A Spark Neglectedby FirebrandChaptersEver since he was a colt, Firebrand had been enthralled by the flame. The flickering motions, the uncanny crackle…The concept of being "cleansed" by fire is ancient, but it is foolish. Fire does not cleanse, but instead leaves charred, blackened ruination in its wake.Of Solace in Flamesto ashesEver since he was a colt, Firebrand had been enthralled by the flame. The flickering motions, the uncanny crackle…“Firebrand” wasn’t his real name, of course. His mother had taken to calling him such after his mane began growing into its natural colours. The hairs bore a slight translucency, such that the mane closer to his coat appeared a darker shade than that farther out. A colorful mane like his was common among ponies with a mixed heritage; the offspring of a unicorn and an Earth pony, in particular, usually bore one of two phenotypes: a unicorn, with abnormally impotent, but not absent, magical prowess, or an Earth pony more innately in tune with the arcane. The former are almost universally seen as disabled, whereas the latter are highly regarded within Earth pony society, due to their ability to understand and interact with magic as much as most unicorns. His nickname would prove to be more defining than anypony could have hoped, however. When he entered school, it quickly became apparent that he was, most definitely, one to spark conflict among his peers. Much of the first years of a pony's schooling are focused on finding the students' special talents by introducing them to common fields of specialization: music, farming, crafts, and the like. It was on a camping trip that Firebrand found his own special talent. The campmaster had tasked him with starting the campfire, and was in the process of giving him instructions on how to safely do so, when Firebrand brandished a lighter—one of numerous items he'd stolen, more of curiosity than anything else, from his mother—and set the logs ablaze, nearly burning the coat off his fets in the process. The campmaster (after admonishing him and taming the blaze) noticed the newly-formed mark on Firebrand's flank: a roaring, orange and red fireball. "Well, that's... unusual." he had said. The expectation of a cutie mark is that it is something that can practically be incorporated into the workforce, much like the expectation that everypony will eventually get a job and be successful. So a pony with an impractical talent -- such as one for conflagration -- emblazoned on their flank is doomed to either a pathetic life doing menial jobs requiring no special talent, or a life of begging, vagabondry, or crime. With a spark, a flame sputtered to life. Firebrand held his cherished lighter closely, letting the warmth and light keep him company. They were looking for him. He'd already been caught twice trying to start fires unsuccessfully, so once a building actually did burn down, it was natural for the townsfolk to assume he was to blame. He was cowering in his usual hiding place: a rotted-out tree trunk on the edge of the forest. He could hear the search party, shouting after one another to find the vandalous arsonist. He wasn't worried, however; it was raining heavily, so his scent and sound should be pretty well masked from the pursuers. He only had to wait until— "There! I see a fire!" cried a voice from nearby. Shit. He snapped the lighter shut, pulled up his hood, and stepped out into the rain. He wore this light, hooded poncho nearly round-the-clock, to help conceal his rather conspicuous cutie mark and flamboyant mane—that it helped fend off the rain was just a happy side-effect. A flashlight beam fell onto him. "There! After him!" Shit shit shit. He continued running, afraid to look back. He could hear hounds baying and ponies shouting from somewhere behind him, slowly gaining on him. Firebrand dared to look up and saw a light in the distance, barely visible through the sprawling foliage: a house? Maybe they'd help him: he could just bang on the door, and act panicked, and tell them that— THWACK. The arsonist's train of thought was extinguished as his leg slammed into a fallen log, sending him sprawling into the mud and causing a searing pain to burn through his leg. Now is not the time to be scheming, he thought as he tried to stand up, only for his injured leg to give out under his weight. He fell again into the mud and sighed in defeat. "Kid," said the same voice from before—coming from a nondescript brown earth stallion, looking sternly down at him—"you are in a whole world of trouble. Get up." Firebrand looked up at the larger pony and grinned defiantly. "I can't sir." he said, wincing as he waved his wounded hoof. "My leg's broke." He wasn't sure if it was actually broken, but anything less than that would likely fall through as an excuse. "Well, shoot." said the stallion, as he beckoned to two other ponies from the search party, just now catching up to him, to carry the wounded colt. "How 'bout this: we'll take you back to the mayor's office, and the two of you can have a nice, long chat." "How about a hospital?" suggested the yellow colt, grinning-then-wincing again as the one of the other two ponies hoisted him onto the other's back. “So...” started the mayor, an earth pony mare the color of dead grass. “...you like to start fires?” “Yes’m, that’s me. Says so right here on my butt.” responded the cocky firebug, leaning back casually in the cushioned chair, “just in case the fire-instead-of-hair and the singed fets didn’t tip you off.” "Yes, I'd noticed." the official said, leaning forward and steepling her hooves. She wore a pair of round, thin-framed glasses with thick lenses that magnified her small, pale-green irises, which seemed to be projecting spikes of solid ice as she stared at him. "I think it goes without saying that we're going to be keeping an eye on you." As she said this, she tilted her head forwards and the glasses fell slightly to the tip of her muzzle, and she continued to glare over them, her gaze almost palpable through her pinpoint irises. Interesting choice of words, thought Firebrand. I wonder if her cutie mark has to do with eyes. "So, as long as I've got you here, Citrus, I wanted to—" She was cut off as Firebrand leaned forward, suddenly and aggressively, slamming his uninjured front hoof against the official's desk, causing her to flinch. "Don't call me that." His features were dead-set and serious. His voice was sober and enunciated. The mayor leaned back slowly, slack-jawed and stunned. "Yes. Yes... is... how about 'Mr. Spark?' " Firebrand grunted, and then leaned back, crossing his arms. She's not about to call me Firebrand, of course, but I'll burn myself alive before I let anyone call me by that damn name. "Okay, Mr. Spark..." she began again after gathering herself. "I'd like to ask you about a few recent fires around town." Firebrand sighed. "Am I being detained?" he asked. "What?" "Am I being detained?" he repeated. "Am I free to go?" "I—this isn't a police station." said the mayor, placing her face into one of her hooves. "You're not under oath or anything. This is just off the record." "In that case..." said Firebrand, standing up and grabbing the crutch that was leaning against the back of his chair, before turning to exit the room. "...no comment." "I'm home." said Firebrand as he pushed his way into the small, crowded apartment. His mother likely didn't even know that he'd left, but it was still common courtesy to announce his arrival. "Welcome back." called a voice from the other room. "Hopefully you didn't get into too much trouble. I'd hate if—" the voice cut off as its owner turned the corner and saw Firebrand with one arm in a cast, learning against a crutch. "What happened?!" Firebrand chuckled and rubbed the back of his head with his uninjured hoof. "I tripped." His mother's face went from a look of shock to one of bemused distrust, the sort of which a teacher gives a student when told that the dog ate their homework. She was a short, golden mare, with a small horn poking out from just below the crown of her deep red mane. Her cutie mark was an orange with a straw stuck in it, an unusual and slightly baffling mark, which signified her talent was making orange juice, a rather narrow and inapplicable talent which lead to her constantly jumping from job to unimportant job while waiting for the position of "juice mogul" to open up. "I wish you'd be more careful." she admonished half-heartedly. "I'd hate to see you end up in the hospital some day." "I was just in the hospital." said Firebrand, hoisting his casted arm. "That's where I got this." His mother smirked. "Anyway, I'm about to start cooking. I'll let you know when something's ready." "A'ight." said Firebrand, turning down the short hallway and into his room. The room was small and dark. The walls were decorated with posters of all different kinds—bands, events, art, propaganda, all hung haphazardly and crooked. Most of the floor space was dominated by either the short, unmade bed, or the messy desk, which was covered in scraps of metal and wood, various tools, jars and tubes, and pocked with scorch marks. He leaned the crutch against the wall and emptied the contents of his pockets—a couple of bits, a small multi-tool, and his ever-at-hoof lighter—before shrugging off his poncho, tossing it onto the floor, sitting down behind the desk, and picking up the book—Metamorphorses? some old fairy tale compendium—that was currently at the center of the workspace. He flipped it open to about halfway, and was greeted with a hollow, lined cavity carved out of the pages of the first half of the massive book. Inside of this hollow was a dense coil of insulated string, at the center of which was a small brown packet, currently empty. Firebrand closed the book, set it aside, and prepared a metal tray with a short length of the same cord on top leading into a pile of yellow-white powder. Firebrand lifted a pair of goggles off of the wall and covered his eyes. He lit the end of the string, and the inner strands began to burn, the outer layer containing nearly all smoke and vapor as the flame made its way down the line and towards the powder. The powder was a mixture that Firebrand had been trying to fine-tune for a while now. High-heat, low smoke, more of a fizzle than a bang... The powder disappeared in a bright flash of white light, making harsh hissing sounds, and lingering for about a second, casting off several hot sparks before fading away and leaving only the tiniest wisp of acrid white smoke. Perfect. After cracking open the single, small window situated above his bed, Firebrand grabbed a vial full of the same yellow-white powder from the shelf above his desk, poured a measured portion of it into a small spoon, and dumped this into the waiting packet inside the book, which he then sealed before shutting the book and setting it aside. "Firebrand!" called his mother. "Dinner's ready!" He got up and proceeded out into the main room of the apartment—living room, dining room, and kitchen, all rolled into one. The small, square table there was stacked high with paperwork and books and ledgers from no fewer than half a dozen different companies that had offered his mother employment. A quarter of the table was cleared off, and in front of the two seats that this left uncovered were now set a steaming plate each of some kind of grilled vegetables. His mother was seated at one, already quietly eating, and Firebrand sat at the other and began to dig in wordlessly. The food was bland, but it was food. He was practically starving after the rather eventful day he'd had. Firebrand finished his meal quickly. As he stood up to put away his plate, his mother spoke up: "Don't forget to return that library book tomorrow." The concept of being "cleansed" by fire is ancient, but it is foolish. Fire does not cleanse, but instead leaves charred, blackened ruination in its wake.Firebrand entered the library and headed to the front counter. "I'd like to return a book." The mare behind the counter responded tiredly, hardly looking from the magazine she was reading. "Just drop it in that slot over there." "Okay." He walked over to the slot and reached into his saddlebag. He made a point to rummage around in it for a moment, as if the gargantuan tome could be hidden under a scrap of paper, and then withdrew and shrugged grandly, looking at the librarian with a timid grin. She rolled her eyes. "Just bring it tomorrow." "Will do!" he said, and then scampered off among the shelves. He wanted to spend some time here, to familiarize himself, in order to ensure that there weren't any bottlenecks or isolated areas where a pony would be likely to be hurt in case of a fire. Nobody wanted that. Also, knowing the layout of a place made it all the better to watch it going up in flames. Icarus entered the library, nodding to the librarian as she passed by. She picked out a couple of books, mostly at random—a romance, a war thriller, and something about birds—and took her usual seat in the corner. It was quiet here. She liked that. She could just sit and read and the whole world would go on by without her. It was magical. She grabbed the top book off of the stack—The Destriers— and opened it to the first page. This one had been made into a movie, and she wouldn't mind going to see it, but she always liked to read the book first. It was about a small troop of highly-trained soldiers who were sent behind enemy lines to terrorize and demoralize them. It was bound to be bloody, violent, and full of drama and tension. Not her usual fare, but sometimes an adrenaline-pumping book like this was just what the doctor ordered, so to speak. The novel opened with a dire-looking in medias res action sequence that was equally off-putting and enticing. It was brutal, but mystifying. Just who were these mysterious masked soldiers, and how did they know where the Destriers' camp was? The squad was in serious trouble, surrounded on all sides by troops attacking them in the middle of the night, when suddenly, Bolt, the brave, young, new recruit, charges the brunt of the enemy formation with a live grenade in his jaw, and then— "Howdy, miss." said somepony just in front of her. She jumped, abruptly ripped from the violent reverie the book had cast her into. She peeked timidly over the cover, and beheld a light yellow stallion—probably about her age, maybe a year or two younger—with multicolored, orange-red hair which looked like fire. He was wearing a light brown robe or cloak or something which obscured most of his body and his cutie mark. "Are you aware that this building is not equipped with a fire alarm?" he asked. "I…" she stumbled, hiding behind her book and avoiding eye contact with the intruding stallion. "No. I didn’t know that." "If there were to be a fire, you probably wouldn’t know about it until it was too late." What the heck? "Thanks... for the concern." she said, and then ducked back behind her book, willing the strange colt away. Instead, he reached into the saddlebag hiding under his coat, produced a book, sat down at a nearby table and began to read. Icarus tried to return to her book, but found herself distracted by this new presence. She constantly found herself reading lines multiple times, and eventually realized that she had progressed several dozen pages without even taking in more than a few sparse details of the plot. She was too busy thinking about that small, slightly ominous quip that the stranger had made. A fire? Why would there be a fire? Icarus looked up at him, sitting there in the chair and reading. He glanced up and met eyes with her, causing her to flinch, fearing that he might have taken the eye contact as an invitation to flirt, but he only bobbed his head once, acknowledging her presence, then went back to his book. She returned to her book, continuing to half-read it for another ten or fifteen minutes, before she shut it and placed it back on the stack of books next to her, and retrieved from her own saddlebag a small leather-bound journal with gilt-edged pages and a pen. She had waited so that the fiery-looking pony sitting across from her wouldn't think that she was writing about him. She was cursed, it seemed, with an exaggerated awareness of her effects on other ponies' lives, and she always calibrated even the most inconsequential of movements like these so to be inconspicuous, regardless of whether inconspicuousness was a consequential or even desirable thing to have. Icarus began writing in her diary, writing about this stranger she saw today, who seemed unduly obsessed with fire safety. She wrote in her diary every day, but she spent most of her time sitting right there in the library, so there wasn't much to write about except for all the different ponies she saw come and go each day. Thus, her diary had become a sort of catalogue of strangers. She described them physically, how they moved, what they read. She had spoken to some of them, and others not. She tried to figure out as much about these strangers as she could just by writing about them and seeing what turned up. It probably wasn't accurate, but she didn't care. It was an exercise of sorts, to help her create believable characters. According to her cutie mark, she was a writer but, since that single book of heartfelt poetry so many years ago, she hadn't felt the same spark in her pen. She tried, though, and tried, and always ran into trouble of some sort. She was now on her third draft of the same book she'd been working on for five years, and she had only recently learned that she didn't how to create believable, consistent characters. And so, she had begun writing these fictional biographies of strangers she'd seen, trying to profile them as best she could. Yellow coat and fiery mane, she wrote. He warned me about the lack of fire alarms in the building. Concerned with fire safety, evidently. Maybe a firepony (in training, given his age). Cutie mark obscured by coat. She penned a few more lines, and then shut the book. She put it, along with the three other books she had picked out, into her saddlebag, and then headed towards the front entrance. Class tomorrow. Gotta be home soon, or Dad'll be mad. Firebrand watched the mare go, thankfully not making eye contact this time. After the start he had given her, he could practically feel the timidity radiating off of her. She had abandoned her reading after about ten minutes to begin writing something, a habit pointed out by her cutie mark, a book which lay open with a quill resting across it. She was a pegasus, with a stunning deep purple mane which stood out against her drab blue-gray coat like flowers blooming through ashes. He looked at the clock. It was getting a little bit late. He closed the book he'd been kind-of reading for the last half hour, and left it on the table. He slowly made his way to the exit, careful not to show up too hot on the mare's tail. He nodded to the librarian as he passed by the front desk, and she rolled her eyes in response. He slipped out, and made his way down the slightly-frozen road towards the cheap apartment complex he called home. His mother wasn't home—she had an interview for something or other to go to today—, so he retreated quietly to his room, hung his bag on the wall, and laid on the bed. He just wanted to go to sleep now, to wake up tomorrow and be one step closer to his magnum opus of arson. Icarus ducked and weaved through alleys as she progressed, moving towards the veritable manor her parents owned in the midst of the slums. It was easily among the largest buildings in town, dwarfing the dilapidated shacks that surrounded it in both height and width. It was surrounded by a tall wrought-iron fence with ominous barbed tips, to dissuade intruders. It looked palatial in comparison to the squalid huts it stood over. Her family had repeatedly come under fire from their neighbors for perceived greed, which was not entirely untrue. Her father was, as it were, quite prudish, and simply detested those he viewed as lower than him, namely the poor. Icarus stood outside the fence, staring up the at the towering turrets and ostensible battlements. She felt kind of guilty for living in a place like this in the middle of a such a poor area, but there wasn't anything she could do about it. She sighed and pushed through the gate, locking it behind her before turning to begin advancing up the considerable staircase to the front door. As she reached up to open the door, it was pulled open from the inside. There, her father stood waiting, tapping a hoof impatiently. He was wearing his iconic dark green smoking jacket, which clashed awkwardly with his mild lavender coat and mane. As soon as their gazes met, he spoke, his eyes narrowed. "The library again?" Icarus gulped and nodded. He huffed. "Do you have any idea what time it is?" She hadn't stayed out any later than she usually did, but that didn't matter to him. "I don't want to see you outside of your room for the rest of the night, got that?" "Yes, sir." she muttered, hanging her head. Her father stood aside, ushering her in whilst pointedly not looking her way. She made her way up one of the large stairways in the fairly grand entrance hall, and down the left-side hallway to an elegant, solid wood door that stood out from the decor of the rest of the hallway. Her mother had destroyed the previous door in a fit of rage against her for what turned out to be a misunderstanding regarding a colt Icarus had met at school and, as recompense to her daughter, had replaced it with this massive, hoof-carved slab of exotic wood. Icarus didn't like it, though. It was too heavy, and swelled and shrank with the seasons, so it tended to get stuck in its frame. She switched the side that her bookbag hung from, and leaned hard against the door. It creaked and lurched a small amount, and then worked loose, swinging open violently and slamming the wall. It took an equal amount of effort for her to close the door, forcing it to fit back into its frame and eliciting a subtle shriek of protest from its wooden supports. For the time being, it seemed she had dodged a bullet. It wouldn't be a shock, however, if her father came up to her room later to yell at her some , or even to hit her, though he hadn't done that since mother left. She shuddered, threw her bookbag onto the bed, and then threw herself down right next to it, her wings splaying to either side as she faced the ceiling and sighed deeply. This is what she came home to everyday. Angst and uncertainty, abuse and neglect. Her father was an esteemed inventor and socialite, but within the walls of their home, he was terrible. He drank round-the-clock, and was prone to fits of rage at the slightest trigger. The servants always startled whenever he demanded anything of them, and would work franticly to avoid displeasing him. Despite his high status, he wasn't above simply striking whomsoever upset him. Icarus had overheard rumors that her parents' first meetings were less than cordial, and that her own birth had been under circumstances that were shady at best and statutory at worst. And her mother... Icarus didn't have to worry about her anymore. After Icarus' birth, she had become detached: at first, she would slip in and out of fugue states, wandering around the estate for hours at a time, not speaking. By the time Icarus was going to school, her mother was experiencing severe delusions. It was only in the last year that things had reached a head, when she slashed one of the servants whom she'd mistaken for Icarus' father. She'd been committed then, and her condition seemed to only be worsening. Icarus rolled onto her side and stared wistfully out of the large window next to her bed. The sun was on its way down, casting the tenements below in elongated shadows. The small town's skyline was dominated by her one sanctuary: the town library, a large, palatial building that had once been a mission, and now served as the primary landmark for the town founded around it. Nearly every day, she would go there and spend hours, getting lost in whatever she pulled off the shelves, exploring other worlds, learning new things and, most importantly, hiding from her father. The librarians all knew about her situation, and so wouldn't let her father within fifty feet of the entrance. In the library, she was safe and, sometimes, maybe even happy. Firebrand awoke groggily as the light from the sun fell over his face. He knew from experience that this meant it was around noon. He rolled out of the bed and lurched over to the desk. There, the large book lay open, inside of which lay the dense coil of fuse and the hoof-sized packet of powder. The fuse was of a special type, featuring an outer layer of dense insulative material, resistant to significant amounts of heat, and a core of braided strings soaked in various chemicals which burned agonizingly slowly. The huge bundle inside of the book—a thousand feet, give or take—would take a little over twelve hours to reach its end. He grabbed his trusty lighter and gingerly held the flame to the exposed wick at the end of the fuse. The flame took, and he gently shut the book and slipped it into his saddlebag, threw on his coat, then slipped out the door. His mother sat at the counter, perusing an employee handbook. She looked up when he exited his room. "Just where do you think you're going?" she interrogated. "Going to the library again." he said, moving towards the door. She grinned as though she had him cornered. "You didn't forget to return your book, did you?" Firebrand tried to act offended. "What? Me? Of course not! I just want to... read some things..." His mother's face changed at once from a smirk into a sober, almost sad-looking expression. "Just... don't get into too much trouble, okay? I..." she sighed heavily. "I worry about you, Citrus. Some of the things you do... I just don't know what to make of them." Firebrand stood at the door, stunned. His mother was usually as sarcastic and happy-go-lucky as he was, so to see her so serious, frankly, scared him. She looked down at her book for a long while, then looked up at him. "Don't let me keep you." she said, waving him off. "I... okay." he stuttered as he pulled the door open behind him and slipped outside. He walked slowly down the stairs to the ground floor, hanging his head. Did she know? She didn't come in his room, of that much he was sure, but she seemed to know something. And why had she called him Citrus? She knew that wasn't okay. He shook his head, clearing his mind as she pushed open the gate and made his way out into the alley behind the building, which connected to one of the main roads of the town. The library was only a few blocks away from his home, so the walk didn't take very long at all. He stepped into the library, up to the counter, and produced the large book from his saddlebag. "Got it." he said, placing it gently on the counter. He looked on nervously as the librarian turned the book over and opened the front cover. She stamped the card inside, then set the book aside and looked up at Firebrand. "Three bits." she said. Firebrand let out an emphatically relieved sigh. "I thought it would be more." he explained as he reached into his pocket and produced the money. He then turned around and ventured off into the library proper. He made the same sweep as before, checking the side room and halls for bottlenecks and throttle points. Nothing had changed from the previous day, of course, but he wanted to re-evaluate. It was a less than ideal situation. He didn't want anypony to get hurt. He just wanted to see some fire. And again, in the same tucked-away corner as before, he found the bookworm pegasus, whittling away at a stack of books. She looked up as he came out of one of the aisles. "Here to warn me about fire again?" she asked with a smirk. "Nah. Just... readin'." He grabbed a book off the shelf at random and sat down in the same spot as before. She retreated into her book, and he into his, for at least an hour. He glanced up once or twice, and caught her doing the same at least once. It was obvious to Firebrand that his presence was making her uncomfortable, but he wanted to stick around. "I don't think I got your name." he said, breaking the awkward silence and causing her to jump, dropping her book on the ground. She reflexively dropped down to grab for it, then looked up, blushing sheepishly. "Icarus." she said. "Ah. Like—" "Like the story, yes." She smiled warmly and retrieved her book, retook her position on the seat, and attempted to dive back into her reading. "I just read that story, actually." said Firebrand. "I think old Grequine myths are neat." "Really?" She looked up from her book. She must have had him pegged for a non-reader, which was not necessarily false; he had read the tale while hollowing out the pages of the large tome it was contained in, a painstaking process that took him several weeks. "I don't like my name, actually. I think it's... ominous." "Eh, I've got it worse. My name's Firebrand, of all things." "Really?" "Well, just a nickname. You see..." The two conversed on and off for hours, bouncing off mutual interests, daily life, and sundry, disconnected subjects. Finally, the librarian came around and told them that the library would be closing soon. As the pair gathered their belongings in preparation to leave, Firebrand turned to Icarus and said bluntly: "I like you." This prompted Icarus to freeze in place, tuck her head against her breast, and turn red-hot. "Really?" "Yeah. I don't get to talk to too many ponies. You're nice." The library was dark. Everpony had left. In the back, on a shelf, sat a large tome, The Metamorphorses by Hoofid. Between its hollowed-out pages, a long, slow-burning fuse neared the end of its considerable length. At the end of this fuse was a large wax-paper packet densely packed with a yellow-white powder. As the fuse reached this, the entire packet conflagrated in less than a second, blowing a small hole through the back of the book with a diminutive belch of flame. The hole began to grow larger as the fire within the hollowed-out book was fed oxygen, and soon the entire book was engulfed in flame. The fire quickly spread to the wooden shelf and to the adjacent books, and from there grew tall enough to reach the ceiling. By now, there was a telltale orange glow visible from the windows, which was already starting to grow brighter, both in color and intensity. From an alley across the street, a bright yellow stallion looked on. Of Solace in FlamesIcarus yawned and squinted her eyes in the dim, orange light. The window in her room faced the east, so she was used to being awoken by the sunrise. It was deceptively pleasant, to lay in the sun and do nothing while everypony else was still asleep, waiting for day proper to begin. She rolled over to face the window, and opened her eyes to survey the town in its golden hour. Instead of the warmth of the sun she was accustomed to, however, she was immediately impaled on a great icy spear as she saw, across the sea of moonlit shanties, the grand mission building, her one and only sanctuary, engulfed in flames. She immediately leapt from bed and shoved through the massive wooden door of her room, out into the hallway, and down the main staircase. In a small parlour next to the entrance hall, her father sat in a large, expensive chair, surrounded by discarded bottles of alcohol, and with an unfamiliar mare sitting on his lap, doing unspeakable things to one another. As soon as Icarus reached the bottom of the staircase, her father looked up. "Icarus? What the hell?!" he shouted, pushing the mare off of him. "Shut up!" shouted Icarus in response. There'd be heck to pay for talking back to him, but she didn't care right now. "Why you..." he said, standing up and knocking his escort to the floor. He began to step forward, but Icarus was already out the door. She dashed through the slum, where ponies were just beginning to rouse and clamor about the blaze. She passed the edge of that district and entered into the town center, where the monumental library building stood. Had stood. Icarus staggered to a halt, a tempest of emotions raging inside her as she beheld the burning remains. Most of the structure was still standing, but it was well beyond rescue at this point. Flames poured out of the shattered windows. Most of the roof had fallen in, allowing the stories-high flames to reach freely into the sky and illuminate the night. How? As she watched, something inside shifted and fell, sending a geyser of embers and dust into the air. A few feet in front of her, a sheet of paper landed, its edges aglow as it audibly crackled and began curling up into itself, soon leaving only a small, rose-like piece of char. Why? Firebrand's cheeks burned with excitement. This was good. The fire had started right on time, and had spread much quicker than he'd anticipated. Probably the books; all that paper would have served as extra fuel. Firebrand winced, then grinned, as thunder pealed from within the blaze. Fire was perfect. When the blaze made its way through a door or wall, from an oxygen-starved envronment to a virgin, oxygen-rich environment, it consumed voraciously, creating a veritable explosion called a backdraft. Firebrand sighed. This was good. The explosion sent something inside—shelves or desks or doors—tumbling, which in turn caused sparks and debris to belch out from the opening in the roof. A single, mostly intact sheet of paper had been blown straight up into the air, and was now lazily drifting back towards the ground. Its corners were gilt with fire, and its surface was entirely blackened. It landed and began to crumble and twist in upon itself. A mare stepped from the darkness. Her features were dark—only a silhouette—against the infernal backdrop of the library. She reached down and, trembling, tried to pick up the charred remnants of the page, only to have it disintegrate under her hoof. At this, she recoiled, and turned to run. For just the briefest of moments, Firebrand could see Icarus' face illuminated by the blaze: her wide, empty, tear-filled eyes, her disheveled mane, her jaw agape, hyperventilating in panic. The burning Firebrand felt was supplanted with an unwonted chill, a mix of pity and regret. He watched as she disappeared into the shadows. He stared at the spot where she had run to for a long while. It had never occurred to him that not hurting anypony was not necessarily the same thing as not burning anypony. One of the building's burning supports fell, crashing through the wall facing the street. This began the process of a total structural collapse in the building, the supports of which, weakened by the heat, were breaking under the increased stress. Normally, Firebrand would be elated at this, the climax of the show. Instead, he felt cold. He regarded the burning, collapsing building for a few moments more, then sulked and turned around, heading deeper into the alleyway. Icarus ran as fast as she could away from the pyre. She had nothing now. She could go home to her father, and face the inevitable storm from talking back to him earlier, and for everything else she's ever done. No. That would be suicide. Nonetheless, Icarus found herself making her way through town towards the slum, and towards her father's mansion. Rather than going inside, she waited across the street, where one of the shanty huts was unoccupied. She had made a habit of hiding here, for numerous reasons (all stemming from her father), so there were some rudimentary accommodations there. She curled up on the small, dirty mattress, and stared listlessly into the unlit interior of the hut's single room for what felt like a few minutes, but in actuality was hours. She cried on and off as her mind wandered, always landing back on the library, the effigy of her happiness up in flames. After a long while, the sun began to rise, and, at about the same time, she heard movement outside. She wearily raised her head and peaked through a hole in the wall, to see the mare from earlier, her father's throwaway partner, come through the gate to the manor, look warily in both directions, and march off down the street. Icarus knew her father well enough to know that he would probably be passed out right now. She cautiously uncurled and exited the small hut, then crossed the street and caught the gate right before it shut and slipped in, pulling it gently to behind her. She slinked across the yard, and cautiously approached the grand double-door. She didn't know why she bothered coming back here; the only thing waiting for her on the other side of that door was her drunk, angry father, who would probably be—all too literally—out for blood once he woke up. In a sense, this was all she had left: her stupid fancy bed, her stupid heavy door, and her measly book collection. She carefully pushed the door open. Her head poked in and scanned the room: the entrance hall was entirely unlit with the exception of rising sunlight shining through the large, round window above the door, casting a spotlight on the main staircase. The scene inside was that of a chaotic aftermath: there were bottles strewn over the ground, mostly empty; a massive shattered plate of stale hors d'oeuvres dominated one quarter of the room; several ponies lay about the room, unconscious. She stepped inside, gingerly stepping over a sprawled-out stallion still clutching a bottle. The door closed harshly behind her, making her jump. She took a moment to calm herself, during which the stallion on the floor stirred, roused by the noise, and attempted to stand up. "Hey baby," he slurred, turning to her, "want some f-huheugh!" His advance was interrupted as he vomited loudly on the carpet, and promptly passed back out. "You're going to clean that up!" shouted a dreadfully familiar voice from the adjacent room. Icarus was crushed with dread. The room, the passed out stallion, the entire world seemed to fade out, save for her and the doorway to the side room. In this, appeared the shadowed silhouette of a stallion, imposing and upset. Icarus shrunk as her father stepped forward. "There you are." he said softly, his sudden calmness unsettling. He lowered his head, leveling eyes with her. She shrunk even further, withering under his gaze. His green smoking jacket was messy and wrinkled; his eyes were bloodshot, and he smelled like liquor. "Where have you been?" he asked gently. "I... I had to go—" He raised one hoof and swung it hard, knocking her to the ground. "I don't care." he said sternly. "Get up." She tried weakly to stand. "You said something to me this morning." His voice was rough and quiet, but seemed almost deafening in the silence of the house. He leaned in even closer. Their faces were inches apart. "Do you remember what it was?" "I-I'm sorry, I—" "No, I don't think that was it," he said, his voice mockingly friendly, as if he were playing an innocent guessing game with a young foal. "Let me give you hint." He raised his hoof again. Icarus ducked under his swing, and began running up the stairs. Her father, still more than a little drunk, was thrown off-balance by his swing, and fell to the ground. "Icarus!" he screamed, blotting out every other sound in the universe. "Get back here!" he said as he clumsily got back on his hooves. Icarus reached the top of the staircase and bolted down the hallway. Her father pursued, taking the stairs two or three steps at a time, bounding after his rebellious daughter with a overwhelming rage. Icarus reached the door to her room and began frantically leaning into it, pushing, trying to make the monolithic slab of wood move. Her father had reached the top of the stairs, and was now moving down the long hallway at a full-on gallop. Spittle and drool were trailing across his face. No emotion could be seen in his eyes other than a white-hot rage which she'd only ever before seen in those of her mother. The door finally budged, only barely enough to allow Icarus through. She kicked it shut behind her, and looked around her room for some way to hinder the approaching madman. Positioned right next to the door was a tall, ornate bookshelf, filled with exquisite expensive books and leather-bound tomes. She positioned herself on the opposite side of this and, with a mighty gulp, leapt up, aided by a flap of her wings, and kicked the bookshelf over, wedging it in place in front of the door. Not even a second later, the door was struck with an immense force from the opposite side, accompanied by a loud bellow: "Icarus!" Thud. Thud. The walls shuddered with each impact, but the crude barricade held strong. Icarus sighed with relief, then turned around and went numb. From her large window overlooking the town, she could now see all of the buildings cast in early-morning sunlight as the city slowly began to wake. Every building except... Near the center of town, where once stood the proud mission building of the library, now stood nothing, save a smoldering black crater. Ponies were swarming all around: some were emergency response ponies, working to control the damage, but most were simply bystanders, come to marvel or mourn at the giant hole that had been torn in their city. Icarus fell back onto her hind legs and sat, staring numbly at the wreckage. What was left? She surveyed her room. A large, luxurious bed. An overturned bookshelf, shuddering periodically under her father's unrelenting advance. A closet full of expensive, never-worn clothes. A small, leather-bound journal. She stood slowly and approached the last item: it lay open on her bed, yesterday's page marked with a slender, purple ribbon. "Yellow coat." she said out loud. "Fiery mane." She allowed herself to collapse forward onto her bed, and began sobbing anew. The bookshelf shuddered again. Her father was screaming on the other side. Icarus turned her head to look at the bookshelf. The impacts were growing stronger and stronger. She turned again, and looked out over the city, pausing on the scar that had been the library. No way out. She shakily picked up the quill laying on her bed, and began to write. Icarus' father was livid. He wound up once again, and rammed the door with his shoulder. It barely budged. "Dammit, whore! You open this door!" he yelled. His shout was answered by the sound of shattering glass on the other side. This unexpected sound redoubled his seething rage, and he once again tackled the door, this time using a running-jump start to bring his whole weight down onto it. The door held fast, but the frame it was set in tore itself loose from the wall, and it collapsed forward into the room. Evidently, Icarus had been barricading herself inside with her bookshelf. Clever, he thought, but now she's made things even more difficult. He began scanning the room for his daughter, but his gaze froze when he beheld the room's single, large window: busted outwards, and the curtains blowing in the wind. He rushed over, not sure whether to be furious or worried. As he reached the window, he stepped in something warm and wet. He glanced down at his hoof to discover that he was standing on a pile of broken glasses, some of which was covered in blood. He peered out of the window and saw the crumpled, still form of a pegasus, draped over the ornate wrought-iron fence. Blood was pooling underneath her, both from the countless lacerations from the shattered glass of the window, and from the three fleur-de-lis shaped spikes perforating her abdomen. "Fuckin' useless." he spat, before turning around and heading back inside. to ashes"I'm home." Firebrand timidly called into the apartment as he pushed the door open and stepped inside. No answer came. His mother usually greeted him, but today she was nowhere to be found. The lights were all off. The fridge was empty. Most of the furniture was missing. The kitchen table, normally clustered with paperwork and files, was, for once, bare. The only thing on it was a small book with a note resting on top of it. Citrus— I know what you did, and I won't stand for it anymore. I try to nurture you and love you and care for you, but this is just too much. You need to change, mister. I turned a blind eye in the past, but this needs to stop. What if you hurt somepony. Have you ever thought about the consequences of your actions? The handwriting was messy and aggravated. She had been shaking as she wrote. There was a large space, and a single line of text at the bottom of the page, written in a much calmer script: This book was on our doorstep, addressed to you. I don't know what it is, and I don't want to know. Firebrand shoved the note aside. She didn't mean it. She couldn't mean it. She had to care for him. He was her son. He grabbed the book–a small, leather-bound tome with gilt pages and a tasteful lavender ribbon serving as a bookmark–and sulked away to his thankfully-untouched room, sat down on the bed and flipped it open. The name on the inside cover was a familiar one, one which sent a small chill down Firebrand's spine: Icarus. He turned to a random page, and began reading. The hell is this? The pages of the book were filled with descriptions of various ponies, with conjectures about there lives and mannerisms. He gently grabbed the ribbon bookmark, and turned to the marked page. Yellow coat and fiery mane. He warned me about the lack of fire alarms in the building. Concerned with fire safety, evidently. Maybe a firepony (in training, given his age). Cutie mark obscured by coat. Front leg in cast. Yeah, that's me, thought Firebrand with a worried smirk. He turned the page. The writing on this page was in shaky, almost illegible script: He did it. He burned it down. I don't know what to do. I'm stuck in here. There's no way out, he's almost here. He'll kill me. The final stroke of this line trailed off, a shaky line slashing across the page. Why not? I don't have anything else. Not anymore. Not anymore. I have my bed, and this journal, and this lovely view of the city from my window. But now I don't want the view. It hurts too much to see the scar. Firebrand raised an eyebrow. None of this made any sense. I guess it's poetic, in the sickest of ways. Poor Icarus, got too close to the flames, and now falls... I have to go now. He's almost through. I'm sorry. Firebrand began laughing uncontrollably. This is all so wrong. I'm fucked up. This is fucked up. He reached across his desk and grabbed a book of matches, striking one and holding it up in front of his face. He tossed it softly, landing it squarely in the middle of the journal. The paper turned black and then white, crumbling and flying away in the flame. The leather binding blackened and began flaking away, and the ribbon curled up and disintegrated. He calmly left the room as the fire began to spread, aggravated by the various chemicals and reagents in his room. He made his way down the stairs out front, laughing as he went. Ponies began screaming as the fire spread to other rooms–most of them were still asleep. He turned briefly, just in time to watch the flames break through the ceiling over his room. Then, he left.
Ever since he was a colt, Firebrand had been enthralled by the flame. The flickering motions, the uncanny crackle…“Firebrand” wasn’t his real name, of course. His mother had taken to calling him such after his mane began growing into its natural colours. The hairs bore a slight translucency, such that the mane closer to his coat appeared a darker shade than that farther out. A colorful mane like his was common among ponies with a mixed heritage; the offspring of a unicorn and an Earth pony, in particular, usually bore one of two phenotypes: a unicorn, with abnormally impotent, but not absent, magical prowess, or an Earth pony more innately in tune with the arcane. The former are almost universally seen as disabled, whereas the latter are highly regarded within Earth pony society, due to their ability to understand and interact with magic as much as most unicorns. His nickname would prove to be more defining than anypony could have hoped, however. When he entered school, it quickly became apparent that he was, most definitely, one to spark conflict among his peers. Much of the first years of a pony's schooling are focused on finding the students' special talents by introducing them to common fields of specialization: music, farming, crafts, and the like. It was on a camping trip that Firebrand found his own special talent. The campmaster had tasked him with starting the campfire, and was in the process of giving him instructions on how to safely do so, when Firebrand brandished a lighter—one of numerous items he'd stolen, more of curiosity than anything else, from his mother—and set the logs ablaze, nearly burning the coat off his fets in the process. The campmaster (after admonishing him and taming the blaze) noticed the newly-formed mark on Firebrand's flank: a roaring, orange and red fireball. "Well, that's... unusual." he had said. The expectation of a cutie mark is that it is something that can practically be incorporated into the workforce, much like the expectation that everypony will eventually get a job and be successful. So a pony with an impractical talent -- such as one for conflagration -- emblazoned on their flank is doomed to either a pathetic life doing menial jobs requiring no special talent, or a life of begging, vagabondry, or crime. With a spark, a flame sputtered to life. Firebrand held his cherished lighter closely, letting the warmth and light keep him company. They were looking for him. He'd already been caught twice trying to start fires unsuccessfully, so once a building actually did burn down, it was natural for the townsfolk to assume he was to blame. He was cowering in his usual hiding place: a rotted-out tree trunk on the edge of the forest. He could hear the search party, shouting after one another to find the vandalous arsonist. He wasn't worried, however; it was raining heavily, so his scent and sound should be pretty well masked from the pursuers. He only had to wait until— "There! I see a fire!" cried a voice from nearby. Shit. He snapped the lighter shut, pulled up his hood, and stepped out into the rain. He wore this light, hooded poncho nearly round-the-clock, to help conceal his rather conspicuous cutie mark and flamboyant mane—that it helped fend off the rain was just a happy side-effect. A flashlight beam fell onto him. "There! After him!" Shit shit shit. He continued running, afraid to look back. He could hear hounds baying and ponies shouting from somewhere behind him, slowly gaining on him. Firebrand dared to look up and saw a light in the distance, barely visible through the sprawling foliage: a house? Maybe they'd help him: he could just bang on the door, and act panicked, and tell them that— THWACK. The arsonist's train of thought was extinguished as his leg slammed into a fallen log, sending him sprawling into the mud and causing a searing pain to burn through his leg. Now is not the time to be scheming, he thought as he tried to stand up, only for his injured leg to give out under his weight. He fell again into the mud and sighed in defeat. "Kid," said the same voice from before—coming from a nondescript brown earth stallion, looking sternly down at him—"you are in a whole world of trouble. Get up." Firebrand looked up at the larger pony and grinned defiantly. "I can't sir." he said, wincing as he waved his wounded hoof. "My leg's broke." He wasn't sure if it was actually broken, but anything less than that would likely fall through as an excuse. "Well, shoot." said the stallion, as he beckoned to two other ponies from the search party, just now catching up to him, to carry the wounded colt. "How 'bout this: we'll take you back to the mayor's office, and the two of you can have a nice, long chat." "How about a hospital?" suggested the yellow colt, grinning-then-wincing again as the one of the other two ponies hoisted him onto the other's back. “So...” started the mayor, an earth pony mare the color of dead grass. “...you like to start fires?” “Yes’m, that’s me. Says so right here on my butt.” responded the cocky firebug, leaning back casually in the cushioned chair, “just in case the fire-instead-of-hair and the singed fets didn’t tip you off.” "Yes, I'd noticed." the official said, leaning forward and steepling her hooves. She wore a pair of round, thin-framed glasses with thick lenses that magnified her small, pale-green irises, which seemed to be projecting spikes of solid ice as she stared at him. "I think it goes without saying that we're going to be keeping an eye on you." As she said this, she tilted her head forwards and the glasses fell slightly to the tip of her muzzle, and she continued to glare over them, her gaze almost palpable through her pinpoint irises. Interesting choice of words, thought Firebrand. I wonder if her cutie mark has to do with eyes. "So, as long as I've got you here, Citrus, I wanted to—" She was cut off as Firebrand leaned forward, suddenly and aggressively, slamming his uninjured front hoof against the official's desk, causing her to flinch. "Don't call me that." His features were dead-set and serious. His voice was sober and enunciated. The mayor leaned back slowly, slack-jawed and stunned. "Yes. Yes... is... how about 'Mr. Spark?' " Firebrand grunted, and then leaned back, crossing his arms. She's not about to call me Firebrand, of course, but I'll burn myself alive before I let anyone call me by that damn name. "Okay, Mr. Spark..." she began again after gathering herself. "I'd like to ask you about a few recent fires around town." Firebrand sighed. "Am I being detained?" he asked. "What?" "Am I being detained?" he repeated. "Am I free to go?" "I—this isn't a police station." said the mayor, placing her face into one of her hooves. "You're not under oath or anything. This is just off the record." "In that case..." said Firebrand, standing up and grabbing the crutch that was leaning against the back of his chair, before turning to exit the room. "...no comment." "I'm home." said Firebrand as he pushed his way into the small, crowded apartment. His mother likely didn't even know that he'd left, but it was still common courtesy to announce his arrival. "Welcome back." called a voice from the other room. "Hopefully you didn't get into too much trouble. I'd hate if—" the voice cut off as its owner turned the corner and saw Firebrand with one arm in a cast, learning against a crutch. "What happened?!" Firebrand chuckled and rubbed the back of his head with his uninjured hoof. "I tripped." His mother's face went from a look of shock to one of bemused distrust, the sort of which a teacher gives a student when told that the dog ate their homework. She was a short, golden mare, with a small horn poking out from just below the crown of her deep red mane. Her cutie mark was an orange with a straw stuck in it, an unusual and slightly baffling mark, which signified her talent was making orange juice, a rather narrow and inapplicable talent which lead to her constantly jumping from job to unimportant job while waiting for the position of "juice mogul" to open up. "I wish you'd be more careful." she admonished half-heartedly. "I'd hate to see you end up in the hospital some day." "I was just in the hospital." said Firebrand, hoisting his casted arm. "That's where I got this." His mother smirked. "Anyway, I'm about to start cooking. I'll let you know when something's ready." "A'ight." said Firebrand, turning down the short hallway and into his room. The room was small and dark. The walls were decorated with posters of all different kinds—bands, events, art, propaganda, all hung haphazardly and crooked. Most of the floor space was dominated by either the short, unmade bed, or the messy desk, which was covered in scraps of metal and wood, various tools, jars and tubes, and pocked with scorch marks. He leaned the crutch against the wall and emptied the contents of his pockets—a couple of bits, a small multi-tool, and his ever-at-hoof lighter—before shrugging off his poncho, tossing it onto the floor, sitting down behind the desk, and picking up the book—Metamorphorses? some old fairy tale compendium—that was currently at the center of the workspace. He flipped it open to about halfway, and was greeted with a hollow, lined cavity carved out of the pages of the first half of the massive book. Inside of this hollow was a dense coil of insulated string, at the center of which was a small brown packet, currently empty. Firebrand closed the book, set it aside, and prepared a metal tray with a short length of the same cord on top leading into a pile of yellow-white powder. Firebrand lifted a pair of goggles off of the wall and covered his eyes. He lit the end of the string, and the inner strands began to burn, the outer layer containing nearly all smoke and vapor as the flame made its way down the line and towards the powder. The powder was a mixture that Firebrand had been trying to fine-tune for a while now. High-heat, low smoke, more of a fizzle than a bang... The powder disappeared in a bright flash of white light, making harsh hissing sounds, and lingering for about a second, casting off several hot sparks before fading away and leaving only the tiniest wisp of acrid white smoke. Perfect. After cracking open the single, small window situated above his bed, Firebrand grabbed a vial full of the same yellow-white powder from the shelf above his desk, poured a measured portion of it into a small spoon, and dumped this into the waiting packet inside the book, which he then sealed before shutting the book and setting it aside. "Firebrand!" called his mother. "Dinner's ready!" He got up and proceeded out into the main room of the apartment—living room, dining room, and kitchen, all rolled into one. The small, square table there was stacked high with paperwork and books and ledgers from no fewer than half a dozen different companies that had offered his mother employment. A quarter of the table was cleared off, and in front of the two seats that this left uncovered were now set a steaming plate each of some kind of grilled vegetables. His mother was seated at one, already quietly eating, and Firebrand sat at the other and began to dig in wordlessly. The food was bland, but it was food. He was practically starving after the rather eventful day he'd had. Firebrand finished his meal quickly. As he stood up to put away his plate, his mother spoke up: "Don't forget to return that library book tomorrow."
The concept of being "cleansed" by fire is ancient, but it is foolish. Fire does not cleanse, but instead leaves charred, blackened ruination in its wake.Firebrand entered the library and headed to the front counter. "I'd like to return a book." The mare behind the counter responded tiredly, hardly looking from the magazine she was reading. "Just drop it in that slot over there." "Okay." He walked over to the slot and reached into his saddlebag. He made a point to rummage around in it for a moment, as if the gargantuan tome could be hidden under a scrap of paper, and then withdrew and shrugged grandly, looking at the librarian with a timid grin. She rolled her eyes. "Just bring it tomorrow." "Will do!" he said, and then scampered off among the shelves. He wanted to spend some time here, to familiarize himself, in order to ensure that there weren't any bottlenecks or isolated areas where a pony would be likely to be hurt in case of a fire. Nobody wanted that. Also, knowing the layout of a place made it all the better to watch it going up in flames. Icarus entered the library, nodding to the librarian as she passed by. She picked out a couple of books, mostly at random—a romance, a war thriller, and something about birds—and took her usual seat in the corner. It was quiet here. She liked that. She could just sit and read and the whole world would go on by without her. It was magical. She grabbed the top book off of the stack—The Destriers— and opened it to the first page. This one had been made into a movie, and she wouldn't mind going to see it, but she always liked to read the book first. It was about a small troop of highly-trained soldiers who were sent behind enemy lines to terrorize and demoralize them. It was bound to be bloody, violent, and full of drama and tension. Not her usual fare, but sometimes an adrenaline-pumping book like this was just what the doctor ordered, so to speak. The novel opened with a dire-looking in medias res action sequence that was equally off-putting and enticing. It was brutal, but mystifying. Just who were these mysterious masked soldiers, and how did they know where the Destriers' camp was? The squad was in serious trouble, surrounded on all sides by troops attacking them in the middle of the night, when suddenly, Bolt, the brave, young, new recruit, charges the brunt of the enemy formation with a live grenade in his jaw, and then— "Howdy, miss." said somepony just in front of her. She jumped, abruptly ripped from the violent reverie the book had cast her into. She peeked timidly over the cover, and beheld a light yellow stallion—probably about her age, maybe a year or two younger—with multicolored, orange-red hair which looked like fire. He was wearing a light brown robe or cloak or something which obscured most of his body and his cutie mark. "Are you aware that this building is not equipped with a fire alarm?" he asked. "I…" she stumbled, hiding behind her book and avoiding eye contact with the intruding stallion. "No. I didn’t know that." "If there were to be a fire, you probably wouldn’t know about it until it was too late." What the heck? "Thanks... for the concern." she said, and then ducked back behind her book, willing the strange colt away. Instead, he reached into the saddlebag hiding under his coat, produced a book, sat down at a nearby table and began to read. Icarus tried to return to her book, but found herself distracted by this new presence. She constantly found herself reading lines multiple times, and eventually realized that she had progressed several dozen pages without even taking in more than a few sparse details of the plot. She was too busy thinking about that small, slightly ominous quip that the stranger had made. A fire? Why would there be a fire? Icarus looked up at him, sitting there in the chair and reading. He glanced up and met eyes with her, causing her to flinch, fearing that he might have taken the eye contact as an invitation to flirt, but he only bobbed his head once, acknowledging her presence, then went back to his book. She returned to her book, continuing to half-read it for another ten or fifteen minutes, before she shut it and placed it back on the stack of books next to her, and retrieved from her own saddlebag a small leather-bound journal with gilt-edged pages and a pen. She had waited so that the fiery-looking pony sitting across from her wouldn't think that she was writing about him. She was cursed, it seemed, with an exaggerated awareness of her effects on other ponies' lives, and she always calibrated even the most inconsequential of movements like these so to be inconspicuous, regardless of whether inconspicuousness was a consequential or even desirable thing to have. Icarus began writing in her diary, writing about this stranger she saw today, who seemed unduly obsessed with fire safety. She wrote in her diary every day, but she spent most of her time sitting right there in the library, so there wasn't much to write about except for all the different ponies she saw come and go each day. Thus, her diary had become a sort of catalogue of strangers. She described them physically, how they moved, what they read. She had spoken to some of them, and others not. She tried to figure out as much about these strangers as she could just by writing about them and seeing what turned up. It probably wasn't accurate, but she didn't care. It was an exercise of sorts, to help her create believable characters. According to her cutie mark, she was a writer but, since that single book of heartfelt poetry so many years ago, she hadn't felt the same spark in her pen. She tried, though, and tried, and always ran into trouble of some sort. She was now on her third draft of the same book she'd been working on for five years, and she had only recently learned that she didn't how to create believable, consistent characters. And so, she had begun writing these fictional biographies of strangers she'd seen, trying to profile them as best she could. Yellow coat and fiery mane, she wrote. He warned me about the lack of fire alarms in the building. Concerned with fire safety, evidently. Maybe a firepony (in training, given his age). Cutie mark obscured by coat. She penned a few more lines, and then shut the book. She put it, along with the three other books she had picked out, into her saddlebag, and then headed towards the front entrance. Class tomorrow. Gotta be home soon, or Dad'll be mad. Firebrand watched the mare go, thankfully not making eye contact this time. After the start he had given her, he could practically feel the timidity radiating off of her. She had abandoned her reading after about ten minutes to begin writing something, a habit pointed out by her cutie mark, a book which lay open with a quill resting across it. She was a pegasus, with a stunning deep purple mane which stood out against her drab blue-gray coat like flowers blooming through ashes. He looked at the clock. It was getting a little bit late. He closed the book he'd been kind-of reading for the last half hour, and left it on the table. He slowly made his way to the exit, careful not to show up too hot on the mare's tail. He nodded to the librarian as he passed by the front desk, and she rolled her eyes in response. He slipped out, and made his way down the slightly-frozen road towards the cheap apartment complex he called home. His mother wasn't home—she had an interview for something or other to go to today—, so he retreated quietly to his room, hung his bag on the wall, and laid on the bed. He just wanted to go to sleep now, to wake up tomorrow and be one step closer to his magnum opus of arson. Icarus ducked and weaved through alleys as she progressed, moving towards the veritable manor her parents owned in the midst of the slums. It was easily among the largest buildings in town, dwarfing the dilapidated shacks that surrounded it in both height and width. It was surrounded by a tall wrought-iron fence with ominous barbed tips, to dissuade intruders. It looked palatial in comparison to the squalid huts it stood over. Her family had repeatedly come under fire from their neighbors for perceived greed, which was not entirely untrue. Her father was, as it were, quite prudish, and simply detested those he viewed as lower than him, namely the poor. Icarus stood outside the fence, staring up the at the towering turrets and ostensible battlements. She felt kind of guilty for living in a place like this in the middle of a such a poor area, but there wasn't anything she could do about it. She sighed and pushed through the gate, locking it behind her before turning to begin advancing up the considerable staircase to the front door. As she reached up to open the door, it was pulled open from the inside. There, her father stood waiting, tapping a hoof impatiently. He was wearing his iconic dark green smoking jacket, which clashed awkwardly with his mild lavender coat and mane. As soon as their gazes met, he spoke, his eyes narrowed. "The library again?" Icarus gulped and nodded. He huffed. "Do you have any idea what time it is?" She hadn't stayed out any later than she usually did, but that didn't matter to him. "I don't want to see you outside of your room for the rest of the night, got that?" "Yes, sir." she muttered, hanging her head. Her father stood aside, ushering her in whilst pointedly not looking her way. She made her way up one of the large stairways in the fairly grand entrance hall, and down the left-side hallway to an elegant, solid wood door that stood out from the decor of the rest of the hallway. Her mother had destroyed the previous door in a fit of rage against her for what turned out to be a misunderstanding regarding a colt Icarus had met at school and, as recompense to her daughter, had replaced it with this massive, hoof-carved slab of exotic wood. Icarus didn't like it, though. It was too heavy, and swelled and shrank with the seasons, so it tended to get stuck in its frame. She switched the side that her bookbag hung from, and leaned hard against the door. It creaked and lurched a small amount, and then worked loose, swinging open violently and slamming the wall. It took an equal amount of effort for her to close the door, forcing it to fit back into its frame and eliciting a subtle shriek of protest from its wooden supports. For the time being, it seemed she had dodged a bullet. It wouldn't be a shock, however, if her father came up to her room later to yell at her some , or even to hit her, though he hadn't done that since mother left. She shuddered, threw her bookbag onto the bed, and then threw herself down right next to it, her wings splaying to either side as she faced the ceiling and sighed deeply. This is what she came home to everyday. Angst and uncertainty, abuse and neglect. Her father was an esteemed inventor and socialite, but within the walls of their home, he was terrible. He drank round-the-clock, and was prone to fits of rage at the slightest trigger. The servants always startled whenever he demanded anything of them, and would work franticly to avoid displeasing him. Despite his high status, he wasn't above simply striking whomsoever upset him. Icarus had overheard rumors that her parents' first meetings were less than cordial, and that her own birth had been under circumstances that were shady at best and statutory at worst. And her mother... Icarus didn't have to worry about her anymore. After Icarus' birth, she had become detached: at first, she would slip in and out of fugue states, wandering around the estate for hours at a time, not speaking. By the time Icarus was going to school, her mother was experiencing severe delusions. It was only in the last year that things had reached a head, when she slashed one of the servants whom she'd mistaken for Icarus' father. She'd been committed then, and her condition seemed to only be worsening. Icarus rolled onto her side and stared wistfully out of the large window next to her bed. The sun was on its way down, casting the tenements below in elongated shadows. The small town's skyline was dominated by her one sanctuary: the town library, a large, palatial building that had once been a mission, and now served as the primary landmark for the town founded around it. Nearly every day, she would go there and spend hours, getting lost in whatever she pulled off the shelves, exploring other worlds, learning new things and, most importantly, hiding from her father. The librarians all knew about her situation, and so wouldn't let her father within fifty feet of the entrance. In the library, she was safe and, sometimes, maybe even happy. Firebrand awoke groggily as the light from the sun fell over his face. He knew from experience that this meant it was around noon. He rolled out of the bed and lurched over to the desk. There, the large book lay open, inside of which lay the dense coil of fuse and the hoof-sized packet of powder. The fuse was of a special type, featuring an outer layer of dense insulative material, resistant to significant amounts of heat, and a core of braided strings soaked in various chemicals which burned agonizingly slowly. The huge bundle inside of the book—a thousand feet, give or take—would take a little over twelve hours to reach its end. He grabbed his trusty lighter and gingerly held the flame to the exposed wick at the end of the fuse. The flame took, and he gently shut the book and slipped it into his saddlebag, threw on his coat, then slipped out the door. His mother sat at the counter, perusing an employee handbook. She looked up when he exited his room. "Just where do you think you're going?" she interrogated. "Going to the library again." he said, moving towards the door. She grinned as though she had him cornered. "You didn't forget to return your book, did you?" Firebrand tried to act offended. "What? Me? Of course not! I just want to... read some things..." His mother's face changed at once from a smirk into a sober, almost sad-looking expression. "Just... don't get into too much trouble, okay? I..." she sighed heavily. "I worry about you, Citrus. Some of the things you do... I just don't know what to make of them." Firebrand stood at the door, stunned. His mother was usually as sarcastic and happy-go-lucky as he was, so to see her so serious, frankly, scared him. She looked down at her book for a long while, then looked up at him. "Don't let me keep you." she said, waving him off. "I... okay." he stuttered as he pulled the door open behind him and slipped outside. He walked slowly down the stairs to the ground floor, hanging his head. Did she know? She didn't come in his room, of that much he was sure, but she seemed to know something. And why had she called him Citrus? She knew that wasn't okay. He shook his head, clearing his mind as she pushed open the gate and made his way out into the alley behind the building, which connected to one of the main roads of the town. The library was only a few blocks away from his home, so the walk didn't take very long at all. He stepped into the library, up to the counter, and produced the large book from his saddlebag. "Got it." he said, placing it gently on the counter. He looked on nervously as the librarian turned the book over and opened the front cover. She stamped the card inside, then set the book aside and looked up at Firebrand. "Three bits." she said. Firebrand let out an emphatically relieved sigh. "I thought it would be more." he explained as he reached into his pocket and produced the money. He then turned around and ventured off into the library proper. He made the same sweep as before, checking the side room and halls for bottlenecks and throttle points. Nothing had changed from the previous day, of course, but he wanted to re-evaluate. It was a less than ideal situation. He didn't want anypony to get hurt. He just wanted to see some fire. And again, in the same tucked-away corner as before, he found the bookworm pegasus, whittling away at a stack of books. She looked up as he came out of one of the aisles. "Here to warn me about fire again?" she asked with a smirk. "Nah. Just... readin'." He grabbed a book off the shelf at random and sat down in the same spot as before. She retreated into her book, and he into his, for at least an hour. He glanced up once or twice, and caught her doing the same at least once. It was obvious to Firebrand that his presence was making her uncomfortable, but he wanted to stick around. "I don't think I got your name." he said, breaking the awkward silence and causing her to jump, dropping her book on the ground. She reflexively dropped down to grab for it, then looked up, blushing sheepishly. "Icarus." she said. "Ah. Like—" "Like the story, yes." She smiled warmly and retrieved her book, retook her position on the seat, and attempted to dive back into her reading. "I just read that story, actually." said Firebrand. "I think old Grequine myths are neat." "Really?" She looked up from her book. She must have had him pegged for a non-reader, which was not necessarily false; he had read the tale while hollowing out the pages of the large tome it was contained in, a painstaking process that took him several weeks. "I don't like my name, actually. I think it's... ominous." "Eh, I've got it worse. My name's Firebrand, of all things." "Really?" "Well, just a nickname. You see..." The two conversed on and off for hours, bouncing off mutual interests, daily life, and sundry, disconnected subjects. Finally, the librarian came around and told them that the library would be closing soon. As the pair gathered their belongings in preparation to leave, Firebrand turned to Icarus and said bluntly: "I like you." This prompted Icarus to freeze in place, tuck her head against her breast, and turn red-hot. "Really?" "Yeah. I don't get to talk to too many ponies. You're nice." The library was dark. Everpony had left. In the back, on a shelf, sat a large tome, The Metamorphorses by Hoofid. Between its hollowed-out pages, a long, slow-burning fuse neared the end of its considerable length. At the end of this fuse was a large wax-paper packet densely packed with a yellow-white powder. As the fuse reached this, the entire packet conflagrated in less than a second, blowing a small hole through the back of the book with a diminutive belch of flame. The hole began to grow larger as the fire within the hollowed-out book was fed oxygen, and soon the entire book was engulfed in flame. The fire quickly spread to the wooden shelf and to the adjacent books, and from there grew tall enough to reach the ceiling. By now, there was a telltale orange glow visible from the windows, which was already starting to grow brighter, both in color and intensity. From an alley across the street, a bright yellow stallion looked on.
Of Solace in FlamesIcarus yawned and squinted her eyes in the dim, orange light. The window in her room faced the east, so she was used to being awoken by the sunrise. It was deceptively pleasant, to lay in the sun and do nothing while everypony else was still asleep, waiting for day proper to begin. She rolled over to face the window, and opened her eyes to survey the town in its golden hour. Instead of the warmth of the sun she was accustomed to, however, she was immediately impaled on a great icy spear as she saw, across the sea of moonlit shanties, the grand mission building, her one and only sanctuary, engulfed in flames. She immediately leapt from bed and shoved through the massive wooden door of her room, out into the hallway, and down the main staircase. In a small parlour next to the entrance hall, her father sat in a large, expensive chair, surrounded by discarded bottles of alcohol, and with an unfamiliar mare sitting on his lap, doing unspeakable things to one another. As soon as Icarus reached the bottom of the staircase, her father looked up. "Icarus? What the hell?!" he shouted, pushing the mare off of him. "Shut up!" shouted Icarus in response. There'd be heck to pay for talking back to him, but she didn't care right now. "Why you..." he said, standing up and knocking his escort to the floor. He began to step forward, but Icarus was already out the door. She dashed through the slum, where ponies were just beginning to rouse and clamor about the blaze. She passed the edge of that district and entered into the town center, where the monumental library building stood. Had stood. Icarus staggered to a halt, a tempest of emotions raging inside her as she beheld the burning remains. Most of the structure was still standing, but it was well beyond rescue at this point. Flames poured out of the shattered windows. Most of the roof had fallen in, allowing the stories-high flames to reach freely into the sky and illuminate the night. How? As she watched, something inside shifted and fell, sending a geyser of embers and dust into the air. A few feet in front of her, a sheet of paper landed, its edges aglow as it audibly crackled and began curling up into itself, soon leaving only a small, rose-like piece of char. Why? Firebrand's cheeks burned with excitement. This was good. The fire had started right on time, and had spread much quicker than he'd anticipated. Probably the books; all that paper would have served as extra fuel. Firebrand winced, then grinned, as thunder pealed from within the blaze. Fire was perfect. When the blaze made its way through a door or wall, from an oxygen-starved envronment to a virgin, oxygen-rich environment, it consumed voraciously, creating a veritable explosion called a backdraft. Firebrand sighed. This was good. The explosion sent something inside—shelves or desks or doors—tumbling, which in turn caused sparks and debris to belch out from the opening in the roof. A single, mostly intact sheet of paper had been blown straight up into the air, and was now lazily drifting back towards the ground. Its corners were gilt with fire, and its surface was entirely blackened. It landed and began to crumble and twist in upon itself. A mare stepped from the darkness. Her features were dark—only a silhouette—against the infernal backdrop of the library. She reached down and, trembling, tried to pick up the charred remnants of the page, only to have it disintegrate under her hoof. At this, she recoiled, and turned to run. For just the briefest of moments, Firebrand could see Icarus' face illuminated by the blaze: her wide, empty, tear-filled eyes, her disheveled mane, her jaw agape, hyperventilating in panic. The burning Firebrand felt was supplanted with an unwonted chill, a mix of pity and regret. He watched as she disappeared into the shadows. He stared at the spot where she had run to for a long while. It had never occurred to him that not hurting anypony was not necessarily the same thing as not burning anypony. One of the building's burning supports fell, crashing through the wall facing the street. This began the process of a total structural collapse in the building, the supports of which, weakened by the heat, were breaking under the increased stress. Normally, Firebrand would be elated at this, the climax of the show. Instead, he felt cold. He regarded the burning, collapsing building for a few moments more, then sulked and turned around, heading deeper into the alleyway. Icarus ran as fast as she could away from the pyre. She had nothing now. She could go home to her father, and face the inevitable storm from talking back to him earlier, and for everything else she's ever done. No. That would be suicide. Nonetheless, Icarus found herself making her way through town towards the slum, and towards her father's mansion. Rather than going inside, she waited across the street, where one of the shanty huts was unoccupied. She had made a habit of hiding here, for numerous reasons (all stemming from her father), so there were some rudimentary accommodations there. She curled up on the small, dirty mattress, and stared listlessly into the unlit interior of the hut's single room for what felt like a few minutes, but in actuality was hours. She cried on and off as her mind wandered, always landing back on the library, the effigy of her happiness up in flames. After a long while, the sun began to rise, and, at about the same time, she heard movement outside. She wearily raised her head and peaked through a hole in the wall, to see the mare from earlier, her father's throwaway partner, come through the gate to the manor, look warily in both directions, and march off down the street. Icarus knew her father well enough to know that he would probably be passed out right now. She cautiously uncurled and exited the small hut, then crossed the street and caught the gate right before it shut and slipped in, pulling it gently to behind her. She slinked across the yard, and cautiously approached the grand double-door. She didn't know why she bothered coming back here; the only thing waiting for her on the other side of that door was her drunk, angry father, who would probably be—all too literally—out for blood once he woke up. In a sense, this was all she had left: her stupid fancy bed, her stupid heavy door, and her measly book collection. She carefully pushed the door open. Her head poked in and scanned the room: the entrance hall was entirely unlit with the exception of rising sunlight shining through the large, round window above the door, casting a spotlight on the main staircase. The scene inside was that of a chaotic aftermath: there were bottles strewn over the ground, mostly empty; a massive shattered plate of stale hors d'oeuvres dominated one quarter of the room; several ponies lay about the room, unconscious. She stepped inside, gingerly stepping over a sprawled-out stallion still clutching a bottle. The door closed harshly behind her, making her jump. She took a moment to calm herself, during which the stallion on the floor stirred, roused by the noise, and attempted to stand up. "Hey baby," he slurred, turning to her, "want some f-huheugh!" His advance was interrupted as he vomited loudly on the carpet, and promptly passed back out. "You're going to clean that up!" shouted a dreadfully familiar voice from the adjacent room. Icarus was crushed with dread. The room, the passed out stallion, the entire world seemed to fade out, save for her and the doorway to the side room. In this, appeared the shadowed silhouette of a stallion, imposing and upset. Icarus shrunk as her father stepped forward. "There you are." he said softly, his sudden calmness unsettling. He lowered his head, leveling eyes with her. She shrunk even further, withering under his gaze. His green smoking jacket was messy and wrinkled; his eyes were bloodshot, and he smelled like liquor. "Where have you been?" he asked gently. "I... I had to go—" He raised one hoof and swung it hard, knocking her to the ground. "I don't care." he said sternly. "Get up." She tried weakly to stand. "You said something to me this morning." His voice was rough and quiet, but seemed almost deafening in the silence of the house. He leaned in even closer. Their faces were inches apart. "Do you remember what it was?" "I-I'm sorry, I—" "No, I don't think that was it," he said, his voice mockingly friendly, as if he were playing an innocent guessing game with a young foal. "Let me give you hint." He raised his hoof again. Icarus ducked under his swing, and began running up the stairs. Her father, still more than a little drunk, was thrown off-balance by his swing, and fell to the ground. "Icarus!" he screamed, blotting out every other sound in the universe. "Get back here!" he said as he clumsily got back on his hooves. Icarus reached the top of the staircase and bolted down the hallway. Her father pursued, taking the stairs two or three steps at a time, bounding after his rebellious daughter with a overwhelming rage. Icarus reached the door to her room and began frantically leaning into it, pushing, trying to make the monolithic slab of wood move. Her father had reached the top of the stairs, and was now moving down the long hallway at a full-on gallop. Spittle and drool were trailing across his face. No emotion could be seen in his eyes other than a white-hot rage which she'd only ever before seen in those of her mother. The door finally budged, only barely enough to allow Icarus through. She kicked it shut behind her, and looked around her room for some way to hinder the approaching madman. Positioned right next to the door was a tall, ornate bookshelf, filled with exquisite expensive books and leather-bound tomes. She positioned herself on the opposite side of this and, with a mighty gulp, leapt up, aided by a flap of her wings, and kicked the bookshelf over, wedging it in place in front of the door. Not even a second later, the door was struck with an immense force from the opposite side, accompanied by a loud bellow: "Icarus!" Thud. Thud. The walls shuddered with each impact, but the crude barricade held strong. Icarus sighed with relief, then turned around and went numb. From her large window overlooking the town, she could now see all of the buildings cast in early-morning sunlight as the city slowly began to wake. Every building except... Near the center of town, where once stood the proud mission building of the library, now stood nothing, save a smoldering black crater. Ponies were swarming all around: some were emergency response ponies, working to control the damage, but most were simply bystanders, come to marvel or mourn at the giant hole that had been torn in their city. Icarus fell back onto her hind legs and sat, staring numbly at the wreckage. What was left? She surveyed her room. A large, luxurious bed. An overturned bookshelf, shuddering periodically under her father's unrelenting advance. A closet full of expensive, never-worn clothes. A small, leather-bound journal. She stood slowly and approached the last item: it lay open on her bed, yesterday's page marked with a slender, purple ribbon. "Yellow coat." she said out loud. "Fiery mane." She allowed herself to collapse forward onto her bed, and began sobbing anew. The bookshelf shuddered again. Her father was screaming on the other side. Icarus turned her head to look at the bookshelf. The impacts were growing stronger and stronger. She turned again, and looked out over the city, pausing on the scar that had been the library. No way out. She shakily picked up the quill laying on her bed, and began to write. Icarus' father was livid. He wound up once again, and rammed the door with his shoulder. It barely budged. "Dammit, whore! You open this door!" he yelled. His shout was answered by the sound of shattering glass on the other side. This unexpected sound redoubled his seething rage, and he once again tackled the door, this time using a running-jump start to bring his whole weight down onto it. The door held fast, but the frame it was set in tore itself loose from the wall, and it collapsed forward into the room. Evidently, Icarus had been barricading herself inside with her bookshelf. Clever, he thought, but now she's made things even more difficult. He began scanning the room for his daughter, but his gaze froze when he beheld the room's single, large window: busted outwards, and the curtains blowing in the wind. He rushed over, not sure whether to be furious or worried. As he reached the window, he stepped in something warm and wet. He glanced down at his hoof to discover that he was standing on a pile of broken glasses, some of which was covered in blood. He peered out of the window and saw the crumpled, still form of a pegasus, draped over the ornate wrought-iron fence. Blood was pooling underneath her, both from the countless lacerations from the shattered glass of the window, and from the three fleur-de-lis shaped spikes perforating her abdomen. "Fuckin' useless." he spat, before turning around and heading back inside.
to ashes"I'm home." Firebrand timidly called into the apartment as he pushed the door open and stepped inside. No answer came. His mother usually greeted him, but today she was nowhere to be found. The lights were all off. The fridge was empty. Most of the furniture was missing. The kitchen table, normally clustered with paperwork and files, was, for once, bare. The only thing on it was a small book with a note resting on top of it. Citrus— I know what you did, and I won't stand for it anymore. I try to nurture you and love you and care for you, but this is just too much. You need to change, mister. I turned a blind eye in the past, but this needs to stop. What if you hurt somepony. Have you ever thought about the consequences of your actions? The handwriting was messy and aggravated. She had been shaking as she wrote. There was a large space, and a single line of text at the bottom of the page, written in a much calmer script: This book was on our doorstep, addressed to you. I don't know what it is, and I don't want to know. Firebrand shoved the note aside. She didn't mean it. She couldn't mean it. She had to care for him. He was her son. He grabbed the book–a small, leather-bound tome with gilt pages and a tasteful lavender ribbon serving as a bookmark–and sulked away to his thankfully-untouched room, sat down on the bed and flipped it open. The name on the inside cover was a familiar one, one which sent a small chill down Firebrand's spine: Icarus. He turned to a random page, and began reading. The hell is this? The pages of the book were filled with descriptions of various ponies, with conjectures about there lives and mannerisms. He gently grabbed the ribbon bookmark, and turned to the marked page. Yellow coat and fiery mane. He warned me about the lack of fire alarms in the building. Concerned with fire safety, evidently. Maybe a firepony (in training, given his age). Cutie mark obscured by coat. Front leg in cast. Yeah, that's me, thought Firebrand with a worried smirk. He turned the page. The writing on this page was in shaky, almost illegible script: He did it. He burned it down. I don't know what to do. I'm stuck in here. There's no way out, he's almost here. He'll kill me. The final stroke of this line trailed off, a shaky line slashing across the page. Why not? I don't have anything else. Not anymore. Not anymore. I have my bed, and this journal, and this lovely view of the city from my window. But now I don't want the view. It hurts too much to see the scar. Firebrand raised an eyebrow. None of this made any sense. I guess it's poetic, in the sickest of ways. Poor Icarus, got too close to the flames, and now falls... I have to go now. He's almost through. I'm sorry. Firebrand began laughing uncontrollably. This is all so wrong. I'm fucked up. This is fucked up. He reached across his desk and grabbed a book of matches, striking one and holding it up in front of his face. He tossed it softly, landing it squarely in the middle of the journal. The paper turned black and then white, crumbling and flying away in the flame. The leather binding blackened and began flaking away, and the ribbon curled up and disintegrated. He calmly left the room as the fire began to spread, aggravated by the various chemicals and reagents in his room. He made his way down the stairs out front, laughing as he went. Ponies began screaming as the fire spread to other rooms–most of them were still asleep. He turned briefly, just in time to watch the flames break through the ceiling over his room. Then, he left.
