Flame hates her name, hates her family, hates the little town she lives in, and hates being a teenager, but something is about to change...

II.

Flame peered out her bay window, face as neutral as the snow that blanketed her backyard. She reached over from her kneeling position to the radio on her dresser and flicked it on. With her pointer finger Flame changed the wave setting from FM to AM.

A man's deep voice crackled thickly through the speakers and Flame cocked her ear to it.

"And for you folks just joining us, take a look out your window! And all you kids out there, here are the school closings."

Flame listened closely, waiting for the DJ to begin her county's schools.

"Okay, first Bracer County," Flame let her mind drift, realizing he was going in alphabetic order and knowing her county came at the end. She curled up on the window seat and rested her chin on the windowsill. The snow had begun to fall again, adding to the already thick snowdrifts.

"And now for Seaside," Flame lifted her head and gazed at the radio. "Blue Falls Elementary and High School, Reether's Elementary is closed, and the High School has a delayed opening, Springfield Regional..." Flame felt her mind's attention slip away from the thick voice on the radio.

Forcing herself to think about the closings, Flame sat up and pressed her back against the cold glass. "And last, but not least, Waxern County! Bay Middle and High are closed, Coral Beach Elementary and Middle are closed, and the High School has a delayed opening..."

Flame listened closely; her school would be next, "Devon's Folly," Flame shut her eyes and crossed her fingers. "Elementary and Middle are closed, Dirkwood Regional High School is closed..."

"Awwww," Flame moaned and slumped off her seat to the floor. She should've known her town would do that! Give the lower schools off and make the high school trudge through two feet of snow.

She crawled over to her wardrobe and swung the doors open. Before she could rummage, however, the harsh voice of her mother echoed up the stairs.

"Flame, are you awake? It's time to get up! Hurry! You'll be late for school! And you still have to eat breakfast! Flame! Are you listening to me? Flame!" The last name she screeched and Flame jumped catlike off the floor and landed in her doorway.

"I hear you!" she yelled down the hall, and slammed the door so her mother's answer met her ears only as a muffled echo.

She turned with an exasperated sigh and rifled through her clothes. A frown of indecision marred her smooth forehead and cheeks. Finally, Flame chose a pair of dark blue jeans, a pink camisole, and a black corduroy jacket. She dressed, and examined herself in her floor-length mirror.

Running a brush through her waist-length auburn hair, Flame thought a better name would've been Smoldering Coal. "At least it doesn't clash with pink and purple like real read hair would do," Flame mused softly. With expert fingers she applied her make-up, gathered her books, left the room and shut the door behind her.

Her house was old, in age and style. Anne, her mother, had an obsession with antiques and had devoted whole rooms in the house to specific civilizations. Flame had to dodge Egyptian vases and statues to be able to walk down her hallway. She peeked into her sister's cracked bedroom door and was surprised to see that her sister was, quite bitterly from the look on her face, packing her things. Frowning, Flame stamped down the stairs in search of an explanation.

Anne wasn't in the kitchen when Flame popped her head in, but she had tried to arrange breakfast on the table. Bacon and toast lay scattered on the far side of the table, and the carton of orange juice upset underneath it. None of the juice had reached the glasses on the surface of the table. Flame rolled her eyes and approached the end of the hall.

It opened onto the living room and then the foyer, which was where Anne was currently standing. Flame crept closer to her, allowing for a view of the open front door. The sight that met her eyes made her muscles freeze in first shock, and then thaw in growing anger.

"Mom," she called out sharply. Her mother didn't even pause in her conversation. Flame grasped her arm and pulled her back, "What are you doing?" She gestured at the delivery man standing in the front doorway.

Anne stared at her blankly, glanced at the delivery man, who was staring quite unabashedly at her breasts, and then giggled. Flame was appalled, so much she was at a loss for words. This gave her mother time to slip out of her hold and lean against the wall two inches from the deliveryman.

Flame regained her senses and wedged herself between the two, forcing the deliveryman down the front steps. She narrowed her eyes and curled her upper lip. However, her mother wasn't as spineless as she often acted.

"Flame, what do you think you're doing?" Anne stuck her hips out to one side and twirled a lock of blonde hair around her forefinger, all the while fluttering her eyelashes at the deliveryman.

"What am I doing?" Flame exploded. "What do you think I'm doing? Or, even better, what are you doing? What's being delivered? You promised Dad you wouldn't get anymore!"

Anne finally managed to interject, "Well, honey, how do you know your father doesn't know about this?"

Flame threw up her hands in exasperation, "Okay, let's say hypothetically, Dad knows. Then why is Rune packing her things? Mom, what is going on?"

Her mother didn't even have the decency to appear ashamed while she answered her daughter. "Well, I've just gotten this new shipment, and i need a room for it."

What Anne was saying dawned on Flame slowly. "Mom, are you kicking Rune out of her room?"

Anne didn't answer, and Flame took her silence as a confirmation.

Disgust for her mother distorted her features, "I can't believe that. I knew you were selfish, but I didn't know just how low you could go." Flame turned and pushed past the deliveryman, who fell into a snowdrift.

From behind, she heard Anne cry out in alarm and rush to the man's aide. "Flame! Come back here and apologize! Flame!"

She didn't respond, didn't even turn to acknowledge that her mother had spoken. Her anger powered her steps down the street to the end of the woods road. There she had to turn on an even more backwoods area where she discovered the plows hadn't bothered removing the snow.

Muttering obscenities under her breath, Flame waded her way down the two mile road. At the end, where she knew the pavement turned to dirt, she turned onto another snow-filled road. After about a hundred feet, however, it seemed the DPW had decided to clear the streets. A few more turns and a few more blocks and Flame was outside of her school.

A heavy wrought iron signed proclaimed Devon's Folly High School to anyone with the inclination to visit, as though the person arriving didn't know where he or she was. It was old, and from what Flame gleaned from the school archives had been given as a gift from the town when the school had been opened in the twenties.

She walked into the school just as the bell rang, as it had taken her an extra twenty minutes to wade through the snow on her usual route. Flame dashed to her first period class, Orchestra, without even stopping at her locker. The second bell rang just as she slipped inside the closing doors. Her teacher, Mr. Jacon, glared down at her and she shrunk down as small as possible and took her place in the string section.

"Alright, people," Mr. Jacon sounded like he needed a good vacation, and Flame glanced over at Lena in the flute section to see if she had answer, and loud whispered her name. Lena looked up and mouthed what? Flame pointed at Mr. Jacon and made a strangling noise, but Lena only shrugged and went back to polishing her flute.

"We're going to start with some scales. Everyone, instruments up."

Flame reached down for her violin, and when her fingers closed over open air, realized she hadn't retrieved it from the closet. She got up quietly, making sure Mr. Jacon wasn't looking, and snuck behind the band to the closets. The door opened smoothly and Flame crept in, her eyes on the violin across the room. Her feet carried her there and then her fingers plucked it up. It was then Flame noticed the orchestra wasn't warming up.

She stuck her head out the door and came face to face with a very red Mr. Jacon. "Hi," Flame managed to squeak out.

"What do you think you're doing?" Mr. Jacon thundered at her, the thick skin of his neck bulging over his shirt as his anger grew. Flame could hear her classmates openly laughing at her disfortune and her own rage began to build.

"I was just getting my violin, Mr. Jacon," She pushed past him and sauntered to her seat, ignoring the insults being slung at her. Lena gave her two thumbs up at her audacity and Flame grinned largely. Taking her seat, she began to unpack her instrument.

"Get out."

Flame looked up, shock dropping her jaw. Mr. Jacon was staring at her, hatred turning his eyes into hard lumps of black glittering coal. The sudden thought that if he were a cartoon character his ears would be spouting steam came unbidden and she began to giggle. She knew instantly that was the last thing she should've done.

"What are you laughing about, you miserable little twit? Get out of my classroom! Now! NOW!" Mr. Jacon had begun to shake with rage and even Flame's obnoxious classmates were subdued.

Flame took her bookbag and violin and left the room, the door slamming behind her. She stood in the hall, not knowing what to do. "Well," she whispered to herself, "He didn't tell me where to go, so I guess i can go anywhere."

She pondered her options as she meandered down the hallway. There was the computer room and the choir room and the art room, but the decision was taken away when she found herself in front of the old library.

Strange, Flame thought to herself, I wonder how I ended up here? No one ever comes down here anymore. The old library was located in the basement of the school and was only full of bent and broken books that no one seemed to want.

"Huh," she spoke softly to herself. Talking to herself was a relatively new habit. "Just like me."

The heavy wooden door opened silently, much to Flame's surprise. She had expected a loud squeal to give her away. Shutting the door behind her, she ran her eyes over the dimly lit room in front of her.

It was smaller than the new library, but not a small room in itself. Flame couldn't tell the exact size; the corners were shrouded in shadows. The only lights were old-fashioned electric lamps placed randomly on the walls, but most of them were burned out. The books themselves were dark and foreboding and Flame felt a strange attraction to them that she couldn't have shaken if she had wanted to.

She walked slowly to the old librarian's room and peeked inside. Empty. Flame wondered why they didn't assign someone to watch this room, or at least lock the doors so wandering marauders couldn't deface it. As she soaked in the atmosphere, however, she noticed no graffiti defaced any of the walls, tables, or chairs.

Dropping her bookbag on one of the old tables, Flame began to wander through the rows of books. Her eyes wandered over the crumbling yellow and brown bindings with faded silver and gold titles. She tried to focus on them, but something seemed to be drawing her towards the back corner of the library.

It was a section on history, the Holocaust to be specific. Flame ran the tips of her fingers over them, enraptured by the silky feel of the dust sliding beneath her skin. They caught, dragging a book entitled "Hitler: A Message of Evil" off the shelf. It hit the floor with a soft thunk, and Flame gasped and began to cough at the cloud of dust it raised. She bent to pick up the book and while bent over caught a glance of the space where the book had been.

The book once again slipped from her fingers and Flame let her body sink down into a sitting position on her knees. Where there was supposed to be a wall behind the bookshelf, there was only space. Flame removed the next book, and the book next to that one, and saw even better that there was more to this library than met the eye. She hurriedly removed all the books from the entire shelf, stacking them precariously around her.

She stood, and saw clearly the black doorway behind the shelves. With both arms and all her strength Flame managed to wrench the bookshelves away from the wall. She peered into the darkness, curiosity washing over her. She went back for her bookbag and violin and then to the "door."

Flame flipped her hair back, took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and stepped into the void of the hidden passage.

III.

Flame groped down the narrow passageway, her eyes as wide as she could open them in an effort to grow accustomed to the dark. It seemed impervious to her best efforts. Suddenly, her hands lost their grip on the rough walls and she was pitched forwards.

She landed hard on her knees and the heels of her hand. The dirt and sand ground into her skin and Flame felt a warm wetness cover her palms and run down her wrists. Gritting her teeth she pushed herself to her feet and tried to catch her breath. She walked more into the room, and a sound echoed from around her.

It was as if many ill-used chains and gears had been suddenly put into motion, and weren't very happy about it. She peered around her and realized she was able to see the dim outline of walls and one round table in the middle of the room. It was gradually getting lighter.

There was a grinding sound behind her, but Flame didn't bother to turn to see what it was. She was too busy gazing at the object on the table to notice the doorway directly behind her was gone, filled with a thick stone door.

She gazed around, wondering where the light was coming from, but then her eyes found the table once more. It was then she realized that it wasn't a table, but an altar. Flame walked closer, her attention glued on the clear rectangular box on it.

Inside was a beautiful female, with flowing golden hair that came to her knees and a perfect ivory complexion. Her dress was of an old Celtic design, with rich colors and designs with a wide skirt and arms. Flame placed her hands on the glass and pressed her face as close to it as possilbe. The woman wasn't breathing. She was dead.

No horror or fear existed in Flame's heart, only a deep sorrow that threatened to overwhelm her. She collapsed, tears of pain and pity for the woman staining her cheeks. She sobbed wholeheartedly, and it felt good to finally release the pent up frustration inside her.

"Be at peace, young one," Flame stopped crying instantaneously, and looked up. The woman was standing in front of her, a gentle smile on her face. "Why do you cry?"

"You're dead."

The woman smiled. "Not dead. Sleeping. And you have woken me up. Because you are the Chosen One, who will right the world."

Flame was bewildered, but something inside her stopped her from responding. She stood, and held her head erect. She knew then, as the woman faded from view, and the door opened, that she was Tirthre de Monir, the Bringer of Light.