Chapter Text
Isco’s arms are tied behind his back, bent in an awkward, painful angle. He is slumped over on his side, the floor beneath his cheek feels like smooth, cold metal. A single light suspends from the ceiling of this small, windowless cubicle, swaying and casting menacing shadows in the corners of his eyes. He can’t shake the numbness from his limbs even as voices fill the room, indiscernible underwater echoes that feel both far away and trapped inside his head.
It hurts to swallow, to breathe, to think. Isco can feel his screams tearing out of his throat, but no sound ever enters his ears.
~~
In his dream, James stands before him in the black emptiness of space, his body composed of silver dust and strings of light. James smiles but doesn’t speak, moving through the void as if he were swimming, leaving behind gleaming ripples in his path.
Isco follows the only way he knows how. He runs even though there is nothing beneath his feet to push his momentum forward, but the stars in heaven seem to abide. The universe moves before his eyes.
James takes him to a forest among the clouds, the trees tall and thick and luminescent with pinks and greens, blues and gold. A silvery rabbit darts from a nearby shrub, scratching its ear with its hind leg. It hops along the clearing, leaving the same ripples of golden light, until a fox springs from its nest behind the trees, catching the rabbit in its teeth. Upon contact, the rabbit bursts into light, leaving nothing but glittering dust on the ground.
Isco watches in awe and feels—rather than hears—James calling for him. James holds out his hand, and Isco reaches for him, until their palms are perfectly aligned, so close but not touching. They can’t touch.
Isco turns to James, and the strange boy smiles despite the sadness clouding his eyes.
~~
“Come on, Isco, get down here!” Antonio shouts from beneath the apple tree. “Ma says lunch is ready. You’ll get us both in trouble!”
“Gimme a sec, come on!” Isco laughs, hoisting himself onto the thick, leafy branch. He plucks an apple from the twig, before tossing it to where Antonio is standing. “Catch!”
Antonio fumbles with his catch, frowning up at his brother. “Alright, we both got seven. Get back down here, already.”
But another apple appears, just a hair out of reach on the branch above. It beckons to Isco almost tantalizingly, and maybe—he thinks—if he stands on his tiptoes, he can reach.
“Don’t!” Antonio shouts, “Leave it, Isco! You’ll fall! Isco!”
The wood splits with a crack so loud that it reverberates through his bones, and Isco feels his feet give beneath him, falling backwards towards the unforgiving ground. He reaches desperately for something—anything—to break his fall but catches only leaves and twigs that crumble in his grasp.
Isco falls, and he keeps on falling. Antonio shouts for him like a broken record.
~~
When Isco wakes up again, he is lying on dry, hot concrete. Smoke burns his eyes and fills his lungs, while embers singe the tips of his hair and his growing beard. Isco coughs, blinking blearily at the cityscape before him. The buildings are charred black, some already crumbled, while pillars of smoke stood in their place, reaching high towards the blood-red sky.
“Mom!” Isco shouts, pushing himself up, his fingers burning from the hot gravel. “Dad! Antonio!”
He tries to recall where he had last seen them—in the bookstore maybe, or one of the shops with imported spices from Asia. Isco had wandered away into the marketplace, his attention caught by the shy smile of a dark-haired girl in a white summer dress. That was when the first bombs hit, one exploding by the building just across the street, hurling bricks and fire at the panicked crowd. A stampede ensued as people struggled to escape, and Isco had no choice but to follow the current, knowing his family was elsewhere in the chaotic shambles of the city.
But this time—this time, it is different. It’s quiet and still, like the aftermath of the bombing that no one had been crazy enough to stick around for. Isco stumbles through the empty streets, calling for his family and hearing only the howling of fire and wind in return. He must’ve run a mile before finally spotting something resembling a body, battered and broken among the rubble and debris—the body of a young man, James.
“No,” Isco breathes, “No, no, no, no—”
He rushes to the boy and drops to his knees, running a shaky hand along the side of James' face and smearing the blood gathered at his lips and chin. James’ eyes are closed, his angelic face bruised but at peace, but there is no breath, no heartbeat, no pulse—the color of his cheeks are already fading.
“James,” Isco pleads, face contorted and tears stinging his eyes, “Please—please, no—”
He wonders if death had been swift, if James had suffered or felt any pain as he sank into cold, dark loneliness. He wonders if James had been scared, calling for his brothers and sisters, for Isco, wishing for someone by his side as he waited for the last beat of his heart. Could Cristiano shine through the smoke-filled remains of the city? Was he able to watch his brother die?
Isco doesn’t go to church anymore, has never found a reason to pray ever since the air raid that had taken his family. But if there is any justice left in the world, there would be a heaven for both people and stars, so that James is somewhere out there, free from this indefensible evil and knowing that one day he will be reunited with his family, and maybe even Isco too. Isco doesn’t believe in God anymore, but in this moment, he wishes nothing more than for God to exist.
He wills away the grief that paralyzes him, the anguish crushing his chest, so that he can finally utter these few words that he had long abandoned but far from being forgotten—the only distraction from this unbearable pain.
“Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil…Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name—”
He repeats the prayer like a mantra, as if his life—more than his life—depended on it, until James’ body has grown pale and cold beneath him, and Isco’s words become indistinguishable from his sobs.
~~
“Francisco Alarcón, son of Antonio Alarcón, Sr. and Sophia Suárez. Brother of Antonio, Jr…But you go by Isco, is that right?”
These are the words that Isco wakes to, along with the pungent aroma of ham and boiled eggs, toast and butter, in an assorted platter before him. A man—graying and in his fifties—sips at his coffee from across the table.
“Enjoy your breakfast, please,” the man gestures to the food, “You must be hungry.”
His captor—a highly ranked military man suggested by his uniform—spoke excellent Spanish, but there is a decided foreignness in his tone, his syllables earthier, less fluid.
“I am terribly sorry for the loss of your family,” he resumes, “The destruction of Málaga was devastating for all of us.”
“How—” Isco manages to croak out, his mind fuzzy and slow. “How did you know about my family?”
“You told us,” the man responds easily, “And please don’t feel alarmed if you don’t remember. You were under the influence of a very potent drug. Eat, eat.” He makes scooping motions with his hand. “The better you feel, the more enjoyable this conversation will be, for both of us. I guarantee you.”
Isco doesn’t know how much time has passed, or how long since he had last eaten, but the steady ache in his head demolishes his appetite, replacing it with swirls of nausea in his gut. He looks blearily at the man before him, tries his best to appear hateful.
“I must admit that am not a patient man,” his captor continues, “So I do not plan on wasting either of our time. I’m sure we can reach an agreement. After all, Spain and England are allies now. As well as Portugal, my homeland.”
Allies now, Isco frowns dourly. They certainly had not been allies since the beginning of the war, and Isco has long lost interest in these fickle alliances made by politicians so detached from the suffering of the people. Allies mean nothing.
“And I am aware of the altercation months ago, between your village and a few soldiers under my command. I apologize for their reckless behavior. Recklessness, it is not a unique feature, I’m afraid. There are reckless men in every country, on every side of the war.”
“I thought you weren’t going to waste my time,” Isco says boldly, perhaps too boldly. He hears a pistol cock from behind him, the muzzle prodding the back of his head for his insolence.
The man waves it away, appearing more amused than insulted. “I suppose you must be curious why soldiers are here in the first place, in this quaint little village untouched by war.”
“Nothing is untouched by war,” Isco retorts petulantly, while his captor smiles.
“I’m encouraged that you feel this way because we all wish for the war to end. Do you ever wonder why a young, able-bodied man like yourself is not in the army? If it were 50 years ago—let’s say—surely, you would have be enlisted.”
Isco stays silent, knowing it is not a question meant for him to answer. This man—whomever he might be—obviously enjoys listening to himself talk.
“Bombs that can wipe out cities in a blink of an eye, fire that cannot not be extinguished with water, chemicals that drive men insane, so they murder their neighbors. This is no longer a war fought by man. We do not need more soldiers. We need technology, weapons, protection.”
He opens a large envelope, previously ignored at the corner of the table, before revealing a set of photographs showing a bird’s-eye image of land and ocean.
“This is a photo taken by one of our drones, peculiar isn’t it?”
The majority of the land—Southern Spain—appears barren and brown, except for a small region where the trees have flourished, thick and green and sprawling.
“A year ago, we detected something entering the earth’s atmosphere, most likely a meteor,” the military man explains, “And by the time it emerged form the stratosphere, most of the mass had disintegrated, leading to what we had predicted to be a very small impact, if any. We didn’t think much of it then, until we received information from a drone that we were certain got shot down. We lost all traces of it the moment it entered your airspace, but once it emerged, everything appeared perfectly normal. Something—a strong magnetic field, an energy force, perhaps—is disrupting our signals, and also—” he gestures vaguely with his hand “—making your plants grow. I am interested to know what it is.”
Isco feels the cold bite of fear entering his heart. He tries to recall what he might have revealed under the influence of the drug and remembers nothing but nightmares and old memories mingling almost seamlessly.
“Why would I know anything?” He tries to play dumb and wishes he had sounded more convincing, even to his own ears.
“Just a hunch,” his captor shrugs, “Considering you were the first to reap the benefits.”
Fernando—Isco remembers finally—his last real memory before waking up in this hell. Fernando had spotted him on his way to the village and insisted that Isco followed him. Sergio was looking for him, he had said, with information regarding Antonio.
Isco also remembers confronting Fernando by the river those months before, where he had tossed over his bag of supplies, the golden apples thudding against the ground.
“But please don’t blame Fernando,” the military man speaks of the traitorous blonde like an apologetic parent, “He was only looking out for his friend—the stubborn one, that is. Or perhaps, he simply does not value his own life over the life of a friend. Now the question is, do you care for him as deeply as he cares for you?”
“What did you do with him?” Isco swallows the fear in this throat, unsure of what he should think, let alone say. “Where’s Sergio?”
“I have ways to extract information,” the man continues, ignoring Isco’s demands, “But I am not fond of those means. Sure, eventually, everyone talks, but causing others pain does not bring me pleasure. I rather achieve my means by appealing to reason. But of course, know that your village is under my control—your friend Sergio, the storekeeper Casillas, James.”
James.
His captor articulates the last syllables with an almost feigned sweetness, clearly meant to elicit a response. Isco feels his blood churn cold, as he hangs on to what little clarity is left in his mind, refusing to succumb to his panic and make mistakes out of fear.
They can’t have James. They would know much more about the magic that had brought life to the forests had they managed to get a hold of James. Is it because they haven’t found Isco’s house, tucked away so securely in the mazy woods? The only other person who knows the precise location is Sergio, and Sergio did not betray him.
Perhaps, his face is too honest, because the man appears to have read Isco’s mind, a sinister veil falling over his features as he elaborates, “James is a refugee from the city, who is residing with you. That is the general consensus. I will admit that our progress has been hindered by whatever power this meteor possesses, that scrambles our signals and renders any navigation tool useless. But I have sent soldiers to map out these woods—the traditional way, if you will. We have found the site of impact, and it will only be a matter of time before we find your home. You can either lead us to what we are looking for, or we can take James, up to you. But I cannot guarantee that my generosity will be extended much longer. My time is precious to me, and forgiveness has never been my virtue.”
If there is anything honest about this man, it is his arrogance—so profound that nothing can veer him away from what he believes is irredeemably true. Unfortunately, he is not incorrect, and Isco curses in his mind, feeling frustrated, helpless, and infinitely small.
“What do you plan on doing?” he eventually asks, knowing that he has lost, “After you find this—meteor.”
“Study it,” the man responds simply, the corners of his lips quirking in approval, “Understand its properties and potential. Use it in our mission to end the war.”
“By destroying their cities,” Isco challenges with bitterness in his heart, “And killing innocent people caught in the wrong place and time, the wrong side of the battlefield.”
“They would do the same to us. They already did, to you and your family.”
“And that makes it alright?”
“Let’s not pretend that this is about good versus evil,” the man sneers, cold and undeterred, “It’s us against them, the lives of our people or the lives of theirs. We all have blood on our hands. I simply strive to be on the winning side.”
~~
Perhaps the most terrifying of men are those who can instill fear without violence. Isco agrees to lead them to the meteor, on account that they treat the villagers as kindly as possible during this brief, unwelcomed stay. The trueness of their promise, Isco has every reason to doubt, but he lacks any sort of leverage in his current predicament, leaving him only to hope for the best.
Ten soldiers accompany Isco through the woods—mostly English, a few Spanish and Portuguese. They cuff his hands and threaten him with their weapons, knowing that they cannot kill him, but nonetheless would find great satisfaction in causing him pain, if he were to attempt an escape.
Isco takes the longest route, the one with the most rocks to climb and rivers to cross, thorns and nettles that can catch onto your clothes and scrape your skin. These people—he thinks bitterly—these arrogant, selfish, amoral people have no idea the power they so treacherously aim to exploit. But then again, not even Isco realizes James’ full potential, the magic of a star trapped within the body of a boy.
But what Isco knows for certain is that the war will not end, because violence can never bring peace no matter how destructive the weapons or how devastating the loss. There is not a country left worth living in, let alone dying for, and Isco refuses to trade his life for the ignorance of politicians, the failure of governments, or the cruelty of the powerful, but he will for the people he loves.
James is sitting by the dining table when Isco walks through the door. He straightens in his seat with a smile on his face, and Isco has to watch with anguish as the smile of relief fades to shock, uncertainty, worry, and distress.
“What’s going on?” James asks, as soldiers flood into their home, their heavy boots tracking mud and brambles on the floor. Messi crouched by James’ feet growls and barks at the intruders.
“Why are you just standing here?” a soldier scowls, jabbing the muzzle of his rifle harshly against Isco’s back, “Well, where the hell is it? Where the meteor we’re looking for?”
James watches on, distraught as a soldier restrains him by his arm. Others charge through the kitchen, the bedrooms, every room their tiny house in the woods has to offer.
“James,” Isco’s voice is hoarse, foreign even to his own ears, “You said you could go home, if you wanted. Now—now, it’s time.”
The shelves are toppled over, along with cabinets and drawers. A few men have made it to the backyard, hammering down the door to the wooden shack. It wouldn’t take much longer before they realize that there is nothing here.
“Go,” Isco pleads, vision blurred by treacherous tears, “Don’t worry about me—Please, just go.”
James flickers his eyes to his, finally understanding. “Close your eyes, Isco!” he shouts, shrugging away the soldier, “Close your eyes!”
Isco does so without a moment’s hesitation, and suddenly, there is quiet all around him. Warmth bathes every inch of his body—gentle like a caress—and Isco feels the fear ease from his heart even as the ground beneath his feet crumble to nothingness.
~~
Isco stirs to soothing whispers of his name and fingers softly threading through the front of his hair.
“Where are we?” He blinks blearily at James, who is cradling his head in his lap, gently urging the smaller male awake.
“I don’t know,” is the answer Isco receives, while the strange boy shifts his gaze above. They are in a clearing so deep within the forest that the trees appear to arch before them, blocking every inch of sky.
“Where’s home?” Isco asks, hearing Messi bark from a distance not too far away.
James only frowns above him, shaking his head.
“And those soldiers?” he asks, watching James tightens his jaw, his words edged with a strange sort of stiffness never present before.
“They won’t come looking for us anymore,” he says.
Isco searches those dark eyes for any hint of certainty. “And the village?”
“Would they threaten the village?” James bites his lips, “Even though we’re gone?”
Isco has no answer to that, but he can only hope for the best. The air in his lungs feels brisk and fresh, while his limbs tingle with restlessness, numb from disuse. He dares not to move however, for fear that this is a dream, and he will wake once more in the cold metal cell, tormented and alone.
“So now what?” he asks finally, with a heavy beat of his heart.
“I don’t know,” James says, but Isco can feel tender blades of grass sprouting between his fingertips, in spite of the absence of light in the most shadowed corner of the woods. “Maybe we can start from the beginning?”