What Was Always There
Rasha stared at her hand, not because it glowed — but because of what she had felt.
The flicker… the guiding touch...
It hadn't come from the Fire Spirit's vast power.
It had come from her.
Not something borrowed.
Not something gifted.
Something that had always been there, waiting for her to reach inward.
The flame she used didn't scorch.
It guided.
Like a steady hand reaching across the veil — not burning, but bearing witness.
A strength long mistaken for weakness.
Talo shifted beside her, voice low.
"What happened?"
She blinked, grounding herself in the realness of the world again.
"It wasn't the spirit," she said.
"It was me."
His frown deepened, thoughtful rather than doubting.
"You mean you... you didn't use the spirit's magic?"
She shook her head.
"No. I didn't burn it at all. That was the flame I've always produced.
The flame my tribe told me was too weak to even burn anything."
Her voice softened. "But when I touched its chest… it eased its soul away."
And the truth of it settled into her bones — something soft, and immense.
Maybe she had never needed power that roared.
Maybe her fire was never meant to be seen — but felt.
Talo stared a moment longer, then said, in wonder,
"That's powerful spirit magic."
He hesitated, then added, "My grandma used to tell us about it at the campfire."
He looked at her again, carefully.
"And that's the fire you've always had?"
She nodded.
Talo took a quiet breath, like something was clicking into place.
"Maybe you weren't meant to be a vessel.
Maybe you've always been the bridge."
His voice was low. Measured.
"It's looking more and more like you were the perfect being for the Fire Spirit."
The words rooted in her chest like seeds sinking deep.
And for the first time, Rasha smiled without sorrow.
"I think," she said softly,
"I've been looking at strength wrong this whole time."
There was no blaze, no fanfare.
Just a steady kindling inside her — a warmth that would never burn out again.
The moment held — heavy, sacred.
And then, gently, the world nudged them forward again.
Talo dusted off his hands and tilted his head toward the gathered hare.
"Well?" he said, smirking.
"You gonna help, or just keep standing there glowing?"
Rasha laughed under her breath — light, sure — and moved to his side.
He showed her how to field-dress the hare properly, his hands guiding hers when she faltered.
How to use the curve of a blade against muscle and tendon without wasting good meat.
How to gather dry kindling without stripping too much from the living shrubs.
Under his patient instruction, Rasha learned to anchor stones for a windbreak, to bank a fire so it smoldered steady instead of roaring wastefully.
She cut the meat into strips for drying, rubbing it with crushed desert herbs Talo had taught her to recognize by scent alone.
They worked in companionable quiet, the desert sun climbing higher, stretching their shadows short across the sand.
The sky above was a brilliant, punishing blue — not the soft hues of evening, but the sharp blaze of a day still young.
By the time the fire was crackling low and steady, the camp smelled faintly of roasting meat and wind-warmed sage.
Rasha sat cross-legged beside it, wiping her hands on a scrap of cloth, watching the shimmering horizon blur in the rising heat.
Talo stretched out nearby, arms folded behind his head, a satisfied grin on his face.
"Not bad, Eternal Flame," he said lazily.
"Might make a survivor of you yet."
Rasha smiled — a real one, unshadowed by what she had lost or what she still feared.
Because she wasn't just surviving anymore.
She was learning to live.
They lingered a while longer, the scent of roasting hare curling into the air around them.
When the meat was ready, they ate without ceremony — no rituals, no words — just quiet satisfaction, shared in the spaces between glances.
When they finished, Talo packed away what little was left, and Rasha kicked dirt carefully over the embers.
Together, without needing to speak, they turned toward the path ahead — already moving forward, side by side.