The Lightning Run

Aoife plays an unusual sport.

For @flashfictionfridayofficial‘s 15/08 prompt: Lightning Strikes Twice. Featuring Aoife Harkin, Beauregard Horvasse, and Germain Wagner-Jeanneret on a day out. Rated T, 896 words.

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The field stretched forward near to four hundred yards – a quarter of a mile was the official distance, although this wasn’t a real strike court. Aoife had seen real strike court on television, where each fifty yard span was marked with circles or hexagons lined in the grass or the wood chips.

This wasn’t like the official courts. It was just a makeshift field, tattered flags at the end and the beginning with the edges cut into the lawn, and the mid-line cut halfway across too. Standing at the edge of the field, she could see where the strikes landed most often, see where the grass was singed and seared, where it was darker, where the ground was pockmarked and dimpled from repeated strikes or hard landings.

Germain was standing with a parasol rested on his shoulder, idly twirling it between gloved fingers, his dark hair tied up in a very neat bun. It made him look more severe than she was used to – meeting him previously, at Toothsome Delights, she’d seen him wear his hair down, or in a much looser bun than this one, strands framing in his face.

Beau was standing at Germain’s shoulder, and when the lightning flashed, he flinched, quivering further underneath the shadow of the parasol but still not touching him.

“Beau,” Aoife said. “Are you frightened of lightning?”

“Somewhat,” said Beau.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know. We don’t have to—”

“Oh, I’m not running,” Beau interrupted her, and his features were pale – paler than usual – but he was smiling faintly. “But we can watch you.”

“I’m going to watch raptly, for my money,” said Germain pleasantly, and she walked on his other side as they walked along the edge of the field toward the stone steps that served as seating benches. It wasn’t an unbearably warm day, but it was very brightly sunny, and he wore dark glasses to protect his eyes, little rectangular things that only added to the severity of his usually open features.

A shot sounded, and they watched as another contestant ran across the court – at the thirty-five yard back, Aoife watched her body tense before she leapt to the side, arms forward, and did a forward roll before straightening right back up into a run. Every flash and strike of lightning, she deftly dodged, and slammed her hand onto the bell.

“Fifty-seven seconds!” called the umpire. “Next up, Harkin, Aoife!”

It felt good, the run.

It was easier on her than some people – the lightning strikes across the field were randomly generated between two and five times at intervals of five seconds or so, and came down as pillars of violet light that hit against the grass, but because they shot out from a mage’s orb above the field, she had more forewarning than others. Most people dodged in the moments as the bolt struck out from the orb, acted in response to the slight burst of light that preceded it or the shift in air and humidity as the bolt pierced the air.

Aoife could feel the pulse and rhythm of the actual orb – she wasn’t a fast runner, made the field in a little over a minute, but she didn’t need to dodge or jump like others did. She just weaved as she ran, and she didn’t even flinch when the bolts hit the ground within feet, within inches, of where she was, because she knew where they were going to land, knew where she was going to run.

People talked to her afterwards, which she didn’t love – other runners asking how she did it, or complimenting her, or just trying to talk to her. She wasn’t here to talk.

Her hair felt good, after. Her skin felt good. She liked the smell on the air, the smell of singed grass and burnt soil, and she liked that her hair was standing up a little on end because of all the magic and electricity in the air.

Beau was looking at her, after, as they walked – he was walking next to her instead of next to Germain, and when they stopped to wait for the lights to change, he reached out and touched her hair, his fingers brushing against a few strands that were standing up. The static made him flinch – it wasn’t as extreme as his flinches away from the actual lightning strikes, but subtler. He laughed, a second later, and shook out his hand.

“I can’t believe you do that for fun,” he said softly. “It hurts, you know. Being hit by lightning.”

“I know.”

“I can’t go out during thunderstorms. I draw the lightning.”

She thought about asking why. She could see him anticipating it, see his expression. She didn’t actually care enough to ask, so she didn’t.

“That’s fine, I know where lightning is going to strike before it does,” Aoife said instead. “Just go out with me, and I’ll push you out of the way.”

Beau stared at her, his lips parted. He didn’t know what to say.

“You two are disgusting,” said Germain dryly. “I’m so glad you invited me to witness the performance.”

“I’m not that fast,” said Aoife.

“… Yes, dear,” Germain said mildly. “I didn’t mean your lightning run.”

Aoife frowned.

“He means us,” Beau said.

“Oh,” said Aoife. Then: “Oh,” again, with more comprehension this time, before she smiled.