Sunrise at Lake Kniaseff

A Story by sunny

The fire is the enabler of fools and the bringer of misery. Amaia will know it soon, though Clementine fears at the cost of it.

The sun rises above the calm waters of lake Kniaseff. Slowly, but surely, it takes its throne up in the skies, just beneath the peaks of the mountains nearby. The majestic star shines its gentle light of various orange shades on softly rippling water.

At the edge of the lake stands a small cottage, partially hidden from view. Various plants line its wooden and peeling walls. The edges of its thatched roof sway to the cool morning breeze. It’s small and very old, but no doubt it looks lovely in its own way.

Every light inside the cottage has been extinguished, save from the one coming from the kitchen, where its sole human occupant is found. Sitting on the wooden floor, they carefully fold their clothes in a neat pile. A small trunk lies on their side, open and waiting.

Above their head is a small sentient teapot, fuming with smoke that is quite impressive for its size. Its beady black eyes observe the human with a clear frustration and worry.

“For God’s sake, Amaia, don’t do it!” It starts, blowing clouds some more. The teapot’s body, made of porcelain and designed with the intricacy of the gods, shakes in agitation. “Remember what happened the last time, please!”

The human, Amaia, merely shakes their head and gingerly places her folded pile to the small trunk. “No, Clementine, I must return. They need me,” they stress the last word as they stand up to locate the rest of the things they need. It’s not going to be much; only clothes, hygiene products, and a little bit of money will do.

Clementine, the teapot, rattles its cap in reply. “No, they don’t! If they did, why would you even be here in the first place,” it retorts in anger, veiling the growing desperation within the sentient pot. Time and time again, the same old story happens.

They end all the same with Amaia crawling back to the cottage bruised, bleeding, and terribly lost. They may know the way to the cottage by heart, but they have lost direction towards something much more important.

Amaia looks at the teapot, crestfallen, “They were just angry back then�"”

“And they will be angry again. Then they’ll hurt you. Is that what you want?” Clementine cuts of Amaia, whose tuft of ebony hair stands up. “It’s a vicious cycle, and you deserve better than that.”

The teapot prays that this time, it’s human will listen.

But time and time again, Amaia is a fool.

Shaking her head, they scoop the remaining items sitting next to Clementine and stuffs it on their brown and beaten trunk. “No, I was weak back then. I could get through it. This time, I’ll make them see the good of all,” they smile to themself, confident that this time, their attempt will pull through.

Clementine knows that it will end the same way again. The blood the seeps through the wooden floors will tell you exactly how many times it has happened, and they are more than happy to regale the exact data of Amaia’s demise.

Perhaps this is the curse of the fire. It will burn inside a human�"warm, bright, and inextinguishable. It does not discriminate vessels; if you want it, you’ll get it. No matter how often you’re pushed down, it is hot enough to get you back up and try again.

It is the enabler of fools and the bringer of misery. Amaia will know it soon, though Clementine fears at the cost of it.

“Please, Amaia, don’t go back…” the teapot trails off, already aware that this is a lost cause once more. Amaia opens the door, their trunk at hand, and smiles at it. “Oh, please don’t worry, Clementine, I’ll be right back,” they wave goodbye, and the door slams shut.

The next thing Clement knows is the ticking of the grandfather’s clock nearby, already anticipating for their master’s return.