Prologue
The room he was in was vast, barren, and hot, furnace hot, and he spun around wildly, looking for the source so he could turn it off, turn it off before his flesh began to melt. Then he realized that he was the source, that his body was glowing, burning, because of the insects that were flying around him, flying without wings. Their metallic golden bodies shone and they were shrieking and stinging him, attacking him with their long stingers without ever touching him, and everywhere they stung, his body caught fire.
He swung his arms blindly to beat them off, but they easily dodged his frantic attempts. He remembered suddenly that he had a fly swatter in his coat pocket, but, when he pulled it out, it crumbled to dust in his fingers. His eyes scanned the room frantically. There was a switch on the other side of the room that he knew would suck the fierce creatures away, but he was afraid, afraid to touch it because… because it was bad. He heard his own moans echoing inside his head, for he knew he had to do it anyway, even if it was bad. If the insects got out of this room, bad didn't begin to describe what would happen.
Suddenly there was the pup, the cub, running toward him. How did it get back to him? He had locked the little creature in its kennel when he had first noticed it following him, but who had let it out? He didn't want the insects to sting it, too – it was too small to withstand the poison spreading through his own body. He tried to yell at it to leave, but his voice rasped uselessly in his throat.
The pup took a position between him and the buzzing cloud of insects and stood its ground, legs splayed stiffly and hackles raised. It was a ridiculous sight, this tiny thing trying to protect him, and he would have laughed if he hadn't been absolutely terrified. It barked again and again, a loud but melodious song that swirled around them like liquid gold, barked and growled until, amazingly, the insect hoard began to recede and finally faded away.
When all was quiet he reached out a hand to pet the pup, to thank it for saving him, but there was no hand, just a burned stump at the end of his arm. He staggered in horror at the sight and fell to his knees. The flames were rising, destroying him, consuming him. The pup ran toward him eagerly, pink tongue lolling, looking absurdly pleased with itself, but he knew if it came too close it would be burned, too, so he opened his mouth to shout, to warn it away, and the golden fire slid down his throat, poured into his ears and nose and eyes. Now he was burning on the inside, too, like a candle lit at both ends.
He wasn't even aware he had fallen onto his back on the floor until he saw the pup's eyes above him. The little thing looked at him so sadly and was whimpering so pitifully, and he wanted to comfort it but he couldn't move, couldn't speak, and he cried inside because the pup was supposed to be safe in its kennel and who would feed it now that he had no hands?
It was getting hard to breathe now, so he decided to stop for awhile. It felt so much better to just rest. But something in his head, the barking song of the dog, told him he couldn't do that, so he obediently pulled in a scorching lungful of air. His eyes drifted blearily over the stars shining down on him through the transparent ceiling. He had never seen these constellations before, had never seen stars and planets streak and swirl across the cosmos like this. It was quite beautiful, he thought hazily, even when one star flashed down and burst through his chest to lodge in his left heart.
He was too far gone, too wracked with weariness and pain to question when a large peacock fluttered down beside him and settled near his hip. It tipped its brilliant blue head from side to side, examining him with jewel-bright eyes for a long moment before opening its beak.
"Why didn't you get rid of them yourself, you coward? We were counting on you. You made a real mess, and now you don't even have hands to help us clean up."
Guilt began to eat away at him along with the flames. He heard his own voice in his head, making excuses, and was disgusted with himself, with the whining.
"It's mine now, you know," said the bird, inclining its head toward the little dog that cringed near him, quivering, all its bravery evaporated. "I've always wanted this puppy. Look at you – what would it want with you anyway?"
After I'm done burning I might be better, he argued silently. Maybe I'll have hands again. It's hard to say, though. Fire is unpredictable.
"This isn't a fairy tale," sneered the bird, preening itself. "Ugly ducklings don't turn into swans in real life." It crowed triumphantly as it spread out its tail feathers in a gorgeous fan, blue and green and shimmering. It expanded until it loomed over him, obscuring the stars. He wanted to hate the bird, wanted to be sorry he had ever seen it, wanted to hate it for being right and for telling him so, but it was too magnificent. It was right – no fire could fix something as broken, as ugly as him. He would burn to ash and disappear, and they would live and be happy, and that was good.
As he thought this, the pup suddenly let out a high-pitched yelp and jumped onto his chest. He could not warn it to stay away because his throat was on fire, dry and desiccated as bones in the desert sun. But the little dog was not hurt by his heat. It settled its weight comfortably over his hearts, paws on the left one where the star was pulsing, its soft brown eyes glistening with tears. They dripped steadily down its nose onto him and wherever the tears landed, a blessedly cool spot appeared. Don't cry, he thought to the dog, dying isn't so very bad. But the pup only cried harder, tears falling fast now in a golden stream, onto his chest, his neck, his face. Poor little thing, he thought, wishing he could stroke its fur and wondering what it would feel like, then everything else faded away…