Harp's Promise

“You’re as bossy as an older sister.”  Taslor commented in loving tones, but he did what the harp commanded.  Not trusting his impaired hand, Taslor first sat down on the bed, before releasing Fyreborn from her case.  He placed her gently down on the sheets, observing that they had been replaced during his absence.

Your housekeeping skills were never legendary, Fyreborn commented wryly.  Despite the joke, Taslor could not let go of his belief that Fyreborn was apprehensive about something.

Hold me, Taslor.  The harp requested with no trace of levity.  Taslor lovingly caressed the silver and ebony instrument, fear gnawing at his heart.  What was Fyreborn planning?

Something that I have never tried before, Fyreborn answered.  Her response rang hollowly within the numbed mind of the young minstryl.  An irrational fear grabbed at Taslor’s heart.  He clung desperately to Fyreborn, suddenly afraid to let go.  An icy shiver slid down his spine, only to be warmed by a sudden surge of heat emitting from Fyreborn.  The heat settled in his left hand.  He dropped the harp in his lap and screamed in pain.  Any questions in his mind were pushed aside as Fyre consumed him.  He collapsed on the bed holding his hand.  His arm felt as if it was being burnt to ashes.  As suddenly as the pain started, it ended.  The only aftermath of the attack was a tingly sensation in his left hand.  Expecting to see a blackened stump, Taslor looked down at his arm – amazingly, it was unharmed.  Taslor sat up in bed and looked questioningly at Fyreborn.  Receiving no reply, his attention turned to his hand.  He tentatively flexed his fingers.  Surprise registered on his face when the hand responded.  He carefully picked up Fyreborn.  The harp remained in his hand.  All traces of pain and numbness were gone.  The rapture of the moment faded when Taslor realized that something else was missing.  He no longer felt the presence of Fyreborn in his mind.

“Fyreborn!  Fyreborn!”  His cry remained unanswered.  He hugged the harp close to his chest.  “Fyreborn!”  The minstryl screamed, pulling the ebony harp so close that her strings started to cut into his flesh.  He yelled her name repeatedly until his voice broke.  There was a roaring in his ears.  Darkness crashed down upon him.  Oblivion thankfully overtook him as the harsh reality hit home.  Fyreborn was dead.