The Branch

What… is… it?

That was among the first questions you asked her, because you remembered cradling it in your hands, just as the coven had told you to. You remember the way it smoldered in your fingers, left your fur stained with umbral soot. You remember the way it almost… trembled, shaking nigh-imperceptibly in your grasp.

She wasn’t sure, herself. She only knew that it was important, and that it must be with you.

It has stayed in your room since. You find yourself staring at it from your bed often. Some nights, when you fall asleep and your dreams catch fire with nightmarish visions, you awaken to find a thin cloud of smoke rolling across the ceiling and spilling from the Branch.

It has /almost/ never fully come to flame. Though... when you find yourself expressing fire magic, it seems to resonate with you. You remember, once, when you were attempting to train with water magic and you lost your composure, you saw it in the flames, although… it wasn’t supposed to be in the room. Perhaps a hallucination. Perhaps something more.

… but you’ve come to realize something for sure about it.

When you hold it in your hands, and you think those wretched thoughts, you feel it swelter. It comes to life, with snarls of red-hot wood just below the thick layer of ash, and it starts to smoke. As the power within it begins to show itself, you can discern its shape, depth and texture.

The Branch is most certainly alive, and it feels an enmity much like your own. Soon, as you slip into those depths, the branch grows too hot to hold. If something as simple as negative thoughts can make it nearly burst into flames, just how much is contained within this little piece of wood?

The wood looks as though it has been burned over and over a thousand times. Yet… you feel certain that the fire has not claimed it, but rather that its fire would claim everything if given but a chance.

If you hold the Branch close to your chest, and you begin to center yourself, you feel… almost safe. Comforted, even. Just as the Branch swells with your hatred, so too does it seem to feed on your calm. The smoldering dies out, and its stinging heat fades into a gentle warmth.

There must be more to it than fire. What a shame, then, that the cinders so thoroughly choke its heart.