Born From Stories, Darkness, And Hope

20251222

Written for Luna Asli Kolcu’s “Myths of Winter - Week 4” event.

Everyone bid me good luck and admonished me one more time to be careful before they shut me in. Now safe from their anxious eyes I could smile and shake my head. Honestly. What were they so worried about?
After all, I’d been tending fires since before I could talk. My proclivity for flames had baffled and concerned my parents, but they soon decided it better to harness me than be constantly guarding the hearth. And once they’d accepted my obsession I was a remarkably easy child to keep track of and entertained.
Stay up all night keeping a fire burning? Please. That wasn’t a challenge. Especially knowing how important the job was.
I walk to the great stone hearth and inspect the fire, already lit with an ember from each house. Flames lick at the wooden pyre. They’ll be good for at least an hour. Which leaves me itching for something to do. I love feeding the fire, using the poker to make sure bits burn evenly, even toasting bits of kindling over the main flame…
Alright, perhaps some of the concern was warranted. But I was old enough to curb my impulses.
To prove this, at least to myself, I settle cross-legged on the thin cushion in front of the hearth. A pity they wouldn’t let me bring comforts. ‘You’ll just fall asleep’, they said, as if I hadn’t spent the day napping, and as if I wasn’t known for losing the whole night playing with the fire and being sent to bed once everyone woke.
I pour a mug of coffee and savour the rich aroma. The mayor kindly donated the beans from her private stock. A fine treat to aid my vigil. I’ll be sure to tell her it was a great help - even though I know I’d do just fine without it.
As I wait for the drink to cool for the first sip, my mouth watering, my gaze wanders back to the fire. Behind there’s marks scoured in the stones. Those must be showing how high to keep the fire burning.
‘Don’t let it get too low!’ the elders had lectured, over and over. Occasionally adding, as an afterthought, ‘And don’t build it too high.’
Dutifully I’d smiled and nodded and not grumbled ‘yes, yes’. Honestly. Even a true child knew that if the Solstice Flame burned too low spring wouldn’t be able to find its way and would be late. And if it burned too high winter would be offended and would cling on to assert itself.
Balance in all things, yada yada.
Naturally the pyre had been built to the exact midpoint of the two lines. Keeping the fire there would be child’s work.
Dancing light shows something else scratched into the wall. I snag the tongs and select a burning brand to use as a torch.
Words. Crudely carved, not chiselled like the lines, but surprisingly deep. And high enough that you’d see them sitting this close to the hearth. “DON’T LET IT SPEAK TO YOU”
Huh. I’d describe fire as ‘singing’, not ‘speaking’. The chorus of crackles interspersed with pops, the purr of air flowing past and up the chimney, the contented grumbles as logs burrow into the bed of ashes… it soothes my soul like no human music can.
Assuming this yet another admonishment not to lose focus and let the fire burn down (or worse yet, out!) I settle back and try the coffee. It’s amazing, miles better than the stuff we buy from the visiting traders. I can see why she gets it brought in special. I would, if I had half her money.
I sip, and admire the fire, and let all tension flow out of me.
Then I hear it.
A… whimper? I look around, but the small room is empty except for me and my stuff.
“hun…”
My head snaps back around and I gawp up the chimney. But all I see is smoke.
“hungry…”
Oh.
I swallow a scream - and the urge to throw my drink. Bad idea.
The fire stares eyelessly back at me. No, I think most of its attention’s on the woodpile. “hungry…”
Of course. Fire's always hungry. Truly insatiable. Like the purest, most primal form of life it exists only to feed and spread. It grew and grew as you fed it, until it’d devoured everything and starved. I knew better than to indulge. Like minding a baby I’d be wise and responsible despite its cries.
I look at the warning scratched in the chimney. I look back at the fire, which pouts without a face.
While I’ve always felt connected to the fires I tend, this… this one feels the same. I know it.
“please… scared.”
Scared?
“I won’t let you go out.” I assure it. “There’s plenty of wood, see? But we have to make it last the whole night. So I’ll feed you bit by bit.”
For a moment there’s only crackling murmurs. Then it whispers “dark is big. i must be bigger.”
“You’re… scared of the dark?”
It truly is a child.
“dark hungry. ate sun. still hungry. i need to be big. strong.”
Solstice tales dance through my mind like the shadows tickling the chimney. Right, the longest night ate the sun, and we tend the fire so the sun can be born again. Of course a fire kindled from that hope would fear the devouring dark around it.
“Don’t worry, you’re safe.” I put on my bravest smile. “The dark can’t be where you are. And I’m here to guard you. I won’t let anything eat you. I promise. In fact, let me tell you a story, about how the dark always loses in the end. Ahem.”
Coffee kept my throat limber, and solstice tales kept the fire rapt and peaceful. I was so engrossed I jumped when the door opened.
My vigil was over.
And oh, how my fire sang, proud and joyous, when it saw the new sun.

Prompt was: “One person in your community is chosen each year to keep a sacred flame burning through the longest night. If it flickers too low, spring comes late. If it burns too bright, winter lingers. You’ve just been chosen. The previous keeper left no instructions—only a warning scratched into the hearth: Don’t let it speak to you.”