#on pyromancy

[through-fire-and-flame]

pyre. (drabble)

[ cw for parental death ]

They keep funerals simple in the Great Swamp, for the most part. Many of the villages give their dead to the water. Sometimes, they celebrate a person's life with dancing and songs and feasting, praising the time they had with one another before a passing.

Other times - in harder times - they have quiet ceremonies by the shorelines as the dead disappear into the mud. Whether by way of raucous, defiant festival or solemn acknowledgment, they murmur the same prayer:

"Your hours were a kindness, and may your memory be one too."

---

It may be the first time his mother has ever looked peaceful, laid as she is along the sand. The hard line of her mouth has softened; if you looked at her sideways you might think she was smiling. He can't quite remember the last time she smiled - probably in one of those rare, unguarded moments before his father disappeared. He didn't get a burial. Or perhaps he did, after whatever got him was finished with him.

Laurentius pushes that last thought aside before it can take vicious root. Most everyone else has shuffled back to the village, leaving him with the last duty of carrying her into the water. Only the old man lingers nearby, and he offers about as much comfort as a gargoyle. The younger man sits back on the sand, staring out over the silver-spilled surface of the moonlit swamp. It's a clear night, and he can still smell the embers of the small fire they lit in her honor.

"She was a good woman," the old man says. "Worked hard."

"Never stopped," Laurentius mutters. "Right up until she fell over - working hard."

It was illness, of course. You don't grow up in a swamp without someone getting sick now and again, but you would have thought a lifetime in the mire might have inured you to the various ills that rose up out of the mud or festered in the water. That is, of course, unless you have worked yourself to the aching bone, day in, day out, taking on every errand and task you could, until your body had nothing left to stave off illness with. She was already half-dead from fatigue when fell sick - and disease carried her the rest of the way in her sleep. It got into her lungs, the village healer guessed.

She was a hard worker, they said. We'll miss her.

Laurentius continues to look out over the water. He can't look down at her - not right now, not with tears brimming his eyes and a sob building to despairful release in his chest. He doesn't know why she wouldn't slow down, even as he asked her to. He doesn't know what she was running from, that she wouldn't rest. It was in her eyes, on those rare nights where she couldn't find more work: something haunted and lonely, desperate to acknowledge anything but itself.

Then again, maybe he did understand, he thinks, glancing over at the old man crouched nearby. He had thrown himself into learning pyromancy after his father disappeared. It felt like seizing some measure of control back from everything - with the flame, he could protect himself. With the flame, he could protect his mother. She didn't see it that way, of course; she never approved of the old man, nor his philosophy. It wasn't that she thought of it as heresy, but rather she knew that it would sour Laurentius' chances of a life outside the swamp someday, should he ever decide to leave the village.

It had, in a small and inevitable way, driven them apart. She never stopped loving him, but now he wonders if his pursuit had left her to contend with her turmoil entirely on her own.

He wonders if this little ceremony on the beach is, in some way, his fault.

"You should honor her memory with your own hard work, boy," the old man says. Laurentius supposes this is the frog's way of comforting him. It doesn't help, but seeing an ounce of kindness in those angry little eyes is at least new enough to pull the boy out of his own head.

"I will," he murmurs, turning back to look out over the water. The murk shimmers under the moon, and suddenly, the idea of giving his mother to the water - of watching her disappear into the mud - seems abhorrent. He can't. He can't pick her up. His hands begin to shake. He can't. His mouth cracks open and that cry that has been bubbling up through his ribcage finally tears free of him in a painful, wracking shout as the tears finally, finally come.

The old man straightens and approaches him, then places a thin, pale hand on his quivering shoulder.

"She doesn't deserve the mud, Salaman," Laurentius manages, through the sobs. "She doesn't--she--"

"Then give her the flame," the old man says. "Give her peace, Laurentius."

It's the first time, really, that the old man has used his name. Although neither of them know it yet, it will be the last time.

The boy stares up at the old man, and then back down at his mother, lying peacefully on the beach. She shouldn't be given to the beasts. Not after what happened to his father, mutters Laurentius' conscience. They shouldn't get both of them, should they? The swamp didn't deserve both of those who loved him so.

His sobbing begins to slow, and almost unbidden, a flame sprouts into brilliant life over his right palm.

---

The pyre crackles. Her peaceful face has long disappeared into the light - but Laurentius won't look directly at it. He can't, even if the sight is less painful than the idea of her disappearing into the silvery mire. He watches the smoke, instead, with the old man's hand still on his shoulder.

He would leave soon. There was nothing left for him here but gently pitying expressions on the other villagers' faces and the old man's brutal lessons. He hasn't told the old man this. He won't. He'll just leave, one morning sometime soon, and find somewhere else to be.

But wherever he goes, he'll make her proud. He'll work hard.

"Your hours were a kindness," he murmurs to the smoke. "May your memory be one, too."

[through-fire-and-flame]

be safe, friend, and don't you dare go hollow.

through-fire-and-flame: laurentius of the great swamp, as written by chez. semi-private and selective. affiliated with the incredible @swordluck. blanket content warning for gore, dissociation, and fire. rules, verse tags, and regulations listed below.

(header art from here.)

verse list

#ascended flame - a catch all tag for when all the verses are involved, a new verse without a tag is being used, or other shenanigans are afoot.

#on pyromancy - main verse. considered to take place within the span of the original dark souls. explicitly magical. laurentius is a pyromancer from the great swamp. i also use this tag for when laurentius is (usually ceremoniously) dumped into another place, but remains himself.

#timely conjuration - dark souls 3 verse. considered to take place in dark souls 3/lothric. explicitly magical. laurentius has ended up here through some odd form of time travel; he is dressed as what dark souls 3 calls a "conjurator" and is generally regarded as such. #powder keggery - bloodborne!AU. considered to take place before and during the long hunt presented during bloodborne. explicitly supernatural. laurentius is a powder kegger bent on diving into the chalice dungeons in search of the beasts that can throw fire on their own. #zippo magic - modern!AU. unless otherwise noted, explicitly supernatural. laurentius is a london-born slummer fascinated with fire and the strange magic he's picked up from a Hellfire Club-style secrety society. this verse is in development. #bayou-blooded - modern!AU. could swing supernatural or mundane. laurentius is a lousiana-born man and a member of a bayou group with sincere religious views on nature, with a particular focus on fire. this verse is in development. #whirl o flame! - elden ring!AU. explicitly magical. laurentius is a fire monk whose goal is to climb to the mountaintops of the giants and see the flame of ruin for himself. he is, disastrously, also flirting with studying dragon incantations. this verse is in development.

in all verses, laurentius is considered to be pansexual and panromantic. unless otherwise discussed, romantic relationships occur in their own continuity, separate from other such relationships.

as of recently i've been reblogging memes using the tag #pyromancy tome. unless otherwise noted in the tags of the same post, i'm still accepting them (though if you pick an older meme, please note what meme it is or include the prompt, not just the number/symbol!)

the rules

mun is 35+. i much prefer writing with people who are 21 and over.

i am open for messages and asks, and be reached on Discord under chezdispenser. please feel free to reach out and plot!

this blog features fairly frequent (and tagged) OOC content. you may be occasionally jumpscared by a gray cat named Saber who loves you. you have been warned.

i try my very hardest to be nice; i expect others to do the same. being a dick to me or to others is a quick way to end our association.

NSFW must be discussed before i write it. most NSFW material will be published to @flash-sweat. nsfw tag for all verses is #nsf pyromancy.

i have a day job that involves writing and a wealth of focus issues. replies may be slow. gentle reminders are welcome; being rude is not.

in the same vein, i always welcome feedback or requesting edits/changes to posts to better fit your ideas or the thread. i do not take such requests personally.

i have absolutely no problem avoiding triggers; please don't fret about bringing them up.

on my own triggers, i am unwilling to include on-screen sexual assault, prolonged and detailed torture, or detailed violence against small animals or children in my writing, and i ask that you not include it in yours when writing with me.

[through-fire-and-flame]

@carnipact

He'd met boulders that fell with less consequence and finality than Peregrine. The woman's descent on the approaching bandit was decisive - the man's throat was as open as his stunned mouth, struck wide in surprise and pain.

Blood pools around his boots and he steps back, sucking in a breath he wasn't sure would be coming, given the bandit's nigh-successful stab at his ribcage. He snaps the fingers on his right hand to summon a new flame and tosses it past Peregrine's shoulder; another approaching bandit clutches fitfully at his now-burning hair, dropping his weapons in the process.

"Didn't even realize you were up there," Laurentius breathes, barely audible amid the bandit's panicked screaming. "Glad to see you, Miss Peregrine."

[through-fire-and-flame]

catch fire, volume one (drabble)

At first, you don't understand.

It ought to be easy, really: you catch fire. The old man tells you he can't teach you the core concept - how to seize hold of air and twist it into flame. You have to feel it out. You have to grasp it, and you have to understand from the beginning that catching fire is going to hurt. This ought to be a simple truth, something easily understood, but there is something in you that resists. Of course it does. Catching fire means you might catch fire, and your mind produces such sights in the wake of that thought - cindered shadows dancing horribly amid ochre light, a tender tinder tendered to embers, all ash, all dust. It's enough to frighten anyone, really. As it should be. There are few more painful ways to die than burning alive.

But you know, deep down, you are meant to catch fire. Something in the light pulls you in. Maybe it's the sensation of heresy, the way forbidden knowledge tastes so sweet on the back of your brain. You weren't supposed to know, and so you must. You've never been good at keeping secrets, and you think that no one else should be, either. It's nourishment you weren't supposed to have, stolen from the mouths of the gods themselves, you were told. Or maybe it's the allure of flame itself - the promise of heat, the promise of light. You've always enjoyed the taste of smoke, if you're honest with yourself. (You hardly ever are.) In the most charitable understanding of yourself, you think of the utility, and the kindness you might do. One would always have cooked meals, or a campfire, or a hearth flame. One never need worry.

But if you are being truthful, it is not utility nor heresy nor the flame itself that draws you in.

You remember the first time your father took you hunting, out in the swamp. You remember something huge and slick and slavering in the gloam, stalking through the mire. You remember the deep green of murk-hued sunset and the way the creature silhouetted against it, so broad and heaving as to carve its shape into the horizon above you. Had your father not been watching, it might have been upon you, all gleaming eyes and teeth, teeth, teeth. He was watching. His spear was true. The beast did not have time, even, to understand that it was dead, simply tilting over into the pallid green of the gloom-dappled mud. Its eyes, you remember, never left you. You were the last thing - cowering and screaming - that the beast ever saw.

The sensation still sits sick within you: that imagined picture of you, crawling backward in glimmering swamp water, palms sinking horribly into the sodden earth beneath you, lungs emptying themselves in panicked, uneven shrieks of terror. You remember feeling more alone than you ever have in your life. You remember understanding, deeply, that you were going to die - that the beast was going to tear all the potential out of you, and feed on what might have been a good life. All you were going to amount to was food, sustenance, a momentary meal on the way to another meal, not even important. You remember, more than anything, feeling small.

Even in the days after, with your mother fretting over you, your father assuring you that you did what you could, that he would always be there to save you - you could not stop thinking of how you must have looked, about to die in the swamp.

When the old man spreads his word among the villagers, your father and mother forbid you - at first - to listen. Pyromancy is heresy, elsewhere, and they'll know you for what you are the moment they smell the smoke, your parents tell you. What if you want to leave the swamp one day? What if you want to see the rest of the world? Your father is almost desperate in his insistence. He takes you by the shoulders one damp evening, with the rain tapping staccato on the roof of your hut, and begs you to promise him you'll never take up flame. It won't be worth it, he tells you. He understands, of course. He considered it when he was young, when the old man first came to him. But spear and spittle has always done right by him, and it will do right by you.

In that moment, looking out into the gray rain tapping ripples into the surface of the water outside, beyond the shoreline, it makes sense. Why would you throw away the chance to leave, should you ever need to? So you promise him: you won't catch fire. You'll grow up clean, as clean as anyone can in the swamp, and you'll make him proud. You remember his relieved smile, the tightened grip of his embrace around you.

Three days later he disappears into the swamp, and doesn't return. In the absence of his body, you bury your promise, and you hope he might have forgiven you.

[through-fire-and-flame]

He barely makes it back to the bonfire.

Laurentius collapses next to the flame and only just manages to avoid falling into it. The right side of his robes gleam with the slick sheen of blood; for a moment, he lies in a heap, and whether or not he did make it back to the bonfire becomes an open question.

He answers said question, after a moment's time, with a deep and greedy breath, pulling air into the formerly half-ruined lung with a rattling gasp. With a grunt and freshly mobile, he pushes himself up and over onto his back with one arm.

There's someone already by the fire. Of course there is. Here he comes, stumbling up in a way that the most charitable soul wouldn't have described as "walking," falling into a bloody heap, and there's somebody present to witness the entire sordid affair.

And yet, mutters his conscience, you've made worse entrances. Nobody's gone and stuffed you into a barrel, for example.

"Sorry you had to see that," he mutters.

[through-fire-and-flame]

[through-fire-and-flame]

heated kisses while tugging on their hair.

Their first kiss had been the sort of shy, tentative exploration of the other that always heralded moments like this: sense-obliterating need, expressed through grasping hands and reverent gasps whenever one's mouth was not presently occupied with the other's skin.

The first kiss, last night by the bonfire, had been a promise: yes, I love you, yes, I want you, no, I won't leave. It had been permission - and now, permitted, they fell into each other the way moons fall into orbit.

He could feel it in the way Anri's teeth grazed over his lip, the way her tongue and lips pressed hot kisses along his jawline. What had been timid murmurs and affirmations now dissolved into pleas, back and forth, want compounding want, flame feeding on flame.

That's a sort of miracle, isn't it, supplies what is left of his consicence, right before his own need comes along to scour clean the remaining coherent thought.

When her lips graze the bottom of his ear, the need becomes too great for whatever remains of Laurentius' own fears of harming or offending Anri to keep the reins. A little growl escapes his throat as he winds his fingers into her hair, pulling her head back with a light tug so that he could press his mouth into her own, tongue glancing off of her bottom lip on its way elsewhere.

"Anri," he murmurs into her mouth, letting her taste her own name in the susurrant growl filtering past his lips. "I need you..."

[through-fire-and-flame]

catch fire, volume two (drabble)

You're beginning to understand.

The first time you catch fire, you burn yourself. It feels almost cold, really, when the sphere descends on open palm. It has taken you hours of concentration to get this far, and for a moment, you are so lost in the euphoria of catching fire you don't realize you're being burned. It's only the scent that drags you back out of the trance - your own skin, burning under the touch of that perfect orb. Then you feel it, and it hurts. It hurts just as much as you thought it would. It doesn't matter. You won't give the old man the satisfaction of hearing you in pain. You grit your teeth, and close your hand around it, and then it disappears. For a moment, you caught fire, and here you are. Still standing, still you. You can see him smirking in the corner of his hut. He tells you you're in for it now. They'll know. Wherever you go, whatever you do, they will know what you are. What you've done.

Your mother has resigned herself to your training. She doesn't know what you promised your father that rainy night a month ago. She might not care - something vital has gone out of her with his disappearance, and she has instead thrown herself into her work. She does her best to love you, to tend to you, but you knew a week in that you would have to take care of yourself. Truly, you've known since that first hunting trip. You would have to take care of yourself, or something was going to eat you. If you didn't have some manner of ensuring the world could not close its jaws around your throat, you were going to die small and unimportant. (You don't think about your father that way, of course. He was important. You can tell he was important, because losing him has taken part of you - and your mother - with him. Your mind won't catch, won't hold on the thought that losing you might have done the same to them. The thought slips free each time before you can begin to believe it.)

If you were being honest with yourself (and you hardly ever were,) this was always, always, about power.

There is little in the world that can successfully ward off flame, or at least, a lot of flame. Fire will eat anything - through anything. It is hunger itself, the act of consumption given terrifying natural exemplification. If you catch fire and hold it, beasts will shy away, instinctively aware that they will end within it. Heroes will pause in the flickering light, afraid of being eaten. Swords still, shields lower in the sheer hopelessness of the incoming end. Wearing armor will only mean it is welded to your crisping skin. Catching fire has always been about proving yourself important. You will sear away shadows, burn yourself an empire of your own into the conquering dark. You will glow brightly amid the void. You will not be subsumed easily. You will not die squirming backwards in the mud, preying, praying.

The old man approves, of course. It is his way of things, too. He promises you that his training will make you dangerous, powerful, and most importantly, safe. You will never want for a tool for your defense. You will never worry over teeth. You will catch fire before anything catches you, and you will, therefore, survive it all. This is what makes it heresy, the old man tells you: it is the spark of divinity, the truest expression of command, of authority. One who has seized perfect control of the flame has made eager order out of desperate chaos, and thus one has achieved godhood. Of course the gods and their zealous faithful would call it blasphemy, the old man says, in the same way a rich man tells the poor that gold is the root of all evil. They are permitted faith in their power, while you are not.

The sentiment sparks something defiant and angry in you. Had your father held the flame, would he be here now? And if they had not promised him execution, had not threatened him with a smaller and angrier world in which to live, would he have denied the old man? Were it not for hateful faithful, would your father have become a momentary meal, a few hours full belly and an aching wound in all else? You clench your hand in the old man's hut and the flame blooms anew. It's enough to make the old man smile, his sneer obliterated in the light of your heat. It is the expression of a man taking a newly made tool off of the forge, and admiring his fine work. You can't help but feel, at once, important and unseen. Were you not so angry, you might have understood then what you understand now: the old man does not understand you to be a person, but an extension of himself, a confirmation of his beliefs. A way to sear the shadows, to burn himself an empire into the conquering dark.

A few months after your first time catching fire, your mother follows your father - sickness takes her, and the anger goes with her. By now, your understanding of the flame has dissolved into something less violent. You have begun to diverge from the old man. He knows it, and struggles to right your path, but it is too late to turn back now. After your mother's funeral, after all the murmured pities offered to you for your loss, you set fire to her body on the beach, a way to honor her and keep her from the mud that took your father.

Two days later, without telling the old man, you leave the swamp, and you never return.