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The Coming of Fire

Day one prompt: We are learning to make a fire.

Summary: Oh brave new world, that needs such Fire in it...


Upon the hill over the old haven, a grey figure sits and stares at the sea. Earth, seas, sky, all awash in the color of sunset. Strange how the things of the world glow, how sharp they are and weighty, overwhelming – and yet mute. Their new radiance is deceptive – hides the nature of things, and their solidity is a resistance. Things do not open to will so readily as once they did, do not surrender their being – 'tis a world bright with modesty and freighted with secrets.

And yet for all that, it is less shy of him than of the Children, and he lays a palm upon the earth, lets the green, green grass slide through knobby, gnarled fingers, and between skin – real skin – and the rough-grained sand, there is a charge, a pulse that once he could have grasped in a moment. Now he simply feels it, in the speeding of his heart that settles then into time with that beat. Nay, he is not wholly veiled in this flesh. It responds to what is – and what is, is not wholly immune to his will, either.

He shuts his eyes a moment, then opens them to mere slits, staring at the grass before him a long moment, ere he reaches out a hand to touch just the tip of one blade, and he Speaks the Word.

Flame bursts into being, like a candle on a strange green wick.

Olórin feels a smile pass over bearded lips – unfamiliar feeling that suffuses the welcome sense of harmony that he has of late missed so. He looks to the sky, with the Kindler's stars shining in it, and is content. 'Tis indeed a strange new world that makes him stranger to himself, and the little flame dancing on its stalk is but a pale expression of the originary Flame, but no matter. He is here, in all obedience, and he is learning to make fire...


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