Midas

Gather 'round, children--and you bigger ones, too, unless you think you're too old for a story around the fire. Sit a spell in the light, at least, for it's long before the dawn and getting longer by the day.

Oh, but that brings back memories! No, not my own, you hooligans; I'm still a little less old than dirt. But it was on a night such as this--deep in the dregs of the year, with the wind howling like a lost hainu--that a young Snapper named Midas brought fire to our darkest night.

This was long ago, when the Sunbeam Ruins had fewer cracks in the foundations and the homemakers of the Ashfall Wastes had slightly less dusting to do. The great Beacon illuminated the eastern shores, but where the redwoods loomed to the north, the coasts were chancy after dark but for a few brave lighthouses like our own.

When the storm first blew in, no one worried. The sea will do what the sea will do; you take what luck it blows you, even if it blows you over. We battened down our homes and waited for it to pass.

Only it didn't. Not for days.

When we saw the lighthouse flame had gone out, no one knew quite what to do. Our lighthouse keeper wouldn't have left his post; a Fae like him would have been blown clear to Dragonhome. Nor could the village leave the lighthouse to chance. there might be ships in the strait or Guardians in the gulf, desperate for sight of land. But no one could fly in that weather, either; you'd break your wings the moment you tried.

When no one else volunteered, Midas cleared his throat. "I'll go," he said. "I'm sturdy and strong, and used to walking; my wings won't catch the wind, small as they are."

With no lantern to guide him, Midas stepped out bravely into the dark, armed only with his warmest scarf and a small, mottled egg he tucked away in its folds. Though the wind buffeted him, his stout legs never stumbled; on he strode, until at last he reached the sea.

Back then there was no stone arch spanning the channel to the lighthouse island. There was only a rope bridge, so narrow it strained around his sides almost to bursting. He almost turned back at the first ominous creak of twine, but the little egg tucked against his neck burned just that little bit hotter, giving him strength.

The lighthouse keeper, out of fuel, was dismayed to find him empty-handed, but Midas nudged his little egg into the hollow of the firebowl. Cushioned in ash, his dearest friend hatched anew, lighting the great mirrors with phoenix-fire through the night.

Since then our lighthouses have always been kept by phoenix-friends, and no one minds the size of your wings so long as you've courage beneath them.