The sounds of Beltane—the music, the cheers, the rustling of lovers creeping through the wood—were fading behind him but he could see light ahead. When he entered the clearing it was empty save for the embers, waiting like a forgotten promise. When he looked up she was standing across from him. A mirage, surely. A trick of light. Had he had more than one drink?
But then she walked towards him and her laughter was too clear to be anything but real.
"You're supposed to jump them with someone, Numair." Her hair was loose, the waning light of the coals bronzing them. She always looked good in copper.
"It was like this when I got here," he reached out and tweaked her nose.
She looked down to where a stray coal lay at their feet, singing the grass black. "This is how forest fires start."
He sighed, looking around them. Anyone who may have once laid claim was surely otherwise occupied by now. "We should put it out," he raised his hand and black fire appeared.
"Wait," she stopped him, sliding her hand into his own. "What if no one's jumped over them? Bad luck, and all."
He faltered, suddenly very aware of his own breathing and had his heartbeat always been this loud? He searched for a response—a joke, a sidestep, anything—but then she was pulling him forward, and they were picking up speed, and they were leaping with the heat below them nearly as hot as where her hand grasped his.
This is how forest fires start.