She of the emerald eyes, that touch of jade forged in the sliver of Nok. Her hair, scorching red, sizzling through the light, a fire untamed. This was no hint of chestnut or tinge of sienna, but molten radiance—blinding, but invisible.
Impossible—it had to be! Jamie MacKenna, a sweet irish girl that fit every stereotype thanks to her strict Catholic father, had few friends, and ventured rarely into the sun, which lit her skin like hungry flint.
She was his obsession.
The name was wrong. Mac Cionaoith, it should have been—the Gaelic; fire-sprung, that much was plain. But she was too bright, too unstable with inner zeal, a tool of Heaven. She was a powder-keg, incandescent vermilion that burned his emotions just as she unknowingly inspired his lust.
And it was funny. He was a typical "bad boy" but his father was a preacher, and having never been caught raising his particular flavor of Hell, the adults almost expected their pairing.
But his peers, his cohorts, they knew better.
"Her? You serious?" demanded Matt, incredulous. The library girl. The (admittedly) pretty nerd girl. The one that would probably burst directly into flame if exposed to direct sunlight. No vampire, she, but she was easily the pure equivalent. She'd catch on. She'd get wise. Cad or no, Frank wouldn't stand a chance.
Frank grunted. "I'm serious." Just look at her! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! "You sayin' you ain't?"
"Naw. Right, right. I'll go get some ice."
"I know, after she slaps me." Frank shook his head—these guys had no faith. No faith! If he learned one thing from his father's droning, was that faith ruled all. Faith in The Almighty; faith in family; faith in yourself. It was the last which drove him. "Just watch, faithless ninny. I got the confidence you don't dream of, an' I saw her first."
"Six months," whispered the girl, head relaxed on Frank's right shoulder, eyes closed to absorb the emotion of the moment.
Up until that point, Frank thought about nothing. Nothing at all. Just being there, staring out into the horizon in the crisp night air, was enough to fulfill any dream. He lived adventures that would define his legacy, and he was a man grown. Almost seventeen.
And she changed him. Or maybe his luck had evolved to a higher plane, bringing him riches beyond childish games. Love; a true match, what men often scoured the globe to find, as expected, fell directly in his lap with a ribbon and a label bearing his name.
"I don't like rules." he said. Breaking the silence felt sacrilegious, yet their hours on that ridge demanded solace from even peace. "I'm not what they think I am. I do my own thing." It seemed important, but really he was searching for words.
Jamie smiled, eyes still closed, enjoying his scent—his nervousness. "I know." And really, how could he hide his exploits? He only spoke with her twice, maybe three times, per week. Every single day, he would be in the fields, building a makeshift addition into his increasingly dangerous shanty/castle, and trudging down shallow rivers, knee-deep in muck and petting cows along the way, in search of elusive bounty, or another secret alcove.
Other times, he simply stole. It wasn't because he wanted anything. Trinkets, really. Just to prove he could; a test of skill to himself, because nobody else cared, except maybe Matt and Chris, and John, and the others. Count them all, and they numbered thirteen, just like Yggdrasil, adopted by God, served by Sandalphon, Bardiel, Lilim, and other names powerful and sacred. They had their nicknames. They had their roles. Frank was the unlikely trunk.
She knew. Shy didn't mean oblivious. Timid didn't mean stupid. Frank was a powerful force, something intoxicating and tantalizing, a musk beyond pheromones stemming from a confidence borne by absolute, and casual, control. It was like he ruled the universe, her Frank. And though each assessment of their future brought greater uncertainty, and to a mind normally overwhelmed with stimulation, doubt unparalleled.
The shapes twisted and spun, danced with wings gossamer and delicate, defining boundaries ethereal and insistent; a truth calling to her sense of duty. She was his destiny, not the other way 'round.
Luck brought them together, because she'd be his steadfast strength. He'd stray, and wander, and seek, and she'd always be there when he returned. It was necessary, it was her calling. She knew this without asking, and she didn't protest. There were far worse fates.
"What should we name our first born?" she asked.
Unprepared, Frank sputtered and coughed, though he drank nothing and stared into the horizon expecting nothing but tranquility. Kids. Little goats. It's appropriate. They'd be hellspawn, with me as a father. "Why do you ask?" Simple. Far less insulting than his original skepticism.
"Kyle, I think; for the first boy." she said, ignoring his question. "We have a destiny, you and I. Our child will change everything."
Frank chuckled. "We're still in school, and you're considering marriage, and children. Women. Ignoring that, why would our child, or children, be anything special?"
She wasn't insulted, for she knew he'd ask, anticipated it because unlike he who lived in the moment, she saw far, embodied a wisdom acquired by embracing her lot, instead of bucking against it as Frank had. "You know why," she said. "Your son, or daughter, will usher something new. You ha'e a gift t'will be refined, like boiled honey, concentrated as ye ne'er believe." She squared her jaw, warding off her accent as it leaked into the urgency of the moment.
The spell enveloped her, though, and it was useless. "I knew ye'. Ben'o'black, our family run'o." Nonsense. More phrases only her father would understand; maybe. "Aye, the redcaps be froth the path do' stay." What? "Shush, man."
And Frank relaxed, a rag steamed in a feverish sun. Unbelievably, he slept, while Jamie held his head, and herself dozed on his shoulder.
They were opposites. She, devoted to her family, he, mirroring obligation to maintain appearances. She, understanding their future, while he counted his blessings and the attributes of her beauty.
On their wedding night, she knew a legend would be born, and borne. He only knew his lust for the prettiest and fairest girl he'd ever met, and while there was a deeper keening, it cowered in his subconscious while he had her.
She longed for Lorelei, a girl. He only sought for his luck to hold.
After Kyle was born, she seemed content to follow him to the ends of the Earth. With every move, with each vocational re-evaluation. It was eerie, like she knew that life and destiny had been fulfilled, and anything else was a boon, icing on a cake she'd long since relegated to escaping life as a lonely spinster. It was ridiculous, of course—nobody with her raw attractiveness would pine long for love. But he wasn't about to question.
He'd be her rock.
Just look at him. Swilling a liquor that challenged Russia's most potent, a liquid they drank like water. Hell, vodka meant little water, but that never stopped true natives seeking hydration, or something more. He swallowed another finger, cooled with ice, slightly diluted.
Images and history became even more disjointed. Jamie was a blessing, Kyle was a miracle. Frank was the Foil; the engine defining future and present progression. Deep inside, he knew the truth: he was but a single ingredient, and Kyle was the recipe. Kyle inherited his luck, his charm, and his mother's insight. Kyle had The Light, a burning spirit which humbled even Fantastic Frank when he really stopped to consider.
Had she known, even all those years ago? Before he learned the fine art of complex business statistics and human psychology concerning purchasing power, before they graduated High School even, as they basked in nothingness below a sunset neither bothered to witness.
"Jesus, Jamie... you don't deserve this. I'm not Kyle, but I gave him whatever he has. If I can't protect Samson, God help us all." He mumbled every word, eyes and vision spinning with each swig of scotch he knocked back.