when sheāsā when sheās not all here. Nobody would destroy their own home, sure, but thereās exceptions to that rule. Nobody would destroy their own home; not unless they were cursed with fire power that go wildly out of control when theyāre unconscious.
āShit,ā she curses. āShit.ā
Itās funny, kind of, to watch it burn. The house looks ethereal. Somehow. The sun shining behind the lodge, with the fire lighting it up so that it crackles in a glorious blaze⦠it would be a fantastic picture, a beautiful memory, were it not the destruction of something she knew and loved.
A wave of guilt and agony washes over her. How could she do this?
Even if she wasnāt conscious, even if she wasnāt awake, how could she destroy something that she so dearly loved? Unless⦠she didnāt love it enough to still know otherwise. Her pain is near unignorable, curling and folding her heart up into her chest ātil it forms the tightest of knots. And still it pumps, pumps even as the flames lick at her heels and her elbows and the flats of her feet. Her head pounds to the beat of the fire, to the crashing of furniture and of wooden floors, the howling of Thacker in the basement.
Aubrey watches the light of day spill over the horizon. It turns the tips of her fingers a lazy yellow, flashes warm and bright in her eyes. Itās always the coldest before dawn, she thinks, tugging her coat closer to her body even though it is dangerously hot.
The house burns a bright gold.