The world was water, but the water boiling hot, and he was tumbling, roiling, bubbling to the surface, a surface that was filled with screams and fear. Then he was hissing, writhing toward the sky.
The water pushed, and he pushed back, burning hotter and hotter until he thought his very skin would fly off his bones –
And then he realized that he was skin and bones no more, but living flame, rising up from the ashes of the village pond, and all the water was fading into the air, nebulous as smoke, as clouds.
They would never drink again.
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