There is nothing calm about birth. The fluids of life and death mix with sounds of agony, fear, and exhausted longing spoken in a tongue known only to deepest groanings of the soul while chorale music filled the inward an outward world. Among my people, children were sung into being while the men stoked the communal fire with new wood so that fresh light may meet the eyes of the child. My mother was a doula in our township on the edge of the Crimson sanctum, and from the time I was young, I attended to her and to the moments of the birth. The chaotic agony of it was almost always completed with a stunning wave of something akin to exultation – and laughter and tears of joy were not uncommon in the measured moments after the penultimate issues of pain.

I have heard the luminaries, before their ascension, only gave birth in confinements with the barest fraction of family in place – the father only if even that. What a lonely entrance to the dazzling dance of existence.  

Almost none of my people sought to know in advance of the birth the gender of the child, but used the moment of song to change the tune and dance to match the child. A girl would be sheltered in the birthing house and swaddled in soft silks, granted the golden hour with her mother, while women sang with great joy, but a boy would be given to the father and presented before the whole congregation, held forth to be viewed by the flame as a sign of the viewing of the True Flame.

You may not care of our history. Our people now are not allowed to do even the half of what we once did – so clinical has our procreation become – bred like cattle for testing the propagation of the power.

The guard at the door stood in full gravmag suit, faceshield up, hidden from view, his rifle at a low ready. There was a slight twitch of his hand at my approach.

“May I go in?” My voice sounded odd even to myself.

“Prisoners don’t get visitors. I am to let the Novitiate know immediately when the aberration subsides, that he may be interviewed further.” His voice was modulated through the speaker on his suit.

“The intercom?” I asked.

The guard simply shrugged. He was tall and thin and seemed to relax.

I walked nearer the intercom. As I stood outside the viewing window, watching Arianas in his transformation, I could not help but think of the welcoming of a child.

His screaming had stopped, but the flame remained. He huddled in a corner, staring into the white walls as if entranced. His beard was filled with tears and snot which he did not bother to wipe away. He seemed barely to breathe.

I reached for the intercom panel when the guard spoke again.

“How does it feel?”

I turned my head to look at his blank mask and raised an eyebrow.

The guard released his grip on his rifle and lifted a hand, looking down toward it, “The power.” Some timbre of longing seemed to thrill him.

I had never been asked. I didn’t know what to say so instead nodded to the man in the cell. “Ask him.”

I can’t be sure, but it seems the guard shivered as he stood back and re-took his low ready grip on the rifle. I reached again for the panel and tilted my head as a question. He nodded at me.

“Arianas.” The name felt like gravel in my mouth and barely came out at all. He did not respond, but his flames flexed as if blown upon by a gentle wind. I cleared my throat and reached for the panel again.

“Arianas,” my voice was clearer but sounded angry like a growl. He still did not respond. I looked at the guard who just shrugged at me again. From curious to impassive uselessness. Endlessly frustrating.

Then I recalled the song of welcome, of new birth. It slipped into my heart like an old friend and made itself at home in my chest. The guard next to me stepped back and muttered something I did not hear. I was so very angry, and at the root of that anger was a deep sadness for what I could not place, but the song felt right as it passed through me.   

The luminaries never found a true way to contain the power, neither to keep it in nor to keep it out. If the flame sought to burn it burned, to pass through, it passed through, to heal, it healed. Wither it desired it went without regard for forms or distances or materials. As my poor performance began my flame slipped through the barriers of the wall and into the space where it cradled around Arianas who, at the touch of my flame to his shot up. His eyes were wide with terror and confusion as he whispered words I could not hear.

I sang on, ignoring the guard next to me who began shouting commands of various kinds which I cannot even recall. If he sought to stop me at all, he was prevented by the power. I sang the song of welcome first with tentative melody, and finally in full force of my voice, closing my eyes and the Lord of Flame purged my rage transmuting it into true welcome.

I cannot say what happened on the other side of the wall or even immediately around me. What I saw was nothing, as if sight were a hindrance, but memory swarmed in the smell of feasts, the feel of fire’s warmth on my skin, and the song of celebration in my ears as if sung by a multitude across all of time. I turned and began to step away before I opened my eyes again and looked up to see the Novitiate staring at me in horror and rage. I strode forward, unheeding, and he stepped aside, crushing himself against the nearest wall to avoid the dancing of the power around me, cursing in his vile voice.

I wonder what will be the cost of such a welcome, but I felt it right nonetheless. Whatever he was, he is now a son of the flame, and that may terrify the luminaries all the more – and for them, my hatred will never die.