FIC: THE BRIGHTLY BURNING
Title: The Brightly Burning
Pairing: None. Really! None at all!
Rating: G
Disclaimer: A haiku for your reading displeasure.
Havemercy ain't mine,
Alas, 'cos if it were I'd
Be the Jaidani.
Summary: Filling in a not really all that large gap. "His name was Hilary. He was goin' on four and he used to eat fireflies. I don't know. I think he thought they'd make him glow.`" --Rook.
Molly is a dark district.
Past the borders of Charlotte, the street-lamp men start closing their eyes and whistling as they pass the rusting posts. Their superiors burn the additional paperwork, when there is any. So many people and so little room; they build, and they build, and they build, layer over layer over layer, thousands of little human moments walled in by cheap half-bricks and old boards as the houses rise higher and higher until they slump over, leaning towers that darken the streets even when the sun is at its zenith: high, bright, cruel. Because of this there are no streets in Molly, only alleys. Once-wide boulevards are encroached upon until all that is left is a narrow, twisting path of broken cobblestones, damp and dim no matter what the hour. The gloom is impenetrable and eternal... though the coin does have two sides. Nowhere can be found the heavy nighttime of smug, barefaced Miranda when the sun sets on Molly, only more shadows, quick, grey, impossible. Often deadly, those shadows. They tend to hold knives.
And so the urchin children of that sprawling lady starve for luminescence, for a glimpse of glitter and shine. For light. Fires rage through Molly's blocks every other night, and quite a few are not, despite commonly held beliefs, caused by stupidity or anger. The fault, if such it can be called, lies rather in one match too many, grubby, desperate picking at the splinters of wood, in hopes of seeing a magical blaze one more time before Father comes home, belt in hand.
John knows this, in the way that boys always know such things. He worries about it at night. Hilary is just like any other suckling babe on Molly's poisonous teat. If he were given three wishes, he'd wish to see stars first. It's his own fault, John thinks furiously. All those stories. I should never have started telling them to 'im.
But when Hilary curls up on his cot and looks at him with a gaze the color of green glass, he always relents anyway. And worries.
So the fireflies, when they arrive, are a strange, lovely blessing.
They are rummaging through a rubbish heap together, John with a tight smile embossed on his face. Hilary sees them first, little round flashes in the half-light. "John!" he says, four-year-old voice high and sweet. "Look!"
John obediently turns. Blanches, at first, at what he thinks he sees. "We should go, Hilary," he murmurs, tugging at his brother's sleeve. "I have bread at home." Sparks. Fucking sparks. The rubbish would go up like a torch. Better than a torch, probably.
"No," says Hilary, with all the certainty a small delighted child can muster, which is considerable. "No, no, no. Look! They's pretty."
"They're pretty," he corrects, and then flinches as one lands on his nose.
Lands?
Ticklish black legs and iridescent wings, fluttering at the edge of his vision - he's probably cross-eyed, damn it, but what -
Not a spark, he realizes. A glowworm.
John laughs, for relief, even for a little joy. "They are pretty. We can stay a little longer."
"Foockin' yeah!" Hilary says in cheerful, if mangled, imitation of his older brother. John groans.
"Hilary!"
"Sorry," the boy says, not at all contrite. He cups his hands and holds them out to the bugs, which are feasting on garbage, just like them. One hops onto his finger. John doesn't know whether to smile or frown. They could have - have - have diseases, or something. Bastion, they might be poisonous!
But they are pretty, with their arses glowing like little beacons, painting Hilary's grey hands a warmer yellow.
Then, without warning, Hilary brings the little bug to his lips and swallows it.
"Hilary!" John screams. His little brother giggles and tries to do it again with another unwary vermin, but John snatches his arm. "Hilary, what are you doing?"
"Eatin' bugs."
"Why?"
Hilary hesitates, soft thin face blurring with indecision. "Wanna be like them," he says finally.
John blinks. "What d'ya mean, you wanna be like 'em? You're no fu-no shiny beastie."
One hand goes to a convex stomach under bone. "But you're what you eat, you said. Shiny. I wanna shine."
"Oh," he exhales, and falls silent. There's nothing more to say, though he does reach out and ruffle his boy's hair, and think, why not let him? Maybe it'll work. What the fuck do I know? Maybe they'll go on shining right through his skin. It's not even a question, not really. Hilary is already burning bright; alive with some inner flame, his skin dazzling, his rags gleaming gold, his hair lined in lightning. Alive with whatever it is that's reflecting in his face, in his hands, in his eyes.
~*~*~*~
It's not long after that the fireflies leave and Hilary immolates himself with their house, dies like a moth for his passion. It's not long after that John learns to forget.