This story was written on April eleventh of this year. It isn't exactly sci-fi or fantasy, but it's just one of my favorites, so I thought I'd post it. if you like my writing, please go to my writing site, and make some comments. I really need critics, as only friends of mine, close friends, have said anything about my work, and they're just a little biased.
If you feel like making me happy by critiquing (And please be as harsh as possible! I really need to know what I can improve on!) go to www.freewebs.com/lyueminia
And I don't think I really need to say anything about the illegality of stealing or copying my ideas. Because if you do, I will, quite literally, hunt you down and gut you. i'm very picky about that.
He stood there, gleaming sword in his hand, blocking her only retreat. The golden circlet 'round his head caught the light of the fire the grew unmercifully behind her, and she looked away.
"You drove me to this, you know. Had you only listened to me, cared for me, you would not be in this predicament." An evil gleam came to his eyes, turning them from bright blue to molten steel. Through a sob, Maela spoke.
"I have done nothing wrong! You, Jorin, you are disgraceful, corrupt! All the king ever asked of you was to protect his kingdom. You, his eldest son, have ruined everything!" Fists clenched in rage, she stood firm, trying not to flinch as the flames behind her licked up the wall and baked heat into the stone beneath her.
Jorin frowned, tightening his grip on the jeweled hilt of his blade. He glanced around, feeling a slight pang at the ancestral throne, consumed by fire. He shook his head, raven hair whipping.
"No. Beacuase I have changed things, this place will be better, stronger. Can't you see that? But it does not matter. Make your choice. you can love me, marry me, or die. It's only that simple." Maela could feel the fire getting closer, but she would not step forward. Her mind raced with images of her father, slain by Jorin's own sword, and with the thought of her lifetime fearof fire. Finally, she thought of Lerin - Jorin's younger brother, and her love.
"Would you promise to stop the killing? No more deaths? And...promise me that Lerin goes free? To live as he will?" A small shimmer of hope lit her face while ash started to swirl about the room.
"Of course. I would give you the world, if you would only love me..." Maela saw a single tear trickle down his cheek, evaporating almost instantly. She nodded, shoulders slumping.
Jorin sheathed his sword, a triumphant smile on his unshaven face. He held his hand out toward her, and she took it. He lead her to the door, then out into the hallway.
"You've made the wise choice, girl. No, come with me. I will take care of you." She started crying then, deep sobs that caught in her throat, and yanked her hand away from him. He looked back, followed her gaze, and cursed under his breath. Lerin lay where he'd left him, the poison he'd slipped into his drink still staining his lips.
Maela spun away, dashing back into the throne room. She threw herself into the raging fire, not hearing Jorin's strangled cry. He sank to his knees, eyes frantically searching fro some sign of life. In the dancing light, his overwhelming sorrow took hold, and the looming shadows formed into images before his weary gaze.
His father, Zios, dying slowly in bed from a mysterious disease. His coronation, the day he had killed Maela's father for treason. Lerin's coming of age ceremony, full of nervous laughter and uncertain glances. And...her. He'd seen her first at a joust; Lerin had walked in with her. Maela's sun-orange hair had caught his eye, distracting him. He'd lost the match.
From that day, she had ever been around the castle, her unchanging love for his younger brother easy to see. Her bright laughter kept Jorin happy, though she would have nothing to do with him on social occasions. His frustration at her coldness slowly changed him, made him cruel. He lashed out at the kingdom, starting wars, allowing thieves to pillage outlying homes. Destruction and decay fell everywhere, but the one thing that her cared for lay out of his reach. Maela.
The day of the fire, Lerin had proposed to her. During breakfast, before leaving on patrol, he had taken her hand, whispered of his love. She accepted, gladly, and Jorin swept from the room, seething. The poison had been the first thought to clear the haze of hate that filled his mind. He slipped it into his brother's wine, delivered it to his room with a congratulations. Maela stayed in the throne room, to tend the fire. He slipped up to her, confessed his love. He scattered the coals across the floor in rage when she declined his offer of marriage. The conflict had only escalated from there.
Now, she was dead. Her father was dead. Lerin was dead. His heart, too, had died as she burned. Swimming in a sea of tears, he made up his mind. Without her, he could not truly live. Eyes closed, he stood and stepped into the fire.
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