Title: Saccharine Moon
Author: Ani (ani_coolgirl)
Beta: none
Pairings/Characters: Dustfinger/Mo
Rating: PG
Warnings: slash, semicolon abuse, overabundance of autumn imagery
Word Count: 3,881
Summary: Mo, Dustfinger, and one special, peculiar autumn night.
Author's Notes: This fic is terribly out of season. Forgive me for my lack of knowledge of how they celebrate Halloween in other countries. I'm not even sure of where Mo and Meggie are supposed to be from. I know they hang out in Italy, but are they from there or are they supposed to be German, like the author? Does anyone actually know?

The streets were dark. It was a small old town with gas lamps instead of electric bulbs and hardly a car in sight. The moon, full and lush with a harvest-orange glow about it, provided most of the light; the laughs of children and the gossip of adults provided the sound. The air smelled sweet and crisp, of leaves and apples and toffee. It smelled of wild autumn night.

It was packed. Goblins and witches ran underfoot while the adults (despite being merely unmasked mortals) trailed behind, unconcerned. Groups of ghouls stopped in the storefronts of shops or the doorsteps of houses to receive delicious gifts, poured into eager hands. Some treats were eaten on the spot while others stowed away for later consumption, all adding up to inevitable tummy-aches. Tongues lapped at sticky fingers as sugary grins begged for more; none were denied. Buckets and pails, sacks and pillow cases filled to their brims; some spilled over and the crinkling of wrappers and the squish of lost chocolates accompanied the crackle of rotting leaves.

It was Halloween.

There were many parents with children and even more children with no parents. But there were no parents without children, save for one. He stood apart and alone, watching the monsters and beasts scamper from one end of the avenue to the other for their tribute, chuckling as some tried for seconds or even thirds. Yes, he was alone and he was tired but he promised his little daughter, sick with flu, that he'd wander the demon-infested streets in her stead and bring back piles of tricks and bags of treats. She would never willingly miss a night like this; so pregnant with mystery and excitement that it seemed for a moment that there really were devils and magics about the world, so like the stories she loved.

There went a skeleton; a warlock, a zombie, a fiend.

He knew better. He knew of real devils and real magics. He knew them well.

His grocery bag was full, though the clock had yet to toll the deep evening hours. When he knocked on the doors of homeward-bound grown-ups and peered into the doorways of welcoming shopkeepers, they gave him peculiar looks that soon melted away at the mention of poor little girls, too ill to go out and join the fun. With 'tsks' and sighs full of pity, they gave him double they would any child with wishes of wellness following him in his wake. The bookseller, a grateful costumer of his, even gave him a paperback; that was better than any candy.

He should have been heading home by now. His task (or quest, as claimed by the girl-turned-princess) had been completed long ago. But something on the wind, or maybe in the shine of the moon, whispered for him to stay, if only a little longer. The weather was mild, the mood was good; surely, there was no harm in it.

The invisible song on the moon and the wind called him away from the refuge of the street lamp. It beckoned him down the road, around the bend. It sang to him in a way he didn't understand; the atmosphere was too thick with secrecy and superstition for it to be properly heard. It mingled with the other nightly spells and got lost in the mix. Yet it called nonetheless, and the enchantment of the dark could not be disobeyed.

He followed it. It led him down alleys of pumpkins and boulevards of cobwebs.

He smelled the flames before he saw them. A bonfire burned in the village square, the pyre blazing high, much higher than his head. Sparks spat from the glowing timbers to ignite the night. Children danced and screamed about it, gummy hands interlocked in circles that spun round and round the inferno until they collapsed into a dozen giggling pieces. No one kept the fire; it burned under its own supernatural powers, fueled only by screams and curses and candy bar wrappers. The teens and tots teased the heat, sneaking in close to ignite a marshmallow or set the end of a stick alight to watch, fascinated, as it dwindled down to an enticing, pulsing red. They kicked at the embers; parents snatched and snapped when they lingered for too long.

Suddenly, the singing and skipping stopped. It wasn't abrupt or fearful, but rather, an expected silence, the anticipation before the main event. For a moment, nothing; then he appeared. The man seemed to break away from the darkness, a specter born from the twisting shadows of fire. A tiny lithe creature of fur and claws slithered from his shoulder and onto the ground. The merry goblins shared a thrilled look – were they imagining the horns on its head? Were they real? Of course they were! The parents only laughed.

The man wore black and red and moved like cat; no pair of eyes could look away. He stood before the bonfire liked he was part of it; like he owned it. Mysteriously, the blaze began to dim. A collective breath was inhaled by every spectator, ghost and mortal alike. Then the show began.

It was so dark (despite the smoldering beacon), that it seemed like the first two balls of flame appeared from nowhere. They spun and twisted in the darkness like a pair of ghostly will-o'-the-wisps, seducing and attracting the attention of every passing stray; none could ignore the fiery allure of the shimmering lights, instantly ensnared, even if sparing only a single glance. They ducked and twirled, faster and faster, at impossible speeds and equally impossible heights.

This is what true wizardry looked like. They all could feel it. Midnight was close; the gates between earth and the netherworld were growing thin. Something had broken through, something great and terrible and wonderful; enchanting and destructive. The man commanded them, spirits of smoke and fire, the things that lit the lights on St. Elmo's ships and frolicked in the swamps. He waltzed with beautiful demons the color of the fall moon; he kissed them and loved them like no one else could.

The awed silence was broken when a fireball, hungry and large like a dragon's breath, exploded into the air. Applause and cheers rippled and echoed over the square; the bonfire grew again to monstrous heights and the fire-dancer's voodoo sorcery over the crowd was lost, though all were still rooted to their spots. Torches and juggling balls flew up into the sky and back down again, caught and tossed by careful hands. Feats of fire wowed and wooed; music once again entered the fray. The man danced to it, asking the fire to join him. It went on and on. Then, with a sweeping bow, it was over. The cheers and whistles gave their last bouts of noisy gratitude before departing, leaving behind only conversation and games of tag. The fire-dancer collected his earnings with grins and laughs that never quite reached his eyes.

The performance's thrall finally released it's strangle hold on him and he stepped away from rest of the scattered crowd, approaching the performer himself. He couldn't move as gracefully as a cat, nor with the seductiveness of an enchanter, but he went unnoticed until they were practically face-to-face. The entertainer gave him no acknowledgement but to hold out his collection bowl; he reached in his back pocket and dropped in a few, crumpled bills. The man stared at the money for a few moments.

"Silvertongue," said the magician.

"You were wonderful," he replied.

It was a strange exchange. It stumbled along awkwardly and could barely be understood even by the two who spoke it. This wasn't the way things went. There were supposed to be accusations, curses, worries, and fears; talks of an evil with the name of a horned devil and hornless devils that wielded knives. There should have been glares, there should have been scowls.

But the evening was hallowing and queer. Things weren't as they should be. Things that weren't to have been suddenly were, and that made the peculiar conversation between Mo Folchart the bookbinder and Dustfinger the fire-eater alright. No other night allowed it but this one.

That would be enough.

"Thank you." Dustfinger turned to accept something from a fairy in a familiar outfit of twinkling green. "You don't look anything like a fairy, you know." The fairy, as indignant as her wardrobe implied, turned her nose in the air and stomped away.

"Getting enough?" asked Mo, looking into the jumble of accumulated spoils.

"Nights like this are usually better… Though, it seems I'm getting more candy money."

"Oh." The square was emptying out slowly, leaving behind only the tallest of nightmare creatures. Rubber pitchforks and brooms were cast aside for more practical weapons, devious in nature; cartons of eggs, both milky white and brown and spools of toilet paper the color of a mummy's fresh wrappings.

"You really were wonderful," Mo repeated, as if unsure as to whether or not his words had been previously been lost in the shuffle and fray or made it to their intended ears. Dustfinger cocked his head to the side and then smiled in a peculiar way that seemed more predatory than grateful. He glanced about in a sly fashion.

"Where's your girl?" he asked, looking this way and that.

"At home, sick." The smirk didn't leave Dustfinger's face, and in a self-conscious way he held up the shopping bag. "She asked me to trick-or-treat for her," he explained, trying to stay his embarrassment. For though there were many parents with children and even more children with no parents, there were no parents without children, save for him. He thought he might look silly, but it didn't bother him until that very moment with the curious look upon Dustfinger's face putting him on a spotlight made from burning logs and oily wicks.

No one else approached the flame magician. It was just the two of them now, standing before the dying bonfire. Dustfinger whistled, high-pitched and sharp, and the furry-faced creature was by his side in an instant, clawing up his pants leg. The horned marten leered at Mo in an unpleasant way, chattering in Dustfinger's ear. Dustfinger nodded as if he understood – on a night like this, it wouldn't be surprising – and reached in to take an ember from the fire, toying with it in his hands.

"If you come with me," said Dustfinger casually, turning the coal around and about, "I'll give you a real show."

There, again – the mysterious song, calling from the saccharine breeze and the honey-orange moonlight. Mo watched the coal in Dustfinger's hands, the pulse of neon red and jet black hypnotizing him, drawing him in. Dustfinger's magics were strong and enticing, irresistible and almost tangible; he could taste it on his tongue. It never occurred to him to say no.

Dustfinger didn't take him by the hand or give him instructions. He only jerked his head, ever so slightly, and he was following along like a dog on a rope, through alleys of pumpkins and boulevards of cobwebs. The streets were nearly empty now, and quiet. Sinister chuckles and lonesome howls stirred within the shadows of brick and stone, some with faces and eyes, but many without, just nameless calls in the dark. Mo and Dustfinger moved past them, unthreatened and unheeding; the blush of Dustfinger's fire frightened off most and Mo was too enthralled with Dustfinger to notice anything at all. They travelled to the darkest edges of the city, far away from the glowing city square, where they could hide themselves within the silhouettes of clock towers and apartments, as invisible as if they were shades themselves.

A forest stretched on where the street ended. It is there that they stopped, the capes and claws of fanciful demons behind them and growls and snickers of woodland creatures before them. The moon hung at its zenith in the sky; shadows stretched ever longer, the talons and branches of black trees mingling with windows and precipices of the ancient town. The ground was the color of coal. The air was no longer sweet, but still heavy with the perfume of sorcery. This spell was not weighed down by sugar or sleight of hand; there was no hint of illusion. Its power came from mushrooms and dead beetles and all matter of things earthy and natural.

It was still Halloween. But now it belonged to more than the children and the candy makers. It was called All Hallows Eve, Samhain. It belonged to the spirits and the dead and the white women. It belonged to spell-spinners like Dustfinger.

It did not belong to Mo. But for a moment he would be invited in, into the heart of all things magical.

With a whisper from Dustfinger the marten took off into the forest; he would be welcomed there. Dustfinger looked up at the sky for a long time, perhaps reading the stars or conversing with the moon. In fact, he talked not to the heavens, but to the wind and the clouds. For one wild, daring second the breeze rose up with enormous speed and strength; it whistled and shrieked between dead branches and hollow alleyways. The clouds shifted, and the voluptuous moon was concealed behind a skirt of white and gray. The night plunged into the heart of darkness; it was blacker than pitch, darker than coal. All was concealed; it was blindness for sighted. The wind stilled.

For one terrifying moment, Mo couldn't breathe; the black, the endless black, was suffocating him without hands or words. But an instant later he saw Dustfinger. Dustfinger, the only thing to be seen within the abyss, where city and forest were now one in the same. He could see him quite clearly, as if a light were shining down upon him from somewhere up above, like he caught the moon in a net and brought it down to be his own spotlight. But Mo knew that the glow came from Dustfinger himself, deep inside his chest where an undying fire pulsed and thrived.

A single match was ignited. The blaze didn't so much as twitch, as still as photograph. Dustfinger caressed it like it was glass. He twined a single finger around it, as though winding up string, and the flame began to change and bend, growing larger and twisting into spiral. It followed Dustfinger's motions as obedient as a well-trained mutt; even better. It was eager to please, as alive and full of breath as either man.

As the fire grew, it split into two, and then four; again and again, a hydra of yellow, red, and orange. Ribbons of flame and sparks coiled about Dustfinger, making impossible shapes in the darkness, fractals that spun unto themselves into never-ending mythical patterns.

Dustfinger beckoned him closer with a glance. Mo started foreword without a second thought, bags of goodies for temporarily forgotten princesses long since discarded to the ground, until the heat pressed invitingly against his face. A whip of burning gold teased past his eyes and suddenly he couldn't move another inch, no matter how inviting the image.

For a moment he had been the autumn moth, desperate for warmth and security, and heedless of the dangers of the ever-enticing lamp. For a moment, he had forgotten that he was afraid of fire.

Fire, which consumed everything, even air, in its endless, apathetic search for fuel; the shining monster that ate through pages of life, whether it be bound by leather or wood or skin. Fire did so delight in Mo's favorite friends; it feasted upon Voltaire, ravaged Mother Goose, devoured Shakespeare. Chapter upon chapter, volume upon volume, it digested with more enthusiasm than even Mo himself. But Mo didn't do it so cruelly, so shamelessly, so hastily. Mo did it carefully and with love.

The fire may be beautiful, but the fire and Mo could never be friends. Not when fire had such an unbiased appetite.

Dustfinger laughed; he and the fire were more than friends. They were lovers, soul mates, bound together in an eternal waltz; a moonlit waltz, elegant and mystical, especially on nights such as this. Tonight was a special night, where the doors between all worlds were lucid, almost clear. The leaves from one world blew into the next, and brought with them the languages of all things, even the language of fire. In this world, fire was usually a scornful lover. But tonight, they whispered the same words to one another, and all was well.

For this one night.

"Don't be afraid." Dustfinger gathered all the loose and wily strings of flame until they were wrapped together like a ball of orange yarn. The ball sat patiently within Dustfinger's hands, though it longed to dance again.

Mo wanted to say "I'm not afraid," but the truth is, he was. All the magic in the air was getting to be too much; it made him dizzy, like he was upon a Ferris wheel spinning too fast or he ate too many sweet things too quickly. He couldn't find up or down; it was too dark, it was too strange.

He wasn't sure if Dustfinger actually said anything, but despite that, he found himself obeying anyway. "Come here," was the command, and within a moment Mo was suddenly very close to Dustfinger, seeing himself illuminated by a throbbing round flame within Dustfinger's eyes. The heat hovered at his chest, near his heart. He couldn't smell smoke; all he could smell was candied apples, burnt marshmallows, and dead leaves.

A smile more befitting a Cheshire Cat painted itself across Dustfinger's face. "Keep very, very still," he said quietly. Slowly, he pinched a bit of the flame and pulled, unwinding the ball a bit at a time. He drew it up above his head, and with a flick of his wrist it went even higher, twirling into a wide corkscrew. When it started falling down, Mo flinched; but Dustfinger pinned him in place with a stare and then loftily tossed the ball of fire into the air, like a child playing with a toy. The ball unraveled faster and faster, spitting out coils of heat that fell around them into burning helixes of light until there was nothing left but ropes of curling, twisting flame.

Caught in the fountain of scarlet and gold, Mo instinctively stepped closer to Dustfinger to avoid the clever blaze, though he looked around in awe the whole time. There was scarcely a breath between them now. The spectacle whistled and whispered about them, the October spell coming into fruition, full and heavy like ripe apples. Leaves the same color of the flames joined in the whirlwind until the quiet night was filled with the delicious crackle of sparks and the litter of oak and cedar.

Mo's words had been lost in the midst of Dustfinger's witchery; he found them again. "It's beautiful," he breathed. It was beyond beautiful; it was unearthly. Though he found words, they failed him completely. There were no words for something like this, this midnight sorcery.

Dustfinger caught his gaze and reeled him in as he had the glow of the moon. He brought their foreheads together 'til their eyes reflected one another a thousand times over. Dustfinger's scars shone silver.

"Yes," Dustfinger whispered back. "Yes, it is." He was not looking at the fire.

Mo lost his words again along with his breath. What kind of spell was this? It didn't draw its power from the moon or the night. It didn't smell like ash and soot and fire or the leafy rot of the earth. There wasn't even the taste of syrup or sugar on his tongue. It was not of the fall weather. It was not of the October woods. No, this was something else entirely, an enchantment born of some unnamable thing that was growing hotter and hotter between them.

Dustfinger's hands, rough with work and life, were on his face. Mo didn't mean to close his eyes, but he did, so he wasn't sure if he imagined the faintest of touches upon his lips or not; all he knew was that a moment later he was looking straight up, up into flames, burning white-hot, as they gathered up onto themselves directly above their heads and exploded into a shower of sparks that rained down upon them like a thousand delicate pieces of shattered glass.

Without thinking, he reached out to catch one of the falling embers, like they were confetti or party favors; Dustfinger instantly snatched his hand back. "Don't," he warned without releasing his hand. Mo looked from the shining broken bits of fire to Dustfinger to their conjoined hands. Wordlessly, Dustfinger began to withdraw, but Mo entwined their fingers more tightly together.

"Thank you," insisted Mo, but Dustfinger shook him off and turned away. The lightshow ended as the last shimmering cinder fell to the earth. The leaves rested again on the ground and a sudden breeze kicked them away. The clouds moved away from the moon, and though it still had the same harvest glow, some of its previous luster was lost. The shadows of branches unraveled from the shades of ladders and windowsills and all was still again.

"I must go find Gwin," murmured Dustfinger, starting towards the forest. Mo caught his arm and Dustfinger allowed himself to be turned back around. They eyed each other curiously, confusingly, and Mo wondered if perhaps Dustfinger had been caught up in his own spell. But what they both realized, if only unconsciously, was that the bell tower had chimed twelve times long ago; the night was over.

Halloween, Samhain, All Hallows Eve – it was gone.

Without the night, there could be no more peculiar conversations between Mo Folchart the bookbinder and Dustfinger the fire-eater. The leaves returned to their native forests along with the weird, wonderful language it brought with them. The fire had consumed all the magical air, ever unbiased, and had been washed away with the wind. The flame was once again a scornful lover.

"I would like to see you perform again."

What was this? An easy sentence, but it was multilayered like a chocolate bar with wafers and nuts. But trick-or-treating was over; Mo was breaking the rules. There could be no more baiting with candies and spells.

Could there?

Dustfinger smiled his Cheshire grin again. Then, sly and slick as a smirking black cat, he pressed a kiss to the very farthest corner of Mo's mouth; it tasted like magic and toffee.

"I would like that."

Dustfinger dashed into the woods and Mo retrieved his daughter's candy, returning to the dark, old town.

The goblins and witches were gone; so were their parents. The town was painted egg white and pumpkin orange. All that remained were drooping cobwebs and long-forgotten squished chocolates. Lights were turned low; doors were firmly shut.

The streets were dark. Halloween was over.

Mo retrieved a toffee from the overflowing grocery bag and ate it slowly as he came upon his little house on the corner of the boulevard.

Yes; Halloween was over. But something had carried beyond the midnight toll. Something sweet. Something mysterious.

Something that tasted a little bit like toffee.