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The Fire of Rostam
11 years ago
General
The first time it happened was when she was twelve.
She spat out the dust and coughed loudly.
“Get up,” the cold voice growled. “That was pathetic. Do it again.”
Oz pulled herself to her knees, took a deep breath, and heaved herself back to her shaking feet. She forced her dazed eyes to focus on the old lion leaning on his staff calmly. She could feel the sun burning on the back of her ears and neck. How much longer would he keep her out here? She spread her legs out in a stance and held her arms out, claws arching. This time she would do it. She’d knock him down and then run over the hills and jump into the nearby river. She’d let the cool waves carry her away from her captor. Or her teacher as he liked to think he was. She hunched her shoulders. Her tail flicked in a steady rhythm. Deep breath. Steady. Focus. NOW.
Whack!
She felt the ground slam into her back, punching the air out of her lungs. She coughed and gasped.
“That’s not fair,” she choked. “You won’t even tell me what I’m doing wrong.”
He was doing this for fun, wasn’t he?
The old lion laughed mirthlessly. “A simple child would be able to figure out the mistakes you keep making. No one would believe who your family was if they saw you flopping around like this.”
She heard his footsteps get closer, but she had no energy to try to get away. He stopped at her feet and she felt the end of his staff press into her forehead. Loose dust fell from it and bit her eyes.
“Remind me again, who are you?”
“Azadeh Rostami” she spat out angrily.
“A Rostami? You?”
“I am!”
“You’re a stupid mewling cub that they took in out of pity.”
“I am not!”
“You don’t have the strength of a Rostami. You don’t have the blood of Rostam. You’re just a dreamer and an orphan.”
“Shut up, you kesafat!”
“You’re nothing, you hear me? Crawling in the dirt, hardly able to make a decent swing. You insult the Rostamis by taking their name.”
“I said shut up!”
“And do you know what’s most disgraceful about you?” He bent down and snatched her ear, twisting it to force her green eyes to meet his ember ones. “The only one left of your whole bloodline,” he growled softly, “and you’re the most shameful half breed of the bunch.”
The fire burst, as though a flower suddenly blossomed. It was warm, hot. Oz could hardly breathe from wonder. It was inside of her. The flames were everything she could do and more. The glowing red and orange were power. The searing heat was family. The scorching licks of flame were anger. This fire, it was Azadeh. And she never felt so alive, so out of control. It was an almost weightless feeling. So much strength in her limbs, she could feel every muscle flex and bend, could feel the blood roaring, her veins streams of magma. It was exhilarating. She wanted to dance. She wanted to tear. She wanted to burn.
She wanted everything to burn with her.
And suddenly, it was over. She was dripping wet and gasping. Akeru was stepping back with an empty bucket, his staff held up before him. Oz shook her head and blinked. “Wh-what is it? What happened?”
Akeru’s eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to be funny?”
“No! I don’t remember standing. There was fire and… I don’t… What’s going on…”
He lowered his staff and that’s when Oz saw his sleeve, ripped and bloody. When did that happen? She looked down and her heart twisted at the sight of blood smeared on her claws.
“Azadeh, look at me.” She met his eyes fearfully, scared of what he would say. His eyes pierced into her, wary. Almost fearful. “What did you feel when you were on the ground?”
Oz closed her eyes and looked back in her memory. “A fire started. But it was everywhere.”
“Did you see anything else?”
“No, just the fire.”
“It didn’t burn you?”
“It could never burn me” Oz heard herself say. She believed it.
“Yes it could.” Her eyes blinked open at his reply. She looked at the old lion. He seemed tired. “One day that fire could consume you entirely. You must forgive me. It has already begun for you, far earlier than it should.”
“What has?”
“Azar. The Fire of Rostam. It seems my provoking activated it in you. Surely you know what I speak of?”
Oz knew. It was the ultimate power of a Rostami. Equally capable of corrupting and conquering. Those who could grasp its powers were the ultimate warriors among her clan. Those who couldn’t were degraded to nothing but wild beasts. The Banu as they were called.
She stood tall and looked proudly into Akeru’s old ember eyes. “There’s your proof. I am a Rostami,” she declared. “I have my Azar.”
Akeru stared at her for a long time. Oz held her ground and glared triumphantly back, her long tail flicking with irritance. “And what,” he asked softly, “will you do with your Azar?”
“Destroy the one who killed them all.” Her response was quick, confident.
Though he hardly seemed to move, something of a slump came over the old lion as he looked at the young tigress. He almost remembered the mewling cub whose chubby paws pulled his whiskers when he first held her. Never did he feel so worn.
“I pray you find your way, lost one. Before it is too late. Our lesson is over.” He turned away, unable to look at her anymore, unwilling to see the inevitable.
The Azar was too strong. She was going to burn alive.
Fun note: I like throwing in a Persian word here and there in my stories, but I should probably add an explanation to the words when I do that. Oz called Akeru "kesafat" (pronounced kes aa fat). There's no good translation to English, but it's a pretty rude cuss word that calls someone unclean, mentally or physically, heck probably both. There's no equivalent word in our language, but just know that if someone calls you that, you should be deeply offended. Anyways, good kids don't say kesafat, ok? Ok.
She spat out the dust and coughed loudly.
“Get up,” the cold voice growled. “That was pathetic. Do it again.”
Oz pulled herself to her knees, took a deep breath, and heaved herself back to her shaking feet. She forced her dazed eyes to focus on the old lion leaning on his staff calmly. She could feel the sun burning on the back of her ears and neck. How much longer would he keep her out here? She spread her legs out in a stance and held her arms out, claws arching. This time she would do it. She’d knock him down and then run over the hills and jump into the nearby river. She’d let the cool waves carry her away from her captor. Or her teacher as he liked to think he was. She hunched her shoulders. Her tail flicked in a steady rhythm. Deep breath. Steady. Focus. NOW.
Whack!
She felt the ground slam into her back, punching the air out of her lungs. She coughed and gasped.
“That’s not fair,” she choked. “You won’t even tell me what I’m doing wrong.”
He was doing this for fun, wasn’t he?
The old lion laughed mirthlessly. “A simple child would be able to figure out the mistakes you keep making. No one would believe who your family was if they saw you flopping around like this.”
She heard his footsteps get closer, but she had no energy to try to get away. He stopped at her feet and she felt the end of his staff press into her forehead. Loose dust fell from it and bit her eyes.
“Remind me again, who are you?”
“Azadeh Rostami” she spat out angrily.
“A Rostami? You?”
“I am!”
“You’re a stupid mewling cub that they took in out of pity.”
“I am not!”
“You don’t have the strength of a Rostami. You don’t have the blood of Rostam. You’re just a dreamer and an orphan.”
“Shut up, you kesafat!”
“You’re nothing, you hear me? Crawling in the dirt, hardly able to make a decent swing. You insult the Rostamis by taking their name.”
“I said shut up!”
“And do you know what’s most disgraceful about you?” He bent down and snatched her ear, twisting it to force her green eyes to meet his ember ones. “The only one left of your whole bloodline,” he growled softly, “and you’re the most shameful half breed of the bunch.”
The fire burst, as though a flower suddenly blossomed. It was warm, hot. Oz could hardly breathe from wonder. It was inside of her. The flames were everything she could do and more. The glowing red and orange were power. The searing heat was family. The scorching licks of flame were anger. This fire, it was Azadeh. And she never felt so alive, so out of control. It was an almost weightless feeling. So much strength in her limbs, she could feel every muscle flex and bend, could feel the blood roaring, her veins streams of magma. It was exhilarating. She wanted to dance. She wanted to tear. She wanted to burn.
She wanted everything to burn with her.
And suddenly, it was over. She was dripping wet and gasping. Akeru was stepping back with an empty bucket, his staff held up before him. Oz shook her head and blinked. “Wh-what is it? What happened?”
Akeru’s eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to be funny?”
“No! I don’t remember standing. There was fire and… I don’t… What’s going on…”
He lowered his staff and that’s when Oz saw his sleeve, ripped and bloody. When did that happen? She looked down and her heart twisted at the sight of blood smeared on her claws.
“Azadeh, look at me.” She met his eyes fearfully, scared of what he would say. His eyes pierced into her, wary. Almost fearful. “What did you feel when you were on the ground?”
Oz closed her eyes and looked back in her memory. “A fire started. But it was everywhere.”
“Did you see anything else?”
“No, just the fire.”
“It didn’t burn you?”
“It could never burn me” Oz heard herself say. She believed it.
“Yes it could.” Her eyes blinked open at his reply. She looked at the old lion. He seemed tired. “One day that fire could consume you entirely. You must forgive me. It has already begun for you, far earlier than it should.”
“What has?”
“Azar. The Fire of Rostam. It seems my provoking activated it in you. Surely you know what I speak of?”
Oz knew. It was the ultimate power of a Rostami. Equally capable of corrupting and conquering. Those who could grasp its powers were the ultimate warriors among her clan. Those who couldn’t were degraded to nothing but wild beasts. The Banu as they were called.
She stood tall and looked proudly into Akeru’s old ember eyes. “There’s your proof. I am a Rostami,” she declared. “I have my Azar.”
Akeru stared at her for a long time. Oz held her ground and glared triumphantly back, her long tail flicking with irritance. “And what,” he asked softly, “will you do with your Azar?”
“Destroy the one who killed them all.” Her response was quick, confident.
Though he hardly seemed to move, something of a slump came over the old lion as he looked at the young tigress. He almost remembered the mewling cub whose chubby paws pulled his whiskers when he first held her. Never did he feel so worn.
“I pray you find your way, lost one. Before it is too late. Our lesson is over.” He turned away, unable to look at her anymore, unwilling to see the inevitable.
The Azar was too strong. She was going to burn alive.
Fun note: I like throwing in a Persian word here and there in my stories, but I should probably add an explanation to the words when I do that. Oz called Akeru "kesafat" (pronounced kes aa fat). There's no good translation to English, but it's a pretty rude cuss word that calls someone unclean, mentally or physically, heck probably both. There's no equivalent word in our language, but just know that if someone calls you that, you should be deeply offended. Anyways, good kids don't say kesafat, ok? Ok.
