Pain: Starfire
By Ironraven

Everybody hurts, everybody cries. Only the weak lie, and only the fool does not know why.

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Her black hair marked her as having been one of the people of the Southern Continent, the People of the Fires, a people nearly hunted and slaved to extinction by the winged monsters that had oppressed them for so long. She was small of stature, slim, graceful. In life, she had almost glowed from within, so great was her energy. She had lived well, she had loved greatly. In death, she was relaxed, seemingly asleep as her litter was born by warriors to the waiting stack of black rock, as was tradition.

Immediately behind her came her mate, the King. Tall even among his own people, he was stocky, with the common coloration of the people. His armour glistened, polished by an aide who's name he couldn't even remember. The Crown of Tamaran weighed heavy of his furrowed brow, the Crown that was forged by the hands of his father from the armour of their enemies when their world was freed. It had never been so heavy, pressing on his head, his heart.

After him came his daughters, the eldest gifted with her mother's hair and eyes of Royal Purple. She was serious, and tall, and strong, and proud, everything a warrior of Tamaran should be. Everything that would make a great leader, if tempered by compassion. She was still a child, and already she clad herself in the soft gleam of armour, not the polished plates of office, but the brushed metal of battle. She would be a force to be reckoned with.

The youngest daughter was barely able to hold her head up as she lay in the comforting arms of her K'Norfka. She had been give the gift of words by her mother, the last waking act of the fallen Queen. She was small, even for a newborn, born early and with difficulty. Her green eyes absorbed everything she saw, already aware, more so than many a season older. She didn't fully understand, she didn't have the experiences to give the words meaning, but the young of Tamaran have very complete memories from the time they are given words to the time they become old and feeble.

The one word that could never describe the last member of the Royal entourage was 'feeble'. Galfore was a giant, mighty in body even among his own kind. Battered by a lifetime in the service of Tamaran, he had been the then-Prince's instructor in combat and diplomacy half a life time ago, and then was under the command of his student as they sought their lost brothers and sisters among the stars and hounded slavers and bandits from a score of worlds. He'd felt his liver swell with pride when the King had married, and with the birth of both Princesses. When Her Majesty had left the realm of the living, he'd been holding the youngest in his arms. His growls had frightened the midwives and wet nurses away when they attempted to lay claim to the fragile form, which had oddly enough been lulled to sleep by the same rumbles.

Shortly before the First Star, the primary of their sister system that was always the first star to shine in the night sky, rose to it's highest point, they placed her litter on the pile. Ancient traditions said that the First Star was the gatherer of the dead, tradition that predated their first encounter with the Gordanians. The six warriors looked skyward, waiting for the moment when the First Star was directly overhead, before they raised their hands from their sides. The emerald energies poured into the black rock, quickly heating it, before its own inner fire caught, burning brilliantly, a star brought to the ground. It alone had the heat needed to consume the body of one born to live above the sky as readily as on their homeworld's land.

Beside the pyre, His Majesty watched in silence as the flames consumed his love's flesh. He knew his people expected him to lead them in the Song of Mourning, it was his duty and his right, no one else could show sorrow for thier Queen before him. He breathed in, trying to find the words, but none would speak to him. He felt cold, his legs weakening as a chill sweat broke on his skin. He breathed out, what should have been words becoming a low, rumbling moan of despair, as if he very soul was being pulled from his flesh with hot pincers. He reached out to her with trembling hands, seeing only her face in flames. He could hear her voice...

"Hold her, Princess." Galfore thrust Kori'ander into her sister's arms quickly. He took a giant step to his King, his liege, his brother by rite of blood. Arms as thick as the most ancient crystal trees wrapped around his Majesty, pulling him back, dwarfing him. Conditioned by a life spent largely in battle with Gordanians and others, the King immediately tried to break free, fighting with a strength brought on by madness. Galfore was forced to push his King down, to his knees, pinning him to the ground before the assembled people and Court, before his daughters. His voice was stern, but soft, with the harshness of grief pushed aside. "No! We need you here, Sire, you can't go yet. She would not want you to join her this soon."

The heralds looked between eachother, and at the spectacle of their grieving King and his War Chief. One of them opened his mouth, and in a frightened voice began the words of the Song of Mourning. The others, not knowing what to do, joined him, the words spreading through the gathered members of the Court. No one could mourn before the King, but the King was beyond himself, fighting and biting like a wild thing in a cage. His screams and curses were soon drowned by the voices of his people, their strength filling the words of the Song.

All but two.

One squirmed as her sister's arms tightened around her, painfully. Frightened green eyes looked up into cruel, violet spheres as the chill voice spoke with a gentle tone, so only they could hear. "Remember this moment, my darling sister. Remember it for all time. You took my Mother from me. You made my Father weak before everyone. And I will never forgive you for this, little sister, I will always hate you."

Starfire thrashed in her sleep, the blankets twisted about her tightly, trapping her. Beneath her eyelids, her eyes moved frantically as she whimpered in fear, reliving her oldest memory. To anyone who spoke Tamaranian, the whimpers were words.

"I'm sorry."

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Author's notes:
Even though she eventually knocked her sister down, Starfire's tone and manner tells me she never got over her fear of Blackfire. She just became more angry than afraid- and wouldn't you be, after being pimped out to a bowl full of green snot?