“aaaaAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!! AAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!”

           A great roar and a hot wind blew through the dungeon and there was a piercing, agonized scream of Clara Emerel as Kishino tried and tried to shut off the spell; the pillar of fire grew higher and higher and brighter and brighter as though the spell itself was fighting against Hiroshi Kishino’s desperate struggle to control it, and it was fiercely blazing, burning his eyes, and the wave of heat felt like the summer sun-

          Shit! Fuck! Shit! Clara-

         The pillar of fire finally reacted to Kishino’s demands and fell away, revealing a tense figure that had fallen backward in an attempt to avoid the flames, but restricted by her restraints. Her clothing was scorched and her arms covering her face and due to the sudden light difference, the only parts he could see well were the ones that were still on fire. Her hair and several parts of her clothes were still burning, blazing, and the screaming was now a half-whining and half-intelligible begging that was muffled by her arms and he was frozen still and all he could do was stare as a feeling of unshakable panic overwhelmed him. Why couldn’t he move? Why couldn’t he-

          His breathing was suddenly agonizing, and his visibility was dyed white due to vertigo, and his gastric juices rampaged around in the opposite direction as he staggered back away from the bars. But as Clara began attempting to put out the fires, Kishino finally gained some sense. 

          “Water column!”

          This time he only put a bit of his magic in, only enough to gradually materialize the water to put Clara out and it was good that it would later dissipate into magic energy much faster than evaporation because then freezing her was unlikely. 

          “Low burn heal!”

          He had only learned it so his parents weren’t worried when he practiced fire, but he was more than glad for it now.           

           “Wha-“

           “Don’t speak. Your voice might have been burned. Don’t you dare move either.”

           That was very different from what he wanted to say, and much more calm and haughty, which felt very jarring, but it got the point across.

           “Bastard! I know you can hear me up there! Fetch me the best skin-level healing potion near you. Now!”

           “R-right!” 

           The sounds of the soldier scrambling away could be heard but Clara was still whimpering in pain but Harold figured she didn’t have the will to suppress that. At a loss for what to do he strode back up the stairs to fetch a lantern, which he forgot to ask for like an idiot, and he also had to get away from the horrible acrid, smoky smell that burned his nose with the unmistakably human scent and the burning hair and it was so horrible that he could almost taste it. He was partially drained of MP; he felt it like one would feel the weightlessness of an empty cup; he guessed he would have enough for only one full-sized Flame Column and a Lesser Lightning Charge, which would have been plenty for healing spells if he bothered to read the complicated texts. If he tried to repeat Low Burn Heal, he didn’t know what could happen; the books warned about the complexity of healing.

         Harold fetched the lantern on standby outside the gate almost as soon as the soldier returned with the potions, and they both speed-walked down to Clara’s cell in single file. Kishino wasn’t sure what to do from there, so he just told the soldier;

        “If you’re not incompetent, heal her as much as you can with those things. Her throat might be burnt. I plan on fully healing her; don’t slack off like before.” 

          God, the word-replacement thing was horrifying. As they both unlocked and stepped into the cell, the lantern light finally revealed the extent of Clara’s injury, and though Kishino felt as if he couldn’t breathe, all he could feel his body do was pump its heart faster.

         The soldier was confused and more than a bit scared of the boy, but as soon as he smelled the burning woman his face set into a stoic determination. He had doubts whether the boy just wanted to torture the servant by burning her multiple times, but his gut told him there might be a chance that this was genuine when looking at the boy’s complexion. Even if his gut was wrong, he couldn’t just not heal the woman.

         The inferior- the woman’s hands were completely covered in gut-wrenching first and second degree burns, especially the backs of them, as evidenced by the red, uncomfortable blistering, and the sides of her face seemed to have similarly damaged flesh. Kishino inwardly recoiled in second hand pain as he looked at the clothes that were charred black and possibly melted into her thin frame, and her smooth blond hair was singed from its previous back-length. 

          Clara cried out in pain as she was nearly force-fed potions one after another, and various magic salves were applied to her sensitive skin. Her clothing was never removed, since it could be melted on, she guessed. 

         The pain was unlike anything she had ever felt; only giving birth to Colette could ever compare to it, and even then it was a much different kind of pain. This time, every surface of her body stung and cried out with every minute movement, and even when standing still. Gradually, she felt herself going numb, and quickly falling asleep under the effects of one of the potions. 

          The soldier was only ordered to get healing potions, but he understood what the young boy had meant for him to do. He had no idea what was going on in the Stokes’ child’s head; he was almost certain this was supposed to be an execution, and he had steeled himself for the screams that almost certainly would haunt him for years to come, even if he plugged his ears, but the current situation was greatly unexpected. Why was the boy healing her with such expensive potions? Purely for torture purpouses? Maybe the fear of death was just a part of her punishment? The soldier didn’t know what to think.

          Kishino wanted to stop breathing. The smell. The burning flesh. But he couldn’t bring himself to step out of the cell. He wanted to look away. There was no surface on her that wasn’t somehow burned other than a few regions in the middle of her face, and he did this. But he couldn’t muster the will to look away.       

          It doesn’t make sense. Why do I have to feel bad about an inferior...damnit! Why… This entire time, my loving parents… no, no, this is their fault! They did this! They made me do this! They...

         Clara had begged him. The woman whose cheeks and eyebrows were some of the only evidence of healthy skin left on her until the healing took effect, had a child. She begged him just like any of the other servants he had abused, played with, or condemned. Even when she thought she would die, she only wanted to save her child.

         I am… the King of Trash? Everything those players said about me…Was it all true…? One day, in the future, will my own petty pride really be the death of me?

         Her long skirt was charred and barely held together, and her blonde hair was drastically damaged. Some points on the crude dress were even completely burnt away, revealing red, swelling, blistered patches of skin. Those were the details Harold last remembered as everything else moved by in a blur. He remembered a blaring headache, ordering the soldier to get the head doctor to nurse Clara back to full health, and walking through long corridors as the servant’s fearful glances burned into his mind.

          He felt shorter than usual, his limbs too weak, his body too light. But more than that, he felt small. The lowest scum, who treated everyone around him like they were lower than objects, and instead of being treated the same in return, he was rewarded for his abuse. But they were supposed to be less than him, weren’t they?

          He climbed into bed after swallowing sleep medicine, in an attempt to drift away into blissful ignorance. When he woke up, one of their memories would be gone, surely. Only, the world wasn’t so merciful. 

          Around four times and counting, Harold abruptly awoke with a piercing, throbbing migraine that was only marginally kept down when he took his backup potions. Unable to sleep, his dreary, exhausted mind swam with thoughts, memories, impossible sights, and so many visions he thought he would surely break. Getting up in the middle of the night, he turned on the lamp and attempted to exercise, draw, practice magic, anything to get it to stop. 

           At times he would black out, only to find his sheets skewed about the floor, and torn notebook pages littering the room repeating the phrase “My name is myname is my name is Mynnameis my name is-'' over and over again, along with continuous strings of incoherent monologues that say everything and nothing st once. At times he didn’t remember where he was, only that it was a familiar room and that he needed to cover the mirror.

           Why?whywhowhy?what? Cars on the highway, speed limits, father is hunting again, advanced computers, tiny computers, the heir of the Stokes’ Domain, touch screens, internet, impudent servants, pure blood - video games, Video Games, VIDEO GAME! BRAVE HEARTS!

          The red carpet, the red sheets, the curtain, the furniture, it was all familiar, but of course it was. It was HIS room after all. It was always their room. Harold screamed into pillows not knowing why he couldn't just call someone for help, but he also didn’t want to bother anyone with his problems and they might think he’s bewitched. 

          He glanced at his notebook which had opened to a page showing a drawing of Clara in flames. The flames, they kept burning brighter and brighter and it felt so hot, the screams hurt his ears and he just wanted it to STOP. It smelled like burnt hair. Kishino tore the page out and ripped it to shreds. He then hid the shreds inside the drawer of the desk where no one would dare look for it. He’d burn it later- no, no more fire, no more burning, no more screams, he was so, so, sorry. Then he was angry. Filled with boiling rage at the inferior woman for making him feel sorry for her, and then he was sorry that he was angry, and so, so sorry for calling her inferior when she was just as good as anyone else.

          Eventually everything shrunk back into his mind and he felt a sharp detachment from the world. He felt so many emotions and yet none at all. There was a fog, and yet a distinct clarity of observation and self reflection that was impossible under normal circumstances. He only cleaned up his mess, drank a full cup of water, and fixed up his bed before collapsing under his sheets. He dreamt of fire and impossible worlds.