The embers glowed, reflecting in Tesla's wide, still eyes. He stared into the heart of the dying fire, the faint warmth barely reaching him, yet something within him stirred. The spark he had unknowingly summoned felt like more than just a flicker of flame – it was a tremor, a resonance deep within.
He closed his eyes, focusing on the tingling in his hand, on the lingering warmth in the air. He tried to recapture the feeling, to pull again at that unseen energy. This time, something happened, not with the hearth, but within himself.
Images flashed behind his eyelids. Not the disjointed fragments of the sterile room or the heavy regret, but something clearer, sharper. He saw… light. Brilliant, arcing, dancing light. It crackled and hummed, filling his vision with blinding brilliance, then resolving into a focused beam, cutting through darkness. He heard a sound, not the whisper of magic, but a sharp, insistent crackle, the buzz of…electricity.
The image vanished, leaving him breathless, heart pounding. It was fleeting, incomprehensible, yet undeniably…familiar. Like a word on the tip of his tongue, a melody he almost remembered. He felt a pull towards it, a desperate yearning to understand.
Suddenly, a faint shimmer caught his eye. It was near the hearth, just above the fading embers, a distortion in the air itself. It coalesced, the shimmering air condensing, swirling, crackling with faint sparks of blue-white energy. The air thrummed, and from the swirling energy, a shape began to form.
Feathers. Gray tipped wings. A sleek, white body. A pigeon.
But this was no ordinary bird. Faint sparks danced around its form, and its eyes glowed with an inner light, like tiny embers themselves. It settled onto the hearthstone, tilting its head, its gaze sharp and intelligent, fixed directly on Tesla.
Then, it spoke. Its voice was a soft coo, yet somehow clear and understandable in his mind, echoing in the very core of his being.
"Nikola," it murmured, the name resonating with a deep, forgotten familiarity. "It's been a while."
Tesla stared, speechless, his mind reeling. The pigeon…knew his name? And that voice… it felt…comforting, strangely known.
"Who…what are you?" he managed to whisper, his voice hoarse from disuse.
The pigeon ruffled its feathers, a tiny spark jumping from its wingtip. "Call me…Spark," it cooed. "And I am… a friend. A messenger. Perhaps… a part of you."
Spark hopped closer, its gaze gentle. "You are remembering, Nikola. Fragments, echoes… the light, the energy… it's all coming back."
Memory flooded him then, not in clear pictures, but in sensations. The thrill of invention, the electric hum of his creations, the burning desire to illuminate the world. The weight of betrayal, the sting of being forgotten, the bitter taste of regret. And amidst it all, a faint, persistent warmth… the memory of a white pigeon, visiting him in his loneliness, a silent, understanding companion.
Tears welled in Tesla's eyes, silent and unbidden. He reached out a trembling hand towards Spark, and the pigeon hopped closer, nuzzling against his fingers. The touch was warm, comforting, familiar beyond words.
He looked around at the sleeping forms of the other children huddled near the dying fire. At Marga, asleep in her chair, her face etched with weariness but softened in repose. He saw Aldric, his brow furrowed even in sleep, Lirien clutching a scrap of bright fabric, Mira curled into herself like a shadow. He saw the shared exhaustion, the quiet resilience in their faces. They were bound together, these orphans, by circumstance and shared hardship. They were… a kind of family. A fractured, imperfect one, but family nonetheless.
And yet… he felt a different kind of yearning now. A pull towards something more, something beyond the confines of Braelor's Rest. He looked at Spark, the electric pigeon, a tangible link to a past life, a whisper of forgotten purpose. He looked at the faint flicker of power within himself, a nascent magic that resonated with the energy of this world.
His gaze hardened, turning towards the imagined horizon beyond the orphanage walls. He thought of the whispers he'd heard in the village, of the opulent lives of the nobles, their careless disregard for the common folk, for the hardship endured even by places like Braelor's Rest, built on their scraps of generosity. He remembered the faceless specter of wealth and control from his fading memories, and a new resentment began to bloom, sharp and focused.
_They_ were the obstacles. _They_ were the ones who hoarded power, who profited while others toiled. _They_ were the reason genius could be exploited and forgotten. And in this new world, in this new life, the nobles seemed to embody the same spirit of careless power, of unearned privilege.
He would not be a tool to be used and discarded again. He would not kneel. He would carve his own path, rise above them, master this power, and… and what? He wasn't sure yet. But a fierce determination solidified within him. He would not remain in the shadows. He would claim his light, his power, whatever form it might take in this new reality.
He looked back at Spark, perched on his knee now, its warm weight a comforting presence. "Spark," he murmured, his voice gaining strength, a hint of his old resolve returning. "I think… I think it's time for me to leave."
Spark cooed softly, understanding in its glowing eyes. "I know, Nikola. The world awaits."
Later, under the cloak of a moonless night, Tesla slipped out of the orphanage. Spark perched on his shoulder, a faint, guiding glow emanating from its form, lighting their path into the darkness. He looked back once, at the dark silhouette of Braelor's Rest against the starlit sky. A pang of something akin to sadness touched him, a fleeting acknowledgement of the fragile bonds he was leaving behind.