Burning Bright

Warnings: Violence against BOOKS, reference to suicide, graphic sex later.
Disclaimer: this is so not mine…Tolkien, Bradbury, and Papa Roach own it all…
Notes: Unfortunately, in order to really understand this, you must read Fahrenheit 451 (which if you haven’t, you are really missing out!) However, just incase, I will briefly explain Bradbury’s characters. (VERY overly simplified!)

Montag/ Guy Montag – he is a fireman, as in a man who STARTS fires. In the futuristic setting of the story, books are outlawed, and are burned whenever discovered. It is not the books themselves that are considered the evil, but the thought that is produced…people thinking for themselves.

Clarisse – is a young girl (turned Elf for my story) who shows Montag what it means to think and feel. She dies shortly after Montag meets her, before he realizes just what a person like her means, and how much he is attached to her (though in the Bradbury story it is more of an intellectual thing, I suppose, than the sexual attraction I will have in this story…)

Mildred – Montag's freak wife who is already lost to the futuristic world and cannot think for herself.

Beatty – Captain of Montag’s firehouse. He is a real hard-ass and unfeeling, especially when the woman burns herself with her books.

Faber- an old English professor (yes, yes…see the LOTR connection later…;) ) who helps Montag.

I don’t want to give too many spoilers to the actually book in case you haven’t read it, though I will be explaining some of the details in this story.


~~~~~~~~~~~

Somewhere beyond happiness and sadness
I need to calculate
What creates my own madness
(Papa Roach, Getting Away with Murder)

~~~~~~~~~~~~


//And, then, she was gone…and there were vague stirrings of dis-ease in him…//

“Where have you been?”

Frozen to the stair, she raised her chin to face eye to eye the elf above her. Hard dark eyes met hers, disapproval emanating from his whole being.

“I do not like to repeat myself.” His soft voice echoed in the staircase, causing her to shiver under his gaze.

“Does it matter?” She whispered, trying to block what she wished not to say. Casting her eyes to the floor, she turned to walk back down.

As she turned, the rustling of her clothing stirred the air, and the scent of burnt cloth mixed with kerosene assailed his keen elven senses. Allowing himself to look across her form, he barely whispered out,

“Stop.”

She stopped, but did not turned toward him, as he moved closer to her. Walking around her, he thoroughly studied her dress. As he had suspected, her dress was burnt in several spots and reeked of the flammable substance. He reached out and fingered a bit of the material, rubbing the charred bits against his fingers, leaving smudges on the tips.

“Explain.” He dropped the fabric and crossed his arms expectantly, waiting for her reply.

“Ada…” she whispered softly and respectfully, “Ada, I cannot.” She raised her head, and looked into his un-relentless eyes, her own sad but dry. Her expression told him that she would not tell him, once again.

Sighing, he dropped his arms to his side, and walked away. He was tired of this. He was tired of her disappearances. Tired of her lack of explanations. Tired of the smell.

Leaving her in the hallway, he walked quickly to his rooms. Reaching for the handle, he heard a voice behind him.

“Erestor.”

The elf turned to face his dearest friend Glorfindel. Neither spoke. Moments passed.

Finally Glorfindel spoke, as though they had had a deep and long conversation.

“I shall speak with her.”

Glorfindel smiled at the dark-haired elf. Erestor cast him a baleful look as he entered the room, closing the door silently.

Trying to make as little noise as possible, he swiftly made his way to her room. Pausing before the door, he drew in a deep breath, slowly exhaling as he formulated his words in his head. Knocking slowly and deliberately, he waited for the sound of rustling cloth before he spoke, of bedclothes being cast off.

“Are you awake? It is Uncle Fin.” He leaned his head in against the hardwood of the door, listening intently for the annoyed sigh he expected. He felt, rather than heard, silent footsteps against the floor before he felt the door give way.

“What do you want?” She curtly addressed him, eyeing him intently.

“I wish to speak with you…”

“If it is about adar…” she cut him off, beginning to close the door against him. However, as the former Balrog slayer, he easily pushed inside.

“Yes, in fact it is about your adar. The elf is worried sick about you, not that he would ever tell you that.” Glorfindel reached down to stroke her cheek, but she turned just as he was about to touch her. Walking back to her bed, she bit back a retort and crawled back beneath her covers.

Angered by her actions, Glorfindel shut his eyes for a moment then approached her bed. She had picked up a book off the bedside table, and had returned to her reading. She actively ignored his presence.

“What is this that you read?”

Silence. Flip of the page. More silence.

She looked just like her father, sitting in the bed, flipping the pages, lost in her thoughts.

Flip. Flip. Silence.

Glorfindel craned his neck to see the front cover. It was bound in dark orange-red leather, with a picture sewn to the front. A man made of paper with print on it stood casting his eyes down shamefully, as flames swirled and danced about him.

She wasn’t merely ignoring him. Watching her eyes scan across the page, he could see that she was entirely engrossed. Dancing across the page, her inky eyes sparkled as they moved back and forth, pausing occasionally to reread a section, sentence, or word.

“What is it about?”

She didn’t pause, “A man.”

“A man? A man made of printing?” Glorfindel desperately wanted to reach the elleth.

Sighing irritably, she marked her place and closed the book, setting it in her lap and folding her hands over it.

“Yes, and no. It is about a man, but he is not made of printing.”

“Then tell me, sweet one, what is it about?” Glorfindel sat on the bed beside her, again reaching out to touch her, and this time she did not pull away. She allowed herself to relax against the feel of his rough palm against her cheek, and she exhaled.

“It is about a man, who…” she waited a moment as if trying to recall what she had read moments before. “About a man who burns books.”

-------------------------

//“’Play the man, Master Ridley; we shall this day light such a candle, by God’s grace, in England, as I trust shall never be put out.’”

“Enough of that!…Where are they?”//

“That is all she said?” Erestor leaned back into the soft leather of his study chair, tapping his fingers rhythmically against the dark wood of his desk.

“I can’t get her to speak of what is happening to her,” Glorfindel mimicked Erestor’s position on the couch. “I think the only way to find out what is happening is to have someone watching her at all times. Then we will be able to see where she goes when she disappears…”

Erestor’s ears twitched, as he sat up straight, “and perhaps have someone follow her there?” he asked hopefully.

Glorfindel blinked a couple times at his friend, “That is supposing that where ever she is going is some place one will want to follow her to.”

Sighing, the advisor collapsed back against his chair, a distressed look on his face.

“Fin, three weeks…it has been three weeks since her first disappearance! And now, every night she returns at two, covered in the stench of kerosene and fire.” He paused, boring holes into the ceiling with his eyes. “What was the name of the book again?”

“Fahrenheit 451.”

Erestor stood and looked out his window at the Falls of Imladris, his hands clasped behind him. The sound of water cascading over rock soothed him even in his most tortured moments. And this elleth tortured him beyond all.

He allowed his mind to wander to the events of the past year.

She had arrived on their doorstep, her hand held tightly by Elrond’s. His Lord had brought her to him. Cast her needs upon him. She was a special case, he had been told. Watch over her, he had been commanded.

She is your daughter.

Daughter? This was not what he had expected. In fact he could not remember any events in his past that would have lead to such a…consequence. Consequence; that is how he had referred to her at the time. A callous way to refer to the elleth that he had grown to love as his child.

Wind blew through the open window, causing his hair to flutter across his face. A few strands caught in his eyelashes. Reaching up, he pulled at the stray strands whilst pulling him back to the present situation.

“I want that book. Glorfindel, I want you to bring it back. Bring it back to me.” He turned and faced his friend who still lounged on the couch.

“I know what I said to you, but do you really think it might have something to do with her wanderings in the night?” Glorfindel cocked an eye-brow at Erestor in question.

“I know all of the books ever created on Arda, and this is not one of them.” His voice grew cold, “And I want it, in my possession. I want to see what has cursed my daughter to this pitiful existence.”

~

She stood before the thresh-hold book in hand. He waited for her on the other side, not that he understood why. She played the part so well.

Clarisse, where are you? She heard his voice, and she shut her eyes, allowing her foot to cross into the swirling mass of cloud.

Clarisse, I need you! I need you…I am suffocating. Smoke caused her eyes to water as she fought her way through, fits of coughing overcoming her.

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//A book lit, almost obediently, like a white pigeon, in his hands, wings fluttering. In the dim, wavering light, a page hung open and it was like a snowy feather, the words delicately painted thereon.//

Glorfindel watched as Clarisse disappeared into the misty cloud in her room. The smell of smoke and kerosene overwhelmed his sensitive senses, and he had to cover his mouth and force himself to continue watching as his eyes watered painfully.

The pages of the book lay fluttering long after the cloud had retreated back into it. His eyes were wide with horror. She had disappeared into the book. It was disturbing, the vacant look in her eyes, the satisfied smile across her lips.

Cautiously he crossed the room and picked up the book. Bringing it to his nose, he sniffed it. Nothing. It smelled like paper. Yet the moments the cloud had been there, it smelt as if the room was burning. In fact, it had felt warmer, as if the fire was in the room itself.

“Is that the book?”

Startled, Glorfindel dropped the book. Turning, he glared at Erestor. He bent and picked up the book, and crossed the room. Slamming the book against the advisor’s chest, he stared past him. Out through the hall, into the night.

He hand lingered, holding the book in place barely by his fingertips.

“She is in there. Be careful what you read.” Glorfindel forced eye contact with him. “I would want nothing to do with this, if she were not my niece.” He removed his hand; Erestor caught the book as it fell.

-----------------

//The woman on the porch reached out with contempt to them all, and struck the kitchen match against the railing.//

Erestor blinked the sleep away from his eyes, the grittiness of overtiredness making his eyes itch.

He had watched her burn.

This story horrified him, as he read of Guy Montag, the fireman. The fireman who burned books.

What horrified him even more was his daughter’s name clearly written on the pages.

Like the man in the book, he clutched the volume to himself, as if it were more precious than all the jewels of Moria.

He could read no further. The book ended, with dozens of blank pages left. Left to be written.

Rolling over, he blew the light out, setting the book on the table. He lay on his back, staring into the darkness.

She was in there, like Glorfindel had said. And like Glorfindel had mentioned, she would return at two.

Sitting up, he reached for the book. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he slid his feet to the floor and walked to the middle of his room. Flipping the pages to the end of the written passages, he left the book open on the floor. Returning to his bed, he leaned against the headboard, watching carefully, waiting till she would return.

~

From her position behind the trees, Clarisse stuffed her fist into her mouth to keep from crying out. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she watched the woman ignite the kerosene soaked books around her. Her stomach knotted and threatened to empty itself of its contents right then. Gulping for air, she quelled the nausea, and turned to face the men returning to the truck.

He was with them.

But she had seen his hesitation, his shock and horror at what she did. She had seen him tuck the book within his clothing, knowing full well the consequences of his actions if he were to be caught.

She had even caught a glimpse of the title.

Clarisse wanted to rush out, to grab him by the shoulders. To tell him that he could come with her, and that all would be fine. But, she resisted, knowing full well that he returned to his home, to his wife.

Here she was no more than a girl, a young girl with a purpose of showing him a different life. Nothing more. And now her part was over.

The book said so.

~

Erestor watched the pages flutter to life with avid interest, as the cloud swirled up filling the room with the foul stench. His eyes widened further as Clarisse stepped out of the cloud, lost in her thoughts and unawares as to where she had arrived.

Pausing for a moment, she cast her eyes about the room, realization of where she was hitting her like ice water.

“Adar!” She cried out, as she jerked her body to face his direction.

“Clarisse,” he whispered.

“Ada, I…”

“…Nothing, explain nothing…” he interrupted her. “I know all that has happened. And I know that your part is over.”

“No, ada, it can’t be…” she sat unseeing on the foot of his bed, her arms clutching her body. Crawling to her, he engulfed her in his warm arms, seeking to comfort her. “I know I died, but I must return!” She cried in exasperation against his chest.

Erestor stroked her hair, murmuring words of comfort into her ears. “I doubt you could return…if your part is over.”

“I would give anything, anything for one night…” she trailed off. Erestor pulled her back from him, and peered into her eyes.

“What do you mean, Clarisse?” His eyes full of question, he hoped it was not what he thought.

Blushing, she turned from him, afraid of what he might think.

“Tell me, Clarisse…” he voice grew dangerously low, a tone that she knew meant she must answer.

“One night of comfort. One night to ease his torment, adar.”