We Didn't Start the Fire (Yet)
Jan. 20th, 2012 12:10 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
archiveofarethusaKaddarsi was a horrible excuse for a nation, and anyone who was proud to call themselves Kaddarsian should burn, Heraclitus thought sullenly. He had no idea where in Kaddarsi he was, but if every autumn was half as cold as this one, burning didn't sound half so terrible an idea as he'd originally thought. No matter where he went out of doors, Heraclitus couldn't inhale without smelling the rot of withering leaves, but unless the people themselves behaved in seasons, then it might as well have always been autumn. All of the adults he'd met were some variation of bitter, old, and stuck inside of themselves. Kaddarsi was like the tombstone for summer. Heraclitus was even pretty sure he could find the body if he tried. It was still indistinguishable from summer in Cassair, he knew. He consoled himself that he wouldn't be staying long, anyway. His ma would come for him one of these days, and then she and dad would give the pigs who had imprisoned him what for in time for dinner.
He'd been allowed out of doors today, and even despite the weather, he took the opportunity. The gated gardens were as much of a prison as the rest of the manse, but it never felt like it. There was a small reflecting pond below a willow looking like it was the tears the willow wept, and there were all manner of interesting things living inside of it. Sometimes after long rains at dusk the bright, shivering gold lights of lost souls danced around the ripples that the falling dew caused, and those nights it was almost like he was back home in Cassair. Heraclitus thought he might have saw a woman once, but it was just a very long, pale fish disappearing into the large, partially obscured hole that probably led to the Faindown or the Turin Sea. There was a clear way out in the pond of tears, but he'd drown before he resurfaced. It felt like one of those metter-fors. There were books full of stuff like that. And his folks wondered why he never read books.
There was a body sitting under the willow tracing patterns in the water with a broken off branch. For a moment, he thought he'd found the fish woman again, but it was only Annie Tark. Annie had hair as red as the wrath of the gods and spoke like a Flatlander, which meant Heraclitus was willing to forgive her for being surly and four years older than him.
"Hello, Annie," Heraclitus said, sitting beside her. Annie gave him what might generously have been called a sideways glance, then returned her attention to disturbing the waters. "You're in my light, Highlander."
"I knew you were a Flatlander!" Heraclitus said, ignoring the insulting lilt. He was son to a rich and inherently glorious people and she was literally low-born and savage, and she would have to get over that sometime. Or not. The Flatlands and the Highlands seemed to be perfectly fine with hating each other, and had been for longer than either of them would live to see. Heraclitus didn't see the problem. Flatlanders were fantastic.
Annie just sighed. "I ain't a Flatlander. I'm just nobody, and so're you, if you're looking to survive. Are you?"
"I'm going to do better than survive," Heraclitus said. "My ma is coming to save me. If you're nice to me, I'm sure I can convince her to save you too."
Annie finally looked at the boy beside her, really looked, and Heraclitus looked steadily back. He'd lived six of his nine years alongside the shadowlings his ma trained, and so had learned to read faces like his life would depend upon it. He could only catch most of the emotions and tells flitting across Annie's face - sympathy, annoyance, pity - but the rest were so mixed up in themselves that figuring them would be like trying to pick out all of the original colors in a blend of black paint on a palette.
"Don't see why you can't keep telling yourself that," Annie said, carefully not saying anything else with her tone.
Heraclitus wasn't having that. "What do you mean by that?"
"I ain't saying a thing," Annie said.
"Fine, except you are! You think she won't come? My ma will so come. She's a powerful Zoanistra," Heraclitus said. "Really powerful, even more than the Fair Ones. There are some who call her Faeriebane in our village."
"And that'd be a true comfort if we was captives to faeries," Annie said, something bitter and lost welling up in her muddy brown eyes. "You're named after Heraclitus, ain't you, boy? Savior of the Zoans, doom of the Alcathrans, earthly lord of the elements. Your ma ever tell you the story about how your Heraclitus, earthly lord of all died? He won himself wars and goddesses, but it was a tiny sucking bug what got him in the end."
"So?"
"So your ma wouldn't be the first savior to trip up on account of something not customarily capable of tripping things," Annie said, her face reddening a little. It was difficult to guess if it was from shame or anger. "People aren't faeries, and that's not always such a boon. Faeries are strong and wily and impossible, but there ain't nothing mere about people willing to snatch up kidlets. Nothing only about a monopoly like Miratech. You think you're the only child loved by his parents? You think you're the only kid worth fighting for?"
Heraclitus glared, fists at his side.
"Yeah, well," Annie sighed, too exhausted already, "it may be you're right. I hope your ma comes for you. I hope somebody's ma comes and somebody gets away from this place. Just ain't no chance of it being me."
"What happened?" Heraclitus said, because "Is that why you're such a bitch?" sounded too much like fighting words just then.
"I think she might have saved me, you know, but it's hard when you're dead of burning," Annie said. "But I'm going to be of an age nobody asks where my parents are someday. Come that day, I'll revisit fire on every whoreson had a hand in lighting that pyre. Won't matter none about monopolies. I'll let the gods see that just us mere folk can take care of our own."
Heraclitus didn't know what was going on in his head just then. He was enchanted by the weird girl who talked like the kids his ma had always warned him against. He was scared and unsure and mad as hell about it. He was stuck in a perpetual fall and when it came down to it, he wanted to help Annie nearly as much as he did himself. Whatever else there was, he stuck a dirty hand out in friendship.
He'd been allowed out of doors today, and even despite the weather, he took the opportunity. The gated gardens were as much of a prison as the rest of the manse, but it never felt like it. There was a small reflecting pond below a willow looking like it was the tears the willow wept, and there were all manner of interesting things living inside of it. Sometimes after long rains at dusk the bright, shivering gold lights of lost souls danced around the ripples that the falling dew caused, and those nights it was almost like he was back home in Cassair. Heraclitus thought he might have saw a woman once, but it was just a very long, pale fish disappearing into the large, partially obscured hole that probably led to the Faindown or the Turin Sea. There was a clear way out in the pond of tears, but he'd drown before he resurfaced. It felt like one of those metter-fors. There were books full of stuff like that. And his folks wondered why he never read books.
There was a body sitting under the willow tracing patterns in the water with a broken off branch. For a moment, he thought he'd found the fish woman again, but it was only Annie Tark. Annie had hair as red as the wrath of the gods and spoke like a Flatlander, which meant Heraclitus was willing to forgive her for being surly and four years older than him.
"Hello, Annie," Heraclitus said, sitting beside her. Annie gave him what might generously have been called a sideways glance, then returned her attention to disturbing the waters. "You're in my light, Highlander."
"I knew you were a Flatlander!" Heraclitus said, ignoring the insulting lilt. He was son to a rich and inherently glorious people and she was literally low-born and savage, and she would have to get over that sometime. Or not. The Flatlands and the Highlands seemed to be perfectly fine with hating each other, and had been for longer than either of them would live to see. Heraclitus didn't see the problem. Flatlanders were fantastic.
Annie just sighed. "I ain't a Flatlander. I'm just nobody, and so're you, if you're looking to survive. Are you?"
"I'm going to do better than survive," Heraclitus said. "My ma is coming to save me. If you're nice to me, I'm sure I can convince her to save you too."
Annie finally looked at the boy beside her, really looked, and Heraclitus looked steadily back. He'd lived six of his nine years alongside the shadowlings his ma trained, and so had learned to read faces like his life would depend upon it. He could only catch most of the emotions and tells flitting across Annie's face - sympathy, annoyance, pity - but the rest were so mixed up in themselves that figuring them would be like trying to pick out all of the original colors in a blend of black paint on a palette.
"Don't see why you can't keep telling yourself that," Annie said, carefully not saying anything else with her tone.
Heraclitus wasn't having that. "What do you mean by that?"
"I ain't saying a thing," Annie said.
"Fine, except you are! You think she won't come? My ma will so come. She's a powerful Zoanistra," Heraclitus said. "Really powerful, even more than the Fair Ones. There are some who call her Faeriebane in our village."
"And that'd be a true comfort if we was captives to faeries," Annie said, something bitter and lost welling up in her muddy brown eyes. "You're named after Heraclitus, ain't you, boy? Savior of the Zoans, doom of the Alcathrans, earthly lord of the elements. Your ma ever tell you the story about how your Heraclitus, earthly lord of all died? He won himself wars and goddesses, but it was a tiny sucking bug what got him in the end."
"So?"
"So your ma wouldn't be the first savior to trip up on account of something not customarily capable of tripping things," Annie said, her face reddening a little. It was difficult to guess if it was from shame or anger. "People aren't faeries, and that's not always such a boon. Faeries are strong and wily and impossible, but there ain't nothing mere about people willing to snatch up kidlets. Nothing only about a monopoly like Miratech. You think you're the only child loved by his parents? You think you're the only kid worth fighting for?"
Heraclitus glared, fists at his side.
"Yeah, well," Annie sighed, too exhausted already, "it may be you're right. I hope your ma comes for you. I hope somebody's ma comes and somebody gets away from this place. Just ain't no chance of it being me."
"What happened?" Heraclitus said, because "Is that why you're such a bitch?" sounded too much like fighting words just then.
"I think she might have saved me, you know, but it's hard when you're dead of burning," Annie said. "But I'm going to be of an age nobody asks where my parents are someday. Come that day, I'll revisit fire on every whoreson had a hand in lighting that pyre. Won't matter none about monopolies. I'll let the gods see that just us mere folk can take care of our own."
Heraclitus didn't know what was going on in his head just then. He was enchanted by the weird girl who talked like the kids his ma had always warned him against. He was scared and unsure and mad as hell about it. He was stuck in a perpetual fall and when it came down to it, he wanted to help Annie nearly as much as he did himself. Whatever else there was, he stuck a dirty hand out in friendship.