1 The Ones Who Cling To Life

The sun began to set. In a vast field of green, a man lay on the ground, bleeding from a clean cut across his chest. His armour had been cleaved from his body and his sword was missing. He was one of the many fallen soldiers scattered throughout this battlefield, their flames slowly burning out. In front of the man was a solitary flower, minuscule compared to the field's grand scale. However, to the man, those white petals dancing in the breeze were as significant as life itself.

He extended his arm to reach for the flower. He decided that if he were to die here, he would die holding something beautiful. His finger grazed the fluttering petals, then his hand moved to the stem and wrapped around it. The man froze.

He hesitated. He feared taking another life.

White smoke rose from where his hand met the flower, and a moment later the flower ignited. The man pulled his arm back as a brilliant white flame took hold of the flower. The white blaze became warmer by the second and all colour washed off the man's face.

He reached out again, with both hands; this time desperately trying to grab the flame. His hands wrapped around the burning flower, and the man let out a relieved sigh. His hand and the flower were trampled by a boot, which stomped on his hand from above. A guttural scream escaped his dry lips.

The man's eyes shot upwards. A figure dressed in pure white loomed over him, robes waving in the wind, wearing a featureless mask with a metal torch. An Ignis, the torchbearers. The boot lifted off his hand, revealing a crushed and extinguished flower.

"Be careful not to waste your flame" A female voice came from behind the mask, "it's all you have left."

"I'm not... ready to go yet." The man answered with terror in his voice.

"Your flame still burns bright, you have time." She answered without a shred of emotion, and turned to walk away.

"No" the man shrieked "I can't die… not yet."

The girl in white stopped.

"Does it hurt?" She asked.

…

"Are you in pain?" She demanded.

"I-I was, I'm not anymore." Weakness echoed in his voice.

"Then you have already died. Your flame is all you have left, and soon it will burn out too."

"I have a daughter, I…" the man coughed, sullying the grass with blood. "I never found my daughter."

A crystal tear shined in his eye and flowed down his cheek.

The last remnants of daylight danced on the horizon. The field was illuminated by the pale glow of flickering white flames. Faceless torchbearers in white stood throughout the field, collecting the flames of enemies and allies alike. All of them were nearly identical, but only this girl wore a robe.

The man's heart sank to his stomach. He realised he would face eternity, unfulfilled. Then the girl walked over to him. She put her hands on the ground and sat down. The man's gaze returned to her.

"I don't have parents." She said.

The man didn't respond.

"I was born from the flames of two people I could never hope to know, so were the other Ignis."

"Just like someone will be born from mine." He retorted.

She nodded.

"When my daughter was born," the man took a deep and coarse breath, "I hoped she would one day inherit my flame, that was a year before the source died."

"Were things better, in those days?"

"…"

The girl in white stood up and took the torch from her belt. The man's eyes no longer registered her actions. His flame was nearing exhaustion. She held the torch to the man's chest, and a second later the man was engulfed in flames. She kindled the torch, bowed her head, and waited for every trace of the man to burn to ash.

An uneasy feeling hung over her. She wondered what her flame would amount to, one day.

"Captain!" A shout echoed from behind. The robed girl turned to face the voice. Her comrades, all holding lit torches, had gathered by a group of horse-drawn carts, along with the surviving soldiers and the wounded, who would live to see another day. One torchbearer beckoned her to join them.

Not a single body could be found on the battlefield. Ponds of blood and shattered armour sets were the only proof of the battle that had taken place. She neared the carts. It was quiet, soldiers stared her down as she passed, and the Ignis barely moved. Her eyes passed over each cart and its passengers. She chose the cart, at the rear, of which all the passengers were Ignis. She handed her torch to a passenger, gripped the cart's edge, and leapt in. She landed steadily on both feet. A torchbearer's hand tapped on an empty seat. The girl sat down in it.

"You are too easily distracted, captain." Said the torchbearer who had tapped the seat.

"Who are you to scold me, Arion?" She asked.

"Your torch only carries one flame."

"Be quiet, the flames of the fallen deserve respect."

Arion was quiet.

One by one the carts took their position within the formation. Two carts carrying six Ignis each rode at the center of the formation. The flames were to be protected at all costs. It was a long journey home, and the moon had already taken its place in the night sky. Therefore, the captain slumped sideways and rested her head on Arion's shoulder. She knew it annoyed him, but regardless she closed her eyes and let the night pass by.