Title: The House of Blue Lights
Author: Gayuma
Category: AU, Pre-slash
***
Hark the herald angels sing
Glory to the newborn King
He shivered, blinking as he opened the door. Outside, the wind blasted through the town with unforgiving strength, forcing him to search for a temporary respite. His eyes traveled to the overhanging chandeliers, the icons swathed in their glittery ornaments, the group of people singing… The crucifix. Why, of all places, had he chosen a church?
He was about to step out when he glanced outside once more. It was dark. The snow swirled in an angry blizzard and he could barely see within two feet of him. In contrast, the church suddenly seemed welcoming. And, most importantly, warm. Changing his mind, he closed the massive door once more. There were worse places to be during Christmas Eve. He had seen hell at its worst. Surely, he could handle a church.
Wrapping his cloak around him, he warily watched the proceedings. An old priest with a benign demeanor was holding the Mass, and the townspeople seemed absorbed by his words. He snorted softly. Stupid Muggles with their silly faith and their Gods. He should know. There were no Gods, only pain.
Absentmindedly, he touched a nearby structure. He felt the cold meet his fingertips. Startled, he drew his hand back. Holy water. He stared at his fingers, fascinated.
"Usually, one makes the sign of the cross afterwards."
He turned towards the voice. A young boy stood not far from him, right beside the glassed-in icon of the Virgin Mary. He was covered by the icon's shadow—no wonder Tom had not seen him earlier.
"I am not one of your kind," he replied coldly.
The boy smiled, undaunted. "We are all of a kind." He approached the stranger, stepping out onto the light. He was older than Tom first thought, not a child, but belonging to the uncertain age between innocence and adulthood. "Come, let us join the Mass."
His lips curled. "I do not desire to participate in your little sessions of worship."
The boy merely nodded. "Very well." He touched Tom's arm, urging him. "Then come with me."
He didn't know why he followed. Certainly, he didn't really want to speak with anyone. He felt the need to be alone. Yet, for some reason, though he would never accept any form of blessing from a priest, he could not say no to this boy.
They walked to a corner of the church, away from the lights of the chandeliers and the voices of the people joined in song. The large tiers of brass holders, discolored with age, leaned against the stone walls. They were half-filled with candles, tiny candles of different colors, each lit with a single tiny flame—their lights warming the darkness.
"Have one." The boy handed him a candle. It was blue, almost white really, inexpensive and common—the kind that could be bought from the various vendors that normally hung around the church doors selling flowers and religious items during the day. He accepted it, stroking the even wax surface with his hand.
The boy had a candle of his own. He lit it from one of the group, carefully placed it on a holder, and closed his eyes.
Uncomfortable, Tom watched him. He really didn't know what to do, and for the first time in years, he felt unsure.
The eyelids slowly opened, revealing soft green eyes. "Make a wish," he whispered.
"A wish?" Tom gaped at him. He had not expected that.
The boy took his hand in his own. He guided Tom's awkward fingers to the tiers, lighting his blue candle. Spellbound, Tom could only stare at the flame.
"Give it a home among its brothers. Then you can make a wish."
"A wish…" Tom repeated sadly. "I have forgotten how to make one." He placed it beside the boy's, watching the wax melt down its side. They stood there, side by side, sharing the silence.
Long fingers touched Tom's wrist, taking his attention away from the candles. "Sometimes, hope makes you remember."
He looked at the boy sideways. Hope? "Who are you?"
"Someone you met tonight."
The choir burst into another song, but they seemed more distant now, farther than they really were. In that instant, Tom was transported back to his youth, to a forgotten memory. He had been sitting in the garden near some bushes, avoiding his classes in the orphanage. As he sat, he had watched a butterfly emerge from its cocoon, slowly but surely. Luxuriating in its birth. The wings had flared, small and ethereal—the metamorphosis complete.
"Life," he said suddenly. "I could wish for that."
Those green eyes pooled, happiness evident behind the tears. The boy raised a hand, brushing the snow off his cheek.
"Merry Christmas, Tom."
END