My Servant Is An Elf Knight From Another World



"Part two of three," Ria informed, stretching her fingers, cracking her knuckles, and laying both hands sprawled atop the table. "Don't worry, I'll make it short. I'm not too big on going on and on about me  - I promised you." 

Things took a turn on act two here. It wasn't just words, expressions, and tone of voice she used to tell her tale anymore. With a turn of a new chapter, another form of storytelling too emerged - puppeteering. 

I haven't seen puppets being used since I tuned in to Sesame Street, and I haven't tuned in to Sesame Street around the same time I stopped staying up late at night on the prowl for Santa Claus. 

On Irene's table, between half-eaten meals and porcelain plates, danced the flicker and fizzle of blinding sparks… little orange fireworks blasting away from her fingertips. 

I suppose that's one thing Ria had over Sesame Street, no actual puppets, no hidden strings, just a little frazzle-dazzle, and presto - we got a show.

"Crackle, snap, and a pop, again and again," she said, weaving an arm across the air, flames manifesting into a tiny blazing silhouette of a man sitting on the edge of her plate, haggard and gaunt, simply lying in wait. "For most of his life now, Torem had heard these noises for every moment of his waking existence. The sounds of rumbling creation bubbling in an open pot, and the hard shell of an egg boiling inside it.

"Sometimes he'll wait months only to never see a crack on its surface. Other times, rarer times, the egg would spontaneously explode in a burst of raging fire bright enough to eclipse the darkest nights. Torem lived for those moments, always holding out hope for what he expected to come after. But gradually the fire would dwindle, the night would fade back in and Torem would slowly peek into his pot, inch by inch, crossing his fingers and praying to the Divines he's been double-crossing for a chance, only to find nothing but soot and ash left behind in the wake of another year's worth of failure." 

The little old man on Ria's plate dissipated, his crestfallen stance disappearing with a puff of air from her lips. 

"Flames," Ria said, tossing a glowing lock of her hair behind her. "Every wonder why I'm made of fire? Or did you just accept it, no questions asked - because your earthly fairy tales had it mandated that I just had to be?"

"The latter," I muttered.

"Well then, you'd be shocked to realize that these aren't just literal flames I'm blazing here. They may look like it, they may act like it, but these aren't true, legitimate flames at all." 

She's right about one thing, I am shocked. The hell does she mean? They burn, they sing, they melt, smoke, and most importantly they're literally flaming.

"What? W-What are they then?" I sputtered out in a build-up of bewilderment and confusion.

"Magic made manifest," Irene answered on her behalf. "Like that cloak of yours you got from your mother." 

Okay, maybe I spoke too early about being confused.

"Wait, what cloak? You got a magic cloak now?" Ria cocked her head eagerly at me. "Can I see it?" 

I ignored her.

"Thought you said manifesting magic like that is impossible. That people go mad even trying it." 

"It's not exactly the same process," Irene clarified. "In her case, it's already been done for her."

"Healing magic," Ria interjected, producing a tall, stagnant flame once more from a fingertip like she was casually flicking a lighter on. "The only kind of magic I possess. This is simply how it manifests itself and behaves in the physical. Like fire, an eternal flame, and why? Well, I was left stewing and simmering in the same kind of flame, so you can pretty much guess why. Torem had bathed me, forged me in his specialty. So much so that it's become a literal part of my being. In a way, I guess you could say that I am the embodiment of healing itself." 

I took a moment, a long moment, to get a look at her - a long hard look at her in her entirety. Every pulsating strand of her hair falling to her waist, the crimson rims of light in her eyes, the stray embers dispersing freely from her body as she swayed about. 

All of that. The essence of healing in its purest, most potent form…

"So why do you burn?" I asked.

Ria stopped short of a snort, scooted close, and with a patient gaze, reached over and pressed a finger into my left cheek… twisting and turning, the warmth of her skin spreading across my own.

A gentle warmth.

"So?" She asked rhetorically, slowly retracting her finger back. "Do I though?"

From the look on my face alone, she was satisfied with that response.

"I'm only as smoking hot as I want to be. And yes, I mean that the other way too," she winked cheekily. "As for why healing magic can also double as a flamethrower, I'm afraid we don't know enough about magic itself to really answer that. Who knows? Perhaps healing magic itself is just simply one side of the same coin." 

A ball of fire formed floating inches above her palm, and almost lazily, she stared at its blinding luster.

"With the noble ability to mend and heal, comes also the absolute will to burn and destroy as one sees fit. Kinda poetic, no? I'm actually pretty freaking cool when you look at me that way." 

She then curled her hand into a tight fist, instantly smothering the ball in a cloud of white smoke.

"Anyway, moving on - where was I? Ah yes, my immaculate conception - almost forgot. But wait, no…" Ria let out a snort snigger, the amusement in her eyes finding in their sights "You already know how this part goes, don't you? Had a front-row seat and everything." 

I don't know whether she was just poking fun, or engaging in the most subtlest form of passive-aggressiveness I've ever heard. Her little smirk didn't really help clear muddled waters either

"Welp, doesn't matter how hopeless I try to make it, no point in building any anticipation. Oh well…" she sighed, sounding almost actually disappointed. "Yes, eventually, after a lifetime's worth of trials and tribulations - Torem has done it again. Stubbornness and pride finally prevailed." 

Her arms moved once more, a flick and a flourish, and from her smoldering skin detached the blazing outline of a little fledgling bird, gliding clumsily, haphazardly across the table, before, in the same ungraceful manner, perched itself on top the lanky shoulder of the same old man manifesting once more below.

"Ria Ignis," she lamely introduced, unfeeling, unblinking eyes cast down upon the small pair of flaming silhouettes wandering between the empty spaces of the table, one in a slight limp, the other hovering, affectionately close. "And her creator, her father, Torem Ignis - together at long last. All's well that ends well. From the outside looking in, no doubt it certainly seems that way."

Once again, her eyes, her tone, I couldn't tell at all what was what.

"Luckily for us," she said. "I would know better about my own story than some busybody outsider."