Ifrit is one of many jinn born from the Plane of Fire, a time-space made purely of molten flame, like the explosive beginnings of the universe, or like the deep heart of ancient stars. If Bombs are the destroyers of my village, than Ifrit is the destroyer of worlds. His hellfire can rip crusts through the earth as readily as Titan's fist, and can similarly rupture even larger places, especially with the help of other jinn.

If he wanted, Ifrit could explode our tiny star, the Sun.

I am scared to meet an Eidolon capable of exploding the Sun.

Yet I manage to walk on my doll-elongated legs. I must be brave. I force myself to stand at the entrance to his fiery hut. Be brave, Rydia. Make Mom proud of you, the last of Mist's summoners.

I raise my hand to the doorknob. The smell of barbecue and ash splinters off the embers of the smoldering red bricks around his rooftop; brimstone wafts from his shingles. A part of me keeps screaming, Go back! Go back! Go back, damn you!

I don't listen. Sometimes, you just gotta tell your fear, You're not the boss of me.

Instead I cup my hands over my mouth and whisper, "Blizzard," creating a pocket of pure, icy air like a mask over my lips. Even my face feels different; the bones beneath my cheeks, longer—what weird human have I become in my walk through Leviathan's stomach? This girl needs a mirror. My kingdom (or total lack of a kingdom) for a mirror!

What parts of my body has Shiva seen, that I have yet to learn?

I blush at the thought of it.

Then I knock my bundled hands on the door like a hammer, before I hurriedly pull them back over my mouth. My tiny Blizzard tickles around my nose; an icy wind plays with my nose hairs. When I close my eyes and think of Shiva, the Blizzard almost kicks up to a Blizzara, keeping me nice and cool, sweet and chill.

I start to stress out just as Ifrit swings the door open, slamming it on the wall, shaking a trail of fire from the rooftop. As fire roars around the edges of the doorway, I duck, lifting my Blizzard-hands over my head. His fiery body snuffs the Blizzard out.

I am not going to die here.

But it's like I am nothing.

Not true!—you are everything!—you are—

"Daughter of Mist?" Ifrit roars.

I can't tell if he's greeting or threatening me.

When he smiles, he bares teeth made of hot coal. "Come inside!"

Now I don't know if he's inviting or commanding me. Eff my life. I look over my shoulder. Shiva is a soft blur of light through the ripples of heat surrounding me on all sides. I can't make out her face, but I know she's waiting there. She believes I'll make it out of this hut.

I wait for Ifrit to clear the entry, walk by his molten table and chairs, and sit on a ball of fire in his fireplace. His butt fits in the fireplace, but the rest of him doesn't, so as he sits on this ball of fire, it gives the illusion he's being born—or getting sucked back into—a crucible shaped like a kettle.

A crucible?

Did I hear Shiva saying that earlier?

Am I just absorbing every word, every thing, purely from contexts?

What kind of superhuman learning machine am I evolving into, exactly?

I smile a little, despite the world melting around me; I like the idea of developing a language superpower. "Hey, Ifrit," I mutter as I wander in. I decide to stand in a corner opposite of the fireplace, several yards away, since the fire isn't too hot here. "What does crucible mean?"

"Huh?" he shouts.

I put both my hands on my head. He's. So. Loud. Thankfully, some coolness is still in my palms. This soothes me. "I keep thinking of new words and ideas," I mumble.

"Speak up!"

I squeeze my eyes tight and ball my fists as I scream at no one in particular, "New ideas! New body! It all hurts very much! Where does it come from!?"

When he laughs, his big, iron-hot tongue dances from his mouth—a literal flametongue. Then the black ram-horns on his head stretch out with his delight. To say I'm scared of horns growing with laughter would be an understatement. 

"Growing!" he exclaims. "It hurts so much to grow!—and not only is it your body!—your ideas!—your identity; your morals; your way of being!" He claps his hands together, puffing whiffs of firelight between us. "Is that what you're saying!?"

His body curls into an even tighter ball than the hunkered-down position demanded from shoving his anus on a ball of fire in his fireplace. I watch him with more and more disturbia as I stammer, "Y-y-yeah, something like that—"

He is winding into a smaller and smaller knot as he continues, "I smell Shiva. I smell a sylph! Is it Nancy, Trancy, or Fancy?—which sylph did you meet?—it's important who you talk to, and what you learn, when you walk through Leviathan's mouth."

"I—," I choke. "I don't know which sylph—," and I catch myself. 

I feel... angry?

I think I'm getting pissed off at myself.

Imagine that.

I'm so pissed off that I'm this spoony, spineless, whiny summoner—cowering in the corner of Ifrit's hut—when instead, I could be the caller who's fangirling over Ifrit!—Lord of Fire!

I'm frustrated, so frustrated. 

I don't want to become this terrified, meek person. 

Too many changes are happening, too fast, for me to make conscious decisions about what's happening, where I'm going. I rub my hands in my hair.

Then Ifrit charges me. 

I shrill the highest pitch of screams.

He stops right in front of me, so a curtain of fire glows behind him and around him, and the walls feel obscenely hot, and I am but a drop of water and other molecules, sometimes called "a person," trembling on the floor in a body I don't understand.

Then he sniffs me.

Like a dog.

"It's Trancy!" he announces, fist-pumping the air.

"Yes!" I scream, holding my arms over my head. "Yesyesyes, I saw a sylph! Now you know which one; please go away!"

One of his shoulders jaunts back, like I physically struck him. 

He raises an eyebrow. Stands upright. 

He's as tall as the center of his circular hut, so he must take a few steps back to reach his full height. His feet break and crackle the ground beneath him; and just as slowly and majestically, the ground repairs, churning from liquid fire to solid rock.

"...Is this far enough away?" It's the first time he speaks in a normal tone of voice. 

I lower both my arms, leaving my head and center exposed to him. "Yes. That's b-better."

He likes this; likes that I'm not twisting and contorting to defend my vitals from him. Merely looking like you aren't going to die is a gesture of friendship, at least to this Eidolon.

"I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings," I say. "I didn't mean to push you away. You seem kind."

"Why does it matter which sylph I met?" I ask.

He nods several times. His lips smack around before he talks; then he has to try his first few words over and over, adjusting his volume: "TRANCY IS— Ahh, Traaaancy!— ...Trancy is a judgmental young woman. She casts spells on people to test their limits. She may have sped up the already fast-paced development that happens here, in the Land of Summoned Monsters, by cursing you with an extended Haste."

I purse my lips. "Is there a way to get rid of the Haste?"

"Our Lady of Healing, Asura," he tells me. "She can cast a spell on you to fix you." He rubs his chin. "Maybe."

Asura?—as in the Queen of Eidolons? My stomach hits my feet at the thought of it. I couldn't possibly meet her.

"I'll take you to her," he offers.

I feel my soul trying to escape my body. I feel my skeleton trying to leap out of my skin. "Ohh-ohhh-okay," I stammer, then I wonder—would Shiva also come with us?

♥♥♥

First draft: June 18

Second & third drafts: August 18

Word count: second 1400 / third 1390