Work Text:
You think this is a fairy tale.
You've heard the rumors about your brother. Changeling. The accusation follows him, whispered as the two of you shop for groceries. He looks nothing like Father. You think he looks a bit like Mother, but you've only seen photographs of her. Still, your brother has the same somber eyes. You have her narrow face and pointed chin and Father's dark hair and broad shoulders.
Sometimes, you wonder if it was your shoulders that killed Mother. You'd been a large baby from what little you've overheard. The neighbors rarely talk about you. Most of their talk is about your brother.
Changeling.
In the spring, cicadas come out of season and swarm around him, glinting metallic green and blue in the sun. You've never seen that before. Your brother acts as if he has, but surely he'd have told you. Unless it's a secret.
You do like discovering secrets.
So you follow him. He heads back through the fields. They're freshly tilled, and the earthy scent is heady. More and more dragonflies swirl around your brother, enough that he's nothing more than a blurry silhouette.
And then he's gone. The drone of the insects sounds like run, run, run. So you do.
Summer makes you brave. The cicadas say, come, come, come, so you feel safe following your brother through the fields again. The barbed wire rips your jeans when you shimmy under the fence around the old farmhouse. You'll have to patch them before Father notices. Neither you nor your brother are supposed to go to the old farm.
Your brother is waiting for you. "You want to see." He says it like you already know his secret.
A trickle of sweat slides down your cheek. For a moment, the sticky summer heat dissipates and the cicada song stills. You nod.
You still think this is a fairy tale.
There are secrets in the earth. Your brother's, and now yours. You pick at the dirt caked under your fingernails. The first fireflies of the evening blink down near the creek. You're too old to go catch them, but it's better than going inside.
Father has never been affectionate, but since your brother started to fill out, Father seems to hate him. The neighbors still talk about your brother. You wonder why none of them whisper about how much he looks like the deacon.
You wonder why you've noticed. It's more exciting to imagine your brother's teaching you fairy magic.
The rumors about your brother shift now that you're older. Now there's a maiden the changeling will steal away for his real mother. You, except you're no beauty.
You're no beauty, but your brother smiles at you the same way he does at the orchids. The secret ones the two of you tend together. You're still not supposed to visit the old farm, but Father's not noticing much these days. You and your brother come and go as you please.
"I wouldn't mind being one of you," you confess one of the rare days you're alone. "Hidden away and protected."
Your brother makes the same confession. You're not entirely certain he didn't intend for you to overhear. Your eavesdropping is no secret to him, after all. He says it's your one flaw.
He makes other confessions. Some are troubling enough to give you pause. Does he really wish to kill Father, or was that just a fleeting wish after their last argument? Would he trade you for Mother given the chance?
No. He wouldn't. He couldn't. You see the way he tends the orchids. You see the way he smiles at you. he'd never do anything to hurt you. Never.
You know how some fairy tales end, don't you?
The cicadas try to warn you: hide, hide, hide. You listen, but it's too late. Your brother finds you, says you need to leave. His eyes are wide, and he's holding your hand too tight as you run down the driveway of the old farm. The dirt is hard-packed. Your shoes are old. There's no cushioning in them anymore, so each impact strums up your shins. You refuse to wince. "What happened?" Something bad. You can tell that much.
He doesn't answer. You hear sirens in the distance. Fire engines. Then you smell smoke. "Is that our house?"
"Just run."
The police set up a roadblock. Your brother panics at the lights -- red, blue, red. Changeling, the neighbor's say, but the man dragging you along the side of the road seems like the changeling. Your brother would know the deer paths through the forest.
Your brother wouldn't be squeezing your wrist hard enough to bruise. Your brother wouldn't run away.
"You're not him."
"What do you mean?"
You wrench your arm free. "You're not my brother."
"Of course I am." He lunges for you.
You push him away and run. The cicadas guide you: this way, this way, this way.
The changeling had set fire to your house. You can see the flames of your house from the old farmhouse, angry orange against the darkening sky. You're too far away to hear the crackle of flame and the hiss of steam as the firefighters whittle away at it, but the sounds roar in your mind.
So does a voice: Help me.
Your chest feels tight. You cough and taste smoke. The orchids around you glow white and yellow and pink, brighter and brighter until you're blinded.
Your brother, your real brother, is in the house. You run to save him.
You know, but you don't care, because in your heart, you've written your own ending.
You call on your secrets, the ones your brother taught you and the ones you learned yourself. The orchids give you their light. The cicadas lead you to your brother's body. You refuse to let it be too late.
Light pours through you. The flames fade away, then the walls and floor, the house and yard. And then you're in an alpine meadow, wildflowers bobbing in a cool breeze. Your brother kneels before you, radiant, smiling at you as if you've broken some evil spell.
Maybe you have. This is your ending.
You offer your hand and help him rise.