Little Vitya is eight when he first sees him.
Flames dance over him, as if he’s clad in a mantle made from them. It is no cloak, though. Through his cloudy with tears eyes, Vitya sees the flames move as the man does. They hiss and crack as he dances – because that is what he’s doing. He steps here and back, twirls and bends, and waves his arms about himself; all of it in perfect harmony with music that Vitya doesn’t hear, but has no trouble imagining.
He’s beautiful. But more than that, he enthralls.
Vitya finds himself frozen in awe, forgotten tears drying on his flushed cheeks.
It is hard to see the dancer’s features with the flames licking at him like playful sprites, but his eyes glow whenever Vitya catches a glimpse of them. Vitya’s breath falters every time, as if he could be entrapped in their depths and burned into a crisp.
He stands there, on the cusp of danger, peering through branches of a bush in his father’s garden. He’s afraid to move, but he wants to come closer. He wants to know who this man is, why the flames don’t hurt him.
Is he even real?
Vitya pinches himself, but the man is still there. His steps are as fluid as flowing water, which is a ridiculous comparison to make of someone playing with fire as expertly as the mysterious dancer does.
Unable to stay away longer, Vitya moves. A twig snaps under his foot. The man startles like a doe. Faster than Vitya can blink, he twists towards him and catches his eyes for one fleeting moment. An expression of pure panic crosses over the fire that instantly burns harder as if to protect him. The desperate “Please, don’t go!” tickles on Vitya’s lips. Before he can speak though, a burst of fire so bright and hot it steals his breath pushes him off his feet.
Once he recovers, he scrambles into the clearing again, but by then… by then the man is gone.
All that is left of him are the scorch marks of his dancing feet on the green grass and a single flaming feather that Vitya carefully picks up. He’s scared it’ll burn him, but the flames that make the feather glow only tickle warmly against his skin. He cups the feather in his hands and doesn’t let go for years.
Long, long years, during which little Vitya becomes known to all as Victor Andreievich, the Lord of the Northern Quarter.
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