A Fire Shared Is A Fire Grown

20251206

Written for Luna Asli Kolcu’s “Myths of Winter - Week 1” event.

Hannah had never thought much about Hearth Week. Traditions had a way of just… being there. They didn’t invite scrutiny. If asked, she could readily say that you spent the first week after Solstice at home tending the fire. Making sure it didn’t go out, for if it did your neighbours mustn’t lend you a brand. You had to kindle the fire anew.
Why? Well, something about monsters wearing skin trying to steal fire. Children’s stories. Nonsense. Hannah was far too old to believe in such things.
Right now she was feeling particularly grown-up, because she was minding the house (and her siblings). Mum had been called away - Jane Partridge’s water broke, and midwifing came before any holiday, especially for a first-time mother. So mum packed up her bag and dad loaded the sled and they’d marched away into the snow.
It was fine. Nobody was bored of the new game the Carters had gifted, and there was a thick pot of stew slumbering by the hearth. Hannah had laughingly assured their parents they’d be fine for days.
She was helping Paul dress his new wooden doll when a knock sounded. That, though unexpected, didn’t trouble her. It was the way the fire stretched tall and reached towards the door which made all the children gasp and leap back.
Quick as a blink the motion was over, the fire flickering demurely in the hearth as it should. But the knocking continued. An unfamiliar cadence which certainly wasn’t anyone from the village.
Jane rose to answer. A midwife’s door was never barred to those in need. But their mother also hadn’t raised fools, so she took the poker and held it aside, out of view, before opening the door just a crack.
“H-hello?”
She wished she had a candle. The figure was merely an outline against the snowy night.
“Hello.” It whispered, with a voice which put her in mind of a heavily patched sheet. “Do you have a light?”
“It’s Hearth Week.”
“Please…” The figure raised a hand, and dim firelight glinted off an old, weathered metal lantern. “I just need a light. To find my way. I’ll give it back…”
“You can’t share fire on Hearth Week.” Hannah lifted her chin and tried to steady her voice. Her fingers clenched white on the poker.
Normally she’d have told them to come in and warm themselves. Normally she would’ve considered not following the rules, them being silly traditions. Normally she would’ve said she was far too old and sensible to believe in monsters. But ‘normally’ had melted when the fire reached for the door like a grasping hand.
So she set her feet and ordered “Go away.”
“Huhhhm.” The slow exhale was irritated. She could feel their eyes boring into her. No, through her, to the hearth.
Her heart pounded a drumbeat in her ears. Her palms were clammy. Her mouth dry. Fear tried to lock her in place - and failed. She slammed the door, just glimpsing the figure starting to reach before its way was blocked.
Paul, bless him, had crept close enough to shove the bar across the moment the door closed, and with that solid oaken barrier in place Hannah felt more confident. She rushed to the window, peeping out the crack around the shutters.
Too dark. She didn’t think the stranger was still there, but… she couldn’t be certain.
What should they do? What if the stranger was there when mum and dad got home?
It was a fretful, sleepless night. Everyone huddled around the fire, not daring to bank it and turn in. Wondering where their parents were.
“The birthing must’ve got complicated.” Hannah assured her siblings (and herself). “I told them we’d be fine, so they’d stay overnight. Especially with the snow.”
Everyone nodded and forced brave smiles.
When dawn finally came Hannah bundled up and instructed her siblings not to unbar the door for anyone they didn’t recognise. Then - avoiding the stranger’s boot-prints like horse-apples - she headed for the Partridge’s cottage. To tell her parents what happened.
Partway there the wind carried a strange bouquet. Charred wood, but with some acrid musk. And smouldering hay. And burned roast.
Her stomach, already clenched tight, rolled over and wept. She knew what she’d find. She knew she should go fetch someone, a proper adult, and let them face it.
But… what if someone was still alive? What if they needed help?
So she turned and ran towards the scent of killing fire.
Oh gods.
The Carters.
Hannah pressed a shawl corner over her nose and mouth, fervently grateful she’d been too nervous to eat breakfast. There was no saving anyone here. Only crumbling husks remained.
With a sob she turned away. But something pulled her eyes back, despite her reluctance and revulsion. Her mind itched. Something about this horrible scene was… odd.
She busied herself checking for embers. Gingerly stepping around the unrecognisable remains of the Carters and their worldly goods.
When her meandering circuit reached the door it clicked.
The placements.
If they burned to death in the night, the fire catching something while they slept, they’d all be curled in the loft. If the fire caught with someone awake they would’ve run outside and tried to put it out.
But they’d all fallen around the hearth, except the biggest, probably John Carter, who was by the door.
Like it’d happened in a flash. The whole house swallowed by fire.
And out where snow remained… strange bootprints. The same ones as by her door. Grass and gravel showing through, the snow melted. Not tramped.
Hannah’s gaze flicked between the dead hearth and the bootprints leading into the woods.
“I’ll give it back…”
John was a stolid, rule-following man. But he was also the sort of gentle heart who’d give a stranger the coat off his back in a snowstorm.
Hannah wheeled about and didn’t stop running until she was pounding on the Partridge’s door and stammering the story to her bewildered parents.

Prompt was “Old rule: never share your hearth’s flame during the season’s first week. Tonight a stranger knocks. The flame leans toward the door before you can answer.”