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When night falls, it’s the fire that draws her close. Flames licking intimate heat, sap snapping sparks in the fresh-cut wood. She sits near enough to tuck smoke in the folds of her skirt, warm her soles to scorching. Mesmerized by the phoenix-feather shift of colors.
Wendy’s different though. Wendy might like the fire for its warmth, but to her it only catches the dark in starker relief while she hums eerie tunes that spin silver through the ear. Wendy brushes her hair near the flame, blonde turned red-gold. Like flame made solid, and Willow itches to run her fingers through it. Taste the smoke seeping from her skin, the calm certainty Willow holds. Things are more beautiful when they burn, but Wendy carries her fire inside, shining out in the radiance of her eyes and the glow of her hair.
There’s something strange and heavy about the dark here. Not just the clawed thing that whispers from shadows, but the way it fills her nose and mouth like salt and pickled radish, bitter on the tongue. Even the full moon can’t penetrate the ever-shifting dark, and the rabbit in the moon only pounds away at his mortar and pestle, making sweet elixir that Willow will never taste.
But Willow thinks this fruit (flavored with Wendy’s laughter and eaten from her palm) is even better. She leans against Wendy, sheltered in the halo of her hair as they devour berries and leave juice-stained prints on one another’s skin.
“Immortality comes from another’s eyes, not any divine draught,” Wendy told her once, old voice from a young face. No smile hidden at the corners of her mouth, no mockery tucked in the tilt of her chin. White wine sincerity, clear and sparkling.
So Willow stays close to Wendy. Wendy makes the dark retreat, helps Willow resist the pull of strange music from under the trees. Willow gets up through the long nights, piling wood upon the fire-- and even though she loves the fire’s glow, she misses Wendy’s arms around her. The pull of her embrace, firefly-enchantment fluttering in her belly. She moves quickly, tossing up embers as she plops the last log in place.
“Like a very vision of Hell,” Wendy murmurs, more comment than criticism as Willow sends the fire blazing high. Willow goes back to the bedroll, slots herself behind the other girl and breathes the wildflower and ash scent of her hair.
Wendy drifts back to easy sleep, breathing smooth and even measures as her fingers lace with Willow's. Willow stays awake a little longer, gaze toward the non-illuminating moon. Full and golden like a peach; she imagines plucking it from the sky, offering its luminous promise to Wendy. Would Wendy take the gift, or insist that her immortality lies in Willow’s heart? That as long as Willow cares, remembers, then Wendy lives? Does she still live if Willow loves another, like Abigail’s flower replanted?
Willow’s always seen the rabbit in the moon; Wendy told her of the man. She thinks she can see the man’s shape, legs where the rabbit’s ears should be, but it’s a painful thing. Like trying to see two side of a coin at the same time, like crossing your eyes at the novelty postcard to see the old lady and young woman simultaneously. Willow sees the world one way at a time, no in between-- fire is good. Honey-baked ham is the king of meats. Rain is the anti-fire, drenching all in its misery.
Wendy is good. She does not fear the dark, only the things in it. She lilts poetry off her tongue, sweet and fluting. Stanzas against the night, old rhymes and half-forgotten epics. Or maybe they just come to her naturally as dreaming, the words lured by the honey-warmth of her voice just like Willow.
Wendy is warm arms and a soft voice, wilted flower tucked behind her ear and the death-scent of lilies in the hollow of her throat. Wendy does not fear the dark.
Willow-- she does not fear, she hates the dark. Sets her lighter against the night, casts wood and dried grass and a thousand other things to make it burn, burn, burn, claw flame against the coal-black sky, midnight ink unbroken by stars. Only fire gives her certainty when the world comes crumbling down, when the shadows creep into the day and she catches motion at the corner of her eyes, raspy little creatures that should not be walking under the sun.
Wendy does not fear the dark.
And when Wendy holds her and breathes soothing whispers in her ear, tells her not to worry about burning herself up because “those who burn brightest, burn fastest, and I will not lose you. Not all deaths are the same, and I would mourn yours the most,” Willow thinks maybe the world does not need to be set on fire. Not if she can clutch this ember moment, skirts tangled about their legs and Wendy’s fingers light against her scalp.
She hates Maxwell so much, but does not regret this trap. Not with Wendy’s arms, Wendy’s smile, the butterfly-shadow of Wendy's lashes on her cheek. The veins running pale threads through the tender flesh of her wrist. Willow loves tracing them with her thumb, mapping rivers to her heart. Wendy is such a wan thing, fragile like the moon’s ripple on water.
They will chase Maxwell through the doorways of this nightmare world, hand-in-hand and embracing when they finally reach familiar skies.
She’ll feed her peaches, wine and laughter. Pour kisses in her ear, run immortal through her soul.