for the love of war.

The lord of fire comes to you on a cold, sky-darkened night.

Help him, please, will you help him? For War has stolen his fire in order to light her Calls, and the fire will be used for horrible things. For bloody things. For Death.

But you cannot restore the fire to him––you know this. You say this. The best you can do is to go with him and help him find where War has taken it so he might reclaim it for himself.

This is the best you can do. This is your offer.

This will be enough. So long as he can find it, he can do the rest. He will be well.

And so you go with the lord of fire to the place where War met him on the road and snuck the fire out of his pocket where he kept it safe in a little wooden box.

By the time he knew what was happening, it was too late. The fire was gone. War is fleet-footed after all, and she knows just where you keep the things dearest to you. But the lord of fire knew where she went. It is always easy to follow the path War leads, even if she is always two steps ahead.

And so you follow the lord of fire as he follows War down the road, growing darker and quieter every moment. The land grows dim. The air grows heavy. And finally you come to the place where the river cuts cleanly through the land, and the rocks at the river’s edge are slick with water and black algae.

This is where War crossed the river, where she begged for the lord of fire’s help; his mercy; his kindness. Where she left him no choice but to let her take what was his and reminded him that even beautiful things––especially beautiful things––have a role to play in ugly ones. And War promised to give his fire back to him if only he would climb up the rocks and forge the river with her, and so the lord of fire did what she asked, and he slipped on the rocks and was washed away by the current without her and without his fire. Alone.

And so you help the lord of fire find a safer crossing, one away from the rocks and the anger of the current, and you cross to the other side and finally come to an old copse of once-verdant trees. So huge they hold up the sky. So strong no storm yet has broken them.

This is where War has asked to meet him to trade. Trade what? Trade his fire for something she wants more. Something War demands of everyone she meets, whether or not they can or should give it to her.

The lord of fire sits in the crook of two great roots in the largest, the strongest of the trees. He sits there to wait, and asks you to join him.

He’d rather not be alone, even though it may be better if he was alone.

And so you sit with the lord of fire, sheltered by the trees, and you say nothing more but to ask when War is coming? What will he do when she arrives? What will she demand? What will he give?

War is always close at hand.

He will greet her as an old friend, for she has a kind soul and a good heart, despite everything.

She will demand more than he knows he can give, and yet all he can give.

He will give her all he has. He will give her everything. Despite everything.

You wonder why you are here at all. What difference you make, if he is just to let her take what is his, let her take everything despite coming here to reclaim what is his.

He doesn’t know. Loneliness, maybe. His. Your own. You followed him after all, didn’t you? Maybe you’re just here to bear witness. Maybe that’s all you could ever do. Maybe that’s all you ever can.

War arrives soon. (He’s right that she is never far away, and she is always listening. Always waiting.) She comes over the hill to the trees, the little box that holds the fire in her hands before her. An offering. A temptation. A promise.

The lord of fire came. Good. She worried that he would not and that she would be alone here after all. But he has come. And he has brought a witness, but you do not matter. Witnesses do not matter much, to War. Only to victors.

War holds out her hands. One holds the box. The other holds a rope, long and sturdy.

The lord of fire must choose.

And here, War does not press him. War lets him choose, let’s his hand hover over the box for a long moment. War lets you hope he will choose wisely.

But the lord of fire hordes his flame, doesn’t he? Why should he get to keep his gift to himself, while others dry up in the cold? In the dark? Why should he get to preserve his little flame in his little box while others have nothing? While War has a much better use for it? While War deserves it far more than he ever did, with his easy life, with his easy problems, while she did the hard work and could do so much more with the fire if she had it at her disposal. Doesn’t he owe that? Doesn’t she deserve it?

And so the lord of fire hesitates, and you can feel that he has already made up his mind. You felt it from the moment he asked you here, you realize. You had just hoped you were wrong.

She is jealous of the lord of fire, you tell him. And she only wants the beautiful thing that is yours because it is yours. She only wants it because you allow her to want it. You allow her to take it from you, and you allow her to lead you to the river to drown, and you allow her to lead you to this place to hang. And only you can leave this place, for she will never be far away or out of sight until you do. Only you can take your fire and choose to leave.

But you see that the lord of fire’s hand has already closed on the rope, and he is already walking away from you with War at his side, to the lowest branch of the tallest tree. And he is tying the noose with practiced hands, for he has been here before, and he has done this before, and he knows what comes now. War watches him do this, and when it is done, she sets down the box of fire in the grass and she walks away. And she is gone, but you know she will not be far away, even when you do not know she is there.

You pick up the box, and you open its lid, unsurprised to find that no fire is left inside.

You doubt that there ever even was.