Work Text:
Gale is eight when he casts his first spell on purpose.
He moves his fingers, shouts the correct word from a book, tugs at faint strings he can feel unspooling everywhere, then: fire.
The fireball lands, bursts— singeing his face, setting the neighbor’s rosebush aflame.
Tara sprints to fetch Mother while Gale stands in silent shock, staring wide-eyed at the aftermath. A small boy trying to grasp the enormity of his accomplishment.
Then, he buries his face in his hands and wails, but not because of any pain.
The flowers. The flowers are burning.
He didn’t mean to destroy them.
Rhune is six the first time his wild magic surges.
A tantrum. He shouts, balls his small hand into a fist. The nearby vase full of wildflowers shatters, then: fire.
Everywhere, consuming him— heat, pain, sizzling flesh. He shuts his eyes, and wails.
When it’s finished, seconds later, I’ssuri begins treating the burns all over Rhune’s face, and ignores:
The singed homespun clothes from their neighbor. Scorched floorboards littered with broken glass. A foster mother’s blistered fingers, due to reaching, grasping, trying to tug her boy away from the flames.
He’s sorry, he’s so sorry.
He didn’t mean to destroy.