I hate this world.
I hate it.
"He... changed your name. How is that even possible?"
Again, he shrugs, as if it isn’t a big deal. Like someone didn’t strip away his identity for a twisted joke.
"A simple change on my paperwork, and Blaise became Blaze."
"That's horrible!"
He takes a swig from his canteen, passing it to me with a gesturing nod. I comply, but only take a sip because my stomachstill feels in turmoil. How could anyone be so cruel to a grieving, injured child?
"Don't fret 'bout it, Sparkles. It felt right. Blaise died in that fire, and Blaze rose from the ashes."
The lump in my throat remains. His scent has always reminded me of a smoldering campfire, and this new information only adds to my deep sadness. I wonder if the smoke from his childhood home infused with his skin, overtaking whatever scent he would have developed. Who would he have been if that fire never happened?
"Plus, it's a pretty cool call sign." He grins, his teeth bright, and his eyes twinkling.
I manage a weak, trembling smile and nod, clearing my tight throat.
"What do you think about me calling you Blaise?"
He shrugs, and I know what he's thinking. I could call him anything. Mutt, cockwomble, idiot, knothead. He wouldn't care. He never has because names don’t matter to him.
"They sound exactly the same. Blaise or Blaze, there’s no difference."
"I know, but I wonder how it would feel in your heart, if you knew I was calling you Blaise?"
I pause, waiting for him to react.
"You want to call me the name they took from me when they made me into this?" He gestures down his body with a sneer.
It's scarred by burns and mutilated by his own blade, my name etched into his flesh. But it's also sculpted by years of intense training and missions.
He says it like his body is something ruined. I don’t see it that way. To me, every scar and every line of muscle is proof of his resilience. Proof of how hard he has fought to stand here with me now. He's a complex person. A twisting maze of core beliefs that I can understand why sometimes he gets lost.
"It's a weak name for a weak boy who couldn't save his own mother."
Frack, is that what he thinks?
That a little seven-year-old should've saved his mother from a fire that almost burned him alive.
I refuse to cry, so instead, I hum and press my lips together.
"Blaise is not dead."
"You're wrong. There's only Blaze left now."
"I don't believe that," I whisper. "I think Blaze kept you safe for years. He protected you and he did a really good job. But it was Blaise who cared for me during my training. He brought me my morning coffee, made me laugh when I was scared, and who made sure I always had enough to eat. Blaise made your Omega feel accepted and loved."
He screws his eyes shut, his nostrils flare as he fights an internal mental battle I can't fathom. It looks painful.
“So you want me to be weak. To kill Blaze,” he spits.
"Not at all.”
I could never ask that of him. He is both Blaze and Blaise, two sides of the same coin.
