[Fanfiction] The Spark and the Blaze
Title: The Spark and the Blaze
Author: Mirradin
Prompt: Sweden, any nation -- fire. Viking or 1700s.
Other characters: Belarus.
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: Sweden thinks fire is beautiful.
The village burned easily.
The villagers were still running, shrieking, those who had not been cut down or dragged back to the ships. Some few had tried to fight the first flames. They did not try now. The fire had taken hold with a vengeance, digging its claws deep into the timbers of the houses, feasting on the wood. It would not die until there was nothing left to burn.
It was beautiful. Sweden had never found anything as captivating, as entrancing, as the sight of flames blazing defiantly from wood, beating back the dark and the cold with a fury that made them almost palpable. Stepping too near to a fire that had taken hold was like walking into the hide of some strange beast. It was a force that could be felt. Fire was like a living beat, glorious in its prime, and even when it died it lay for a long time in dormancy under the ash it left behind.
It gleamed off the nation-girl’s hair.
“See,” Sweden said, seized by the urge to show her. He pointed to the flames engulfing a sturdy roof-timber. Orange points blazed within the wood, hot to look at…and then, with a groan, the mighty timber cracked under the stress and the heat, collapsing in a shower of sparks. For an instant the flames roared higher, hurtling up as though they sought to rise all the way to the scudding clouds overhead and rend the belly of the sky.
Sweden would have told her, again, See, but it was glorious, too glorious for words. The fire tore into the night, clawing back the darkness, a bold, untameable beast.
The girl said something.
Reluctantly, Sweden tore his eyes from the fire and looked back at her.
The flames gleamed off her hair, turning it from pale sand to orange. Her eyes were as blue as the sea, with the fire reflected in them.
Her face was smudged with soot.
Well, so was his. That was what fire left behind.
She spat something else, in a language he didn’t speak, and Sweden rocked back a step. Her hand came up faster than he would have believed, but - he was fast, too. He caught her wrist before her crooked fingers could rake at his eyes.
A house fell, crashing to the ground in a roar of leaping sparks. Ruthenia snapped her teeth at him. Sweden reached for her other hand, but she wrenched herself away, stumbling over a fallen timber, burned to charcoal. She pulled herself up, glaring up at him, marked with the fire from her bare feet to the flakes of ash settling like snow in her hair…
Another house fell, warped beyond its limits by the heat. Sparks and smoke erupted into the sky as if from a geyser.
Not taking her eyes from him, the nation-girl picked her way back towards the edge of the village, where the fields started. A moment later, she had retreated behind a hedgerow, and any fool knew she would be running for the forest.
Sweden didn’t follow her. He turned back to the burning village - to the houses where farmers and fishermen had plied their living -
Houses collapsed, one by one.
The fire feasted.
Sweden did not look away.
Author: Mirradin
Prompt: Sweden, any nation -- fire. Viking or 1700s.
Other characters: Belarus.
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: Sweden thinks fire is beautiful.
The village burned easily.
The villagers were still running, shrieking, those who had not been cut down or dragged back to the ships. Some few had tried to fight the first flames. They did not try now. The fire had taken hold with a vengeance, digging its claws deep into the timbers of the houses, feasting on the wood. It would not die until there was nothing left to burn.
It was beautiful. Sweden had never found anything as captivating, as entrancing, as the sight of flames blazing defiantly from wood, beating back the dark and the cold with a fury that made them almost palpable. Stepping too near to a fire that had taken hold was like walking into the hide of some strange beast. It was a force that could be felt. Fire was like a living beat, glorious in its prime, and even when it died it lay for a long time in dormancy under the ash it left behind.
It gleamed off the nation-girl’s hair.
“See,” Sweden said, seized by the urge to show her. He pointed to the flames engulfing a sturdy roof-timber. Orange points blazed within the wood, hot to look at…and then, with a groan, the mighty timber cracked under the stress and the heat, collapsing in a shower of sparks. For an instant the flames roared higher, hurtling up as though they sought to rise all the way to the scudding clouds overhead and rend the belly of the sky.
Sweden would have told her, again, See, but it was glorious, too glorious for words. The fire tore into the night, clawing back the darkness, a bold, untameable beast.
The girl said something.
Reluctantly, Sweden tore his eyes from the fire and looked back at her.
The flames gleamed off her hair, turning it from pale sand to orange. Her eyes were as blue as the sea, with the fire reflected in them.
Her face was smudged with soot.
Well, so was his. That was what fire left behind.
She spat something else, in a language he didn’t speak, and Sweden rocked back a step. Her hand came up faster than he would have believed, but - he was fast, too. He caught her wrist before her crooked fingers could rake at his eyes.
A house fell, crashing to the ground in a roar of leaping sparks. Ruthenia snapped her teeth at him. Sweden reached for her other hand, but she wrenched herself away, stumbling over a fallen timber, burned to charcoal. She pulled herself up, glaring up at him, marked with the fire from her bare feet to the flakes of ash settling like snow in her hair…
Another house fell, warped beyond its limits by the heat. Sparks and smoke erupted into the sky as if from a geyser.
Not taking her eyes from him, the nation-girl picked her way back towards the edge of the village, where the fields started. A moment later, she had retreated behind a hedgerow, and any fool knew she would be running for the forest.
Sweden didn’t follow her. He turned back to the burning village - to the houses where farmers and fishermen had plied their living -
Houses collapsed, one by one.
The fire feasted.
Sweden did not look away.